To Love a Cop

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Ethan’s middle-of-the-night stakeout was mind-stultifying boring. The kid didn’t even slip out of the house to hang out with a buddy, as he had the one night. A couple of cars passed, neither slowing. A light came on upstairs in a house two doors down and across the street, then went off a couple of minutes later. Someone who’d gotten up to take a piss or pop a couple of aspirin, Ethan diagnosed. The Gelfman house, however, stayed completely dark. No kid stole out his window to go a-wandering.

  Driving home, Ethan called Sam first.

  “Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse,” Sam intoned.

  David Pomeroy sounded tired and grumpy. “We fire guys aren’t as quick to pull a weapon as you boys and girls who wear a different badge. I came real close tonight to blasting the biggest goddamn dog I’ve ever seen, though. Could’ve sworn it was a man, crouched to get through the hedge the Fromels have seen fit to grow around their front yard. Have I said how much I hate hedges?”

  He had, but Ethan didn’t remind him.

  “I’d been getting sleepy, so I got out, found a decent spot to watch from in a dark corner of the yard, and then the hedge rustles. This dark shape comes through. I snap on my flashlight and call, ‘Police, freeze or I’ll shoot,’ only it keeps coming and its eyes are glowing a maniacal green. The thing had to be, shit, I don’t know, a Great Dane or wolfhound, except it looked more like a bear.”

  Ethan grinned despite his own exhaustion. “Sounds like a Newfoundland.”

  “And he was friendly! He licked me. I couldn’t get rid of him! The whole time I’m hustling back to my vehicle, he’s trotting along trying to lean on me. Pleased as punch someone else is up and about in the middle of the night. I’m thinking, crap, someone’s going to wake up any minute. They’ll call the cops. I get in, and the damn dog puts his front feet on the door and stares in the window at me, tongue lolling. What do you want to bet he scratched the paint?”

  “Might have been a she. Love at first sight.”

  Pomeroy had something obscene to say about that and rang off.

  Thursday night was much the same, minus the dog tale. Ethan could feel his confederates’ enthusiasm slipping. Both had vowed to keep watch through the weekend, at least, before they revisited the plan.

  * * *

  LAURA STARED, AGHAST, when she opened the door to let Ethan in Friday evening. “Oh, no! What happened to you?”

  “That bad, huh?” He gingerly touched his swollen, discolored cheekbone. “Took a punch.” He’d jumped in during a melee at the station. Nothing to do with him, but one of the two officers trying to control a belligerent drunk had gone down, and they’d needed a hand. He told Laura about the incident.

  “Punching a police officer is a dumb thing to do. Even if you’re drunk, you should know better.” She rose on tiptoe and gave his cheek a featherlight kiss. “A black eye, too.”

  His smile was slightly more crooked than usual. “How about some concealer?”

  “I kind of doubt it would cut it for you.” She led the way to the kitchen. “As it happens, I don’t own any. What you see is what you get.”

  “And I like getting you a whole lot,” he said huskily.

  “Shush,” she said, laughing. “Although Jake must not have heard the doorbell.”

  “How could he not?”

  “Earbuds, what else?” Although she’d picked up a spoon, she didn’t object when he drew her into his arms. “You’re right,” she murmured, just before his mouth found hers. “Let’s not call him until dinner is on the table.”

  The interlude was all too brief, but nonetheless satisfying. Jake was always too eager for Ethan’s arrival to remain oblivious for long. He popped into the kitchen saying, “How come Ethan’s not— You are here!” Then his mouth dropped open. “What happened?”

  Ethan explained that a man hadn’t taken well to being arrested. “He was off-the-charts drunk,” he added.

  “So now he’s in trouble for attacking a police officer?” Jake asked, wide-eyed.

  “Probably. It wasn’t my arrest. I kind of hope they didn’t put my name in the report,” he said wryly. “Last thing I need is one more court appearance on my schedule. Once the idiot was behind bars, I went looking for an ice pack.”

