Don't Call Me Hero (8 page)

“You ready to motor, partner?” David popped his head into the kitchen.

“How’s Dennis?” I asked.

“Freshly showered and ready to sleep things off at the county jail.”

I stood up from the kitchen table. Tricia Wagner continued to smoke. She stared blankly ahead and pinched her cigarette between her thumb and forefinger.

“Will you be alright, ma’am?” I asked, rearranging my duty belt.

She nodded, looking emotionally drained.

“We’ll call when Dennis is ready to be released on bail,”
David said.

David’s words brought a sharp look to Mrs. Wagner’s face. “That won’t be necessary. Dennis can wait in jail for his trial.”

I felt a small surge of satisfaction, but David tittered beside me. “Are you sure? It’s gonna be a few days for the judge to get around to his case—maybe even a week.”

I recognized the doubt that flashed over her features as she second-guessed herself. “Oh, well maybe you should call me.”

David and I carted a sluggish Dennis Wagner outside and into the backseat of the squad car. His feet moved steadily, but his upper body was about as responsive as a cooked noodle.

I was annoyed that David had weakened Tricia Wagner’s resolve. She didn’t need a person in a position of authority like a police officer to question her judgment. David should have supported her decision to let her troubled son deal with the consequences of his poor decision making. But it was only my second day on the job and therefore not my place to call him out.

David drummed his hands on the top of the squad car. “You hungry?”

I could always eat, but I was eager to change my clothes. My jeans were damp and my T-shirt was saturated with water and blood. I tugged at the front of my shirt. “Sure, but mind swinging by my apartment first so I can get out of these rags?”

David held up his hands. “Woah, Miller, you could at least treat me to dinner first before you bring me back to your place. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I don’t move that fast.”

I tugged open the passenger side door and slid into the front seat. “Real cute.”

My surroundings may have changed, but the one constant was the routine razzing I received as a female in a male-dominated environment. David Addams wasn’t necessarily a jerk. Being in a high-pressure, stressful job like the military or police made that kind of teasing camaraderie a necessity. The ability to joke around just moments after grappling with a junky was as much of a job skill as hitting a target at a firing range.

David pulled the car into drive, and I watched as the Wagner homestead got smaller and smaller in the side mirror. Chief Hart had promised a glorified babysitting job, but my second night on duty suggested something else.

CHAPTER SIX

The floor plan of Grace Kelly’s apartment was the mirror image of mine across the hallway, but she’d done far more to the interior to make it feel like a home instead of an oversized dorm room. The natural light made the studio apartment similarly bright and inviting, but it was the positioning of furniture and the charming, attentive details that set it apart from the minimalistic way I’d been living. Pictures of my hostess with friends or family, smiles broad and arms wrapped around each other, filled the walls and spare shelf space.

One picture stood out: Grace with two other similarly aged and appearing women.

“You’re a triplet?” I called to her in the kitchen.

“Yeah. But technically I’m the middle child.”

“Do they live in Embarrass?”

“No. They’re out of state with their families. I’m the only one who stayed.”

“Are your parents still around?” I asked.

“Yup. See them every week at church,” Grace chuckled. “We go to brunch at Stan’s afterwards. Been doing it for as long as I can remember.”

I put the picture frame back on its shelf and scanned over the books on Grace’s bookshelves. “Hey, is this your yearbook?” I asked.

I heard her laugh from the kitchen. “Oh, yeah. I can’t believe I still have that thing after all these years. I’m such a hoarder.”

My fingers flexed with the urge to pluck the thin hardcover book from its place on the shelf and look for the name “Desjardin, Julia” in the index. Instead, I forced my hand to fall limply at my side.

“Dinner’s ready,” Grace beamed. She pulled a glass casserole dish from the oven, her hands protected by oven gloves. “I hope you brought your appetite.”

“Smells good,” I remarked, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my jeans.

Grace set the casserole pan on a pot holder in the center of the kitchen island and wiped her hands on the front of her apron. Like my apartment, she had no formal dining room, but since it was just the two of us, there was plenty of space at the island.

“How are you settling in?” she asked. She used a metal spatula to serve me a square of lasagna. I practically drooled at the meat and cheese filling that spilled all over my plate.

