Checkmate: Checkmate, #8

by Finn, Emilia

  That boy from forever ago mentioned the dimples on my kneecaps, so I never skip leg day.

  I catch sight of Oz through the store glass as he walks around the side of the building with an odd grin and a bounce to his step. His hands are held in the space ahead of him, zombie-ish, which is weird, considering everything else that’s going on around me. He doesn’t know what’s happening inside, and when he checks the cruiser and finds it empty, he turns toward the doors and alerts my gunman when the automatic doors whir open.

  Uniforms. They get us every damn time.

  Oz’s smile remains for a moment while his brain clicks over. The gunman’s eyes widen, then his gun swings around, and I jump up from my crouch. Grabbing the back of his head, and hating the oily sheen his hair instantly leaves on my skin, I slam him forward until his face smacks against the plexiglass, and Oz finally catches the hell on to the situation.

  He jumps back into fight stance and whips the gun from his hip, but I pull my guy’s head back and slam it down again until blood explodes against the window, and Anton squeals like a stuffed pig.

  “You’re under arrest for aggravated robbery. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney.” When my chip-loving friends dash out the door to freedom, I pull my guy’s head back and slam it into the window once more for good measure. Cartilage crunches under my force and reminds me of those snooty bitches from school. Excessive force? Maybe. But does Oz stop me? Nope. “If you cannot afford an attorney, the court will appoint one for free. Anything you say right now may be used against you.” I let him go, and sweep his weapon away when he drops to the floor with a deep thud. I reach back for my cuffs and slap them around his skinny wrists as Oz slowly walks forward. “You okay?”

  He leans over my guy as though to make certain this just happened. “Uh-huh. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “He okay?”

  I lean around my guy and take note of the shattered nose and a single missing front tooth. I look around the space in front of me. “He might have already been missing that tooth. You’ll have to prove differently.”

  Oz chuckles and re-holsters his weapon. “I’m not picking at you, Tate. I walked straight into a bear trap without looking. He pointed his weapon at an officer, and I almost didn’t go home to my family because of it; you’re good to use whatever the fuck force you want to.”

  Nodding, I squat down and wait for my guy’s eyes to open. “You okay?”

  “Bitch.” He spits blood onto the tile by my boots, hissing when he tries to breathe through a broken nose. “I wasn’t gonna hurt no one.”

  “Uh-huh.” Standing, I look to Anton and nod for him to come to my side of the counter.

  His hands shake. His shoulders bounce, but not with dance this time. Candy bars and water bottles litter the floor and provide landmines for him to dodge as he enters the password for the safety door and comes around to stop between me and Oz.

  “Him too.” I look to Oz. “I want to bring him in, too.”

  “What?” Anton screeches.

  Oz’s eyes widen, but his reflexes are fast when Anton turns and tries to pivot away. He grabs him around the collar and pulls him back, until the cashier trips over the other perp and lands heavily on the tile.

  “Charges,” Oz asks. “Or just for funsies?”

  “He threw those cigarettes in without being asked. Phones. Chargers. Headphones.” I peek into the bag and pull out a bottle of Gatorade. “I’m just saying, I bet we could run these guys’ files side by side and find a connection. Their mommas know each other or something. Fifty-buck bet.”

  “You’re on.” Oz reaches out and takes my hand to seal the deal. He’s all smiles and adrenaline rush after almost dying, but his smile turns to a grimace when the oil from my perp’s hair transfers from my palm to his. “The fuck vat of oil you plunge your hand into, Tate? Jesus.” He pulls back and wipes his hand on his pants. “You’re disgusting.”

  “It’s his hair.” Groaning, I bend forward and slowly pull my guy to his feet. His face is red and tender. His mouth is bleeding, and that tooth definitely fell out today. I don’t see it among the fallen candy bars or drinks, but my chief might have words with me when we get back to the station.

  My father was a dirty cop who hurt people for the sake of a dollar. He’s been removed from his position of power, his money and titles have been stripped, his only luxuries now are three hot meals and a cot. I might have followed him into the very same field of law enforcement, but we’re not the same kind of cop. We’re not cut from the same cloth.

