RCC01 - Under a Raging Moon

by Frank Zafiro

  She does know.

  His heart quickened.

  And then her face fell.

  A terrible wrenching tore through his stomach, but Gio struggled not to show it. Instead, he changed tactics, even the damage had already been done. “I…really thought the steak was good here,” he finished lamely. “How was your shrimp?”

  A long pause spun out while she set her fork down and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. Only a few moments ago, he’d found that act beautiful. Now it seemed ominous.

  “Gio, I...” she stopped. He looked for tears but saw none. He felt even greater dread creep in. “I like you. I like you a lot. We’ve had fun, some good times ...” she gave him a small smile. “...great sex. But I’m not really interested in anything serious. I mean, were you?”

  Gio looked away. He couldn’t answer, couldn’t look at her.

  “I asked the bartender about you and he said . . .” she trailed off. “Oh, God. Were you looking for something serious, Gio?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t dated anyone else since we met.”

  She didn’t answer. He looked up, and her silence told him that the same was not true for her.

  He’d made a terrible mistake.

  “Oh, Gio.” Marilyn said quietly. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other.”

  He stared at her as if he didn’t understand. But he did. He knew the dance of the breaking hearts. He just usually led.

  “And maybe I should go,” she added with quiet finality.

  “Maybe,” Gio whispered.

  She paused for a moment, her mouth open as if to speak. He knew the words that hesitated behind her lips. I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry, too, he thought.

  She didn’t say anything, though. Instead, she stood and walked away from the table without a word.

  2158 hours

  Katie leaned against her car, wishing that she smoked. A cigarette would have been a nice distraction. Westboard stood next to her, hands in his back pockets, rocking on his heels. Both were waiting for Sergeant Shen to finish inside the house. The homeowners hadn’t demanded to see a supervisor, but Katie thought it prudent to call one just the same.

  “Maybe I should join the fire department,” Katie muttered.

  “Eat until you’re tired, sleep until you’re hungry,” Westboard quoted the long-standing joke about firemen.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of how when firefighters show up and break things, everyone thanks them for it.”

  Westboard grinned and shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Katie.”

  “I blew the call,” she replied.

  “Depends on how you look at it.”

  Katie turned to look at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Westboard continued to rock lightly on his heels. “Well, it depends on if you want to take the long or the short view.”

  “The what?” Katie shook her head. “You’ve lost me.”

  Westboard removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together. “It’s simple. If you take the short view, then the outlook is that you misjudged a call and broke down a door you didn’t need to. What’s the downside of that? The city pays for a door and maybe a citizen is a little pissed off. Or not, depending on how well Shen is doing in there.” He thumbed at the house.

  “The short view sounds like exactly what happened,” Katie said.

  “It is,” Westboard answered, “but in the greater scheme of your career, how big a deal is it? Not much of one. That’s where the long view comes in. The long view says you were faced with a dangerous situation. You were alone. You had to decide whether your personal safety was more important than that woman’s safety inside the house.”

  “She wasn’t in any danger,” Katie argued quietly.

  “You didn’t know that. In fact, you had every reason to believe she was in very real danger. You were faced with a choice and made a decision, which tells you a bit about who you are, doesn’t it? Maybe answers a question or two about yourself?”

  Katie didn’t answer.

  “You went in and did what was necessary,” Westboard continued. “I’d say the long view is that you’ll always do what it takes.”

  Slowly, Katie nodded. He made sense. “When did you get so wise?”

  Westboard shrugged. “Everyone has their demons, Katie. You faced yours.”

  “And what are yours?” Katie asked playfully.

  Westboard blanched and looked away.

  Before she could apologize, the screen door squeaked open and Sgt. Shen appeared in the doorway. The lithe supervisor gave a wave to Fred as he walked down the walkway toward Katie and Westboard.

  “Well,” he said when he reached them, “that’s taken care of.”

  “Are they filing a complaint?” Katie asked.

  “Complaint? No.” Shen smiled. “I assured them the City would pay for a new door and cover the cost of any dry cleaning for soiled undergarments.”

  Katie gave a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, Sarge. I—”

  Shen raised a hand. “You already explained. Your actions were reasonable. Actually, they were brave and a little risky. But you did what you had to do. Just write an informational report for me, okay?”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  Shen smiled and headed back to his own car.

  “Hey, Sarge?” Katie called after him.

  Shen turned.

  “Who won the fight?”

  Shen smiled. “I believe the hometown hero went down in the ninth. Left hook.” He pantomimed a sharp punch to the head, then turned and continued to his car.

  Katie looked at Westboard and shrugged. “Guess he’s not number fourteen anymore.”

  2217 hours

  Winter pulled into the alley and shut off the engine, now centrally located for three of the five stores. The other rover would be responsible for the remaining two. Hart wanted them to drive between the stores constantly, which Winter thought was ridiculous and refused to do. The surveillance vehicle’s job was to watch the store. He’d respond and watch for the getaway.

  Besides, the odds that Scarface would hit tonight were not great, and the odds of hitting one of the targeted stores even slimmer. Karl Winter settled in for a long night.

