Under a Raging Moon (19 page)

She forced herself to keep an even voice. “There is a report in the computer that I came here, ma’am. If there are any future problems, you can ask them to send the same officer. They’ll have my number.”
And hopefu
l
ly I won’t be working.

When Mrs. Masters didn’t answer right away, Katie allowed herself a small smile. “I’m sure things will be better now that we have this verbal no-contact order in place. Good luck.” She turned and walked back to her car.

It wasn’t until she got into the car, drove out of the neighborhood and cleared the call that she finally a
l
lowed herself a long sigh.

What a total busybody
.
I need something cold to drink.

2209 hours

Karl Winter sat at the table with Ridgeway and Will Reiser. They’d arrived late and found their usual t
a
ble in the corner occupied by some newcomers. Johnny apologized, but the three men didn’t mind. As Ridgeway pointed out, “The beer tastes the same at any table.”

Winter looked at the date on his digital watch, which Mary had bought for him two Christmases ago. He’d protested, preferring a watch with a face and two hands but Mary told him it was time to enter the latter half of the twentieth century.

The date now read August 23rd, which put him at just over eight months to go. It also told him that Gio was an hour late and probably wasn’t co
m
ing. All three of them knew he’d been seeing the blonde he met in here, even though he kept unchara
c
teristically close-mouthed about the affair. Even more telling, Winter had never known Gio to miss a choir practice with the guys over a woman.

“Major Crimes put out a bulletin for patrol today,” Reiser reported. “Scarface has nineteen hits now. There’s another three or four more that are uncertain, but probably him. And he got money on almost all of them.”

Ridgeway didn’t seem impressed. “Major Crimes can pound sand for all I care.”

Winter didn’t join the conversation. Ridgeway had become increasingly irritable over the past few weeks. More and more people knew about his wife’s affair, thanks to her openness and the couple’s common friends. Ridgeway might have been unhappy about losing her, but he was even unhappier about everyone knowing his business.

“You know what Kahn said to me?” Ridgeway asked.

“What?”

“That IA poster boy said that if I would have shot that copycat instead of smacking him, then Major Crimes would’ve never got an admission from him that he wasn’t the real Scarface.” Ridgeway shook his head ruefully. “Without the admi
s
sion, Hart could then claim to the press that all these new robberies were copycats. He’d be so happy that he’d let me take Poole’s place as day shift lap dog.”

“That’s cold,” Winter observed. He felt sorry for Ridgeway and Gio. Nabbing the copycat at Silver Lanes was still a good pinch. The guy commi
t
ted a first-degree robbery and they arrested him. But just like no one calls the loser of the Super Bowl the second best team in the NFL, almost getting Scarface didn’t quite cut it among the other officers. Everything on the police department was high-speed, low drag. This was particula
r
ly true in the patrol division.

“You know that arrest went to Internal Affairs?” Ridgeway asked.

Winter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why?”

“Use of force. Per Hart the El-tee Prick himself.” Ridgeway took a hard slug of his beer and signaled to Johnny that he wanted a shot. Then he turned to face Winter and Reiser. “You know what their main beef is?”

Both men shook their heads. Discussing Internal Affairs investig
a
tions, ongoing or otherwise, was strictly forbidden. Rarely did anyone observe that rule.

Ridgeway ticked off the facts on his fingers. “That radio didn’t broadcast anything specific about a gun. That I saw no weapon before I cracked him. That the fake gun was under the seat. And that using my gun as a striking instrument is forbidden in department policy and procedures.” He smiled bitterly.

Winter shook his head in disgust.

“I can’t believe that,” Reiser said.
“
He just committed an armed robbery and
he was reaching inside his jacket!”

Johnny set Ridgeway’s shot in front of him. Ridgeway threw it back and grimaced. “Imagine that. They said I could have justified shooting him but not pistol-whipping him. How ass-backward is that?”

No one spoke as Ridgeway continued.

“So let’s recap. My wife throws me over for a pansy fireman. Which everyone is now aware of because she is out there running her mouth. Then, instead of killing some dumb sonof
a
bitch, I give him a headache. IA comes to talk to me and
of course
they have to send the Brass Bitch to do the interview. Four goddamn investig
a
tors in IA, one of them is a woman, and I get her. I just know she is going to recommend a finding of improper conduct.” Ridgeway’s voice rose as he spoke. “This shithead copycat robber will prob
a
bly sue, in which case the department can step aside and lay all the respo
n
sibility on me. ‘Look, we gave him proper training. We never said he could hit somebody with his gun. He was operating outside the scope of his emplo
y
ment.’ So now Shithead Copycat gets to fight over my stuff with Alice and her little fireman. Now isn’t that all just absolutely, fucking
wonderful
!”

At the last word, Ridgeway slammed his palm against the table, rattling the glasses. Conversation in the bar stopped abruptly and all eyes turned to their table, including a disappro
v
ing look from Johnny. Winter held up his hand slightly and waved him off. Ridgeway stared at the table, oblivious to it all.

Winter and Reiser sat silently. In a few seconds, conversation again picked up throughout the bar. It took another few minutes for the dark cloud over the table to dissipate. Ridgeway brooded, feeding it.

Winter broke the silence, telling them about his encounter with Poole in the locker room.

“No kidding?” Reiser asked.

“No kidding. It was strange.”

“What do you expect?” Ridgeway asked. “His wife pulled the same thing on him that Alice did on me. If you throw in being Hart’s lackey, he’s got to feel like shit about life right now. I’m surprised he hasn’t eaten his gun yet.”