  Maybe I use too much force on occasion, but I don’t hurt innocents. Maybe I have less patience for stupidity, but I never have, nor would I ever, trade the life of an innocent for a little luxury or cash. I’m the cop who will arrest fairly and with legitimate cause. I’m the cop who will admit her wrongs when I’m wrong. And I’m not infallible – it happens. But I own it. I’m the cop who would never steal a colleague’s lunch, and the one time I was accused of such a thing, I was both hurt and pissed. So fucking pissed that someone would accuse me of a damn thing.

  I’m the cleanest cop on the force, cleaner than my colleagues even, and they’re good cops. I drag myself to work every day to make the streets safer, to clean up the mess my father and his friends created so many years ago.

  One day at a time. One armed robbery at a time.

  An hour after arresting Jude Donohue for armed robbery and slamming him into the cages at the station, I walk out again and pause at the sight of Oz sitting back with a cup of coffee in his hands and his feet on his desk.

  I still didn’t get my coffee. And he looks entirely too happy for someone who didn’t sleep yet.

  “What?”

  “Seems I owe you fifty bucks and a high-five.”

  “Yeah?” That turns my sour mood around as I walk toward our desks. “Their moms, right? I feel like this was a mother’s group set up from twenty years ago.”

  “Totally their moms.” Chuckling, he sips his coffee and turns the screen so I see both men side by side. “They were born in the same hospital, thirty-six hours apart. Their moms were connected through some community event thing that helped new moms socialize. Myriam and Tracey — those are their real names, by the way — became pals. The boys were friends because they were always in each other’s space. Eventually, they grew and made other choices, but they stuck it out, and now they’re buddies. Anton’s apartment building is just one block from Donohue’s. They hatched a plan to rob Anton’s place of employment just forty-five minutes after the boss clocked out to go home. Donohue was supposed to be in and out, grab the loot, and…” He reaches toward the evidence bag tossed haphazardly on the corner of his desk. Smiling, he pulls out the black pistol, points it at my stomach, and squeezes the trigger.

  If I didn’t trust him so implicitly, I’d be pissed.

  But I do. I trust him with my life. So I remain still while water squirts from the end of the gun and leaves a line along my shirt.

  Oz’s trouble-filled eyes meet mine with a grin. “Hands up, motherfucker.”

  “Dumbass white trash piece of… gah!” I wipe at the water and grit my teeth. “I was legit scared he was gonna shoot you, and that prick had a water gun? For three hundred bucks, smokes, and phone credit? What the hell is wrong with those dumb shits?”

  “He’s lucky he didn’t die,” Oz grumbles. “He’s lucky the paper towels were empty in the bathroom, so I’d washed my hands but hadn’t dried them yet. He’s lucky that icks me out, so I was air drying them on the way to the store. And he’s luckier yet that you went with hands instead of guns when he swung on me. You saved his life and mine today, Tate.” He reaches into his pocket, pushing onto one leg to free up the other, and pulls his wallet out with a grunt. Opening it wide and lifting a brow at what I guess is nothing, he tosses the leather away and snatches up a Post-It instead. “I owe you…” He speaks as he writes, and diffuses my bad mood when he pokes his tongue
out for concentration. “Fifty-two fifty. Two-fifty for admin fees, since I’m making you wait.”

  “You’re so stupid.” I accept the piece of hot pink paper when he stands and offers it, and laugh when he pulls me in for a crushing hug.

  “Thanks for looking out today. You might be the quietest, most stubborn, most annoying chick I know, because you make me insecure about how much you bench.” He snickers when I laughingly try to push him off. “But I’m never scared to walk through a door with you. I never doubt you. I never once accused you of stealing the rook’s lunch.”

  “Prick.”

  He laughs. “I mean, maybe I knew it was X. And maybe I knew Rook was looking at you. I didn’t encourage his suspicion, but I didn’t stop it either.”

  “You’re a bunch of assholes.”

  Laughing, he steps back as Alex Turner, our chief, walks in and studies us both. “What’s going on here?”

  “You’re a pain in my damn ass,” Oz continues quietly. “But you’re mine. You’re ours. And I trust you with my life.”

