Critical Pursuit (9 page)

WHEN JACK AND BRINNA
had reached the apartment and she told him to go talk to witnesses, he did.

It was the one thing Jack was sure of. He wasn’t going to follow Caruso around like a puppy.

Jack approached an elderly couple. “Hi, did you two see what happened?”

The woman nodded. “Will Adrienne be okay?”

“Uh, I don’t know. She’s on her way to the hospital.” He pulled out a brand-new pocket notebook, the leather cover stiff in his hands. He plucked the pen from his shirt pocket and promptly dropped it on the ground. As he bent to pick it up, he fought the uncomfortable feeling of being out of practice. When he looked back at the couple, he realized they didn’t seem to notice. Their faces were a study in concern for the victim. And when they looked at him, he saw trust in their eyes.

He took a deep breath and wrote down their names and other pertinent information, the routine of getting the basics helping his confidence to return.

“So you know the victim and the suspect?”

“Adrienne, yes. Not her boyfriend. He keeps to himself, generally quiet, except when he drinks.” The woman gave a disapproving shake of her head, and her husband took over.

“When he drinks, he’s crazy. But there’s no excuse to hit a woman.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know what they was fighting about, but we heard them yelling.” She looked at her husband, and he nodded. “I could tell he was drunk because that’s the only time you know he’s here. Then I heard her scream and the door slam.” She pointed to their apartment, which was two doors down from the victim’s. “I looked out the window and saw Adrienne running, and all of a sudden her boyfriend tackled her. He was beating her with something.”

“I called 911,” the man said. “I’m too old to go running around breaking up fights.”

“Officer! Officer!”

Jack turned as another man approached him. “Yes?”

“My wife knows something, but she don’t want to come outside. She don’t want to see the blood.” He pointed to the apartment next door to the elderly couple. “Can you talk to her in there?”

“Sure.” Jack took a few seconds to be certain he had the elderly couple’s information correct; then he followed the other resident into his apartment. There he talked to a sobbing woman who basically told him what the elderly couple had. By the time he finished, he’d begun to feel as though he had his sea legs back. Police work was mostly talking to
people, making observations, and recording the observations of others. He did it in homicide and now he was doing it in patrol.

When he finished and stepped out into the courtyard again, he saw everyone rushing into the apartment where he’d left Caruso.

What had happened? He realized he’d turned his radio down. And all the indecision and uneasiness he’d felt before returned in a tidal wave. The deck was tossing and turning, and he had no balance.

* * *

Brinna was cleaning her hands with some wipes when the patrol sergeant pulled up behind her unit.

“What happened, Caruso?” Sergeant Klein asked.

Sighing heavily, she told him.

“Where’s O’Reilly now?”

Brinna shrugged.

Nugent found them at the curb. He addressed Brinna. “Hey, your partner was in an apartment talking to neighbors.”

“Wasn’t he listening to his radio?” Klein said. “I heard Brinna ask for help.”

Nugent shrugged. “Here he comes. Ask him.”

Klein stopped Brinna with a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll handle this.” Then to Jack, “O’Reilly, I need to talk to you.”

Brinna watched the sergeant take Jack aside.

“What’s up with that?” Nugent asked. “Isn’t that O’Reilly, the guy from homicide?”

“Yeah, tonight’s his first night back in patrol.”

“I’d heard they were sending him back. I didn’t think they’d give him to you. Where’s your dog?”

“Long story, and not something I want to get into right now. As soon as the sarge is done, we’ll head back to the station and file a follow-up for you.”

Nugent shook his head. “No hurry. I’ll be out here awhile. Homicide wants to check out the scene. My rook is slower than molasses filing paper. We’ll be tied up on this till tomorrow.”

Brinna chuckled mirthlessly. “I wonder how fast my rook files paper.”

* * *

It wasn’t until Jack saw Sergeant Klein on scene and the sergeant called him out that he realized he must’ve missed something.

“I haven’t even been in the field for an hour yet. What have I done?” Jack asked.