“It’s been going well. Chief Hart and David Addams have been doing a really nice job of easing me into the job,” I said. I held up my plate so she could spoon green beans next to the steaming lasagna. “Monday I met some people who work at City Hall, and the past two nights I’ve been patrolling with David.”

Grace unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “See any action yet?”

My fork hovered in front of my mouth.
Action?
Was that a question about Julia Desjardin or Dennis Wagner, I wondered. I assumed she was asking about the latter, but I knew enough not to talk about work with a reporter. “It’s been pretty routine so far. But tonight’s my first shift on my own, so who knows.”

Grace lifted her glass of milk to toast. “Here’s to catching all the bad guys.”

I raised my water glass in return and clinked our cups together. “Here’s to seeing some action.” I wiggled my eyebrows.

“God, don’t I wish,” Grace giggled. “I can’t remember the last time I went on a date.”

“You don’t have to go on a date to get laid.” I was living proof of that.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she ducked her head. I saw the telltale blush creep onto her cheeks.

“Sorry. Was that too much?” I could be crass sometimes when it came to talking about sex. I’d lived with soldiers for the past eight years.

“No. You’re fine. We’re all adults.” She cut into her lasagna and blew on the first mouthful to cool it. “I guess I’m just a little old fashioned when it comes to these things.”

“So why aren’t you dating?” I started to dissect my food as well. I hadn’t had a home-cooked meal like this in months—probably not since the last time I’d visited my parents.

“Right. Because the choice of suitors here is endless,” she said, shaking her head.

“What about David Addams?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Cowboy?”

“Cowboy?” I chuckled. I’d have to remember to ask about that nickname the next time I saw him. “Sure. He’s an attractive guy. And he’s got a steady job.”

“What more could a girl hope for, huh?” Grace laughed without humor. “I’ve known Cowboy since preschool. I taught him how to tie his shoes in kindergarten. No great romance there.”

“And that’s what you’re looking for? Romance?”

Grace pushed the food around on her plate with her fork. “It’s silly, I know. At my age I should be married with at least three kids.”

I held up my hands. “Hey, no judgment from me. I haven’t had a serious relationship in, like, my entire life.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

“I’ve dated, but no one significant.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged and continued to shovel more of the flavorful food into my mouth. “Never found someone I liked enough to commit to, I guess
.”

The food was delicious and Grace made for a charming dinner companion. I was glad I hadn’t done something idiotic when she’d written that story about me that might have stifled a potential friendship. I had a lot of male friends because I was able to talk about sports and cars, but I usually had little in common with straight women, so it was nice to be able to hang out so effortlessly with Grace.

I’d have to get her to teach me how to cook. Maybe I could teach her how to shoot a gun in return.

+ + +

The night sky was clear, and with the sun having set hours ago, I could see my breath with every exhale. A nervous energy knotted at my stomach as I slid into the driver’s seat of the old Crown Vic. My jeans caught on the leather causing my backside to skid along its surface. It brought me back to an instructor’s words at the police academy: if you don’t feel nervous before the start of your shift, you’re going to get yourself hurt. The moment the job becomes routine is the moment you let your guard down.

I curled my fingers around the steering wheel and breathed in. The scent of the leather was familiar and comfortable. Police cars, regardless if you lived in the Twin Cities or Embarrass, Minnesota, all smelled the same. I started up the car and let it sit in park until the engine heated up and warm air began to blast out of the vents. The squad car had seen better days, but it was infinitely better than riding desk for the rest of my working years. If I had wanted to sit behind a desk all day, I would have gotten a degree in business.

It was strange being in the squad car by myself. When I’d been in Afghanistan, you obviously never went anywhere by yourself, and I hadn’t been on the Minneapolis force long enough to warrant my own car. But patrolling alone did have its benefits. For one, it was actually safer than working with a partner. It forced you to slow down and be more cautious when you knew you were your own backup.

I drove around town for the first few hours, getting used to the vehicle and how it pulled slightly to the left. At this late hour, I saw no one on the road, but perhaps with tomorrow being Friday, I would see more action then.

I flicked my eyes to the rearview mirror and followed a silver pickup truck as it drove past me. It was the first vehicle I’d seen all night. I squinted my eyes when I noticed only one red taillight was illuminated. The other one had been smashed out.

I turned the squad car around and flipped on my overhead bubble lights, just a few red and blue flashes to alert the driver. The truck responded immediately and its driver veered the vehicle onto the shoulder of the road.

