TWO
“All right, sir, please stand straight, look directly at me and keep your feet together,” Karen McCarthy said. “Extend your left arm straight out to the side, then use your index finger to touch the tip of your nose.”
The guido slouched a bit and tensed his shoulders, making his pecs and lats swell out the tight T-shirt. Blue and red lights slipped across his body. He was two heads taller than Karen, with a gym rat torso and ropy veins along his arms. He had a strong chin and nicely shaped lips, but above the mouth his face took a Neanderthal turn: thick nose, tiny eyes set way back in their sockets, one long temple-to-temple eyebrow and a low forehead capped with oily curls. It looked like God had set out to make him beautiful, then given up halfway through the job.
Karen’s police radio squawked. “One last time, sir,” she said. “Extend your arm straight out to the side and touch the tip of your nose.”
“That ain’t what you want me to touch,” he said. His three buddies, still in the Jeep Cherokee, laughed loud. Over his shoulder, Karen could see the other four cops diverting another car from the conga line along the Boulevard, sending the driver into the parking lot and the ranks of orange cones. The cops looked happy, as well they should. They were all getting time and a half, and the clock was about to shift into golden double time, all funded by a state law-enforcement grant. Their work on this Saturday night would pay for Saturdays to come. Only the need to maintain some semblance of traffic flow through town kept them from pulling over every car and subjecting each driver to a full Martha Graham field sobriety test.
The guido’s stance altered, ever so slightly, and Karen decided he was about to make a move on her. She felt a little flutter in the bottom of her stomach: anxiety, tension, even a bit of anticipation. Karen had two years of aikido classes wired into her nervous system; she automatically ran through the five basic immobilization techniques. Karen also had six months of county police academy training under her belt, and that was the route she decided to take with this clown.
She allowed her gaze to drop to his chest, giving her an all-encompassing view of his arms and legs – if he were to make a move, she’d be able to react that much faster. She distracted him by holding up the summons book in her left hand while the right hand settled on her PR-24 baton: a long stick with a short handle set at a perpendicular angle. If he made a grab for her, she would whip the baton out and across in a tight, fast curve, letting the grip swivel in her hand so the baton would snap against his ribs, where a fine lacework of nerves lay between the bones and the soft skin. Then she’d have him down on his knees, locking his head into a triangle made up of the baton, the handle and her bicep, and she’d twist him into positions not seen since humans began walking upright.
All of a sudden, she kind of hoped he would try something. It was an unworthy thought, she knew – in aikido, that kind of giving-in to rage was called losing one’s center. At the next class, her sensei would be very interested in hearing how she’d handled this confrontation.
Then Pete Hull materialized at her side. He had a way of vanishing, then reappearing whenever Karen was having a tough time. “Patrolman McCarthy,” Hull said, “why isn’t this situation under control?”
”It is under control, sergeant. This gentleman seemed reluctant to perform the sobriety test as instructed, and I was about to advise him — inform him of the — advisability of doing so. Of doing as he was advised.”
“That’s very well put, officer.” Hull shifted as he spoke, and Karen took note of the slight limp. “You go take over on pursuit detail.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I was already Elmer for the first two hours of the roadblock.”
“It’s not a roadblock, patrolman, it’s a motor vehicle checkpoint. For that, you’ll be Elmer twice in one night. You can brag about it in your performance review.” Hull gave a flat staccato laugh and Karen spun on her heel, glad nobody could see her blush as she stalked across the parking lot. She was going to be Elmer Fudd and chase wabbits – those drivers who, upon finding themselves in line for a drunken-driving roadblock, suddenly remembered a pressing engagement somewhere in the next county. Since very few drivers were actually foolish enough to try to get away, Elmer duty was mainly a chance to sit in the pursuit car and drink coffee.