The sergeant launched into a lecture on listening to the radio. “Your partner needed you,” he said, then proceeded to dress Jack down as if he were a first-month rookie.

Jack felt his face flush and hooked his thumbs in his Sam Browne to keep his fists from clenching.

“I had my radio turned down,” he explained to the obviously irritated Klein, “so I could talk to people. I figured the primary unit would have already cleared the apartment anyway.”

Klein blew out a breath. “Are you all here, O’Reilly?”

“What do you mean?”

Klein stepped so close Jack could smell his cinnamon gum. The sergeant almost whispered. “You know what I mean. It’s no shame to quit if you can’t handle the job. Why do you want to hang in here and maybe get yourself or someone else hurt?”

Jack stiffened, the word
quit
a trigger. Vicki hated quitters.

“I’m not a quitter. I don’t know what your problem is with me. This is my first night out after six years. Why are you on my case about not hearing the radio? Caruso wasn’t in danger.”

“I’m on your case because I think you’re a burnout who needs to hang it up. I don’t care what the shrink says.” Klein backed off and held up an index finger. “You’re on notice. One screwup, one complaint from Caruso and I’m yanking you. Got it?”

Jack glared at the sergeant. Six years ago no one would have ever accused him of being a screwup. “I got it.”

Klein nodded curtly and stalked away, leaving Jack standing on the sidewalk.

Quitter. Screwup.
Jack felt his mind clear somewhat. The sergeant thought he was finished as a cop, and even though he’d felt like that himself, it infuriated him to hear it from someone else.

He sighed and glanced at the courtyard. Paramedics, in their haste to stabilize the patient, had left trash scattered about. Jack considered the victim, his partner, and the suspect
 
—and the harshness of Klein’s reaction.

A domestic violence call. Cops got killed on DV calls all the time. That punk in the tub could have just as easily tried
to shoot it out as kill himself. The reality of being back on the front lines hit Jack like the business end of a baton. Out here, people would want to kill him just because he wore a blue uniform.

Something stirred deep inside as he slowly walked to the black-and-white where his partner waited.

He’d floundered whenever he tried to think of life past the sentencing. He’d considered trying to end Bridges’s life and then ending his own. Now another solution occurred. He wouldn’t have to pull the trigger or force another cop to do it. Someone else could do it for him. Patrol might just be the best place to put himself out of his misery.

NIGEL HOARDED
every newspaper article he found about the dog cop.

“She got herself in a bit of trouble.” He giggled as he read Hester Shockley’s quote about Brinna being a rogue cop. Not only had she shot a teenager in cold blood, but Shockley was appalled that Caruso had a prejudice against people who had already served their debt to society. She constantly hounded registered sex offenders.

“Can’t be chasing down bad ol’ pedophiles indiscriminately, can you?” Nigel tsked.

After pinning the article next to all the other ones he’d collected on a bare wall, he went back to his other passion. Nigel powered up his computer and began to print out digital pictures. Surreptitiously taken candid shots of little girls spit out one by one. They were all candidates for his next Special Girl.

Digital cameras are wonderful.
There was no fear of some nosy developer asking why he only took pictures of little girls.

All in all he printed about a hundred pictures. The sooner he had them all laid out, the sooner he could pick his next Special Girl, in honor of the anniversary he had with the cop.

“I think I’ll leave you a little hint, Officer Caruso,” he said as he held up the first few printed photos. “Let’s see if you’re bright enough to pick up on it.”

“HEY, I’M SORRY.”
Jack settled into his seat and slammed the car door. “I didn’t hear my radio. Is this how it’s going to be? You whine to the sergeant every time you think I’m goofing off?”

“I didn’t whine to the sergeant. He came out here and asked me what happened. I told him.” Brinna turned and met his angry glare.
At least his eyes aren’t empty anymore.

“Did you also tell him you and Nugent both asked me to talk to witnesses?”

Brinna sputtered. She had told him to go talk to witnesses and then paid no attention to the fact that that was what he’d done. Briefly she wondered if she was jumping the gun, not giving him a fair chance to be a partner.

