She scanned the street. At one o’clock in the morning on a Monday, she doubted she’d see anyone, but keeping an eye out was instinct. She ran her finger across the dark brow on Nate’s tiny face that reminded her so much of Diego’s. When she and Rosa and Nate were together, people presumed Rosa was the mom and Cameron a nanny. It had become a joke between them. Everyone who saw Nate commented on how much he must take after his father. She agreed. Many stared openly, waiting for her to supply that last bit of information: who was the father?
It didn’t matter now. She told them she was a widow. Most left it at that. The rude ones stared at her ring finger for a band. She wondered if they judged her more harshly because Nate’s appearance was so different from her own. If it would be better if he, too, were blond-haired and blue-eyed.
To her, it was only natural that Nate would look more like her family than her. She’d long since stopped trying to fit in. At five foot ten, female, and blond, she was all too aware of how different she looked from the average Cruz, or even a typical cop. She had learned to deflect attention from her appearance with her ability, but standing out had started way before that.
For her first eighteen years, her blond hair and blue eyes had been a sharp contrast to the Mexican kids in Texas who were her adopted siblings. She had learned early to defend herself. She never wanted anyone to do it for her. Would Nate suffer the same way because he didn’t look like his mother?
She’d proven herself with the Special Ops Task Force. She was as good as any of them. Sometimes better. And they’d be glad to have her back. At least that’s what Ahrens had assured her on the phone. She’d heard very little from the guys in the past seven months. They were men, after all. Even those with children weren’t going to call and swap diapering secrets. But, once she was back, she’d be in the thick of it again. Within a week, they would treat her as though she had never left. Or so she hoped.
She stared down at Nate’s sweet face and listened to the little grunts and moans he made as he ate.
Outside, a car door slammed. Cameron flushed at the thought of someone seeing her breast-feed. The windows of the Blazer were dark, but if someone got close enough, they were transparent. She tucked her shirt down over Nate and searched for the source of the noise. Across the street, a man emerged from a dark green sedan. He started up the hill to the water reservoir. Peering between the seats, she saw another man waiting above.
Nate squirmed, and she brought him back to her breast without taking her eyes off the men. They met on the small path that circled the white, steel reservoir. The one who had come from the car was empty-handed while the other held a black gym bag. He dropped it on the ground between them, waving at it. She scanned the street for anyone else. Something was going down. Where was her phone? The man from the car grabbed for the bag. The first man pushed him back. They were yelling, but she couldn’t make out their words.
It was too dark to make out their faces, but from the shadows, she saw the one from the car reach into his jacket. “Shit.” It was a gun.
She thought her phone was in her purse. She tugged Nate off her breast to reach for it. Nate shrieked. Dropping to her knees, she brought him back to her breast.
Her heart was pounding. “Shh,” she told him. “It’s okay.”
She peered out the window. The two men were looking around. Could they possibly have heard Nate?
She had to get to her phone. She counted to three and slipped Nate off her breast, cupping him against her as she sprang into the front seat and grabbed the strap of her purse.
Nate let out a piercing scream as she whipped the bag over the seat and dropped it beside her right knee. The man from the car came back down the hill, scanning the area. Cameron bent over, careful not to put her weight on Nate while trying to get him to feed. He wouldn’t latch on. Come on, Nathaniel. His mouth widened for another scream. She tried to fill the open mouth with her breast. Her hands were shaking. “Please, baby. Come on.”
One-handed, she rummaged through her purse for a pacifier. Why hadn’t she bought one of those stupid things that attached to his outfit? Finally, she felt the soft latex of the nipple and pulled it out. Popped it into his mouth. She took a slow breath. The men were back on the hill. The one with the bag kicked it toward the other one. Where was her phone?
She scanned the front and spotted her phone on the passenger seat. She reached across and punched 9-1-1 without unlocking the screen. “This is Officer Cruz requesting a 406 at the water reservoir on Carolina. We have two 917s. One is armed. Repeat, requesting 406 at the reservoir on Carolina and 22nd.” She lowered Nate toward his car seat.