The parking lot sloped at a faint angle. Bridgeborough perched on a low ridge at the juncture of two rivers that flowed along its east and south sides. At the northern end, the Pelly Avenue bridge acted as a span over a deep gully and a gateway into another realm. Southbound drivers left behind the sprawl-land of Dawson, with its shopping malls and looping highway interchanges and landscaped farm fields sprouting McMansions and starter castles, and entered the working-class troll kingdom of Bridgeborough, where low brick buildings hunched close along the Boulevard and there were at least as many bars as churches. The supermarket marked the point where the Boulevard started to angle downward to meet the Red Bridge, where drivers had the option of continuing south or heading west to the more prosperous duchies of Alleton, Whiston Park and Scourby. Or they could take one of the side streets and follow the hill down to the Waneitch River, where boats bobbed along the old marina and the most ambitious scum-heels headed for Reilly’s, the kind of place Karen’s cop grandpa called a bucket-o’blood, Karen’s cop father called a fuck-or-fight joint, and which Karen’s cop colleagues called the plugged-up toilet of the universe.
Patrolman McCarthy. Sergeant Hull always pronounced it Patrol Man. Movies and TV shows were full of hot-babe cops with pistols strapped to their thighs. In the real world, most cop shops had yet to see their first women recruits, and probably never would – the female trailblazers of the Seventies and Eighties had reached retirement age, and not many were stepping up behind them.
The pursuit car was parked at the far end of the lot, behind a drive-through bank that allowed cops to watch the lined-up cars with only a slight chance of being spotted. Her mood lifted when she saw Warren Peterson behind the wheel. He looked bored, but that was nothing new. Karen had known him since they went through the police training academy together, and the face he presented to the world always wore the expression of a nice but slightly impatient uncle who would pretend to be interested in what someone was saying, but really wanted to get back to watching the game.
She crossed in front of the car, letting him see her coming. Once inside, she smiled pleasantly and said, “So, Warren, how’s your sex life?”
Peterson didn’t miss a beat. “I’m married, Karen. I have a three-year-old boy and a one-year-old girl. My sex life comes from listening to the single guys talk in the locker room. And watching Sesame Street. That’s when you know you’re a dad, when you start getting turned on by kiddie shows.”
“You wanna get it on with Big Bird?”
Peterson scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That could be interesting. But it’s Maria I’m really after.”
“I’m not as cultured as you are. Who’s Maria?”
Peterson idly stroked the onboard computer mounted at the bottom of the dashboard, where the cigarette lighter and change tray would have been on a civilian car. The radio squawked and chattered. “She’s one of the three hotties on Sesame Street,” he said. “For a while I dug Gina the veterinarian and the girl playing Maria’s daughter, but upon mature reflection I have decided Maria’s the one for me. Older woman, but still very babe-alicious. Milfy. She also knows how to fix things, too.”
“Your wife’s gonna fix you, she hears this bullshit –”
“You kidding? She’s got a thing for Oscar the Grouch. Says he reminds me of her. Or her of me.” Peterson stiffened slightly as a driver started to turn. The driver spotted the cop car, stopped and angled back into the line. “What’s the next movie? You gave me three good ones in a row now.”
“What did I loan you? I forget.”
”The Hustler.”
“I got the sequel,” Karen said. “The Color of Money. Sucks ass, though.”
“Tom Cruise, weird hair?”
”That’s it.”
“I’ll pass. Sergeant Hull sent you here? Still giving you crap?”
“Why should tonight be any different?”
Peterson flicked at the key in the ignition. “I’ll leave you with the keys to the kingdom, then.” He got out and waited while Karen came around. “You coming for dinner still?”
”Saturday? I’m there.”
Karen had settled in behind the wheel when Peterson tapped the window. She powered it down.
“The Hustler,” he said. “Good flick, but one thing I don’t get.”
Karen nodded and waited.
”At the beginning, when Paul Newman’s beating the crap out of Minnesota Fats at the pool table, and Minnesota’s backer comes in to watch. Who’s that actor?”
”George C. Scott.”
”He sits and studies Paul Newman for a while and then he tells Fats to keep playing ’cause the kid is a loser. What’s up with that?”
