RCC01 - Under a Raging Moon Read online

  “She’s having an affair with a goddamn fireman,” Ridgeway told him. “Can you believe that? It’s not enough that I have to hear at work how everyone loves those hose jockeys. Now one of them is banging my wife.” Ridgeway’s voice sank lower but became more angry and intense.

  Winter didn’t reply. His brother-in-law, Aaron, was a fireman in Portland, Oregon. He tried to think of something to say and failed. He took a long drink of beer instead.

  Ridgeway shook his head, continuing to stare at his bottle. “I try to hate her, Karl. You know? Just hate her like I did Cynthia. But I can’t. I love her. If she asked me to take her back, I would, even after all this.”

  “All of what?” Winter asked, feeling like he needed to say something.

  Ridgeway motioned with his hands. “All of this. The sneaking around. The lying. The not calling.” He paused. “The leaving.”

  Winter cocked an eyebrow. Ridgeway looked up and saw his expression. “Yeah,” he admitted. “She moved out a month ago. She is living with the sonofabitch.”

  Jesus. Mark Ridgeway can keep a secret.

  Winter excused himself to use the restroom and gave Mary a quick call, telling her the situation. She understood, just like he knew she would. They exchanged ‘I love yous’ and he hung up. Her voice comforted him like a blanket. He wrapped it around himself as he joined Ridgeway to hear more about his lost love.

  Friday, August 19th

  0118 hours

  “Easy, goddamnit, easy!” James Mace pushed Andrea away as she snatched at the small piece of saran wrap in his hand. “You’ll get yours, bitch. Now sit down and stop grabbing at me.”

  Andrea sat obediently on the edge of the dirty couch and rocked slightly. Forward and back, forward and back. She wrung her hands and stared at him.

  Mace shook his head in disgust. “Where’s Leslie?”

  “I dunno.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t know,” Andrea whined. “After you guys came back from the rip, you left again and then she left. She said you didn’t get much cash. Maybe she went out on East Sprague to work a couple of dates or something.”

  “I got plenty of fucking cash!” Mace yelled. He waved the wrapped heroin in front of her. “I got this, didn’t I?”

  Andrea hugged herself, rubbing her arms. “Yeah, baby, you did. You are A-Number-One.”

  Mace grinned at her. He’d taught her that, how to talk the way the prostitutes in the Philippines did. She only used it when she wanted something, though.

  “You shoulda seen it, An. Some doofy-looking guy in his forties was behind the counter. When I stuck that gun in his face, he started to cry!” Mace let out a raucous, croaking laugh. “Fucking cried like a baby!”

  Andrea grinned weakly and continued to hug herself and rock.

  “You know,” Mace said, “I shoulda put a bullet right through his nose. Blown his fucking face all over the wall!”

  He trembled, but not from his desire for a fix. He felt alive. He felt powerful. Like he was a Ranger again.

  He should have thought of all this a long time ago.

  “Baby...” Andrea pleaded. “I’m hurtin’”

  Mace looked at her. “Yeah. All right. Bring me your spoon.”

  Andrea scurried into the bedroom. Mace strode to the kitchen counter and pushed aside a pile of dirty plates. They clattered into the partially filled sink. He laid the drugs on the table, took his own works from the cupboard and removed his cooking spoon. He sensed Andrea at his side as he sliced off a thin piece of the brown, tarry substance.

  “Here you go, baby,” he whispered. “Here you go, you fucking bitch.”

  Andrea didn’t even notice his epithet. She stood, transfixed on the knife as Mace slowly brought it over and scraped the tar onto her spoon. She hurried to the bedroom where she kept the rest of her kit.

  Mace put the remaining chunk onto his spoon. He thought briefly of Leslie out on the streets of East Sprague, looking to whore her way to enough cash to score. Well, forget her, then. More for him and Andrea.

  Mace stared at the heroin. Sweet Brown. He sighed contentedly. First I get to be a Ranger again and now I get the Sweet Brown.

  Goddamn, life was good.

