To Love a Cop

by Janice Kay Johnson

His eyes smiled at her. “Ethan.”

  “Ethan.” Why had she even bothered to try to distance him? “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  “Sugar? Creamer?”

  “Black.”

  He chose the same place on the sofa to sit as the last time he’d been here. When she went to the kitchen, she heard his and Jake’s voices. Fortunately, she had some decent coffee on hand and returned reasonably quickly with two mugs.

  Ethan took his with thanks. “I usually bring a travel mug with me. Kind of hurried out the door this morning.”

  “Jake said you investigate assaults and...bias crimes? Does that mean specifically anti-gay or whatever?”

  “That’s right. Did you know Oregon has a hate crimes law? It makes the penalty harsher for any given crime than it would be for one that wasn’t motivated by dislike of someone’s race, color, religion or sexual orientation.”

  She frowned. “There was something on KGW news about a fire and a swastika spray painted on the driveway.”

  He winced. “That one’s mine. I’m...getting a lot of pressure on it. Do you know how many Portland residents have last names that sound Jewish or that some idiot could interpret as Jewish when really they’re Polish or Russian or who knows what? City hall is getting a barrage of panicky phone calls, which means the police department brass are, which means...”

  Understanding dawned. “You are.” No wonder he’d had that expression on his face a minute ago.

  “What’s a swastika?” Jake asked, predictably. Normally he’d have watched the news with her, but he’d been sulking in his room.

  Ethan explained, his tone grim. “The home you saw on the news is the fourth instance of vandalism within two weeks that included the spray painted swastika. First place it was painted was on the garage door, second house, on the front window, third, on the lawn. Those earlier ones were mostly garden-variety vandalism. Eggs, rocks thrown through windows, that kind of thing.”

  Mostly. She wondered about that, but didn’t want to ask with Jake here. She thought Ethan would have said otherwise.

  “Vandalism doesn’t sound significant enough to justify all the anxiety, but the fire is a significant escalation,” he continued. “We’re afraid someone is going to be hurt soon. There’s always the possibility a home owner with a gun will use it, too.”

  “But that’s good, isn’t it?” Jake said. “I mean, that’s why people want guns. So they can protect themselves.”

  Good? Laura thought in shock. He knew how vehemently she opposed the whole idea, and still—

  “It is,” Ethan agreed, raising her ire, but went on before she could jump in. “The problem is, your average person hasn’t practiced enough to be able to use their weapon effectively. They get scared and are more likely to freeze up than they are to shoot the right person at the right time. A dad panics, shoots and kills his teenage son who was sneaking into the house late at night. Or it’s a burglar, Dad points the gun, but the burglar wrestles it away from him. And here’s the bigger question...”

  Laura was as mesmerized as Jake. Ethan wasn’t saying what she’d expected from him. And, thank God, he’d been tactful enough not to include in his little litany, Kids get their hands on their parents’ guns and tragic accidents happen.

  “We have the death penalty in this state.” He leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, and looked and sounded even grimmer. “Someone has to have been convicted of aggravated murder to receive death as a sentence. So, if we as a society agreed that’s the only crime that we can justify putting someone to death for committing, is it all right for a home owner to shoot and kill someone breaking into his house?”

  “But...it’s self-defense, isn’t it?”

  Laura was glad to hear that Jake sounded unsure.

  “It’s usually ruled to be. And sometimes it is. A woman is certainly entitled to protect herself from a man who intends to rape her, for example. But the average burglar doesn’t intend to hurt anyone. He’s sneaking in, hoping to grab some hot electronics, maybe some jewelry, and sneak back out without anyone hearing him. If the home owner were to yell that he’d called 911, the guy would bolt. These idiots who target people with a Jewish last name were committing only vandalism until this last time, when they set a fire, too. Their form of vandalism was ugly and indefensible, don’t get me wrong. But a capital crime? Not in my view.”