”I guess he figured that Paul Newman couldn’t walk away while he was still winning. He was gonna keep playing until he couldn’t play any more. So even when he’s winning, he’s gonna end up a loser because he doesn’t know when to quit.”
”Huh.” Peterson straightened up and adjusted his cop cap. His waist, while still trim from the academy, showed signs of softening. “I know some people like that.”
He ambled off without another word, leaving Karen to chew over what he’d said.
Had he been talking about her? Peterson had a way of giving his statements a little extra spin. It was a habit that had gotten him into borderline serious trouble at the county academy on at least two occasions that Karen knew about.
Had he been telling her something? Karen worried at it a bit, then concluded that no, Peterson was still on her side. When somebody nailed a dog kennel sign from the county SPCA over the entrance to the women’s locker room, Peterson had been honestly angry about it — he’d even gotten into a shoving match with a patrolman who’d been smirking at her. She hadn’t told Peterson about the dog collar and leash she’d found dangling from a handle in the shower. Those little tokens were still in her locker, against the day they might come in handy for some payback. Standard cop humor was so relentlessly crude that Karen sometimes wasn’t sure if she was getting shit because of her sex or because of her greenhorn status. But a dog collar? She was going to have to make somebody pay for that one.
Karen shifted and squirmed. The uniform was a bad fit for her big-boned frame. She’d have to start putting aside money for tailoring.
Karen stared at the profiles of the drivers, willing one of them to do something stupid and break the boredom. Murchison Street curved in along the north edge of the shopping center and formed a Y-intersection with the Boulevard. Anybody looking to pull a fast one would have to do a K-turn in heavy traffic and race up Murchison, by which point Karen would nail him. If by some chance he got past her, he would have to puzzle his way through the labyrinth of Bridgeborough’s south side, where the streets looped and tangled against a low ridge and the Waneitch River. The Boulevard, with a bridge at either end, was the only way in and out of the town, and there were checkpoints at both ends tonight.
A flash of memory cut through the fog of resentment and made her smile. Her first day on the job, helping keep traffic moving past a rear-ender on the Boulevard. Rain hammering on her cop cap. An elderly woman had marched up with an umbrella and demanded that Karen use it to keep dry. Karen, recognizing her sixth-grade home room teacher, had smiled and groped for a polite way to tell her that no beat cop under any circumstances would be caught dead —
Horns blared and faint curses drifted in over the asphalt. Some idiot was trying the guilty K-turn. Karen threw the cruiser into gear and roared over to the Murchison Street driveway. She came out just as the car rounded the curve: a green Taurus.
She put on the overheads, burped the siren and angled into the car’s path. The driver kicked on his high beams, zapping her right in the retinas, then used the driveway of one of the houses to ride up onto the curb and flash past, leaving a clatter and tumble of garbage cans in his wake. Karen whooped and cut a hard right turn, but one of the cans wedged against the carjack bumper. She backed up to get free of the can, then floored it as the Taurus’ tail lights switched off.
The asshole was driving without lights down Vail Street, a long, slightly crooked street that intersected with Apple Avenue, another long, unbroken route. She’d have plenty of time to catch him — sure enough, there was the quick flash of the brake lights. She clawed for the radio and reported in as the Taurus veered onto Apple Avenue. She checked off the charges as she drove. Disregarding a stop sign, along with fleeing and obstruction. Reckless driving. The chase had hardly started and Karen already had four tickets in mind for the guy. A nice jolt of adrenaline, a running start on her monthly quota of tickets and double-time pay — not bad for a night’s work.
She snatched up the microphone. “Car five, pursuing green Taurus with rusty patches, eastbound on Apple Avenue.”
The dispatcher’s voice: endlessly dry, endlessly calm. “You gotta plate?”
”Uh, negative, suspect driving without lights.”
Apple Avenue ended in a T-intersection with Hansen Street: a right turn would send him back to the Boulevard, while a left would take him to the Loop and the high school. She pulled to within ten yards of the suspect when the brake lights flashed and cut left. The Loop, then.