  FIVE

  Saturday, August 20th

  Graveyard Shift

  2205 hours

  Chisolm cruised slowly along residential streets with his windows open, letting the breeze flow through the police car. The smell of maple trees, freshly cut grass and occasionally the remains of an earlier barbecue wafted through the window.

  A week had passed since his dismissal from the FTO program. The event still bothered him and he couldn’t let it go. He was a good trainer. Hart, on the other hand, was a climber and a weasel. The man had no clue what made a good police officer. As a result, Payne, who should be looking for a job at the mall, worked with Bates, who Chisolm didn’t think too highly of, either. A solid officer, but way too easy on recruits. The chances of Payne getting fired while assigned to Bates were almost non-existent, a fact that Hart would have been aware of when he made the assignment.

  Chisolm shook his head ruefully. Police officers in this town were asked to do a hard job. It required a compassionate soldier, something Chisolm tried to teach. However, the brass gave guidelines that required something of a cross between a counselor and a customer service representative at a department store. Citizens appreciated being treated that way, but criminals laughed at it.

  Suck it up and drive on, you old soldier. No good pissing and moaning.

  Chisolm turned onto Division Street and headed north. Aptly named Division, this north-south street divided the city in half, separating Adam Sector from Baker Sector. Chisolm continued north, turning west on Cleveland and dropping down to Corbin Park. A moment later, he realized that he was heading toward Sylvia’s old house.

  Purposefully, he turned left and headed back to Buckeye.

  “Baker-123, a traffic stop.” Stefan Kopriva called over the radio.

  “Go ahead, -123.”

  “Eight eight one, Frank George Adam is the plate. We’ll be at Perry and Fairview.”

  Chisolm liked Kopriva, one of the few younger officers who seemed to naturally buy into the old school philosophy of police work. He rode with Chisolm for about a week during his training phase when his regular FTO had been sick. Kopriva learned his lessons well. Work hard, work safe, don’t talk to the brass, and get the job done.

  “Baker-123, start me backup!” Kopriva’s sounded calm but Chisolm heard tension in the timbre his voice and the speed of his speech.

  Chisolm whipped his car around and shot back to Division without bothering to call radio. He heard Janice dispatching Baker units. They copied but didn’t broadcast their locations, leaving the air as open as possible for Kopriva.

  Chisolm tore onto Division and buried his foot in the accelerator. Some officers requested backup even when they stopped Grandma, and they kept backup there until Grandma’s name was cleared for warrants on the data channel. Other officers almost always went code four, such as Kopriva. Especially Kopriva, who Chisolm knew had become somewhat of a code-four cowboy. If he asked for some quick backup, he wasn’t kidding around.

  Chisolm activated his overhead lights, clearing intersections with his siren. He sped up Foothills, a winding road that intersected with Perry about a block south of Fairview. He approached Perry and swung left, his tires squealing. No other units had checked out on scene yet.

  “Adam-112, on scene at Perry,” he told radio, rolling up next to Kopriva’s patrol car. The driver’s door stood wide open. Mid-way between the patrol car and a brown Chevy, Kopriva knelt on top of a black male sprawled on the ground. Kopriva held the suspect’s hands clasped behind his neck. Two other black males sat in the car, one in the front seat, the other in the back. Kopriva leveled his gaze over the top of his gun at the suspect car. Each occupant held his hands high in the air.

  “-
112, advise on additional units.”

  Chisolm keyed his portable as he approached Kopriva, pointing his gun at the vehicle. “Keep them coming,” he said simply. Then, to Kopriva, “Any outstanding suspects?”

  Kopriva shook his head. “No. Cover those two while I stuff this one.”

  Chisolm drew a bead on the one in the back seat, then searched the back of the car with his eyes. The trunk appeared secure. He wondered if any other subjects were lying down in the back seat.

  Kopriva holstered his gun and frisked the suspect on the ground for weapons. “Hello, Isaiah. Remember me? Your little drive-by, looky-look the other night up in Hillyard? You had me real scared.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “By the way, you’re under arrest.” He lifted Morris to a seated position, then jerked him upright and led him back to the car.