If shots were fired, he’d be safer on the floor. She wrapped him like a burrito in a blanket and set him down on a burp cloth on the floor mat. She scanned the car for something else to cover him and remembered she’d thrown her equipment bag in the back so she could go train with the team. She reached over the seat for the bag, unzipped it blindly, and pulled out her Kevlar vest. She used it to create a semicircular shield of stiff Kevlar over Nate’s little form.
She watched the man with the gun, waiting for him to make a move. She made mental notes of the differences between the two men. The one from the car had a slouch, a little rounder in the middle. He wore a light jacket, navy or black, and shoes that reminded her of the ones patrol officers wore. The other man was a little taller, more athletic. He wore sweatpants and a dark long-sleeved shirt. Nikes in gray. A baseball cap but no insignia that she saw. She checked on Nate, whose eyes were closed and moved back onto her knees. The police would be here any minute. Someone would drive by. There were easily a thousand people within ten blocks. Where the hell were they right then?
She took hold of her SIG with no plans of firing it. The car offered no cover. She’d never risk Nate. She couldn’t leave either. They had to keep quiet until backup arrived.
Just then, Nate squirmed. She pressed the pacifier into his mouth and held it until he started sucking hard again. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.” She could sink onto the floor and feed him. The two men were still talking; the one with the gun held it barrel down. Maybe it was only a threat. Maybe he wouldn’t use it.
The man in the cap shook his head and reached for the gym bag. The tension rose. The gunman raised his weapon. The man in the cap shouted. She scanned the streets, straining to hear sirens. Where were they?
Cameron was frozen. She had a decent shot, but she couldn’t shoot from the car. No way. She gripped the gun, her mind racing. Come on.
A shot rang out. The man in the cap fell forward onto his knees. He dropped the bag and touched his chest. The shooter moved for the duffle, raising the gun. She was sure he was going to shoot again, but the man in the cap drew his own weapon and shot twice, quickly. The first shooter fell backward. The man in the cap dropped to the cement as though he were praying. After several beats, he lifted his head and rose slowly to his feet.
She pressed Nate’s pacifier in again, then placed her hand on the door, switching the safety off on her weapon. The man shouldered the gym bag and started toward the far side of the reservoir. She paused again to listen for backup.
She couldn’t let him get away. With a deep breath, she opened her car door and closed it silently. She rounded the back of the car and staying low, moved down the street until she was at a car two down from her own. A small Honda Civic wasn’t perfect cover, but it would do. Using the car as a shield, she screamed, “This is the police! Get your hands up where I can see them.”
The shooter turned around, the gun in his hand.
“Now!” she shouted.
The man dropped the gun and lifted his hands slowly.
“Put them on top of your head.” He interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on top of his baseball cap.
Cameron left the cover of the car and started up the hill toward him. She watched his stance, the angle of his chin under the cap. She closed the distance and studied his face, the dark shadow of a week without shaving. Even und
er the baseball cap, she saw his eyes. “Get your hands up.” Her voice cracked as she yelled. When he lifted his chin, she saw the scar beside his right brow. The air disappeared.
She was staring at Diego Ramirez.
Chapter 5
“You’re alive.” She couldn’t breathe. Diego was here. Alive. In the flesh. She felt frozen, yet her body leaned toward him of its own accord. How many nights had she dreamt of seeing him again? She scanned his body for injuries. There were none. He was alive. He was okay. He was here.
“Cameron.”
She closed her eyes and let his voice echo through her. When she opened them again, he was a step closer. He reached out and touched her face. She heard a low moan that must have come from her. A brief flash of some past moment crossed her mind, some infinite fraction of emotion that compared to this. Behind it was the memory of his touch, of their closeness, of Nate.
Then, she remembered the shot. She turned to the man Diego had shot. Squatted and rolled him onto his back. “Ray Benjamin.”
