Under a Raging Moon (4 page)

Chisolm showed no surprise. He opened his briefcase and withdrew all three items and dropped them with a thunk on Hart’s desk.

“Payne will be re-assigned to someone who is not such a burn-out,” Hart said through gritted teeth.

“He may need this, then.” Chisolm reached inside his briefcase and withdrew Payne’s pistol. He slammed the weapon down on Hart’s desk. The slide was locked to the rear and the magazine had been removed. Chisolm tossed the magazine to Hart, catching him by surprise. Hart juggled the mag, then dropped it.

Chisolm ignored him, gathered up his briefcase and strode out the door.

1743 hours

Thwack!

Two halves of firewood fell off the splitting block and onto an already sizable pile. Karl Winter stepped forward and tossed them aside into his stacking pile and set another round on the block. He removed the axe and stepped back.

Winter had once heard that cutting wood is a favorite acti
v
ity of men. That’s because it is hard work and one sees imm
e
diate results. Who said that? Mark Twain? Winter wasn’t sure but he agreed with the sentiment.

He set up and swung easily, letting the weight of the axe do most of the work. Two pieces leapt apart as if in pain when the axe struck, landing several feet to each side.

Winter chopped most of his wood in the summer, storing it for the winter season. He hated chopping wood in the cold. Actually, he avoided doing anything in the cold. Besides, there was something satisfying about swinging an axe under the August late afternoon sun and sweating from honest work. Police work was hard, dangerous at times, but not physically deman
d
ing, except in small bursts. His protruding belly spoke to the truth of that.

He set up another piece and continued chopping at a leisurely, constant pace. His mind wandered, as it o
f
ten did, to work issues. This Sca
r
face robber situation bothered him. The guy threatened clerks with a gun and now he was shooting at cops. Add to that the fact that the administration bungled their handling of the situation so far, both within the department and with the media. But most of all, it rankled him that the bastard was getting away with it.

Eleven stores in two weeks.

Winter shook his head in disgust and swung the axe.

Thwack.

Another piece of wood ready for burning in three months.

Winter reviewed the information he had. The description was always the same. The robber made no a
t
tempt to disguise himself. He either didn’t care, or. . . maybe he wanted to be seen. Which would mean he wore a disguise. Probably the hair. A good wig, maybe, giving him long hair.

What about the scar?
He considered the question, but decided it was probably real. One of the clerks would have noticed a fake scar.

So the robber runs out of the store, goes three or four blocks on foot, maybe less, and gets into a car. Ev
e
ry track that Winter knew of ended with the K-9 officer saying the suspect probably used a car. Officers are set up on perimeter and looking for a white male with long black hair on foot. Does he slip out with his short hair and in a car?

Maybe.

Winter swung the axe lightly, sticking it into the block. He began to stack the wood.

Probably not, though. An officer would stop someone that even vaguely matched the description, car or not. And how close did you have to be to see the scar? He might be able to slip out two or three times, but not eleven.

So what then?

Winter shook his head and tossed the wood into the stack. He knew the detectives in Major Crimes had more information they weren’t putting out to patrol. Part of it was security and some it was the ridiculous game of ownership. They wanted to keep the information to themselves and they wanted to catch the bad guy instead of patrol. After all, why waste information on a bunch of patrolmen? They were just cops who weren’t smart enough to make detective, right?

Winter frowned. He had to stop hanging out with Ridgeway. He was ge
t
ting more negative by the day.

He returned to the puzzle at hand. So the robber gets in the car and drives away... or maybe someone else is driving?

An accomplice?

Winter smiled. Of course.

A
woman
. That’s how he does it.

Winter resisted the urge to hoot and holler. Hot damn, it was so easy once you saw it!

He robs the store, then runs to the car and hops in. He lays down in the back seat or something. Maybe covers up with a blanket. The woman driver gets on an arterial and drives two miles an hour under the speed limit in one direction. Five minutes later, they are way out of the area and safe. All the cops in the city are either back near the store that he just robbed or they are running lights and siren to get there.

Not bad. I’ll bet that is how he does it.

With the last piece stacked, Winter returned to the chopping block and with exuberance cut a few more pieces. He wondered if the detectives or the crime analysis unit had figured this out yet. He wondered whether he should share the idea, or give the detectives a dose of their own medicine.