  He opened his lunch cooler. On top of the neatly packed sandwich, crackers and orange juice, Mary had placed a small note and his favorite candy bar.

  Be safe and save some energy. Love, M.

  He read the note with a smile, then absently placed it in his breast pocket. He closed the lunch cooler and opted for the thermos of coffee.

  An hour flew by. Winter turned the ignition key to start and listened to the stereo on low volume. Like Chisolm, he had served in Vietnam, though his tour was considerably less glamorous. Just your run of the mill blood and guts every “11-Bush” saw. None of that Special Operations stuff.

  He still liked the music from that era. Whenever he heard those songs, he remembered the good times he had. The partying he did on leave. The card games in the barracks. The bad times, the scary times, remained buried. He wondered if the same were true for Chisolm. The thought made him realize that they’d never talked about it.

  Ah, well. Some things didn’t need to be discussed. They were better left alone.

  Winter thought about the note in his pocket and pulled it out, re-reading it. Except maybe for Reiser, he was the only guy in the platoon with a successful relationship with a woman. Ridgeway’s situation amounted to an ongoing soap opera. Gio flitted from woman to woman without remorse. Jack Stone was a confirmed bachelor, probably too acerbic to ever hang on to a woman. Even the Sarge had woman trouble. Poole seemed to be growing more bitter and despondent every day.

  And then there was Mary and him.

  Some guys have all the luck, Winter mused, putting the note away.

  A large white Chrysler drove by. He didn’t notice anything remarkable about it. An anxious white female drove and as she darted past t
he alley, she was looking into the back seat. Winter sipped his coffee and reached for his notebook and scowled. That was a little suspicious. He decided to write down the plate, just in case.

  The alarm tone startled him and he spilled his coffee all over his notebook.

  2331 hours

  Stefan Kopriva accepted the license from the driver’s hand and scrutinized it. The robbery alarm tone blared over his portable. He tossed the license back to the teenager. “Slow it down,” he ordered and hustled back to his car. Once inside, he flipped his siren on and squealed his tires as he left.

  Hart picked up the phone halfway through the first ring. He’d heard the alarm tone.

  “Is it Scarface?” he asked Carrie Anne, the radio supervisor.

  “The description matches.”

  “I didn’t hear the codeword.”

  “There was no ‘Red Dog’ given. This location was not under surveillance.”

  Hart hung up the phone, silently cursing his luck.

  Winter whipped out of the alley and caught up to the white Chrysler. He activated his overhead lights and put out his location to radio. The car pulled to the side of the road at Jackson and Cincinnati. Winter turned on every light the patrol car was equipped with, unfamiliar with their operation after so long on day shift.

  Once he had showered the Chrysler in artificial light, he exited the car and approached cautiously, his right hand resting on his pistol. He considered waiting for a back-up, but didn’t want to waste too much time if this were not the vehicle. His theory could be wrong, after all.

  He reached the rear bumper and shined his mag light into the back seat.

  Probationary Officer Maurice Payne drove westbound on Foothills from Crestline. He wondered how angry he’d made Bates when his unexpected quick turn caused the FTO to spill his drink on his leg. That concern faded as he struggled to place Charlie-251’s location in relation to his own.

  Jackson and Cincinnati.

  Jackson, Jackson.

  He drew a blank.

  Cincinnati, then. Cincinnati was just west of Hamilton. Well, one or two west, anyway, but Hamilton curved around into Nevada just north of the street he was on. So if he made a turn onto that arterial and headed along it, he would cross Jackson. Then Cincinnati would only be a block or two off.

  But which way? Was Jackson north or south of this street?

  Payne gripped the steering wheel, white knuckled, deathly afraid to reach for his street locator and reveal to his FTO that he didn’t know the answer.

  Back on the telephone with dispatch, Hart barked orders at Carrie Anne. “Set up a perimeter on that store, three blocks in each direction.” He squeezed the phone receiver tightly in his hands. He could not afford for Scarface to get away during his task force detail. “Does Winter have a backup on the way?”

  “Yes,” Carrie Anne said. He heard her typing at her keyboard. “It’s Baker-133, Bates and Payne.”

  “Where are they coming from?”

  More tapping. “Crestline and Foothills as of thirty seconds ago,” she answered.

  “All right. Get a status check on Winter.”

  Winter shined his light throughout the interior of the car. It was dirty, but empty. No blankets, no room for anyone to hide. He checked the front seat as well. A few empty beer cans, but otherwise empty. The female driver sat with her hands firmly on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

  “Charlie-251, status check.”

  Winter keyed his mike. “Code four.”

  “Code four.”

  Kopriva heard that and automatically diverted to the store to take a perimeter position. He wondered how long the delay was on this one.

  Thirty seconds from the store, Thomas Chisolm wondered the same thing. He heard Shane Gomez, one of the K-9 officers, switch from the south-side channel and respond to the store. The victim store was short north, so Gomez should get a fresh track.

  Not that it would matter, Chisolm figured. They’d gotten fresh tracks before.

  Payne clenched his jaw as he approached Hamilton. Right or left? North or south?

  He tried to remember a call or a stop he’d had on Jackson but couldn’t.