She rounded the corner, fishtailing slightly in a most satisfactory way, then roared down Hansen Street. She was just screeching onto the Loop when she realized she’d lost the Taurus.
Shit.
She circled the high school once, making sure the parking lot was empty, then cut back up Hansen Street. She kept her lights off as she approached Apple Avenue. She spotted the Taurus about four houses away from the Apple Avenue intersection. He’d cut in between a van and a camper and let her blaze past.
Karen angled the cruiser in behind the Taurus, cutting off retreat. She peered into the car, saw it had been hot-wired. She turned on her portable radio, then decided she’d better check in. She inadvertently left the portable on, and when she switched on the dashboard radio, the blast of feedback made her yelp.
”McCarthy, pursuit unit. Green Taurus, uh, vehicle abandoned at Apple and Hansen. Beginning search of area.”
”Description?”
”Haven’t seen him yet. Just the car. Backup would be nice.”
”On the way. Keep us posted.”
Karen switched off the dashboard radio, then stepped out with her long flashlight held shoulder high, ready to club down. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the street light, then moved along the sidewalk, betting the driver had headed for the Boulevard. She kept the flashlight off, not wanting to announce her presence by waving it around. When she came to a dark area, some possible hiding place, she flipped the switch quickly, getting a glimpse before moving on.
Be thorough, but be fast. The scumbag could have decided to run for it.
Or he could be trying to hot-wire another car.
Or he could be waiting to jump her.
The houses along here were packed in close, and most had fences. She kept her mouth open slightly, trying not to let the rush of her breathing mask any sounds. At some point during the chase, she’d passed from excitement into tension. This was her first solo situation. Normally, the voices of her instructors clamored in the back of her skull while she was on the job. Now all was silent.
Something scratched to her right. Karen let the flashlight blaze as a dog roared at her – white teeth and red werewolf eyes flashing behind chain links. A Rottweiler, maybe. It kept raising hell as she walked away, making so much noise she wanted to go back and hit it with some pepper spray.
She crossed Apple Avenue and continued checking along Hansen. This block had some spillover businesses from the Boulevard: a secondhand store, a music studio, a liquor shop. A few more yards and she’d round a bend, be within eyeshot of the Boulevard. Wood steps angled up the side of the music studio. Karen gave them a long, careful look, wondering if she’d have to go up. Maybe she should do the alley first.
The flashlight picked out bottles, flattened cartons and unidentifiable crap. The beam slipped along the bricks and disappeared when she tried to probe into the far end of the alley. She’d have to go in and check it out.
A cop could get hurt in a situation like this. A cop could get killed. A cop could end up bleeding to death on the concrete while a line of fellow officers stood less than a hundred feet away, engrossed in the task of making sure everybody on the Boulevard had an up-to-date inspection sticker.
Her radio squawked. Standing where she was, with the street light behind her, she was probably a great target. Karen stepped sideways, toward the stairs, and a bottle clinked somewhere back in the alley.
”Police officer!” she called out, flicking the light around. “Come out here right now!”
Karen waited, feeling her nerves shrink tight around her heart, and she reached for her radio. Another clink of a bottle, and a man’s voice said: “OK, I’m walking out. Don’t get jumpy. I was just taking a leak.”
”Come out here right now!” she shouted. Her right hand held the flashlight, ready to strike down. Her left hand unsnapped the gun holster.
”Like I said, don’t get jumpy.” She took him in as he stepped into the light: a little under six feet tall, thin build, loose black jeans, black athletic shoes, dark blue sweater, dark blue jacket. His face was lean and slightly hollow-cheeked, with a weak chin and blond hair worn a little long over the ears, combed at a slant across his wide forehead. Slightly puffy lips under a thick mustache.
”I was just taking a leak, is all,” he said. “I’m sorry, but there’s some things you can’t put off.”
”I want to see some ID,” Karen said. “Take out your driver’s license.”