  Ethan won her gratitude after that by successfully diverting Jake with graphic descriptions of several similar injuries he’d received on the basketball court—apparently, a well-applied elbow could do a lot of damage. Jake reminisced about the egg-sized lump that had popped out on his head when he fell off his bike a couple of years ago.

  “This friend and me, we found a piece of plywood and set up a ramp.” He was smart enough to give Laura a cautious glance. She hadn’t been very happy about the ramp.

  There it was, she thought ruefully, the boy versus girl thing. She didn’t think of herself as timid, but she’d never had the slightest desire to launch herself into the air on a bike.

  Ethan, though, was nodding as if he completely understood. She rolled her eyes, and he laughed at her.

  “My friends and I were into skateboards. No skateboard park in those days. We laid a piece of plywood to cover some cement steps. The sidewalk sloped there, see. If you got up some speed and made the turn just right, you’d shoot up the ramp and catch some serious air.” Noting her evil eye, he cleared his throat. “Not that I’m recommending it. I actually broke my arm that time. My mother was not happy.”

  Jake sneaked another look at his mother. “I bet.”

  “She pointed out that I could have broken my head instead.”

  “But didn’t you wear a helmet?”

  “Uh...”

  “You didn’t!” Jake sounded both shocked and intrigued.

  Ethan sobered. “No, and I’m here to tell you to wear the thing. Having a cast on my arm for a month put a serious crimp in my athletic schedule. Took a while for my muscles to regain their strength, too. Getting a major concussion, that would be a lot worse.”

  “Assuming you didn’t do permanent brain damage,” Laura said tartly.

  “Assuming,” he agreed.

  When it was time for him to go, she stepped out on the front porch with him and closed the door to give them another moment of near privacy. “Are you still doing the stakeout?”

  He grunted. “I’m not excited about it tonight.”

  “You hurt.”

  “A headache.” His big hand cradled her face. “I’ll take some more ibuprofen. Won’t kill me.”

  She winced. “Just...be careful.”

  “Chances are, nothing will happen.”

  “But you think it will, sooner or later.”

  “‘Hope’ is more accurate. Otherwise, we’ll keep trailing two steps behind. I don’t like this one, Laura. The guy is working up to killing someone. I want to stop him first.”

  She nodded. “I know. I understand.”

  “Good.” His voice was soft, velvety. His kiss started that way and became urgent.

  This was one of the rare times when Laura could wish she was childless. Not that Ethan would be able to stay anyway, she reminded herself. The chill she felt as he left wasn’t from the night air. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, watching when he backed out of the driveway, then drove away. As a detective, his job was less dangerous than Matt’s had been as a patrol officer. Ethan had survived years on patrol himself unscathed. But...she couldn’t forget that he carried a gun for a reason.

  * * *

  ETHAN WOULDN’T CALL what he had a premonition. More common sense, or just the voice of experience. The long, long interval since the last fire worried him, given the fact that the crimes had been escalating. Usually impatience went with that. He had an itch between his shoulder blades he couldn’t scratch.

  Whatever his reasoning, he thought tonight was the night.

  Not all the incidents had taken place on weekend nights, but four of the six had. The intervals had varied, from a couple of weeks to less than a week.

  So...tonight, maybe tomorrow night. />
  He hadn’t been in place long when he saw movement in the dark yard. He narrowed his eyes, not sure he hadn’t imagined it. But...yep, the kid was dropping from the tree. Once again he had nothing in his hands. He might be going anywhere. Friday night, party time, although Ethan would’ve expected him to head out way earlier.

  He heard the sound of an approaching car, although he didn’t see headlights. Austin March reached the sidewalk and trotted away, ignoring Ethan’s SUV parked at the curb across the street.

  He waited a minute, and then opened the door. He’d disabled the dome light, and now left the door cracked open. He’d be returning in a hurry if Austin hopped into his buddy’s car and a vehicle pursuit was necessary.

  The friend was parked midblock, probably on purpose since the street lamps were close to the corners. But, lurking in a front yard landscaped with shrubs, Ethan saw enough.