Then he wondered why this guy felt like he had to rob a store every day and a half. That was a hell of a lot of exposure.

Winter’s brow furrowed.

Drugs? Probably.

He set up a piece of wood and stepped back to chop it. Another small mystery solved.

The back door opened and Mary approached carrying a glass of iced tea. Winter admired her slender frame for a m
o
ment, but found himself drawn as usual to her face and to the laughing eyes that stared into him. Her dark hair was pulled back into a clip. He smiled when he noticed the single large strand that always pulled free and hung loosely on her cheek.

“Take a break, Grizzly Adams,” she said lightly, handing him the tall glass.

Winter took it and drank deeply. Mary’s tea had always been bitter, something he’d never had the heart to tell her. Eventually, he’d grown to like the taste. Inside the house, he could hear the stereo playing and recognized a Springsteen tune,
Thunder Road
. He lowered the glass and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled at him and Winter felt his heart melt. Forty-four years old, and she still made him feel like a schoolboy.

Winter remembered when he would play Springsteen songs for her on his acoustic guitar. His voice was horrible and his guitar playing barely medi
o
cre, but he had passion. He took several rock songs and slowed them down, doing them acoust
i
cally and, he tried, romantically.

Her favorite was
Thunder Road
, partially because the woman in it was named Mary. Years later, Sprin
g
steen himself did an acoustic version of that song on M-TV. Winter broke his vow never to watch that channel and tuned in for the show. After it was over, Mary leaned against him and kissed his temple. He could still remember her warm breath in his ear as she whi
s
pered, “I liked your version better.”

Winter stared at her and took another drink of the bitter tea. It was cold. Mary looked back at him with a small smile playing on her lips.

“Are you going to chop wood all day?” she asked coyly.

Winter glanced at the dying sun, then back at her. He shook his head. “No. Not all day.”

Mary took the iced tea from his hand and set it on the chopping block. She gathered both his hands in hers and led him up the back steps to their house.

Karl Winter forgot all about the Scarface robberies.

TWO

Sunday, August 14th

Graveyard Shift

2010 hours

Stefan Kopriva blocked the punch and twisted to his right, snapping out a short round kick toward Shen’s abd
o
men. The lithe sergeant dropped his elbow, catching the top of Kopriva’s foot with the point.

Kopriva grunted in pain, but pulled the foot back and fired it at Shen’s head.

Shen leaned away from the kick, then slid underneath and swept Kopr
i
va’s supporting leg out from under him.

Kopriva fell hard to the mat, his breath whooshing out.

Shen remained merciless, dropping next to him and reaching in for a chokehold.

Kopriva rolled out of range and stood up without using his hands. Shen pounced upon him almost instan
t
ly, flicking a punch toward his face. Kopriva blocked it with his left and countered with a straight right to Shen’s rib cage. It landed with a solid thud. Shen exhaled with a grunt and stepped back.

“Time!” yelled Chisolm.

Kopriva and Shen bowed to each other and shook hands, both breathing heavily.

“Nice work, Stef,” Shen said.

Kopriva shook his head. “Nice work? Nah, that foot sweep you made was excellent.
That
was nice work.”

Shen rubbed his ribs. “That last punch will stick with me for a bit.”

They thanked Chisolm for timing the round. The veteran officer winked at Kopriva. “Any chance to see someone beat on a sergeant, I’m there,” he said, and returned to the weight bench and resumed lifting.

Shen laughed. “I’m sure that’s a common sentiment.”

“Depends on the sergeant,” Chisolm said his voice straining as he curled the hand weights, “but I can’t discriminate.” He grimaced with e
f
fort, trying to affect a smile.

Kopriva walked with Shen from the gym down the hall to the locker room. He knew that some of the ot
h
er graveyard patrolmen called him ‘Se
r
geant’s Boy’ because he sparred with Shen a few times a week. He didn’t care. They also called him a ‘Code-Four Cowboy,’ because he didn’t like calling for back-up, but so what?

Sticks and stones
.

At his locker, he undressed and headed for the shower. The hot water felt good as it cascaded down his body. When he returned to his locker and began dressing, he read through the small phrases of positive self-talk taped to the inside of his locker door. They served to get him into the right mind-set for patrol every night. He always paused at the final one.

