Roulette

by Don; Linda Pendleton

  She hurriedly grabbed her bathrobe, knotted a towel about her wet hair, and fled to the living room. “For God’s sake, Jack,” she cried in a stricken voice, “please hold me.”

  He went to her instantly and took her in his arms, stroking her reassuringly. “It’s okay,” he said emotionally. “Don’t make too much of this. Cops die, it’s that kind of world. It could come to any of us, any time, and we’re all aware of it. Captain Myers was aware of it. Wasn’t his fault, wasn’t your fault. It’s the way our world is put together. So get off it. You did everything you could.”

  Rebecca already knew that, of course, but the words were comforting nonetheless, and Morgan’s calm logic was returning her to the real world. She was already beginning to feel a bit self-conscious about standing there in her robe, barefoot, her sodden hair wrapped in a towel, without even a touch of makeup.

  But that was far from the worst of her discomfort.

  Her husband opened the front door at that very moment with an astonished face which instantly soured into disbelief. “Well fuck!” he growled and slammed the door angrily behind him in quick retreat.

  “Don’t be a jerk!” Morgan yelled through the closed door and hurried to overtake him.

  “Let him go!” Rebecca cried quickly.

  “He thinks—”

  “I know, but give him time to cool down.”

  “Not this way. He won’t cool down until he hears the truth.”

  The Lieutenant bolted out after his friend but Rebecca knew that it would be a hard sell. And she could hear Peter’s car screeching around the corner before Morgan reached the street.

  It had been a terrible day.

  It was, she feared, also going to be a terrible night.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Rebecca was still in her robe when the doorbell summoned her. It’s Pete. He’s feeling like a jerk. Or maybe Jack is bringing him back.

  She called through the door, “Just a second,” and hurried to respond, now even more strongly aware of her appearance. She almost flung the door open in her anxiety but caught herself in time to follow the normal precautions. She opened the door with the chain lock intact and was momentarily stunned to see Charlie Andrews standing there.

  Seeming somewhat embarrassed, he said quietly, “It’s me, Rebecca. Can I come in?”

  Over her dead body, sure. That guy was all she needed at such a time. “You people never give up, do you,” she said almost angrily.

  “Just wanted to check on you.”

  She tossed her head in response. “Sure, you just couldn’t wait to gloat over my humiliation.”

  “Nothing like that. I’m worried about you. Let me in, dammit.”

  So maybe there was something akin to compassion buried in that media mind. “I’m fine,” she softly assured him. “Thanks for the thought.”

  “You going to let me in?”

  “No. Goodnight, Charlie.”

  “Do I have to kick the damn door down?”

  “You’d better not try unless you’re looking to spend the night in jail.”

  He smiled and almost chuckled as he replied, “Forever the cop, aren’t you.”

  “Twenty-four hours a day, you bet.”

  “I thought we had been getting it on pretty well.”

  “Where did you get an idea like that? We are not friends, Charlie. I doubt that we could ever be. Goodnight, Charlie.”

  “Too bad about Captain Myers, huh?”

  “I really don’t want to talk about that.” She closed the door and waited for a moment to hear his retreating footfalls. She heard nothing but at least he seemed to be accepting her desire for privacy; he did not intrude again.

  Maybe she had been a little harsh on him. He could be sort of nice, when he worked at it. But her life was already complicated enough without trying to find room in it for a treacherous newsman who had been trying to discredit her for years. Charlie Andrews could get along fine without her, and she certainly could get along fine without him. Besides, she felt confident that the real reason for his being at her doorstep was to get a story out of her.

  Dammit, something deep inside of her had always known that she was a good cop despite potshots from Andrews and her own increasing doubts. Now, even in the aftermath of the most trying experiences of her young career, she was struggling toward a reaffirmation of her own worth and not at all anxious to offer the likes of a Charlie Andrews new fuel for one of his outrageously slanted newspaper articles.

  But Andrews was not the focus of her attention at the moment. She was worried about her husband and the way he had stormed out of the apartment. She needed to find him.

  Rebecca hastily fixed her hair, re-did her makeup, dressed and was ready to go out the door when she realized that her car was still at the P.D. She called for one of the police units to pick her up and ran outside.

  Her marriage and a longtime friendship were probably in deep trouble. She had to try her best to salvage both—if it was not already too late for that. She owed Pete a truthful explanation for what he thought he had encountered. Her relationship with Jack had always been a touchy point with him. If his jealousy came to the forefront it was usually centered on her boss.

  A patrol unit happened to be cruising nearby and picked her up almost immediately. The patrolman showed her a teasing grin as he asked her, “Lose your car, Rebecca?”

  She replied, “Come on, Larry, you know it’s my chauffeur’s day off.”

  “I always wanted to stand in for a chauffeur.” He gave her a quick leer. “Especially for a fox like you. Do you offer more than minimum wage?”

  This type of banter could be regarded by some as inappropriate behavior under the circumstances but Rebecca knew that this was a cop’s standard approach to distancing himself from the dark side of his work and venting emotional distress. It was just part of the mental atmosphere and she did not take it personally—they all did it, her own husband included, and she knew that Pete was as sensitive as any man she had ever known. Even so, she sometimes found it disturbing. When you play with the guys, though, you sometimes have to act like the guys, so she responded in kind. “No—and no fringe benefits for patrolmen either, pal.”

