Critical Pursuit (2 page)

“HEY, HOT DOG,
is it time for the rest of us to retire?”

“Is it Caruso and Hero or Batman and Robin?”

“Hey, John Walsh Jr., when does your TV show air?”

“Do you want to be called RoboCop now?”

The e-mail ribbing began before Brinna left her driveway. As a K-9 officer, she took the Ford Explorer home and left only a few work-related items in her station locker. She dressed at home and logged in before driving to the station for the squad meeting. The messages popped up on the mobile computer as soon as her status showed 10-8, in service. Bracing herself to endure teasing from her coworkers all night, she cleared the screen as the station came into view.

Tracy’s article had run in the local paper that morning. With a headline like “Local Cop Tells Pedophiles, ‘Watch Out; I’m After You,’” Brinna knew her fellow officers would have a field day. Collegial teasing was as much a part of police work as writing tickets.

When she’d first read the headline of Tracy’s article about
her anniversary, a headache tiptoed into her temples. It was the text that made the ache stomp with combat boots. Tracy got the facts right, but the way she’d embellished everything made Brinna sound like a cross between the Lone Ranger and the Terminator.

Brinna climbed out of the Explorer and left the engine running with the AC on for Hero. Her afternoon shift began at 4 p.m., and sweltering summer heat had not yet abated for the night. She stopped at the locker room to see if Maggie was there. Before she was all the way inside the room, she could see that someone had pasted the article and headline to her locker.
Maggie.

Brinna tore the paper off and tossed it in the trash, trying and failing to think of a witty retort for her friend.

“Hey.” Maggie poked her head around the corner, a silly grin on her face. “I was hoping you’d autograph that for me.”

“Ha-ha. Go ahead, pile on,” Brinna groaned. “You should have seen all the e-mail messages I got when I logged on.”

“Come on, it was a great article.” Maggie stepped to where Brinna stood and held her arms wide. “Enjoy being the celebrity of the moment.”

Brinna snorted. “Tracy made me sound like some sort of Lone Ranger cop, an aberration. That kind of celebrity I can do without.” She blew out a resigned breath and leaned against the locker. “Reporters write to entertain, not inform. I don’t like being entertainment.”

Maggie stepped past Brinna to the mirror and began to pin her long blonde hair up in a bun, off her collar. “Deal with it. You make good copy. The kidnapped kid growing up
to help kidnapped kids. What did your mentor have to say about the article?”

“Milo hasn’t seen it yet. He’s in Mexico on his annual fishing trip. I’m sure a copy will find its way to him when he gets back.”

Maggie giggled. “You got that right.”

* * *

Brinna and Maggie slid into their seats in the squad room with a minute to spare.

“Hey, it’s our own local supercop.” Rick, Maggie’s partner, moved his desk a bit as if to make room for Brinna and gave her a mock bow.

“Stand in line, Rick. I got about a hundred e-mails cleverer than that.” Brinna stuck her tongue out just as one of the afternoon sergeants brought things to order.

The sergeant read off the night’s assignments and made no reference to the article. But as everyone was dismissed to log on in service, the K-9 sergeant, Janet Rodriguez, called Brinna back to the office.

“Bad news.” Rodriguez gave her a look that said
I’m sorry
, and Brinna braced herself, crossing her arms and waiting warily for the hammer to fall. “Press relations just called. They’ve decided it would be good PR to send a reporter along during your shift tonight.”

“What?”
Brinna felt like her jaw hit the floor as Rodriguez continued.

“They’re fielding a lot of requests and questions about you because of the Michaels article. The reporter they want
to send with you tonight will do a piece about being on the job with the Kid Crusader.”

“You’re pulling my leg, right? This is a late April Fools’ joke to get me going.” Brinna glanced around the room, expecting other officers to pop out snickering. Rodriguez’s expression, however, said it wasn’t a joke, and that made her stomach feel like a greasy doughnut just slid down her throat.

“I wish I were kidding,” Janet said. “But a reporter from the
LA Times
, Gerald Clark, is waiting for you at the business desk.”

* * *

Brinna was only an hour into her shift when she truly wished she’d called in sick. Gerald Clark had questions about everything. He asked Brinna every question Tracy had and more.

