Winter thought about the note in his pocket and pulled it out, re-reading it. Except maybe for Reiser, he was the only guy in the platoon with a successful relationship with a woman. Ridgeway’s situation amounted to an ongoing soap opera. Gio flitted from woman to woman without remorse. Jack Stone was a confirmed bachelor, probably too acerbic to ever hang on to a woman. Even the Sarge had woman trouble. Poole seemed to be growing more bitter and despondent every day.
And then there was Mary and him.
Some guys have all the luck, Winter mused, putting the note away.
A large white Chrysler drove by. He didn’t notice anything remarkable about it. An anxious white female drove and as she darted past the alley, she was looking into the back seat. Winter sipped his coffee and reached for his notebook and scowled. That was a little suspicious. He decided to write down the plate, just in case.
The alarm tone startled him and he spilled his coffee all over his notebook.
2331 hours
Stefan Kopriva accepted the license from the driver’s hand and scrutinized it. The robbery alarm tone blared over his portable. He tossed the license back to the teenager. “Slow it down,” he ordered and hustled back to his car. Once inside, he flipped his siren on and squealed his tires as he left.
Hart picked up the phone halfway through the first ring. He’d heard the alarm tone.
“Is it Scarface?” he asked Carrie Anne, the radio supervisor.
“The description matches.”
“I didn’t hear the codeword.”
“There was no ‘Red Dog’ given. This location was not under surveillance.”
Hart hung up the phone, silently cursing his luck.
Winter whipped out of the alley and caught up to the white Chrysler. He activated his overhead lights and put out his location to radio. The car pulled to the side of the road at Jackson and Cincinnati. Winter turned on every light the patrol car was equipped with, unfamiliar with their operation after so long on day shift.
Once he had showered the Chrysler in artificial light, he exited the car and approached cautiously, his right hand resting on his pistol. He considered waiting for a back-up, but didn’t want to waste too much time if this were not the vehicle. His theory could be wrong, after all.
He reached the rear bumper and shined his mag light into the back seat.
Probationary Officer Maurice Payne drove westbound on Foothills from Crestline. He wondered how angry he’d made Bates when his unexpected quick turn caused the FTO to spill his drink on his leg. That concern faded as he struggled to place Charlie-251’s location in relation to his own.
Jackson and Cincinnati.
Jackson, Jackson.
He drew a blank.
Cincinnati, then. Cincinnati was just west of Hamilton. Well, one or two west, anyway, but Hamilton curved around into Nevada just north of the street he was on. So if he made a turn onto that arterial and headed along it, he would cross Jackson. Then Cincinnati would only be a block or two off.
But which way? Was Jackson north or south of this street?
Payne gripped the steering wheel, white knuckled, deathly afraid to reach for his street locator and reveal to his FTO that he didn’t know the answer.
Back on the telephone with dispatch, Hart barked orders at Carrie Anne. “Set up a perimeter on that store, three blocks in each direction.” He squeezed the phone receiver tightly in his hands. He could not afford for Scarface to get away during his task force detail. “Does Winter have a backup on the way?”
“Yes,” Carrie Anne said. He heard her typing at her keyboard. “It’s Baker-133, Bates and Payne.”
“Where are they coming from?”
More tapping. “Crestline and Foothills as of thirty seconds ago,” she answered.
“All right. Get a status check on Winter.”
Winter shined his light throughout the interior of the car. It was dirty, but empty. No blankets, no room for anyone to hide. He checked the front seat as well. A few empty beer cans, but otherwise empty. The female driver sat with her hands firmly on the wheel, staring straight ahead.
“Charlie-251, status check.”
Winter keyed his mike. “Code four.”
“Code four.”
Kopriva heard that and automatically diverted to the store to take a perimeter position. He wondered how long the delay was on this one.
Thirty seconds from the store, Thomas Chisolm wondered the same thing. He heard Shane Gomez, one of the K-9 officers, switch from the south-side channel and respond to the store. The victim store was short north, so Gomez should get a fresh track.
Not that it would matter, Chisolm figured. They’d gotten fresh tracks before.
Payne clenched his jaw as he approached Hamilton. Right or left? North or south?
He tried to remember a call or a stop he’d had on Jackson but couldn’t.
Where the hell is Jackson?
He had a fifty-fifty chance. Besides, he’d been on five perimeters before and they never caught the guy. They’d never been there soon enough.
Kopriva pulled up to a stop at Mission and Standard with his overheads on, blocking traffic. He notified radio of his perimeter location. He saw another car doing the same at Hamilton and Mission and heard Thomas Chisolm check out there. Another patrol car slipped by Chisolm’s location, it’s lights on.
Probably the K-9, on his way to another fruitless track.
Kopriva wondered if Gomez and the other K-9 guys were getting frustrated yet.
Winter held the driver’s license in his hand, about to go back to his car and check her name, when he paused. The driver stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel. She looked thin.
Too thin.
And very nervous.
Winter glanced at her driver’s license. The picture was almost three years old and a much fuller faced smiled out from the photo.
She looked like a junkie to him. Actually, more like a crack-head. Junkies were usually tight and wouldn’t talk, but crack-heads weren’t so loyal.
Winter decided to interview her.
The throaty idle of the engine made it hard to hear the muffled voices, but he could make out most of it. He wondered why Carla stopped so soon after they left the store, but then he’d heard the tinny crackle of a police radio outside her door. There was no mistaking the calm authority in the voice he heard.
“Step out of the car, miss.”
James Mace made his decision in an instant.
Carla sat stock-still in the front seat of the white Chrysler, just like she had been told to. Do not get out of the car, he had drilled into her. Just sit there, no matter what they say. If they want you to get out of the car, we are fucked. So sit still and don’t worry.
Carla sat still, but she couldn’t stop from worrying.
Winter waited a few moments when the driver did not immediately obey his command. Sometimes nervous people were slow to respond. Maybe she had a warrant, too. He probably should have run her name first.
“Miss, step out of the vehicle,” he ordered again.
In the next instant, he saw a flash of movement in the back seat. Winter’s mind struggled to process the information. He’d looked in the back seat. It had been empty.
Winter turned, ripping his gun from his holster, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough.
From inside the trunk, Mace pushed the back seat forward. The cushion slid across the seat and struck the back of the front seat. Carla gave a small yelp. He ignored her as he slid out of the trunk and into the back seat. Mace trained his weapon on the fat cop standing at the window. He wished for an M-16 like when he had been a Ranger, but the thirty-eight bucked slightly in his hands as he squeezed off three quick rounds. The roar of the gun filled the car.