  He winked at her and asked, “Just for the brass, huh?”

  “Depends on their ornaments. How are yours?”

  He chuckled. “I’m not sure, but I’d stand at attention any time for your inspection.”

  “I imagine you would. Right now though I’m trying to find Pete. Do you know his 10-20?”

  For response he nonchalantly picked up his mike and asked the dispatcher for the Sergeant’s location. “He just went Code 7 at Durango’s,” the dispatcher reported.

  The patrolman smiled at Rebecca as he asked, “Did you eat yet? Want me to run you over there?”

  She replied, “Thanks, just drop me at the P.D.”

  Durango’s was one of the finer Mexican restaurants in the area, a favorite among many of the cops. Rebecca had been there many times, herself. She suddenly realized that she was starved but she doubted very much that Pete had gone there for food; Durango’s also featured a popular bar with giant televisions and all the sports channels.

  The patrolman dropped her at the door of her personal car. She thanked the officer for the “limo service” and set off immediately for the restaurant.

  She found her husband at a table in the back corner of the bar with a plate of tacos and a large pitcher of Margaritas, glumly watching a Dodger game. Jack Morgan was seated beside him.

  The tension was apparent as Rebecca slid into a chair opposite the two men. Pete was in a surly mood, hardly glancing at her as she joined them. Jack Morgan passed the plate of tacos to her and said, “Help yourself. Pete won’t mind. He’s lost in Margaritaville.”

  “Thanks, I’m famished,” she said quietly.

  Not another word passed between them until she’d finished her second taco. Finally, she told her husband, “When he was nice, he was very very nice, but when he
was bad he was horrid.”

  Pete eyes remained focused on the television screen, ignoring her. Lieutenant Morgan observed, “Yeah, he’s got that horrid bit down pat. This jerk actually thinks that we’ve been having an affair. Can you believe this guy?”

  Rebecca replied, “I can believe it, sure. For such a smart cop, he can really get the stupids sometimes. To hell with him. I want a Margarita.”

  Morgan signaled the waitress and said with a despairing smile, “Get real, Pete. Jesus, you know you’re being an ass. For my part, sure, I’d take her in a second. Takes two to tango, though, and the kid ain’t dancing. Of course, I can’t understand why not, the way you’ve been behaving lately.”

  “Get screwed,” the Sergeant growled.

  “Oh, that’s brilliant,” Morgan said softly. “Is that the way you sweat a suspect? Can’t you do better than ‘get screwed’?”

  “I could kick the shit out of you,” Storme said coldly.

  “He’s getting smarter and smarter,” Morgan told Rebecca.

  “Maybe he’d like to kick it out of me,” Rebecca said. “I’m innocent, Sergeant. What can I say other than that? But I resent it all to hell, Peter, that I even have to say something as dumb as that. Look, Sergeant, when I decide to bundle up with someone, you’ll be the next to know. But I am not going to play this silly game with you ever again. I came in here because I thought you were confused and hurting, not to alibi anything.”

  She scraped to her feet and took a quick step behind him.

  He snared her as she went past and pulled her to him. His eyes were a mask of pain as he said, “I’m half crazy, Rebecca. Help me with this.”

  She resisted his embrace but softly told him, “I understand how you could have gotten the wrong idea—but after all, Peter, come on, a man had just died in my arms and I had barely scrubbed his blood off of me when you came in. Jack had just been trying to comfort me. For God’s sake—”

  “So I’m a jerk,” he replied miserably. He threw a tortured glance at the lieutenant. “I’m sorry, Jack. It has been one hell of a day.”

  It had been that.

  Lt. Morgan growled, “Apologize to your wife, not to me.”

  Then two more detectives arrived—and, on their heels, the waitress with another pitcher of Margaritas. An extra table was moved alongside, additional chairs, and the Stormes became immersed in the mood of the moment.

  Then Charlie Andrews showed up.

  He was treated as an equal by the officers and given a place in their group.

  Andrews was charming and “good company.” He paid special attention to Rebecca and seemed to be trying to put her at ease and comfortable with his presence there. But she regarded him as an intrusion into this police world and she could not feel at total ease in his presence.

  He came over to her at one point and knelt beside her chair to chat for a moment. “Are you okay, now?” he asked her.

  “I’m always okay,” she replied brusquely.

  “You weren’t the last time I saw you.”

  “When was that?”

  He seemed hurt by the question. “They forget so quickly,” he said playfully. “I was just at your door, Rebecca.”

  “I had no problem with you outside my door.”

  “So why wouldn’t you let me in? Didn’t you trust me to understand that you’d been going through hell? Did you think I’d brought my camera with me? I am interested in other things, you know.”

  She said, almost angrily, “Is it difficult for you to understand that I don’t give a damn about your interests?”

  “I don’t believe it,” he replied pleasantly.

  She said, “It’s time you started believing it. How many times have I told you this?—I don’t like you, Charlie, and I am really not interested in spending time with you.”

