Kahn gave each of them a hard stare. Then he muttered, “assholes,” and strode off to the far end of the sally port to wait for the first car to roll in. He didn’t look back.
“What was that all about?” Battaglia whispered.
Sully didn’t reply. He glanced sheepishly at Katie, then down at the ground.
“Jesus,” Battaglia continued. “If the guy isn’t chasing tail, he’s a giant grouch. What’s his problem, anyway?” He looked from Sully to Westboard to Katie.
No one answered.
SEVENTEEN
Saturday, April 27th
0726 hours
He spotted her as soon as she walked through the glass doors of the police department. With so little traffic on the street this early on a Saturday morning, he opted to park a half-block away to surveil the exit. He worried that he might not recognize her at that distance, but as soon as she pushed open the door, he knew.
There was still a vestige of a limp in her stride. And maybe just a trace of the shuffle he’d seen when she was playing the role of prey. As she turned and walked in the opposite direction, he stared after her. He watched her ponytail bob and bounce with each step. He thought about making it into a handle.
His eyes drifted down her body. He admired the tight curve of her hip, the upward turn of her ass. Dark, angry lust seethed in his loins.
He gripped the steering wheel and watched her.
Almost a block away, she stopped next to a Jeep, opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.
He smiled. Now he knew what she drove.
A puff of clear exhaust spurted out of the tailpipe of the Jeep. He sat and watched while Katie the Bitch Cop warmed up the engine. His palms were cool and sweaty. He wiped them on his slacks. He waited.
After a few minutes, her Jeep’s brake lights flashed, then the vehicle nudged forward into the street. He watched her go, then started his own car and eased onto the street. The sparse traffic forced him to follow her at a distance of several blocks as she headed up Monroe. He watched carefully, prepared for any turn signal from the Jeep.
The Jeep continued due north, not turning, not slowing. He hung back, hoping she wasn’t suspicious of him. Hoping she wasn’t vigilant at this time in the morning, after working all night.
Was she going home? He was counting on it, but you never knew with cops. Or whores. Maybe she was going to a bar. Or over to some guy’s house.
Maybe there was a man waiting at home for her.
He curled his lip. If that were the case, he would take care of that problem, too.
Finally, when she hit Rowan, almost five miles from the police station, she turned right.
He waited until she was out of sight, then sped up to almost fifty miles an hour to close the distance between them. At Rowan, he braked and turned. As soon as he turned onto Rowan, he saw her Jeep a block and a half to the east.
He followed.
At Calispel, she slowed and turned to the left. He slowed as well, watching her. She stopped in front of a small brick house three houses north of the intersection. He stopped, too, pulling up against the curb on Rowan. He was in the bicycle lane, but with so little traffic, he didn’t worry.
She stepped out of her Jeep and headed up the walkway to the small brick house. He stared after her until after she’d unlocked the door and gone inside.
It was a small house, but not too small for two people. She could be shacking up. He had to be careful and remain aware of that possibility. But there were no other cars parked right in front of the house, only hers. The houses on each side of hers had driveways. One led to a carport, the other to a garage. Poor Katie the Bitch Cop had to park on the street.
Unless there was a garage in back.
He put the car in gear and cruised forward, past the intersection. Mid-block, he spotted the alley that ran north/south behind the house. The alley was evenly paved with asphalt, not very common in River City. Most of the alleys he’d seen were still made up of hard-packed dirt or gravel and were bumpy as hell. As he turned into the alley, he enjoyed the smooth progression northward. He counted houses, slowing as he reached the third one.
A small chain link fence. That was all. No garage. No second car.
Probably no man in the house.
He glanced down at the towel on the seat beside him. Wrapped inside of it was a knife that would put Rambo to shame. More than anything, he wanted to put on the brakes. He wanted to stop in the alley, take that knife and jump the fence. Go inside. Find that fucking cunt. Grab onto that handle of hair and give her the banging of her life. Then slit her throat. Watch her life flow out onto the floor.
His hands trembled. His hardness strained against his slacks. He realized he was smiling.
No.
He couldn’t take any chances. He had to plan it out better. Look what happened the last time he went on impulse. They almost caught him in their little trap.
No, this time he’d watch. He’d plan.
This one was worth waiting for.
He rolled northbound through the alley. His hands continued to quiver, even as he turned out of the alley and back onto the street.
She’s going to get what she’s got coming, he told himself. What they all have coming.
Soon.
Not soon enough by half, but soon.
As he drifted back toward Division Street, he tried to sort out the beginnings of a plan, but the details eluded him. All he could see was that bouncing pony tail. All he could hear was her defiant voice. All he could feel was the satisfying smack of his knuckles against her cheek. All he could smell was her fear.
He rolled his head around, stretching the tight muscles in his neck. His breath came in and out in small quivering gasps. His erection ached.
He had to do something. This was too much.
At the first convenience store he saw, he pulled into the parking lot.
0805 hours
Katie peeled off the last of her clothing. She rubbed her sleepy eyes, causing a twinge of pain in her bruised face. Ignoring that, she found her flannel pajamas and slipped them over her head.
Bed was going to feel good. Her entire shift had been one stupid call after another. Westboard was overly protective, asking her about a dozen times how she was doing. On a fight call outside an apartment complex, Kahn had all but ignored everyone, his eyes still full of cold fire. His words seemed to have spurred Sully and Battaglia into a guilt-ridden state, which she was fairly certain they compounded while talking about it as they drove around during the shift. As a result, both of them apologized to her several times whenever their paths crossed on calls. When it came time for a lunch break, Katie talked Westboard into going somewhere with just the two of them so she could avoid more apologies.
She looked forward to forgetting about all of that in the coma-esque sleep of a graveyard officer. Putter the cat was fed and watered. Her alarm was set. She made sure the shades were pulled and secured in the bedroom. All that remained was to slide between the blankets and-
The telephone rang.
Katie sighed, annoyed. Then a tickle of anger sparked in her chest.
It had to be Stef.
She thought about letting it go to the machine. Then she thought about changing her phone number so he couldn’t call her anymore. The prospect of his actions forcing her to give up the same number she’d had since first coming to River City pissed her off, so on the fourth ring, she snatched the receiver.
“Hello?” she asked, not trying very hard to keep the irritation out of her voice.
The sound of traffic in the background immediately confirmed her suspicions. It was Kopriva, calling on a payphone. She wondered if he’d been up drinking all night. The thought of listening to his self-pitying slur made her clench her jaw.