“I didn’t realize that was where you’d gone.” She started the car but left it in park. “We’re not going to get anywhere until we clear the air. Are you going to be a partner I can depend on or not?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jack met her glare with one of his
own. “I’ve been a cop a lot longer than you, and I’ve probably forgotten more about police work than you know. Just because you need to update me on new technology doesn’t give you the right to give me grief.”

Brinna held his angry gaze, happy to finally see life there but at the same time irritated by his attitude. “You know as well as I do about gossip around this place,” she said, working to keep both voice and tone level. “The stuff floating around about you says you’re burned out, unreliable. Tell me what’s true. I want to be sure you’ll watch my back.”

Jack cursed under his breath. “What’s true is that I’m not a wet-behind-the-ears rook. Stop treating me like one. I’ll do my job; you just do yours.”

“See that you do.” Brinna jerked the car away from the curb and swallowed harsher words. She felt the heat rise beneath her vest and wondered if she’d last with O’Reilly in her car for two hours, much less two weeks.

* * *

They spent the next hours, first, filing paper on the domestic violence call and then in the unit not speaking. The silence didn’t bother Brinna. In fact she liked it. Hero never bothered her with useless chitchat or stupid arguments.

When they assisted other units, Brinna did the talking. Jack participated but kept a distance from his partner. It seemed to Brinna that his anger had dissipated and he’d slipped slowly, like a turtle sliding into his shell, back to the spaced-out partner with creepy eyes.

The night passed quickly. It was twelve thirty before the
radio quieted down enough for them to think about taking a break. Jack was sitting in the driver’s seat, so Brinna answered the computer beep when Maggie’s message came through.

Brinna read the message and turned to Jack, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. “How about the Colonial for breakfast?”

Jack shrugged. “Sure.” He directed the car to the restaurant and parked. Another black-and-white in the parking lot told Brinna that Maggie and Rick were already inside.

Brinna requested code 7, a meal break, and, after receiving permission, opened the car door.

“You go ahead,” Jack said, causing Brinna to pause halfway out of the car. “I’m not hungry. I’ll stay here and catch some z’s.” He leaned back in the driver’s seat.

Brinna straightened up and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She joined Rick and Maggie in the restaurant.

“How goes it?” Maggie asked.

“He’s creepy and touchy.” She gulped her coffee as soon as it was poured.

“Where is he?” Rick turned toward the door.

“Not hungry.” She tilted her head toward the car.

“But is he working out?” Maggie looked down her nose at Brinna with a tell-me-the-truth glare.

Brinna held her coffee cup in both hands and hiked her shoulders. “He hasn’t been very talkative the whole night, but he says he’ll do his job.”

Maggie patted the table with her palm. “Saw Nugent at the station. He said you saved the bad guy tonight.” She handed Brinna a menu.

Brinna chuckled. “What a zip. He did a better job on his girlfriend than he did on himself. If she lives, she’ll need extensive plastic surgery. He’ll only rate a few stitches.”

“Nugent said Klein came out there and reamed O’Reilly because he didn’t help at all.”

Brinna sucked her teeth. “When I found the suspect in the tub, I thought O’Reilly was right behind me. Turns out he was interviewing witnesses, didn’t hear his radio when I asked for assistance. I think Klein overreacted. But then again, O’Reilly is not a rook. He should have heard his radio.”

“I sometimes don’t hear the radio when I’m interviewing people.” Maggie shook her head. “That could happen to anyone, especially when the crime scene is chaotic. And it’s his first night out in six years.”

“Maybe you should give Jack the benefit of the doubt,” Rick interjected. “I’ve heard he was an awesome cop once. He just needs more patrol time under his belt.”

Brinna harrumphed. “I keep hearing he
was
awesome. I’ll give him time, but I won’t coddle him.”

“Trouble is, you’ve worked with a dog too long. Just remember
 
—” Maggie shook her finger at Brinna
 
—“guys don’t sit and stay on command, so go easy if he misbehaves.”