  Having looked up the address where Austin visited on his last nighttime jaunt, Ethan already knew the friend was eighteen-year-old Tyler Smith, who might or might not graduate from high school in June depending on whether he pulled his grades up enough. Like Austin, he’d been in trouble with the law, although in his case the offenses related to drugs.

  Tyler wore his hair in a Mohawk, and he was opening the trunk of his car. The boys went into a huddle behind the trunk lid.

  Ethan pulled out his phone and typed a text message to Pomeroy and Clayton.

  Looks like a go. March and friend met up. Keep watch.

  But the boys didn’t close the trunk and get in the car. Instead, they appeared on the sidewalk carrying...shit. Gas cans. Austin had a bag slung over his shoulder, too. And they were skulking back toward Austin’s house, which meant they’d pass within a few feet of Ethan.

  He gave thought to stopping them now, but, while carrying gas cans, matches and red spray paint would be plenty suggestive, it wasn’t as good as catching them in the act. So he quit breathing and averted his face as the two passed.

  “You sure they’re asleep?” one of the two whispered. Had to be Tyler.

  If there was an answer, he didn’t hear it.

  He was unsurprised, but also stunned in a way he never quite got over, no matter what atrocities he saw. That the kid wanted to kill his stepfather, Ethan got. He had a suspicion Gelfman was abusive. But, unless part of young Austin’s plan was a heroic rescue of his mother, he was planning to burn her alive, too.

  That took a degree of anger combined with cold-bloodedness that he didn’t want to understand. Not ever.

  He stayed where he was long enough to type another text.

  Gelfman house is target. Need backup.

  Send.

  * * *

  FUNNY, HOW THINGS played out. And what a man thought about at a time like this, watching a teenage boy spray paint a swastika on the front of his own house. Probably not because he was anti-Semitic, but instead as cover for a murder.

  He could hear Jake Vennetti’s question.

  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?

  He already had. The Glock was heavy and reassuring in Ethan’s hand. Damn, this was the biggest swastika yet, the sharp turns jagged. Austin didn’t seem to mind the drips that Ethan had no doubt would look like blood in a better light. The can made a faint hissing sound that wouldn’t be heard any farther away than Ethan stood, in the deeper shadows beside a huge lilac bush on the property line. It was no longer in bloom, but something nearby was, the fragrance light but intoxicating. Tonight it seemed wrong.

  Ethan was able to hold off because Tyler, too, only stood by watching, the gas cans at his feet. Once the gas was first splashed onto the house walls, there’d be no choice but to step out of cover.

  Where the hell were Pomeroy and Clayton? He didn’t see any indication either of the boys was armed, but he couldn’t be sure they weren’t, either.

  Yes, he’d explained to Jake, he would pull his weapon, because he could use it as a threat to achieve an outcome that didn’t include violence.

  Now, though, he felt a prickle down his spine. These weren’t vandals; they were killers in the making. If he told them to freeze and put their hands up, would they really do it?

  His gut said no.

  I’d be prepared to defend myself, but otherwise I wouldn’t shoot anyone, he had told Jake.

  Feeling cocky, were you? he mocked himself.

  The hissing stopped. Austin March threw the can aside and bent over, unscrewing the lid on one of the much larger red cans. His friend did the same to the other. The unmistakable smell of gasoline mixed with the innocent scent of flowers in bloom.

  Both boys headed toward the corner of the house, each with a can in hand.

  Wouldn’t want to spoil the artwork.

  Ethan followed.

  Tyler was using some muscle to splash gas as high on the wall as he could get it. Austin was out of sight, likely on the other side of the house.

  Ethan ran, circling around to the back. Instinct told him Austin was the bigger danger. When he reached the backyard, sure enough, the kid was flinging gasoline on the walls with abandon.

  Ethan braced his feet and steadied the Glock. “Police! Put that can down and your hands in the air!”

  Austin threw the can aside, flicked something—a lighter, goddammit—and fire leaped into the air. Then he tore around the house, yelling, “Run!”

  He heard himself say, No, I wouldn’t shoot someone in the back to keep him from getting away. And, yeah, something about how vandalism wasn’t a death penalty crime, and neither was arson.

