I was facing away from Joe as I talked, and I lifted my hair. He zipped down my dress really slowly. I gasped. I was surprised at the heat that came over me from nowhere.
“Stand up,” he said. “You don’t want to wrinkle your dress.”
I did what he said and watched him close the lid on the computer without taking his eyes from me. I let down the asymmetrical neckline of my dress, and when my arms were free, the red silk dropped into a puddle around my feet.
He reached out his arms. I kicked off my shoes, and in the next second, by way of some deft maneuver of Joe’s, I was flat on my back in my underthings, looking up into his blue, blue eyes.
Yes, I heard my phone buzz in the other room.
No, I didn’t take the call. I knew it was that freaking phone terrorist, and I wasn’t going to let him steal this time with Joe away from me. It had been a long time since we’d been in bed without listening to the baby monitor, but we had that time now.
And we took full advantage of it.
His clothes flew over the side of the bed, and the blankets were shoved to the footboard. I closed my eyes and reveled in the feel of his whiskers and lips and hands on my skin and the delicious smell of him.
And I loved him back.
We romped and played like newlyweds, and at one point, Joe reached a hand down and helped me off the floor and back into the bed. The laughter was wonderful, and when we kissed deeply and connected completely, it felt as true as it had when we first fell in love.
Afterward, sweating and panting and still entwined with Joe, I rested my cheek against his shoulder and held him tightly.
I told him how much I loved him, and he said he’d never loved me more. Exhausted in the best possible way, I drifted off, telling myself that it was OK. Joe was in charge. I didn’t have to worry about anything. He would get the baby and her furry pal when it was time.
I was sleeping and maybe having a beautiful dream when Joe said, “Lindsay, your phone has been ringing every minute or two.”
He handed it to me.
I took it reluctantly. I said, “I’ve been getting hangups,” but when I looked at the caller ID, it read CONKLIN.
“Christ. Where’ve you been?” Conklin said. “OK. Never mind. Brand and Whitney tried to hold up a check-cashing store. We’ve got dead people. We’ve got hostages. They’re in there now.”
I heard a voice over a bullhorn, saying, “Put your hands up and come out. You don’t want anyone else to die, do you?”
Conklin gave me an address on Polk, which was about three miles and five minutes away. Four if I pushed it. I started scrambling around for something to wear, and Joe turned on the lights.
“Lindsay, be safe,” he said. “We want you back here. Your family loves you.”
I went into his arms and we held each other tightly.
I needed to go. But I knew Joe and I were thinking the same thing. We had a lot to live for.
CHAPTER 103
A PATROLMAN LET me and my Explorer through the cordon on Polk. I drove to midblock and saw Conklin and Brady standing together in front of a nail salon on the south side of the street. Their eyes were fixed on the north side, on the Checks Cashed store directly across from them.
I parked in a no-parking zone a few yards down the street from Brady and Conklin, right behind a blue Ford pickup with Texas plates. I got out of my vehicle and heard sirens from cars coming in from all points.
I walked up to my partner and asked, “What happened?”
He pushed his hair out of his eyes, cleared his throat, and said, “I had a tip that Whitney was staying at the Sylvestrie, so I staked it out. He left the hotel around eight p.m. and I tailed him with backup. He walked to a garage on Kearny and got that truck.” He pointed at it with his chin. Then he went on.
“He picked Brand up on the corner of Stockton and Bush, both of them in street clothes. When they got out of the truck, here, they were in PD Windbreakers.”
Car doors were slamming and cops were getting out, standing on the sidewalk, looking over the roofs of their vehicles. Radios set up a cacophony of blare and static along the street. I was wearing my vest, carrying my gun—but still, I felt naked and vulnerable.
I looked more closely at the check-cashing store. The signs were still lit up over the storefront, but it was dark inside the shop.
Conklin said, “One of them flipped the sign on the door to closed. The lights were on, and I saw them corral the two customers, both women, over to the left side of the store. They made them lie down and Brand cuffed them.
“While Brand did that, Whitney put his gun on the security guard and walked him back to the tellers’ cages. I’m guessing Whitney told them, ‘Open up or I’ll kill him.’”
“Shit,” I said. “So they let him in.”
“Right,” Conklin said. “By then, someone hit the alarm.”
Beside me, Brady lifted his bullhorn and said, “Whitney. Brand. I’m calling the store. Pick up the phone.” Brady was sweating in sixty degrees. You could see it on his forehead, his upper lip, but you couldn’t tell he was stressing from his voice or his actions. I was glad Brady was in charge.
“Keep going,” I said to my partner.
Conklin said, “So I can see the teller open the security door, and blam. Whitney shoots the guard, puts that threat down. Now the tellers run for the back door and I see muzzle flare. I guess Whitney panicked or no longer cared. I think he nailed a couple of them. I didn’t see them again.”
Guns were everywhere on this short block. Soon SWAT would launch smoke bombs and storm Checks Cashed.
Brady spoke through the bullhorn: “Listen to me. This is going to end badly if you don’t do exactly what I say. The store is surrounded. We’ve got snipers on the roof. Put the guns down and come out with your hands in the air.”
A moment later, the front door opened a few inches and Whitney called, “Don’t shoot. We’re coming out with hostages.”
Brady called out over the megaphone, “Hold your fire!”
The door swung open and two terrified women with their hands behind their backs were muscled out of the store. Whitney was behind one of them, Brand behind the other.
I saw the glint of their handguns and that both rotten cops had duffel bags with the shoulder straps crossing their chests, probably containing their latest and final score.
I was standing with Conklin when Whitney and Brand, still wearing their creepy masks, awkwardly bumped and dragged their hostages between parked cars and toward the truck. It was only a fifty-foot walk—but they were encumbered and had to pass through a shooting gallery, including right past where Brady, Conklin, and I were standing.
I don’t know what came over Richie. Maybe he just couldn’t take what was happening. He shouted at Whitney and Brand, “You’re filth! Both of you. Fucking scum!”
Whitney lifted his gun and pointed it at Conklin. I saw my partner lift his arm, and by the time I heard the report of Whitney’s gun, my own gun was in my hand. I knew Conklin was hit. But I couldn’t stop what I was doing.
I didn’t have a clean head or chest shot, so I dropped to one knee and fired at Whitney’s hip. Before his leg buckled, a few hundred bullets pinged into the sidewalk from above.
Whitney dropped. The hostages ran, screaming. One of them fell on the asphalt, bleeding.
Brady reached Brand in terrifying slow motion and put his gun to the back of his neck. Brand dropped his gun and put up his hands.
“I give up,” Brand said. “Don’t shoot.”
Two shots rang out, but I didn’t see where they landed. My whole mind was on Conklin. He was on the ground, motionless. I stooped down next to my partner and shook his shoulder.
“Richie. Speak to me.”
CHAPTER 104