She tightened her grip on the pistol and Diego took a step backward. “You shot Ray Benjamin.” She felt for a pulse. “You killed a cop!”
Diego touched his chest. “He shot me first.”
A cop. Diego had killed another cop. On her feet, Cameron steadied her hand, and stiffened her thighs to ready herself. She hadn’t shot outside the range in seven months. “Keep your hands up.” She moved toward him. “Are you alone?”
Diego eyed the dead man. “Listen, Cameron. I—”
“No,” she commanded. “Get your hands up.” Not dead—alive. Her motions were habit, protocol. Call for backup. Disarm the perp. Check the wounded. Perform all possible lifesaving techniques until the arrival of paramedics.
He glanced down at his gun.
“Don’t do it,” she warned. “I swear I’ll shoot.”
“You don’t want to do that,” he said.
She tried to shrug, though it came out jerky and awkward. He watched her as though it was a normal day, as though he hadn’t sent her a note to tell her he was dead, as though he hadn’t abandoned her and shot another officer. She ached to throw her arms around him, touch his face, feel him solid and real. He’d been gone. He’d been dead. Now, he was alive.
He watched the gun again. “Really, you don’t want to shoot me.”
“Actually, shooting you seems like a good idea,” she choked out, so desperate to feel nothing that she had the passing thought that if she shot him the old reality would be true again. “I thought you were dead. This way it would be true.” She left the words hanging, giving him a chance to explain. As though it were possible.
He said nothing. He’d left her. She’d had his child, his son. Trembling with fury, she kicked the gun aside. Focused on his weapon instead of his face, hoping it would make the next step easier. Get it done. Get it done, and get out.
“I’m taking you in,” she said. Saying it out loud made it real. It had to be real. She would do the right thing here.
He shook his head, his chin inching upwards the way it did when he was being stubborn. “I can’t let you do that.”
“You don’t have a choice. Put your hands on your head and turn around.” She needed to close the distance, to end this awkwardness, to be staring at his back and cuffing him rather than meet his eyes. But, the thought of physical touch gave her pause.
Forcing herself forward, she pushed him with her fist, wanting as little contact as possible. “Hands on head. Turn around.”
He rotated. She felt under his arms and at his waist for a backup weapon. The rigid muscles in his back shifted against her chest. She struggled to move quickly and end the physical contact. She found his old .38 on his ankle and yanked it out. She remembered the piece. He’d been superstitious about it being his lucky backup. The sight of it, something he’d had before, something from when they were together, was excruciating. She wanted to say something flippant about the gun, some snappy comment, but nothing came. “Get down on the ground.”
He hesitated. She pushed him. “Do it, now.”
A moment later, Nate let out a shrieking cry from the car. Her stomach dropped. Oh, God, Nathaniel.
She pushed Diego toward the ground as Nate wailed. Finish with Diego, she told herself.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
She didn’t have cuffs. She’d have to sit on Diego until backup came. Where the hell were they? Nate was quiet briefly. Cameron took the .38 and backed away from Diego.
Nate cried out again. Without a word, she sprinted to the car. She didn’t want Diego to know about Nate. She didn’t want to explain—he had no right—not now, not ever.
As she looked back, Diego rose onto his knees.
“Get back down,” she shouted.
He kept rising. She fired a shot. It cracked into the asphalt a foot from his head. “I won’t miss again,” she warned.
He dropped down again.
Cameron checked the safety and put Diego’s gun in the rear of the car with her own. With the guns away, she leaned over Nate and wiped his fat, baby tears. “You’re okay. Todo está bien, cariño.” She found his pacifier, and put it in his mouth.
Diego was climbing into Benjamin’s truck. She grabbed her SIG and ran toward him as he threw the car into reverse and drove in a crooked line backward. Fifty feet down the road, he spun the car around and sped away.
Steadying the weapon, Cameron shot out his left taillight, then the driver’s side mirror. Then, he was gone. The adrenaline faded. It was like losing her breath. She put her gun away and pulled Nate into her arms. Holding him tight, she rocked him. Diego was alive. Alive and gone. He’d left her. Jesus Christ, she’d let him go.