Brinna tried to shift the conversation to Hero’s work record and away from her plight at the age of six. “You aren’t going to reprint everything Tracy wrote, are you?” She stopped the reporter midquestion.

“Of course not. But I’d like to get my own feel for your story. The
Times
is way more in-depth than your local paper.”

Maggie had whispered, “Ooh, eye candy” to Brinna when she glimpsed Clark at the business desk. Brinna grudgingly admitted to herself that he was handsome, if maybe a little too
GQ
. A tall, well-built man with stylish glasses and wavy blond hair just long enough to be appealing, Clark had a quick smile that under different circumstances Brinna would have been attracted to. But she hated talking about herself.

He pointed to the flyer taped on her dash. “Like why do you have this missing poster here?”

Brinna glanced to the text she knew so well. “Heather Bailey is the most recent unsolved missing case from Long Beach. I use my free time to check up on any leads.”

“She’s been missing a month. Any leads to follow up on tonight?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Brinna bit her lip. She’d wanted to go by and check in with the Baileys before dark. No way with this reporter tagging along.

“Statistics say she’s probably dead.” Clark tapped the dash with both index fingers.

Brinna fought the urge to argue. “I doubt her parents would like to hear statistics right now. And I don’t give up until the case is closed.”

Milo’s voice echoed in her mind.
“A body, warm or cold, is the only thing that stops the search.”
And the question that always pinched her thoughts when murdered children were the subject of conversation:
Why was I saved when a kid like Heather might not be?

“Is Hero classified as a cadaver dog?”

With a quick shake of her head, Brinna cursed her luck. She’d wanted the conversation to turn to Hero, not to cadavers or dead kids.

“Hero is scent-trained. I give him a scent and he trails it. He is not specifically a cadaver dog, no.”

“He’s different from patrol dogs?”

“Yeah. They’re trained to bite, tackle, chase
 
—that kind of thing. Hero is trained to follow a scent and, once he finds
the source, to sit and bark to alert me. He’s not paid for out of the same budget as the rest of the dogs. He’s paid for by a federal grant, a product of 9/11.”

“I’ve heard he’s experimental. You think he’s working out?” His tapping was rhythmical now, a tune Brinna couldn’t name. “You’ve only found three kids in two years. Is that productive?”

Brinna felt her face flush.
Three live kids are better than three dead kids.
The emergency beep of the radio cut off her response.

“Any unit to handle, 415 shots, Eighteenth and Magnolia. CP reports hearing screams and then five to six gunshots.”

The radio crackled with Maggie’s voice as she and Rick stepped up to handle the call in their beat. Brinna pressed the assist button on her computer and started toward the area.

“Somebody get shot?” Clark asked, his voice an octave higher.

“That’s what we need to find out,” Brinna answered as she planned the approach that would put her in the best position for backup.

Maggie came on the air again to let everyone know her and Rick’s position.

“We’re at Twenty-Third and the boulevard, so we’ll be coming from north of the dispatch location.”

Brinna silently thanked her friend for the information. She was south of the call, so between her and Maggie, they formed the start of a perimeter if there was a shooter to catch. She cruised along Tenth Street, waiting for Maggie to
position other backup units, intending to cross Magnolia and head north up the next north-south street.

The whine of a revved engine coming her way took Brinna’s attention from the radio. She hit the brakes, saving the black-and-white from a broadside collision. A speeding car blew the red light right in front of the Explorer and roared south down Magnolia, barely missing the police cruiser’s front bumper.

Grabbing the radio mike, she slammed the accelerator down and turned left after the speeder.

“1-King-8, I’m following a vehicle, high rate of speed, southbound Magnolia. It’s a Chevy, possibly an older Monte Carlo, running with no lights, blowing red lights and stop signs.”

She saw the reporter grab the dash and heard Hero slide across the back of the Explorer as her tires barely held the turn.

Clipping the mike back to its holder, Brinna flipped on her lights and siren and glanced at the speedometer. Her speed neared fifty and she wasn’t gaining on the Chevy. She heard dispatch question Maggie, asking her to determine whether or not the speeding car was related to the shots call.