I will survive, no matter what, even if I am hit
.

Below that, he had written
I am a warrior, in mind, body and spirit.

Kopriva slipped his bulletproof vest over his head and secured the straps into place.
A warrior’s armor
.

Below the positive self-talk, he’d hung a narrow bamboo wall hanging. Painted upon the horizontal ba
m
boo slats were a Japanese style tiger and a yellowing moon, tendrils of smoke or clouds snaking across it. It had been a gift from his
sensei
when he achieved his black belt two years ago. He called it “Tiger Under a Raging Moon” and said that the brooding cat r
e
minded him of Kopriva.

Now, two years later, Kopriva still wasn’t quite sure why.

He strapped his duty belt into place and removed his .40-caliber Glock pistol from the holster. A quick check showed a full magazine and one in the pipe. He slid the gun back into the holster, closed his locker and made his way to roll call.

2100 hours

“Listen up,” Lieutenant Robert Saylor said as he stepped to the le
c
tern at the front of the room.

The drill hall fell silent.

Saylor read through a couple of administrative memos, then paused and looked out at the assembled group of police officers.

“Last night,” he began, “we had officers fired upon by the Scarface robber. One of them was injured when a bullet struck a spotlight. That’s going to be a charge of attempted murder, or at least first-degree assault, when Scarface is apprehended. And it is one more very good reason to catch this son of a bitch.”

General agreement murmured through the room.

“El-tee?” Chisolm said, lifting his hand in the air.

Saylor nodded for him to continue.

“I believe this guy might have a military background,” Chisolm said. “He went over that fence infantry style. Besides that, he fired a shot our direction almost as soon as he landed.”

Saylor considered. “Did you get that information to Renee in Crime Analysis?”

Chisolm nodded. “I sent a copy of my report along with a note.”

“Good work.” Saylor turned his attention to the rest of the patrol officers. “That information should heighten your caution, ladies and gentl
e
men. This guy may not be some doped up mope who doesn’t know which end of the barrel is the working end. He may know your tactics and your abilities, so be careful.”

Saylor let his eyes flick from one face to another, holding each for just a moment before moving on. “I can’t stress this enough. Be safe. All right?”

The assembled group muttered assent.

“Okay,” Saylor said. “Then if no one has anything else, let’s hit it.”

2213 hours

Katie MacLeod wrote the traffic citation. Her pen skipped through the boxes, filling them in almost wit
h
out thought. The driver had failed to stop for a red light and narrowly missed colliding with another car in the middle of the intersection. Katie had briefly considered arresting him for reckless driving, but the driver was immediately apologetic and obviously shaken up. A ticket for the red light violation would be more than enough.

As she wrote, Katie glanced up and around every few seconds. While this vigilance may have seemed e
x
treme to the civilian onlooker, it had become second nature for her. Inatte
n
tion was the number one reason officers got killed. A bit of caution went a long way.

Cautious like last night, Katie?

She exhaled deeply. That had been scary, running through the darkness after a guy with a gun. Then hea
r
ing shots ring out, not knowing if he was shooting back at her. She remembered how frightened and detached she had been at the same time, and how the roof of her mouth had itched strangely.

Katie took another deep breath. She filled in the Municipal Code for the red light violation and the fine. Images of the dark construction yard flashed through her mind. She shut them off and exited the car.

At the offender’s vehicle, she stood behind the doorpost. The driver was leaning forward with his for
e
head resting on the steering wheel. He didn’t notice her presence.

“Sir?”

The driver sat up immediately and turned to face her. Her positioning forced him to look over his own shoulder.

“Yes, officer?”

“Sir, what I have for you here is a citation for failing to stop for a steady red light. I need you to sign here,” she pointed. “Your signature is not an admission of guilt, merely a promise to respond.”

She handed him the pen and noticed his hand shook as he took it and signed his name.

“I’m so,
so
sorry, officer,” he said as he handed the pen back.

Katie nodded. “I can see that, sir. That’s why I didn’t arrest you for reckless driving.”

“I appreciate that.”

Katie tore off his copy of the ticket and handed it to him. “Instru
c
tions on how to respond are on the back. You have fifteen days. Do you have any questions?”

