The cluster of graveyard troops reached the basement sally port and stepped out through the double doors. A ragged line of patrol cars filled the center lane. Swing shift officers exited the vehicles, collecting their bags of gear and trudging away, while graveyarders jockeyed to get the lowest mileage vehicles.
Battaglia made straight for the first available car. He threw his bag into the trunk, got in, and drove out of the sally port without inspecting the vehicle or checking the lights or the shotgun.
Chisolm noticed Carson cast a concerned look after Battaglia’s car as it sped up the ramp. He definitely needed to talk to her. Not here, though. Not after the way Battaglia reacted in the locker room, and at roll call. No, he’d wait until after the initial rush of calls on their shift tapered off, then ask Carson to coffee. That’d be the best way to go about it.
Satisfied with his decision, Chisolm headed toward an empty car near the front of the line, ready to take on whatever River City had to offer.
2204 hours
Carson cruised through West Central with her windows down. A variety of smells floated through her police car as she patrolled the neighborhood: latent barbecues, motor oil, freshly cut grass, dog shit, and the musty smell from poorly maintained houses. A real potpourri for the nasal passage.
She tried to focus on the things outside her open window, but her thoughts kept coming back to one thing. Battaglia.
She needed to break it off with him, she knew. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was charming and said all of the things that made her feel good. But he was married.
What the hell am I thinking? And why do I always end up in relationships like this?
Her mind raced back through the catalogue of wrong men. Her best friend’s boyfriend. True, he wasn’t married, but it happened before he really stopped being her best friend’s boyfriend. Her poli-sci professor. Married. Then the assistant manager at the Bon Marche, also married. His wife had even invited her over for Christmas one year when she found out that Carson wasn’t able to go back to Wyoming for the holidays. That had been awkward.
At every stop she found herself falling into situations with married men. She used to call it bad luck, but one thing that she learned at the police academy was how to apply critical thinking. And critical thinking clearly told her that a trend like this wasn’t simply bad luck. There was more to it. But what?
She ignored the question. Instead she wondered if maybe it was different with Batts. Maybe she’d only taken up with him because she was a still a rookie.
“That’s stupid,” she whispered to no one. There was a big difference between being accepted as a fellow officer and gaining Battaglia’s acceptance by sleeping with him. Carson shook her head at herself. No, that wasn’t it.
Be honest.
She sighed. Whatever it was that drew her to married men, she could examine it at greater length sometime later. Right now, she had to decide how to handle Battaglia.
Would he really leave his wife, as he hinted in her bedroom, wrapped up in her legs in the early morning hours? Was she really something special, like he told her? Or was she really just the opposite? Something to be used, like a tissue, then thrown away?
Carson swallowed. All her life she’d felt like the tissue. Maybe this time, though, it was different. Maybe Batts was true love.
“Charlie-147 and Charlie-148 for a fight call,” squawked the radio. She glanced down, surprised at hearing the south side dispatcher’s voice. Then she realized she had the radio set to scan both frequencies.
“Charlie-147.”
“48.”
“Charlie-147 and -148, start for Liberty Park. A crowd of seven to ten black males are engaged in a large fight. The complainant reports seeing bottles and baseball bats.”
Carson flipped a U-turn. North side was uncharacteristically quiet, so she decided to go help the south officers. If nothing else, it would it give her something to think about. And maybe a chance to prove something.
As she reached for her microphone, the north side dispatcher barked out her call sign. Carson jumped. Then she grabbed the microphone and answered up.
“Also for Baker-124,” the dispatcher continued, “we have a fight at Dutch Jake Park between an unknown number of Hispanic males. Caller says it may be gang members involved. Unknown weapons.”
“Copy,” Carson said. She flipped another U-turn and headed down Broadway, her heart racing.
2206 hours
Chisolm dropped down Alberta Street, heading for West Central to back Carson and Baker-124, Matt Westboard, if they needed it. He heard Sully answer up. A moment later, Kahn’s gruff voice announced he was going to the fight call as well.
Chisolm left his radio mike on the hook. He’d leave the air open for one of the responding units in case the fight was still hot when they arrived on scene. A lot of fight calls were pretty much over by the time dispatch was able to get the information out, but you never knew.
“Adam-112,”came the dispatcher’s voice.
Chisolm reached out and depressed the mike button without removing it from the holder. “Twelve,” he hollered.
“I’m getting a report of a strong-arm robbery at Mission and Hamilton. Caller claims that three skinheads attacked her and took her purse. Suspects are still in the area. I’ll start you a south side unit to back. Mission and Hamilton.”
“Copy,” he yelled into the microphone. He hung a left on Wellesley and put on his lights and siren.
“Welcome to the circus, ladies and gents,” he muttered. “All three rings.”
2207 hours
Valeriy Romanov removed the small earphone and turned off the police scanner. He looked over at Sergey in the seat next to him.
“All three diversions are in place,” he told his boss. “The police are running around like puppies chasing their own tails, all far away from this end of the city.”
Sergey nodded. “Good. With luck, Oleg will be dead soon.”
“Not luck,” Val said. “We will make it happen.”
Sergey smiled. “Ah, Valeriy. I know you plan well. And you carry out your plans even better. But even the best plans need some measure of luck to succeed.”
Val didn’t reply. Instead, he caught Yuri’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Let’s go,” he ordered.
As Yuri pulled out of the grocery store parking lot and drove north on Division, Val pulled on a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves. From a paper shopping bag on the floor he removed the.44 Magnum. He felt the heft of the large-caliber revolver, rocking it in his hand almost lovingly. Then he extended the handle of the gun to Sergey.
Sergey didn’t move. “No, my brother. You will be my hand here. Bring me the traitor alive or leave him in a pool of his own blood.”
Val withdrew the gun, mildly surprised. For all his blustering, it turned out Sergey had lost his taste for the dirty work. His insistence on coming and being the one to pull the trigger was just one more way for him to exert his authority over Val.
Plans. Always plans within plans.
“You honor me,” Val said. He slipped a speed loader into the pocket of his jacket and held the.44 in his lap. Val looked out through the windshield. Two blocks ahead of them was a large hotel sign.
2208 hours
Carson rolled up on Dutch Jake park with her headlights darked out. All was silent. She reached for her microphone to report that the fight was over and the suspects gone. Out of the darkness, a voice rang out.