  I scrunch my nose and lean away. “You’re getting all weird and mushy. You pregnant or something?”

  “Guys?” X steps toward us with narrowed eyes. “Problem?”

  “We’ve got two fuckers in the cages.” Oz steps away and swings back into his chair until the steel joints groan under his two hundred pounds. “We were ready to clock out, we stopped at the gas station.”

  “He had to pee.”

  Oz nods in agreement. “Dumb fuck tried to hold the place up, but he didn’t know Tate was twenty feet behind him. I walked in, he pointed his weapon, Tate took him down. Now we have paperwork, and I owe her fifty bucks.”

  “What’s the fifty for?” Alex steps through and snatches up the report from the printer. His light eyes scan the writing, narrow somewhere around the bit where Donohue pointed a gun at X’s best friend and deputy, and his lips firm somewhere around the bottom — the bit about Anton’s part in the burglary. “Two of them?”

  “That’s what the fifty is for,” Oz answers. “Lib called it; said they were in it together. I didn’t see it. Shit, I didn’t even see the burglary till the gun was in my face.”

  “What the fuck were you doing with your time, Oscar? Because you weren’t paying attention, that’s for sure.”

  “I had icky hands.” He holds them in the air in front of his chest. “The paper towels had run out in the bathroom, and the soap was weird and itchy. I was air-drying them when I walked in, and—”

  “I think you need a month of cleaning the station bathrooms to get over your feelings of ick,” Alex growls. “Where’s the street kid I met when we were little? Where’s the badass that didn’t mind blood and gross shit?”

  “I’m domesticated now, X! My wife cooks and cleans. She irons my underwear, dammit! She made me fancy. Our girls are caviar and crystal. We’re skateboards and kicks. We got fancy, and we aren’t complaining. But that means sometimes shit feels icky when it never used to. We came back here and tossed them into the cage after we took statements and shit. It took me two seconds and a single search once we got back here to find the connection between the guys. We booked them, they’re having a nap, and your officers live to see another day.”

  “Jesus.”

  Oz sits back, as though impressed with his report, while Alex presses a hand to his broad chest and lets his eyes flicker between me and Oz. This isn’t the kind of workplace where we clock in, do our work, and clock out again. This station is a family. The kind of family where we attend weddings and birthdays. We’re all socially stunted loners, but for each other, we’re there when it matters.

  The idea of X’s best friend potentially losing his life will fuck with his head for weeks to come. He’ll probably initiate compulsory training days, and maybe a bonding barbecue, because we need to appreciate each other more.

  “Everything is okay, right? Any injuries?”

  “Nah, but Donohue lost a tooth at some point today.” Oz waves a hand in my direction. “It definitely wasn’t Tate. She was gentle as a kitten with him.”

  “Bet she was.” Alex firms his lips and looks me up and down.

  I wear the uniforms we’ve been issued. Sometimes the guys wear jeans or whatever, but I almost always wear the blue slacks and button-up shirt. It makes my boxy frame that much boxier, but I consider it almost as important as the badge.

  I earned this uniform. I earned this badge. And the members of this and every other town in this country already have trust issues when it comes to the police. Men like my father put a blemish on this career. They made us all look bad. So I could hide away in comfortable jeans and pull my badge and sidearm only when I need it. Or I could wear my uniform day in, day out. I could proudly show myself as one of them, and when the folks in this town see me going about my work in a lawful way, they might learn to trust again.

  Alex has already earned a lot of it back. He’s the best administration this town has had in a long time. The officers under his command, while quirky, are beyond reproach. Alex Turner hates dirty cops almost as much as I do, and there isn’t a single dollar amount that could convince him to go bad.

  I would know. I’ve been watching him since the day I graduated the academy.

  The cops in this town have had to scale a steep mountain to earn back the respect that generations before us lost. But Alex did it. He earned it. He deserves it.

  He’s a boss worth respecting, when so many aren’t.

  But he still narrows his eyes when I turn away. “He seriously lost a tooth?”

  “Right,” Oz volunteers. “But it might’ve already been loose or something. I can’t confirm either way. The rest of them were kinda bordering on brown, so maybe they were already structurally weak.”