  Chisolm listened carefully, his eyes never leaving the Chevy. He knew Morris and it surprised him to see the gangster so quiet. Usually he had a lot to say. His nickname was “Cat,” taken from the personality in the cat food commercials. Chisolm mused that aside from colorful spelling such as ‘Lil Dawg or K-Illin’, gangbangers tended to lack originality.

  The rear-seat passenger turned to look back and Chisolm yelled, “Turn around!” The head snapped forward again.

  The patrol car door slammed shut and Chisolm heard Kopriva return to his position. “Let’s wait for one more car, Tom. Then we’ll bring them out one at a time and cuff them. I’ve got nothing on those two yet, but I want them secure when I search the car.”

  Chisolm nodded. A prudent plan. There was a difference between being brash and weighing the risks.

  Two more cars arrived. Kopriva advised radio code four with those units on scene. He relayed the plan to the other officers while Chisolm maintained his watch over the passengers.

  In an authoritative voice, Kopriva barked orders at the passengers, while all officers moved to the position of cover offered by their cars. He brought the front seat passenger out first and directed him to walk backwards to a spot between the patrol vehicles. There, backup officers quickly cuffed him. They conducted a painstaking pat down for weapons but found none. After that, they secured him in a patrol car. The officers used the same procedure for the backseat passenger, again without incident.

  Kopriva thanked the officers and asked them to stand by while he searched the car. Chisolm went forward with him. “What the hell happened?”

  Kopriva opened the driver’s door and laughed. “I recognized Morris in a car going the other way on Foothills. I knew he had a warrant, so I flipped around on him. As soon as I made the stop, Morris jumped out of the car and came running back at me.”

  Chisolm raised his eyebrows. “No kidding?”

  “Nope.” Kopriva leaned on the open door and spoke easily. “I could see his hands were empty, so I moved forward a few steps and waited for him. He was chattering about a mile a minute, threatening me and so forth. When I told him to get back in the car, he tried to push me.”

  “Tried?”

  Kopriva grinned. “Morris is a sissy without a gun in his hand. I just parried his push, grabbed his wrist, and foot-swept him. He went down hard. I think it knocked the wind out of him. After that, I just got control of him, drew down on his crew in the car and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Thanks for getting here so fast, Tom.”

  “Always,” Chisolm said. “You want some help with the search?”

  “Sure…” Kopriva said, distracted. He leaned into the car and removed something from beneath the driver’s seat. It was a magazine, fully loaded.

  Probably a .380, Chisolm figured.

  “See if you can find the gun that goes with this,” Kopriva said.

  Chisolm and Kopriva tore the car apart, but found no gun. At Kopriva’s direction, the other two officers pulled the suspects out of the patrol cars and searched them again. Still no gun.

  Kopriva removed Morris from the back seat and searched him completely. In the process, he removed every item from the gangster’s pockets and set them on the trunk of the patrol car.

  “Man, you better get up off me,” Morris told him.

  “Shut up. Where’s the gun?”

  Morris smiled. “What gun, cracker?”

  Kopriva ignored him and completed his search. Not finding any weapons on him, he sat Morris in the back of his patrol car again.

  Connor O’Sullivan approached. He tore out a page from his notebook and handed it to Kopriva. “Both these guys are clear, but neither one has a driver’s license. Here’s their info in case you need it for your report.”

  “Thanks,” Kopriva said. He turned to Chisolm. “Damn,” he whispered. “No gun, no crime.”

  “Is Morris a convicted felon?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Well, then it’s illegal for him to even have the ammo.”

  Kopriva frowned. “Not sure I can pin it on him. The mag was behind the seat. He was the driver.”

  “It’s weak,” Chisolm agreed. “Could they have thrown the gun out the window?”

  Kopriva shook his head. “I never lost sight of them.”

  Chisolm shrugged. “Then all you have is the warrant and assault on an officer.”

  “Assault on an officer. That’s still a traffic infraction, right?”

  Chisolm chuckled. “It will be once the prosecutor is through with it.”