JACK PULLED
the cross necklace from his rearview mirror and took it with him into the house, pretending it was a link to Vicki. He opened the door to a ringing phone and let the machine pick up as he stripped down to his boxer shorts and hung Vicki’s chain around his own neck.

“It’s Mom. Are you home?”

He sat on the couch and let his mom talk to the machine.

“I know it’s late, or early, depending on how you look at it, but you should just be getting home from work. Please call me. I want you to talk to Pastor Jenkins. Please. I love you, Jack.”

He heard his mother breathing on the line for a few seconds before she finally hung up.

Jack stretched out on the couch and clicked on the TV for the noise. Sitting back, he grasped the cross tightly in his right hand. He had no intention of phoning his mother, and he definitely wouldn’t talk to Hank Jenkins.

Pastor Jenkins once said he thought of Vicki as his very
own daughter. Closing his eyes, Jack pushed Jenkins out of his mind. Jenkins was like everyone else, asking him to come back to God, to trust in God’s will for his life.

Nonsense.

He turned his thoughts to the sentencing and debated whether to call the DA in the morning for a hint as to how things were going. Bridges was in the process of being evaluated by the department of corrections for a sentence recommendation.

There’d be no death penalty for Gil Bridges, but Jack wanted him to get the maximum sentence, which would be many years in prison. Trouble was, Bridges appeared to be repentant. He’d apologized over and over, even donated money to Mothers Against Drunk Driving in Vicki’s name. Jack knew that if the judge thought the idiot’s repentance sincere, he’d be inclined to be lenient.

Bridges had asked Jack for forgiveness. And Jack had told him to pound sand. Now, lying on the couch, Jack thought about the last time he’d seen the man, and his hands clenched into fists.

I’ll never forgive or forget. If it were within my power, I’d kill Bridges with my bare hands.

The clock on the cable box said it was a little after 3 a.m. Jack closed his eyes, hoping to sleep soundly until it was time to make his phone call. As usual, his dreams were shot full of images of Vicki and his sleep fitful. He woke just before nine and spent several minutes watching the red numbers before he sat up and stretched.

He left the couch and picked up the phone to call DA
Rivers. The secretary said he was in. Jack only had to wait a minute before Rivers answered the phone.

“Jack, how’s it going? I hope you’re doing better than the last time we talked.”

“I’m still taking things day to day. You know why I’m calling. What’s the word? You must’ve heard something by now about Bridges’s evaluation.”

Rivers sighed loudly over the phone. “Jack, I’m going to level with you. I doubt Bridges will get the maximum. Not only is Andrews a liberal judge; Bridges himself is truly sorry about what happened. He’s apologized numerous times
 
—”

Heat coursed through Jack’s body. Even the phone felt white-hot in his hand. “He killed my wife! He can apologize all he wants and it won’t bring her back.” He pounded the wall with his free hand.

“Calm down.” Rivers let a beat pass before he continued. “Consider Bridges’s situation objectively. He doesn’t have a record. I’m not excusing him, but this is a first-time
 
—”

Jack slammed the phone down and cursed. First-time offender. First-time killer.

Why did Vicki have to be on the road the same day Gil Bridges decided to drive drunk for the first time?

He threw himself down on the couch as the tears began. As a cop, he asked questions and always demanded answers. But demanding answers to the questions he had now got him nowhere. No one heard them. He pictured Bridges in his mind, down on his knees begging for his life while Jack held a gun to his head, ready to deal out the correct punishment, the punishment that fit the crime.

Jack heard the voice of Doc Bell in his mind, asking him if never forgiving Bridges and wishing him dead would bring Vicki back. Then there was Pastor Jenkins asking him to trust God in this difficult time.

Jack rolled onto his side, face buried in a couch pillow, Vicki’s cross pressing into his chin.

There’s no God to trust. It might not bring Vicki back if Bridges gets what he deserves, but I want him to feel pain, to hurt a little bit like I hurt.
He groaned, the sound muffled by the pillow.
I fervently wish I could make Bridges’s pain as permanent as Vicki’s death.