”Sure.” He was still coming toward her.
”Stand right there, keep your hands where I can see them and take out your wallet.”
The lips twisted in a derisive grin. “Well, if I reach for my wallet one of my hands is gonna be out of your sight.” He stepped forward again.
”Stop right there!” She put a hand on her gun and the grin vanished.
”Yeah, OK, fine, it’s cool, don’t get mad.” He gestured past her. “I think my wallet’s in my car there.”
She didn’t turn around to look, but the distraction worked anyway because Karen noticed something odd about the guy’s hand. She took her fingers off the gun and he plowed into her, pushing her back against the wall and pawing at the holster. She fought clear and slammed her flashlight onto his shoulder, making him yell, and then he was inside her reach, swearing at her and spilling stale coffee breath across her face as she blocked his wrist.
As soon as her back was to the alley, the guy tried to cut and run, but Karen held on to his arm. Now they were both cursing, the guy making another grab for the gun, and Karen chopped down against his wrist. The cursing gave way to silence and scuffling feet as they grappled, then the guy yowled in surprise as she dropped, keeping a grip on his jacket and shirt, pulling him down as she rolled onto her back and kicked her feet into his body. His momentum carried him up and over, screaming all the while, and for a moment he seemed to be trying to walk on his hands as his sneakers scraped the brick wall and a few coins drizzled from his pants. Then he hit the pavement with a thick grunt, while Karen rolled easily to her feet.
”That’s it, scumbag,” she yelled, and as she straightened up the top of her head slammed against the wood stairs.
She froze in a private universe of pain, and the guy used the interval to throw a bottle that cracked against her kneecap and shattered by her feet. Somewhere out beyond the wall of sparks, Karen could see him slipping around the corner of the alley.
Her feet crunched glass. She hunched over and cradled her head, hearing herself squeal “Fuck fuck fuuuuck” in a thin, keening whine. There was no sign of the asshole out on the street. Karen limped to her cruiser, using the rest of her strength to keep from crying.
”Requesting immediate backup,” she told the radio. “Suspect fleeing on foot. Caucasian male, blond with a mustache, tried to evade the roadblock. Isn’t anybody else going to help me out here?”
”On the way,” the dispatcher rasped.
Karen tried to trot in the direction the suspect had run. Her first step hit the concrete sidewalk; a shock wave rippled up through her body and squeezed into her skull, pushing her brains up through the crown of her head. She was still wincing and rubbing the sore spot when three cruisers blazed in: one from the Boulevard, one from Apple Avenue and one screeching to a stop on Hansen Street.
Cops were swarming around her, asking if she was OK, demanding to know where the guy’d gone. One of them dashed up Hansen Street.
”He hit you?” somebody asked. “Bottle?”
”Bottle on the knee,” Karen gasped. “Oh fuck, my head.”
A voice fizzed on their radios. “Nothing yet. No sign.”
Flashlight beams flickered and stabbed. “Gotta gate open here, dog going nuts,” one cop shouted. “Maybe he jumped the fence.”
Hull’s voice on the radio. “Somebody tell me they got ‘im.”
”Negative,” somebody said. “Suspect still at large. Officer injured.”
”Which officer?”
”McCarthy.” That faint sound on Hull’s end — was he cursing? “He got away from her? How bad’s she injured?”
”I’m OK,” Karen told the radio.
”Yeah, right now, anyway,” the cop said. Weiss. Green eyes under a Marine buzz cut. Thick lips that twisted whenever he looked at Karen.
”The fuck’s that mean?” she snarled, the pain pumping up her anger.
”Go talk to the sergeant, see what the fuck that means. He wants you to report in right now. Go.” The other two cops paused to watch. Not doing anything, but keeping tabs.
”I’m gonna look for this asshole. I can’t go to the station house yet.”
”You’re not going to the station house. We got a B&E and a shooting. Your scumbag was probably the one did it.” Weiss told her the address, and as he spoke Karen felt dizzy. Felt the ground splitting open right under her feet.