  “You’re wrong about that.”

  It flustered her to realize that maybe he had discerned a feeling that she had been resisting lately but she certainly would not offer any confirmation of that idea. “You’re sort of screwed up,” she said quietly.

  He just smiled and stared at her thoughtfully for a moment before returning to his chair.

  But maybe it was Rebecca herself who was screwed up. Good God! Already she had all the “man trouble” she could handle—and she was finding this peculiar man more attractive all the time.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Tulsa police sergeant Lance Powers had known Captain Myers for several years but never intimately. Now, of course, he never would have the opportunity. Powers had been strongly shaken by the sudden tragedy but felt it unwise to dwell on the events of that unsettling day. He had spoken personally by telephone with the Myers family and had called in a detailed report to both his own department and the prison authorities. Beyond that, he hardly knew what more could be done except to redouble his own efforts to assist the local authorities with their investigation. So, he had been trying to focus himself on the job at hand and had been reviewing his own data from Tulsa in the hope of finding some “secret key” to the apprehension of the killer.

  It had been slow going, however, and he knew that his heart simply was not in it.

  Why in God’s name had the asshole compromised his own safety by a daring, broad-daylight assault on a law enforcement officer? Maybe he had felt at crucial risk himself by the very presence of Myers, or unless he was just so filled with hatred that he could not pass up a “golden opportunity” to even old scores. Of course, though, that had placed him in more eminent danger while adding nothing whatever to the sum total of Robert Martin’s life. None of it seemed to make sense unless Martin felt extremely threatened. So could that pose a potential danger for Powers himself? Could the psychopath be laying in wait for him. poised to strike at the first opptunity ? After all, it was Powers who had sent Martin to the slammer at McAlester in the first place. If the guy was trying to settle old scores….

  The sergeant’s first instinct was to jump aboard a plane and get the hell back home immediately, but of course he could not do that—nor would he even seriously consider it. A working cop could not let himself be ruled by raw emotions—nor even be strongly influenced by them.

  If Martin had felt that he had been identified by Myers, why had he not simply vanished in the crowd and placed all possible distance behind him?

  Or maybe even someone else had killed Myers. There was no evidence, no eyewitness had stepped forward—it could have been an entirely random attack, possibly even fueled by all the sensational attention surrounding the case—except that Rebecca Storme had felt so positive that Myers had spotted Martin in the crowd at the press conference.

  So what the hell—this entire “identification” of Myers’ killer was by a female cop who could be as flaky as some of the others he had known. She had seemed plenty sharp and professional, but what the hell did he really know about her?

  Speaking of the lady in question….

  She had just arrived from a late “supper” with other somber members of the task force and made her first stop at the desk which had been set aside for Powers’ use. He still felt that no cop had a right to look that good but he was not complaining and certainly he was in strong need of a bit of a lift so he was pleased when she headed straight for him.

  Rebecca pulled up a chair beside him and asked quietly, “You hanging in there okay?”

  He showed her a wan smile as he replied, “Well, now that you’re here….”

  “Knock it off,” she said gruffly.

  He replied, “You’re right, this is no time for….”

  “It’s okay. I was wondering how well you knew Captain Myers.”

  “Well enough that I feel like shit right now.”

  “Me too. I guess we’re all pretty bummed out.” She glanced around for a quick sizing of the room. It seemed that everyone was working late. “Lance, why don’t you tell me everything you know about Robert James Martin.”

  “I doubt that I can add much to what you already know, but�
�.”

  “What I’m reaching for is a better psychological profile, a deeper dimensioning of this guy. Our ID people have been running makes on Martin’s trademark with every agency in the country but it has drawn a total blank. Only one even came close—a felon in Michigan—and he has been locked up and safely out of action for several years. Can you think of any reason why this guy would have rolled all the dice in one play just to even an old grudge against Captain Myers?”

  “I have wondered about that myself but what the hell, there’s no figuring a lunatic.”

  “Could there be anything during your own association with Martin—any quirks or anything in his personality—which may not have been significant enough for your reports?”

  “Nothing more than the stack of stuff we brought with us which I’m sure you have thoroughly devoured already.”

  With a grim smile, she replied, “Several times, yeah. What bothers me, I guess, is that we have absolutely no tag on the guy since he broke prison in Oklahoma years ago. Anyone as apparently deranged as Martin has been throughout his adult life could be expected to repeat the same patterns until once again apprehended. But this guy seems to have been clean for years until showing up here in our community.

  Now he’s on a tear far more violent than anything throughout his previous history…and I can’t help but wonder why, what triggered it, and why the sudden escalation to the point of a total breakdown of the M.O. He had never attacked a police officer before.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that same thing but I just don’t know what to tell you.”

  She said, “I’ve been toying with an idea that Martin has been quietly holed up right here in our area all these years in a completely quiescent state. Suddenly he’s totally out of control, and you have to wonder what might have triggered that. What’s the status on his family?”

  “No family that we have been able to trace except that his mother died in a mental institution a number of years ago. He does have an aged aunt in the Fort Smith area—that’s across the border into Arkansas—but apparently they’ve had no contact over the years.”