  “Structurally weak…” Alex’s eyes slide away from me and stop on his deputy. They pause and prove how Alex has become so successful when questioning a suspect. His eyes are blue like the ocean, but dark and scary when he’s staring and displeased. After a moment of Oz’s squirming, Alex’s eyes come back to mine. “This report says you slammed him against the plexiglass twice.”

  I frown. “Um… no. I slammed him three times.”

  Oz coughs. “I wrote the report, Chief. I only saw two face slams. I only report two face slams.”

  Alex’s brows lift. “Three times? Did he lose his tooth on the first or third?”

  “First?” I say it like a question, though I already know the answer. “Pretty sure I heard it ping against the tile floor on the first.”

  “And yet, you slammed him twice more…” Alex tosses the report down and lifts a hand to his face. He breathes with heavy exhales until his breath comes through his nose on a whistle, and presses his thumbs into his eye sockets until he groans. “Fuck. Okay.” He nods, as though psyching himself up for battle. “Okay. Whatever. Dude aimed at my deputy.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “He was armed and dangerous.”

  “Well…” I cough. “We thought he was armed and dangerous.”

  “It was actually a squirt gun.” Oz pulls the trigger and wets the crotch of X’s jeans. “Looked like the real thing in the moment, though.”

  Alex drops his hands and glowers at the wet patch until he resembles a bull. A bull ready to charge. A bull ready to murder his deputy because now it looks like he wet his pants. “I love you, Oscar.”

  “Aww, I love you too, X.”

  “But you need to fuck off right now. Leave. Clock out. You’re off until Monday. You’re uninvited to dinner tonight.”

  “What!” Oz bounds up from his chair and slams the fake gun down. “Jules is making fried chicken. You can’t uninvite me to Southern fried chicken! What kind of bullshit dictatorship is this?”

  “This is me saving your life. Go home to your family. Ask Lindsi to get you some chicken on the way home. If I see you in the next twenty-four hours, I might get mad about the falsified report and the wet jeans. Then I might shoot you for real.”

&
nbsp; Grumbling, Oz snatches his coat from the back of his chair. Swinging it on, he passes Alex with a brat-like huff, only to swing around again when Alex grabs on and hugs him. “I’m glad it was just a water gun.”

  “Me too.” Finally, Oz gets serious. “I near shit my pants till Tate took him down.”

  “Thank God. Go home. Give the family my apologies about the chicken loss. I’ll see you for breakfast.”

  As soon as Oz clears the room and heads through front reception and out the automatic front doors, Alex turns back to me as I snatch my coat up. I try to swing around him and escape, since I should have clocked out more than two hours ago, but X grabs my collar and pulls me to a sharp stop. “Wait a sec.” He pulls me around so the hair hanging from my elastic whips in my face. “I want to talk for a second.”

  “I didn’t falsify the report, Chief.” My heart races faster now than it did when I thought Oz might get shot. “I didn’t do anything today that wasn’t by the book.”

  “You need to relax.” He pushes me back into my chair the way he would push Oz. Nobody here treats me like a lady. No one is super careful about my feelings or being gentle, which is exactly how I want to be treated. I’m not a woman when in uniform, but a cop. A cop to be respected. And that respect has nothing to do with what I was born with between my legs. “You did good, Tate. You assessed the situation. Nobody was hurt. Statements from witnesses mention your valor. As far as you knew, it was a real gun. You’re not in trouble.”

  “I’m not?” I swallow my nerves. “Even though I probably could have cuffed him after the first slam?”

  He sits on the corner of my desk and gives a small smile. “Adrenaline was running high, dude with a gun, bag of money, and smokes laying around, and your colleague was walking around with the ick hands. You did good. You won’t catch heat from me about it.”

  “Okay.” I stand again and snatch up my keys. “That’s great. I’m gonna go home. I need sleep so bad, my face aches.” I meet his eyes. “My face actually hurts from lack of sleep, so…”

  Chuckling, he snags my wrist and pulls me back until I sit with a huff. “Do you need to talk about something?”