She kissed Nate’s wet cheek. Nate had saved him. No, she’d made the choice to let him go. It was a relief that he was gone. She pictured his face, the way she’d imagined him when she missed him most. The way he was when he was determined and strong, when he was honest and passionate.
Then, she imagined him as she’d seen him—alive, after months of thinking he was dead, after having his child…
It was only instinct that brought air into her lungs.
Chapter 6
Cameron sat outside Lavick’s office and tried not to fall asleep. She hadn’t slept. Not that she could have. It had been after two when she arrived home, rattled. Nearly an hour of answering calls. The Homicide Inspector who showed up was someone new. He’d been less understanding than suspicious about her story of driving Nate around to get him to fall asleep. How could she blame him? Who went for a drive in the middle of the night and happened upon her baby’s dead father shooting someone? How could that be a coincidence?
Maybe some higher being wanted her to see that. But she wished she hadn’t. She wished to that same God that she could put it out of her head. The thoughts of how much he’d missed, how different life with Nate would be if Diego were with her. If he’d been beside her when Nate was born. If he hadn’t been dead.
Worse, she had made a mess of the investigation. She had the gun she’d taken off him. When the officers first arrived, she was so focused on explaining what happened, how surprised she was to know the shooter that she didn’t mention it. Maybe she thought she was protecting Diego. By the time she convinced herself it was a bad idea to keep it from them, the Homicide Inspector, Patterson, was making her feel like she’d done something wrong. Bringing it up then felt like a sure way to dig herself in deeper. She didn’t want to delay getting home anymore. Nate had to be put to bed. She was practically dead on her feet.
At five, she gave up the fight for sleep and went for a run in the neighborhood. Over to Mission Delores Park where she ran up and down the hill’s steep slope until her legs wobbled beneath her. Every thought was about Diego. Why and how and when and where. That reservoir was in the middle of his old neighborhood. Why would he have chosen to kill a man there? Any one of three-dozen kids could have ID’d him. Would he have killed them, too? And how had he been in San
Francisco all these months without seeing her? Or had he? Did the kids at the Potrero House know he was alive? Had he gone there? Did he go to mass at Mission Dolores on Sundays? Was he there, sitting a few rows away from her? No. Then, he would have known about Nate.
He didn’t have the look of someone living on the streets. His hair was longer, but that was nothing unusual. It always grew out with some wave, and he’d often go months without cutting it, until it curled out over his ears and Lavick gave him a hard time. It had been cut since he’d died, though. The few days’ beard growth was unusual. For someone who rarely cut his hair, he’d hated whiskers. She’d actually liked them—the scratchy feel against her face and neck and chest when they made love. The thought made her want to throw up, purge him out of her. She realized that he hadn’t been wearing the ratty, navy tennis shoes. Buying shoes was such a mundane task, something they used to do together.
“Cruz.”
Cameron started, straightening in her chair.
Lavick nodded to her as he pulled keys from his pocket and unlocked his office door. “Come on in.”
Cameron sat in the chair that she’d sat in a lifetime ago when Lavick had offered her a job on the team. Lavick settled behind his desk. “Long night,” he said.
She held her chin up. She so wanted to stare at her hands, to avoid a gaze that she feared might unearth some emotion that she’d held so carefully in check before last night.
The office door opened, and Captain Ahrens came in. Her navy suit was already heavily creased across her lap as she sat in the chair opposite Cameron. “You two started?”
Lavick shook his head.
The sergeant spoke to Cameron. “We heard about last night.”
“Yes, sir.” Cameron felt a little like a child with her parents. Captain Ahrens was intimidating. Sergeant Lavick, too, was tall and broad. In another life, they might have made a good couple. Attractive enough, though they each had a nose that was a little wrong for their face. Hers too broad with a rounded bulb on its point, and his more hooked and a little off to one side, maybe from an old fight.
The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set Page 58