  “So...if you were, like, staking out a house and they showed up and started, you know, painting the swastika and throwing rocks and maybe setting a fire, you wouldn’t pull your gun?” Jake asked in disbelief.

  Ethan smiled faintly. “I would, because it would give me the upper hand. I’d be less likely to lose control of the situation. I would use the weapon as a threat to achieve an outcome that didn’t include violence.”

  “You mean, they’d put their hands up and do what you tell them. Like that.”

  His smile widened and he bent his head. “Just like that.” But the smile was gone when he went on. “The difference between me and the average home owner is that I put in many, many hours at the range practicing. I know when and why I should actually pull the trigger. In that situation, with the vandals, I’d be prepared to defend myself, but otherwise I wouldn’t shoot anyone.”

  “You’d let them get away?”

  “I’d do my best to catch them.” He flashed a startlingly boyish grin. “I also work out to stay in shape and make sure I’m fast. I can outrun most people.”

  Laura bet he could. He’d have a longer stride than most people, for one thing, and none of the clumsiness common to many large men.

  “But no, I wouldn’t shoot someone in the back to keep him from getting away. Vandalism isn’t a death penalty crime, even when it’s also a hate crime. Arson isn’t a death penalty crime unless it’s done to commit murder. Police officers rarely shoot except when they’re being attacked or to keep someone else from being badly injured or killed.”

  “I never thought about that,” Jake said. “Mom always says—” He sneaked a look at her.

  She tilted her head, wanting to find out which, if any, of her oft-repeated pearls of wisdom had actually stuck in his head. “What do I always say?”

  “That having a gun in the house is more dangerous than not having one.” He flushed. “’Cuz things can happen. You know.”

  Ethan held her son’s gaze. “I do know what happened, Jake. I’ve seen other tragedies like it. And let me say here that some law enforcement officers don’t agree with me. And I’m not opposed to safe gun ownership. People who hunt, for example, who follow the rules and lock their weapons up when they’re not carrying them. Target shooting can be fun. There’s nothing wrong with it. Same caveats.”

  He had to explain what a caveat was.

  “Dad always said he’d take me to the range when I got bigger.” Jake sounded wistful. “You remember, Mom?”

  She remembered. Even then, she had hated the very idea, but she’d never said so. Certainly not to Jake, but not even to Matt. “I do,” she said.

  “Did you learn to shoot when you were a kid?” Jake asked, earnestly pursuing...what? Justification for him to learn to handle a gun?

  “Actually, no. My dad wasn’t a hunter. He’s in law enforcement, but he didn’t encourage me to take that path.”

  “Is he still alive?” Laura asked.

  Ethan glanced at her, his eyebrows climbing. “Sure. He’s a US marshal, but not for much longer. He’s taking retirement this coming year. Much to Mom’s relief, he switched to guard duty at the courthouse these past few years. His knees aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Is he why you went into law enforcement?” she couldn’t resist asking.

  His shoulders moved. “Partly. Of course there was always an element of glamour to it in my mind, like what Jake’s talking about. But I had a lot of other interests. I didn’t switch my major to criminology until I was a junior, and I had to add an extra semester to make up for
lost time.”

  She wanted to ask why he’d changed his mind midstream, but couldn’t help noticing how careful he’d been not to say. And really, he undoubtedly had better things to do today than exchange life stories with her.

  He took a long swallow of coffee and set the mug down. “I’ve pontificated long enough. A piece of advice, though, Jake.”

  Her son gazed eagerly at him.

  “Or maybe I should start by asking how you’ve handled the talk about you.”

  He hunched his shoulders, clearly unhappy to have the spotlight back on his own troubles. Turtle retreating into his shell. “Sometimes I say you don’t know what you’re talking about. Mostly I just, like, walk away.”

  “In other words, you’re hoping if you ignore the whispers, they’ll go away.”

  He jerked his shoulders. “I guess.”

  “Ignoring things hardly ever makes them go away, you know.”

  If she’d said that, Jake would have gotten sullen. But because it was Ethan instead, he screwed up his face. “I sort of know that.”