Brinna punched the radio’s volume button, ramping up the volume as her body ramped up with a surge of adrenaline.
Am I chasing the shooter?
She forgot Clark.

The Chevy narrowly missed cross traffic at Sixth Street. Brinna slowed at the crosswalk, then stomped the accelerator as soon as she was clear. Now the Chevy was careening toward Third Street. For the first time Brinna saw taillights as the driver hit the brakes.

“He’s going too fast. He’ll never make the turn.” She watched as the speeding car cut the right turn too close and smacked the curb, fishtailing westbound onto Third Street.

Brinna winced. Third Street was a one-way street, eastbound.

The tail end of the Chevy momentarily disappeared from sight, tires squealing in protest. Then Brinna heard the bang and piercing squeal of crunching metal as the car crashed.

Skidding to a stop at Third Street, Brinna leaned forward, checked right, and saw stopped headlights. On the south side of the street sat the Chevy, smoking from the impact with a light pole. Miraculously it’d missed oncoming traffic and broadsided only the pole.

Proceeding cautiously, light bar still activated but siren off, Brinna positioned her vehicle between oncoming traffic and the Chevy. She motioned vehicles around the wreck.

“Stay here,” she ordered Clark.

Hero stood, ears pricked with interest, waiting for the call to work. Maggie’s voice sizzled over the radio confirming that the speeding car did contain the shooter from her call.

Standing outside the open door of the Explorer but behind the door itself, Brinna keyed her handheld radio and explained the crash to dispatch, keeping her eyes on the wreck. The smell of burning rubber and oil hung in the air like an acrid fog. Every couple of seconds something hissed from the wreckage. It wasn’t completely dark yet, and as she peered into the smoky mess, she saw no movement, no one visible behind the steering wheel. The light pole had just about cut the Chevy in half between the front and back seats.

Replacing the radio, she sent a glance toward Clark. He was making himself small under the dashboard.

Sirens screamed in the distance as backup and paramedics raced her way.
Has he run?
she wondered, even as she scanned the surrounding area. There was no place for him to go. He’d crashed next to a fenced construction lot, and there was no way he could have reached cover in the time it took Brinna to park her car.

Where is he?

Brinna started for the mangled Chevy, moving cautiously. Halfway to the car, movement near the driver’s side caught her eye. A man, outside the driver’s door, rose to face her, but she couldn’t focus on his face. Her focus zeroed in on the gun in his hand, pointed at her chest.

Brinna jerked to her right as she drew her duty weapon. She saw the muzzle flash of the suspect’s gun before she heard the bang and felt the bullet whiz by her ear.

Raising her gun to the target, she continued moving toward cover, pressing the trigger twice as she dove behind a dark-green mailbox, scraping shoulder, elbow, hip. Half on her back, half on her side, she scrambled to pull the lifeline of the radio from her belt.

“998, 998!”
Brinna yelled the code for shots fired into her radio and then took a breath. “Not sure if the suspect is down. He’s east of me. All units approaching, the suspect is on Third Street, west of Magnolia, and still armed.”

After waiting a few beats and hearing nothing but approaching sirens, Brinna pulled herself to her knees and peered around the mailbox. Several units squealed to a stop
at the intersection. Before long, Brinna was surrounded by friendly forces. Together they set up a perimeter, certain they had the bad guy encircled and trapped.

“No movement from the car.” The downtown sergeant, Klein, was on scene and taking control. He’d come in from the west and Brinna had moved to meet with him behind his black-and-white. “We’ll try calling him out. If there’s no response, I’ll send someone in.” He nodded toward her unit. “How’s that ride-along?”

Brinna slapped her forehead. “I forgot about him. I’d better check.” The safest place for the reporter was in the Explorer, but Brinna wondered if he had the sense to know that.

She made her way to the Ford. There were two other units in front of the K-9 vehicle now, officers at the ready. Brinna heard Klein on the PA, calling the Chevy’s driver, ordering him out, as she peered inside the Explorer. She sighed and choked back a smile. The reporter still had his head down, hiding. Hero gave a whine that said he was ready to work, and Brinna flashed a hand gesture telling him to sit and stay.

“You okay?” she asked Clark.

He looked up at her and nodded, face blanched. “What’s going on?”