  Where the hell is Jackson?

  He had a fifty-fifty chance. Besides, he’d been on five perimeters before and they never caught the guy. They’d never been there soon enough.

  Kopriva pulled up to a stop at Mission and Standard with his overheads on, blocking traffic. He notified radio of his perimeter location. He saw another car doing the same at Hamilton and Mission and heard Thomas Chisolm check out there. Another patrol car slipped by Chisolm’s location, it’s lights on.

  Probably the K-9, on his way to another fruitless track.

  Kopriva wondered if Gomez and the other K-9 guys were getting frustrated yet.

  Winter held the driver’s license in his hand, about to go back to his car and check her name, when he paused. The driver stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel. She looked thin.

  Too thin.

  And very nervous.

  Winter glanced at her driver’s license. The picture was almost three years old and a much fuller faced smiled out from the photo.

  She looked like a junkie to him. Actually, more like a crack-head. Junkies were usually tight and wouldn’t talk, but crack-heads weren’t so loyal.

  Winter decided to interview her.

  The throaty idle of the engine made it hard to hear the muffled voices, but he could make out most of it. He wondered why Carla stopped so soon after they left the store, but then he’d heard the tinny crackle of a police radio outside her door. There was no mistaking the calm authority in the voice he heard.

  “Step out of the car, miss.”

  James Mace made his decision in an instant.

  Carla sat stock-still in the front seat of the white Chrysler, just like she had been told to. Do not get out of the car, he had drilled into her. Just sit there, no matter what they say. If they want you to get out of the car, we are fucked. So sit still and don’t worry.

  Carla sat still, but she couldn’t stop from worrying.

  Winter waited a few moments when the driver did not immediately obey his command. Sometimes nervous people were slow to respond. Maybe she had a warrant, too. He probably should have run her name first.

  “Miss, step out of the vehicle,” he ordered again.

  In the next instant, he saw a flash of movement in the back seat. Winter’s mind struggled to process the information. He’d looked in the back seat. It had been empty.

  Winter turned, ripping his gun from his holster, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough.

  From inside the trunk, Mace pushed the back seat forward. The cushion slid across the seat and struck the back of the front seat. Carla gave a small yelp. He ignored her as he slid out of the trunk and into the back seat. Mace trained his weapon on the fat cop standing at the window. He wished for an M-16 like when he had been a Ranger, but the thirty-eight bucked slightly in his hands as he squeezed off three quick rounds. The roar of the gun filled the car.

  The rear driver’s side window shattered on the first shot. The bullets bit into the cop and shock registered on his jowly face. Mace saw a squirt of blood leap out of the cop’s left eye as his first shot went high. The other two slapped into his chest, disappearing into the dark uniform shirt.

  Nice tight group.

  The cop fell, disappearing from view.

  Carla screamed.

  “Drive, you stupid bitch!” Mace screamed at her, “or I’ll fucking shoot you next.”

  Winter felt himself go thunk on the asphalt. For a second, he couldn’t see. He felt wetness on his face, the left side, but the greater pain was lower. In the chest.

  He’d been hit.

  He heard the squeal of tires and the thick odor of exhaust assaulted his senses.

  His left hand fumbled at his belt, searching for his portable radio. He located it and slid his thumb awkwardly into the small notch at the back where he hit
the tiny red panic button.

  Now wait for the sirens. They’re coming.

  He willed himself to stay calm. To breath. Focus. Listen for the sirens.

  But instead, he remembered a time years when he waited in the midst of sing-song Vietnamese screams and the splatting sound of AK-47’s, listening for the sweet sound of helicopter rotors.

  Another alarm tone, wondered Kopriva. What the hell?

  “Signal-98, panic button,” the dispatcher intoned. “Charlie-251, Officer Winter. Jackson and Cincinnati. Repeat, Signal-98.”

  “Holy shit!” Kopriva yelled, dropping his car into gear. He punched the accelerator and flew up Standard toward Jackson. On the way, he blew past a white Chrysler, which dutifully pulled to the side to let him pass even though it was driving southbound.

  The alarm tone surprised Payne as well. He reached Hamilton.

  North or south?

  He decided on north, since more of the sector lay to the north of his location.

  Good choice, good reason, he told himself as he swung the police car north on Hamilton.

  “What the hell are you doing?” screamed Bates.

  Payne winced. Fifty-fifty shot and he lost. He turned the car around as soon as they passed the concrete island.

  “Sorry,” he told Bates.

  “Drive faster or I will stop this car and drive myself,” Bates told him, his voice steeped in cold anger.

  As soon as he heard the garage door close, Mace pushed the cushion forward and slid out of the trunk into the back seat. He replaced the cushion again. Carla cried hard, bordering on hysterical. He slapped her without thinking twice about it.

  “Shut up. Let’s get upstairs.” He put his jacket, the wig, gun and money into an empty gym bag. They left the small garage and made their way up the stairs to his apartment.

  Carla sniffled and hitched, but otherwise maintained herself all the way up the stairs. As soon as the door closed behind her, she started to cry hysterically again. “You shot a cop!” she screamed. “Oh my God, you shot a cop.”