  Unless it’s done to commit murder.

  He peered cautiously around the corner of the house to make sure they were running.

  Crack. A bullet nicked the wood inches from where his head had been.

  Son of a bitch. The kid had a gun. One of the kids had a gun.

  He heard distant feet slapping on the sidewalk. So Tyler was running. Probably imagined if he got away, no one but Austin could identify him.

  “Police!” Ethan yelled again. “Put down the gun. Don’t be an idiot. You shoot a cop, and you’re facing the death penalty.”

  Austin’s reply was laced with obscenities. At last, a light came on upstairs. A muffled voice called something. And a vehicle he recognized was approaching fast, although without siren. It would pull to the curb not twenty feet from where the teenage gunman hid in the shrubbery. Damn. No time to call or text and warn Pomeroy off. One shot through the windshield...

  Ethan threw himself on his belly around the corner. Austin March’s gun barked. Splinters stung his cheek, but this time he could see the kid.

  Coldly, just the way he did at the range, he pulled the trigger. Once. Twice.

  The boy went down, and Ethan raced across the yard to him just as headlights swept over the yard and the car screeched to a halt at the curb.

  A handgun lay inches from Austin’s hand. Ethan kicked it away, holstered his Glock and crouched, praying he hadn’t just killed a seventeen-year-old boy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WEEKENDS, LAURA ALWAYS aimed for something more inspiring for breakfast than cereal. She’d heard Jake stirring when she got out of the shower, so she felt safe in starting breakfast.

  Scrambled eggs, she decided. Maybe waffles tomorrow morning. She turned on the small TV on the counter to the news and took out eggs, milk, margarine and ricotta, tuning out the all-too-familiar commercial for home owners’ insurance that was playing.

  While the pan heated, she started cracking eggs, thinking about the fact that Wednesday was Jake’s last day of school. She’d signed him up for a baseball camp that started a week from Monday, but she hadn’t yet made any other decisions. It was time she decided how much else she could afford. He was bound to get bored if he spent most of the summer hanging out with his younger cousins.

  The news came back on. “A violent scene in a
quiet Portland neighborhood last night,” one of the commentators said, shaking his head gravely. “Police caught the swastika arsonists in the act last night, arresting one while gunning down the second. Jeff, you were at the home where the shooting took place. Tell us more.”

  Gunning down? Oh, dear God. Please not Ethan.

  Laura quit so much as breathing, her gaze riveted to the TV. She’d just broken an egg, but hardly felt the cold yolk and white slithering over her fingers.

  The reporter stood across the street from a scene much like the previous ones. A fire engine partially blocked the swastika lavishly painted on a two-story wood-frame house. Police cars were parked askew on the street.

  “Don, this home reportedly belongs to a family named Gelfman. As you can see, the Gelfmans were targeted by the two young men who have come to be known as the swastika arsonists. The police have not yet released their names, but have said one is eighteen years old and the other seventeen. The eighteen-year-old is now under arrest. The seventeen-year-old is at the hospital in critical condition, currently undergoing surgery.”

  He talked about a police stakeout and how the officer watching the Gelfman home had confronted the boys.

  “As viewers likely know, Detective Ethan Winter of the Portland Police Bureau unit dedicated to cases involving bias crimes has been the lead on this investigation. He was also the officer who staked out this home last night.” The reporter turned to gesture grandly. This time the camera scanned another side of the house, charred and obviously wet. “One of the two young men was armed with more than spray paint, gasoline and a lighter. He shot at Detective Winter, who returned fire before backup could arrive.” The TV now showed an aid car with lights flashing pulling away from the house. “We’re told that this is not Detective Winter’s first shooting as an officer of the law. Five years ago, he shot and killed a man during a convenience store holdup. His actions at the time were of course investigated...”

  As the reporter kept talking, the camera turned on a huddle of police and fire officials. Enveloped by shock, Laura didn’t hear the rest. She was aware only of Ethan, the tallest man present. He glanced toward the camera, his expression grim, the black eye and bruising giving him a disreputable look.