  “Well, here’s what I’d tell them instead. ‘Something really bad did happen, but I was only five. It was an accident. I never meant to hurt anybody. Five-year-olds don’t understand much. I’d give anything for it not to have happened, but I can’t go back.’”

  Laura watched Jake’s lips move as he silently repeated every word. Hero worship being born, she thought ruefully. And...she couldn’t even be sorry. Ethan had been sympathetic without getting maudlin, practical and philosophically, well, not that different from where she stood.

  Disturbed by the tenor of her thoughts, she reminded herself that he did carry a gun, and was fully prepared to use it at any time.

  Ethan glanced down at his phone, and she realized it must have vibrated. He rose to his feet and said, “I do need to go now. Laura, will you walk me out?”

  She nodded.

  Neither of them said anything until they’d reached the sidewalk by his SUV.

  “Maybe I should move again,” Laura said suddenly. “Tino’s two aren’t going to rush around school on Monday telling everyone Dad says he was wrong, that Marco’s death wasn’t Jake’s fault.”

  “Probably not. Kids don’t want to admit they were wrong.” His forehead creased. “What are his kids’ names?”

  “Names?” She blinked. “His oldest is Niccolo, although I think he goes by Nick. And the girl is Gianna. Then they had another girl...Maddalena, I think. She’d be...eight. Then the boy in kindergarten and, heck, probably at least one more if not two.”

  “Does Jake lengthen?”

  “You mean, is it Italian? No. His full name is Jacob. Matt’s parents were not happy. He was Matteo, you know. They blamed me, but it was all him. I’d have been fine with Rico or Roberto or something like that, but he refused. He kept saying, ‘Mama doesn’t want to admit it, but we’re American now.’”

  “Huh.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I take it that Mama Vennetti did not approve of her son marrying a woman who isn’t Italian?”

  “Mama did not, and she never tried to like me.” At first Laura had been hurt, then mad. She’d become a damn fine Italian cook, she’d consented to raise their children in the Catholic Church even though she herself didn’t take the sacraments, but she wasn’t good enough and never would be. She wasn’t a woman who would hover in the background, as Renata had done today. The irony was that Mama was a domineering woman who wouldn’t hang back while her husband made decisions, either. Truthfully, what Mama didn’t want was another woman in the family who would challenge her.

  Ethan studied her thoughtfully. “So the setup was already in place after the shooting.”

  “For Mama to reject me? Absolutely. Matt...” She had to swallow and it was a struggle to go on. “That, I never would have expected—”

  She wondered if being cut off by his family had devastated her husband more than her fury and inability to forgive him. Sometimes she almost hoped so, as if that would reduce the weight of her own sins.

  “Hey.” Given how hard Ethan Winter’s face could be with its stark angles and planes, he had a way of looking remarkably gentle. Even...tender. “I didn’t mean to depress you even more.”

  “What’s happening with Jake tears off scabs,” she said honestly. “How can it not?”

  He didn’t say anything, his eyes intent on her.

  “I think you’re right,” she said in a rush. “About the gun safety class. Can you suggest someplace I can sign him up?”

  She felt his subtle relaxation. “Yeah. In fact, I sometimes teach a session. Let me see what’s coming up and call you, all right?”

  Laura nodded. “And...thank you. For everything you said in there.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  His smiles made her feel and think things that weren’t realistic. She looked away. “What can you do about the vandals? It is scary. I work for Lehman Fine Furnishings. The family that owns it is Jewish.”

  “What do you do there?” he asked.

  “I manage the store. Uri Lehman started the store and hired me. He had a stroke two years ago. Neither of his kids was interested enough in the business to want to run it. So I got promoted.”

  “My ex-wife dragged me in there one time. Steep prices.”

  “Top quality,” Laura countered.

  His grin was devastating, his eyes warm. “I’ll take your word for it. A cop’s salary does not run to an eight-thousand-dollar sofa.”