The driver shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

Katie gave him a nod and returned to her vehicle. Out of habit, she kept her eye on the offending vehicle as she did so. The driver signaled carefully and pulled back into traffic.

As she reached her own vehicle, a man approached her from the sid
e
walk. She watched him carefully.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The man lifted the bill of his baseball cap and nodded. “Yeah. I was in the car that guy almost hit. I was wondering, does he have any insu
r
ance?”

Katie paused. “Did he cause you to run into something?” She hadn’t seen any collision, but maybe she missed something.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “But he scared me half to death. Does he have insurance?”

“He did,” Katie told him.

“Can I get the policy number?”

Katie struggled not to show her disbelief. “Sir, there was no acc
i
dent. He ran a red light and was cited for that.”

“He ran a red light and almost killed me is what ha
p
pened!”

Katie nodded her understanding. “And I will put exactly what happened in my report.”

“You will?”

“Absolutely.”

The man gave a tug on his cap, considered a moment, then said in a subdued voice, “Well, okay then. But people like that shouldn’t have a license!”

“You’re probably right.”

He watched her for moment before shrugging. “All right then.”

“Have a nice night.”

The man paused again, looking at her. He tugged his cap, adjusted his belt-line, then turned and walked back toward his car.

Katie wondered what she would find if she checked his license status. He was probably in suspended st
a
tus. She cleared her traffic stop with the appropriate code and started thinking about a nice cold Pepsi.

The convenience store at Monroe and Alvarado was considered officer-friendly. Katie pulled into the lot and backed her car into a parking place near the door. She turned her portable radio on as she got out of the car. Since she only planned on being a few minutes, she decided not to check out with radio. It was really none of their business that she needed a drink.

Patrons stared as she entered the store. She could read their minds from the looks on their faces.
A woman cop?
After almost three years on the job, Katie had grown used to it. Some people were just surprised, others resentful, and some people found it amusing. She had been in several situ
a
tions where a male suspect did not think she was serious about arresting him. He found out differently, even if it took baton strikes or pepper mace. The tools of her trade didn’t care which gender of hands applied them, as the suspect-now-arrestee discovered.

From the cooler, Katie selected a large bottle of Pepsi and approached the counter.

“Adam-114, Adam-116.”

“Adam-114, Regal and Olympic.”
Matt Westboard, a five-year veteran, answered with his location.

Katie answered up, knowing now that everyone listening to the north side channel would know she was on portable and hadn’t checked out.
Oh, well.

The dispatcher continued with the call
, “A D-V, 2711 N. Waterbury. Complainant lives next door. Says he hears a male and female voice yelling and it sounds violent. The house comes back to a Marc Elliot and Angie Phillips. Checking both names now. 2711 N. Waterbury.”

Katie copied the transmission, set down the Pepsi and hurried to her car. She ignored the fascinated p
a
trons who watched her go. She was only a few blocks away from the house. She knew Westboard was a ways off, but that shouldn’t matter. More frustrated NASCAR driver than cop, he’d make good time.

Katie shot out of the lot with her lights flashing and cut onto a side street. At Howard, one block before Wate
r
bury, she swung north and traveled parallel to the 2700 block. 2711 would be on the west side of the street, she knew, so she parked just west of Waterbury, out of sight.

“Adam-116, on scene,” she told radio.

Exiting the car, she slid her side-handle baton into its holder and walked south through the front yards. The mixed smells of a warm summer night swirled around her in the light wind—gasoline, barbeques and cut grass. When she reached 2711, the third house from the corner, she could hear frenzied yelling inside. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. The reassuring tap of her baton against the back of her leg and the comfortable weight of the gun on her right hip provided welcome reassu
r
ance.

A huge tree stood off-center in the yard and Katie took up a position behind it. ‘Thank God for all the trees in River City,’she thought. Not only were they beautiful, but they made excellent cover and concealment.

The screaming and yelling continued. Katie listened carefully but heard only words that she couldn’t make out and some crying. From the sound of things, nothing was being broken. It didn’t sound like an ongoing a
s
sault, either. Of course, she reminded herself, that didn’t mean it hadn’t already happened or wouldn’t still happen.