  “Oh, well.” Kopriva sighed. “The Kitty Kat here is still going to jail. Let’s cut his bonehead buddies loose.”

  Kopriva told the two black males they were not under arrest but were not driving away in that car, as neither had a valid driver’s license. Chisolm watched as they transformed from meek to smug, rubbing their wrists were they’d been cuffed.

  “What about him?” one asked.

  “He’s under arrest,” Kopriva answered evenly.

  “What for?”

  “None of your business.”

  The gangbanger snorted. “Shit, gee. He’s under arrest for being black. That’s all. That’s all it ever is.”

  “I hear that,” the second banger answered.

  “Thank you,” Kopriva said.

  Both men eyed him strangely.

  “What’s that?” one asked.

  “Thank you,” Kopriva repeated. “I haven’t been accused of racism yet tonight. Normally, it happens four or five times a night. I get edgy if I don’t get in my quota. So thanks.”

  The bangers exchanged a glance.

  “Can I count this as two, since you both seem to be accusing me?” Kopriva deadpanned. “Come on, man, I need the stats.”

  “Cracker is crazy, man. Let’s get outta here.” Both men walked north on Perry, muttering to each other about racist cops.

  “Nice work,” Chisolm noted, as the two gangsters walked away.

  “Thanks.”

  “See ya on the next one,” Chisolm said and returned to his car. He noticed O’Sullivan locking the doors to the Chevy as he pulled away and headed back into Adam Sector.

  2223 hours

  Stefan Kopriva searched for a country station, knowing full well that Morris reviled cowboy tunes. He turned it up and faded it to the rear.

  “Baker-123, I’ll be en route to jail with a male for warrants,” he said into the radio mike and punched the reset button on the odometer. “Mileage reset.”

  “Baker-123, copy.”

  Morris seemed about to have a stroke in the back seat, jerking around and screaming. Kopriva let him be for a few more seconds. He loved these trips to jail. No one in the patrol car but him and the bad guy. He could say whatever he wanted. It made up for all the times he had to hold his tongue.

  He turned the radio down. “What’s the problem, Kitty-kat?”

  “Hey, man, fuck you. Fuck you!”

  “Awww, what’s the matter, Isaiah? Did that hurt? You did hit the pavement awful hard. Doesn’t feel too good to get your ass kicked by a little white boy, does it?” Kopriva allowed himself to gloat.

  Morris cursed at him so
me more. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Kopriva saw a small raspberry on Morris’s cheek where he’d been held down against the pavement. Oh, well. Department policy stated that when an officer used the prone cuffing technique, a minor abrasion like that might occur. The policy, and the Chief himself, said that was just too bad for the arrestee.

  “You got the wind knocked out of you, huh, Morris? And an ow-ie on your cheek. That kinda sucks.”

  “Kiss my ass, you white-boy, mother—”

  Kopriva turned up the radio and sang along with Travis Tritt. He wished the song had been Here’s a Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares, but all it took was country music of any kind to fuzz Morris up some more.

  About a block from jail, he turned the radio down again.

  “What, sir?” he asked in mock politeness.

  “I said I want a picture of this.”

  “What?”

  “This. On my face.”

  “Your boo-boo?”

  “Fuck you, motherfucker. That’s police brutality and I want a picture of it.”

  Kopriva paused as if considering the request. Then, “How about a picture of my foot up your ass?”

  “Fuck you, faggot! I wanna talk to a supervisor.” Spittle flew from Morris’ lips and struck the plastic shield. “I wanna see one of them gold-badge motherfuckers!”

  “Call him from jail, kitty-kat.”

  “YOU CALL HIM!” Morris yelled, enraged.

  Kopriva snorted. “I’m not a rookie, Cat-man. Save your act and call him your little old self.” Ignoring Morris’s tirade, he turned the radio back up and caught the tail end of the song as he pulled into jail.

  2230 hours

  Isaiah Morris struggled to get himself under control.

  That fucking punk cop! Little wise-ass cracker! He thought he was so tough with a badge and a gun. Pulling his little tricky kung fu stunt on me back there at the car.