  She laughed. “You didn’t see any eight-thousand-dollar sofas in my house, either. Even with an employee discount, it’s not happening.”

  They smiled at each other for a moment that stretched, before he sobered.

  “I’m heading out to keep canvasing neighbors. I might catch people home we haven’t been able to talk to yet.”

  “Wouldn’t they have come forward if they saw anything?”

  “People don’t always. Maybe they think what they saw wasn’t significant. Or they don’t read the newspaper or watch the local news and aren’t aware the vandalism at the Finkels’ wasn’t an isolated incident. So we keep trying.” His lips twisted. “Alternative is to wait until these punks strike again. The mayor doesn’t like the idea of telling callers that the police don’t have any leads to pursue and are having to wait until another attack occurs.”

  “Which is really what you’re doing.”

  “Afraid so.” His grunt might have been intended to be a laugh. “On that note...”

  “Yes.” She stepped back, unsure how she’d come to be standing so close to him. “Good luck.”

  Something moved in his eyes, but then he said only, “I’ll call,” and went around to get in behind the wheel.

  Laura stood where she was and watched him drive away.

  * * *

  EVEN THOUGH HE had things he ought to be doing instead, once Ethan was parked in front of the Finkels’ house again, he made a call to a gun range that offered youth hunter safety classes.

  He waited on hold for barely a minute for Ken Rice, the owner. When Ethan explained, Ken said, “We have one scheduled for Saturday, but it’s booked. So are the next three. We have a waiting list, Ethan.”

  “If you have range time for an add-on class but no instructor, I’ll volunteer as long as I can get this kid in.”

  There was a moment of silence. “And here I saw you at the press conference. You’re not tied up?”

  He gave a short laugh. “I’m always tied up. But this kid...” He hesitated, but he trusted Ken. “His dad left a gun out and he shot and killed another kid when he was only five years old. He’s eleven now, and getting too interested in guns.”

  “A lit fuse.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”

  He did, half an hour later. The classes at this range were usually eight hours and scheduled to take place in two sessions, but the only way he could see to get it in
was to break it up into four parts. “We can do four consecutive Tuesday evenings, or maybe Sunday afternoons.”

  “Let’s go for the evenings, if you think you’ll get enough sign-ups.”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt of that,” Ken said drily.

  “Okay.” He hesitated. “First on the list is Jake Vennetti.”

  “The cop’s son.”

  “Yeah. You remember?”

  “Hard to forget.”

  “Thanks, Ken. I appreciate this.”

  “I appreciate you volunteering. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have teaching here.” He chuckled. “Even if you don’t hunt.”

  Ethan decided he could wait to talk to Laura, and got out to start door-belling.

  Nobody had seen a damn thing. Or they weren’t home today, just like they hadn’t been home the past three times he rang their doorbell.

  Not until he took a break for lunch did he call her.

  She was breathing hard when she answered.

  “Did I catch you on the run?” he asked.

  “No, I’m scraping paint from my back deck. It’s an awful job. I was going to just paint it, but it was lumpy with a bunch of previous coats, so... One of the joys of home ownership.”

  “I live in an apartment.” He didn’t even know why he said that. He and Erin had bought a house but split up barely a year later and sold the place.

  Laura huffed. “Right this minute, that’s sounding good.”

  She made him smile more than he could remember in a while, a surprise considering how mad and/or upset she’d been during most of their interactions.

  “The next youth hunter safety class with any openings starts Tuesday night. Two hours a session, four consecutive Tuesdays. I hope Jake doesn’t have a conflict.”

  “No, but...hunter?”

  “That’s what’s taught to kids his age. We get all the basics in.” He hesitated. “With your permission, I thought I’d spend a little time at the range with him myself, working with handguns.”

  “You’re not teaching the class?” She sounded worried.

  “I am.” No way he was admitting he’d set the whole thing up for Jake’s sake.

  She expelled an “Oh!” that sounded relieved. “What time on Tuesday and where?”