“Don’t say things like that, Mark,” Winter said, more sharply than he intended.

Ridgeway didn’t react to Winter’s rebuke. “I’m telling you,” he said darkly, “sometimes a guy thinks about things like that.”

Winter eyed Ridgeway closely. “But not you, right?”

Ridgeway grunted and took a slug from his glass.

“Mark?”

“What?”

“Not you, right?”

Ridgeway stared at him, expressionless. “No, Mother Wi
n
ter. Not me.”

“Good.”

A short silence followed, then Winter waved for another round. “I volunteered for Hart’s task force,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“No lie?” Reiser asked, joining in the conspiracy.

“Yeah. I drew the rover position, tomorrow night. I think I’ll put my theory to the test.”

“Theory?” asked Reiser.

Before Winter could answer, Ridgeway broke in. “Just make sure you shoot him, Karl. Don’t be merciful. Mercy is for the weak.”

Reiser half-nodded. “Mark’s right, in a way. Not for the IA reason, but this guy is either really smart or rea
l
ly crazy. Either way, don’t fool around.”

“It’s drugs,” Ridgeway said. “He’s doing this to support a habit. Has to be.”

Winter had already come to that conclusion. He relayed his theory about the woman accomplice in a car to the two men. Both nodded.

“Sounds reasonable. Either that or he is an Olympic-class runner,” Reiser joked.

“Those druggies have no strength. They can’t run,” Ridgeway said. “You do have one thing on your side, though, Karl.”

“What’s that?”

Ridgeway grinned but there was no humor in it. “If his getaway driver is a woman, she will eventually screw him over.”

Winter and Reiser chuckled, but it did little to relieve Ridgeway’s black mood.

Winter rose, dropping a ten on the table. “Have a couple on me, gents. I’m going home before I start to believe all these evil lies about the fairer sex.”

Ridgeway and Reiser raised their bottles in salute as he left Duke’s.

Outside, the air remained comfortably warm but he could feel the cool promise of night. He was glad that Reiser would stay with Ridgeway a little longer. A man needed his friends at a time like this.

His Corsica started up without hesitation, and he let it idle for a minute before leaving the parking lot and driving toward home. He and Mary had planned for a late night dinner after choir practice and he was looking forward to it. Already, he could see Mary’s bright eyes dancing. He could feel her smal
l
ness as she pressed against him for a hug. He could smell her delicious cooking, a skill hard-won over the years. The woman couldn’t brew tea to save her life, but she could cook like nobody’s business. He could see her apron, perhaps splashed with flour or sauce and the small wine glass on the counter that she sipped on for hours before it was empty. And he knew he would soon taste the wine that would be on her lips.

2316 hours

T-Dog reached for the phone. When Morris said now, he meant
right now
, motherfucker.

He dialed the number from memory.

Jimmy answered. “Hello?”

T-Dog smiled at Jimmy’s nervous tone. That was good. It would make things easier. He waited a few moments before answering. He could almost smell Jimmy’s sweat on the other end of the line.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Jimmy. It’s T-Dog.”

“Oh.” A tiny pause hung in the air. “What’s up?”

“I need your car tomorrow night.”

“The brown Chevy?”

“No, the Maserati,” T-dog sneered.
Stupid shit.
“Of course the Chevy, you idiot. Drive it over about se
v
en.”

There was another, longer pause.

“Did you hear me, bitch?”

“Uh, yeah. I kinda had something going, though.”

“Reschedule.”

Pause. Then, “Okay, T-Dog. You think you could hook me up when I come over? I’m hurting.”

T-Dog grinned at the desperation in Jimmy’s voice. “Yeah, sure. Ten for a twenty-piece, since you’re gi
v
ing up your car for the night.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Seven o’clock. Don’t forget.” He hung up without waiting for a r
e
sponse.

Dialing, again from memory, he switched gears. He punched the proper buttons and paged Cally. Had to be respectful this time. Cally was no a
d
dict. He had some juice.

It took only three minutes for the phone to ring. T-Dog picked it up.

“Cat?”

“No. T-Dog.”

“Unh,” Cally grunted. “’Sup?”

“I need two gatts.”

“Baby nines?”

“That’s fine, unless you got anything bigger?”

“Not here,” Cally told him. “I got the baby nines right now, but an
y
thing bigger might take a while.”

“How long?”

“Coupla days.”

“That’s no good,” T-dog said. “I need them before tomo
r
row night.”

“Then the babies is all I got.”

T-Dog considered. Three-eighties were small pistols, good for concealment, but they lacked a lot in the power department.

“I guess I’ll take ‘em, then. Are the numbers filed off?”

“They can be.”

“Need ’em that way.”

They haggled briefly over price and T-Dog hung up. He turned to Morris, who lounged on the sofa, drin
k
ing from a forty-ounce bottle of beer.

“Got the drive and the gatts.”

Morris nodded his approval and licked his top lip. “Thas’ right. Gonna get that lily-ass motherfucker.”

Wednesday, August 24th

0400 hours

Gio lay in the early morning darkness. The red numbers of his clock gave him another thirty minutes of sleep, but Gio wasn’t tired.

He could still feel Marilyn’s presence in his bed. She’d risen at midnight and left. She seemed regretful, but she had to work in the morning and could not wear the same clothes two days in a row. Gio watched her dress in the darkness, admiring the silhouette of her body and head standing and bending like a dance. Her lips radiated warmth when she kissed him wetly and slipped out.