I pulled directly behind the extended cab pickup and parked my car.

I reached for the in-car radio. “Central, this is E-Three.”

“Go ahead, E-Three.”

“I need you to run a plate for me. Minnesota plate five, seven, eight, Echo, Adam, Victor.” It was technically a routine traffic stop, but the academy had drilled into me that there was nothing routine about police work.

The dispatcher repeated the plate back to me. “That car is registered to Cyrus Tabor who lives at 356 East Maple in Embarrass, Minnesota.”

A local. “Anything else I should know about?”

“You’re clear.”

I climbed out of the car, leaving it running, and walked to the passenger side of the stopped vehicle even though the street was empty and there was only the driver visible in the cab of the truck.

I waited for the driver to roll down the window.

“Yes, Officer?”

I flashed my Maglite inside the cab. The interior of the truck looked new—bucket seats instead of a single bench, heated leather seats, and a multi-disc changer in the dashboard. “License and registration, please.”

The driver leaned over the center consol and reached for the glove compartment.

I flinched at the abrupt movement. “Slowly, please.”

“Was I speeding?” He fished around the glove compartment, and I kept the heel of my palm on my holstered gun.

“You’ve got a taillight out.”

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled. “Backed the damn thing into a tree last month when I was hauling stuff off to the city dump. You should have heard the wife yell when I brought the truck home. Just got it a few months ago and here I was breaking it already. But I told her better me than anyone else putting the first dent in it.”

He talked to me like we were old acquaintances. No one spoke to me like that when I was in uniform in Minneapolis, not even when they were drunk. People usually got spooked being pulled over.
Small town, Minnesota
, I sighed to myself.

“Sir, can I see your driver’s license?”

“Sorry, Officer. I must’ve left my wallet in my good jeans.”

I sighed even more loudly. “Your good jeans?”

“The ones without the holes.”

“Of course.” I resisted rolling my eyes. “Do you have any form of identification on you, Mister…”

“Tabor. Cyrus Tabor. I own the hardware store. And no, like I told you, I left my wallet in my good jeans.”

I closed my ticket book. “Mr. Tabor, I’m letting you off with a verbal warning. Please get that taillight fixed as soon as possible; it’s a danger to you and to other drivers. And in the future, don’t leave your wallet at home in your good pants.”

He bobbed his head. “Will do, lady cop.”

When I got back to the car, I called central dispatch to let them know I was still alive. Cyrus Tabor gingerly eased his truck back onto the road, and I watched as his single taillight disappeared into the night.

I pressed my forehead against the leather steering column. What was I doing here?

+ + +

Afghanistan
,
2012

We’ve received intelligence and a new directive. We’re to be deployed to a village in the south—a Taliban stronghold. No one says the name because he might as well be the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot. None of us ever expects to find Bin Laden in this godforsaken country. He could be hiding anywhere—Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran. Hell, he could be hanging out in West Hollywood selling maps to the stars’ homes or farming corn in Des Moines, Iowa. The best we can hope for is to capture someone much farther down the chain of command.

I climb into the back of the Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement. The six tires on the MTVR are almost as tall as me. There’s a palpable excitement and tension in our group. It’s our first convoy in who knows how long. We’ve been getting cabin fever—days filled with nothing but ping-pong, beer, and porn. There’s been nothing brave or valiant to write home about.

You let your guard down when you’re on base. You’re surrounded by reminders of your life in the States and the comforts of a far more civilized existence. It’s easier to think you’re safe in those moments, especially when you’ve just done ten hours of patrolling the streets of Kubal in an armored car. But the truth is, you’re never far from danger—from a surprise attack that leaves you and your buddies broken, banged up, or even dead.

We aren’t Military Police who patrol almost daily, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a vehicle, so sitting assholes to elbows inside the MTVR doesn’t come natural to me. My commander touches the radio at his ear. “We are Oscar Mike,” he tells the three-vehicle convoy. 

We haven’t been on the road for even an hour when I see the enormous explosion of smoke, debris, and chunks of concrete. Then comes the loud boom. The smoke climbs higher and higher into the sky.

“Push through, driver! Push through!” my LT yells. Our driver hesitates and I know what she’s thinking; leave no man behind. But it’s also her job to keep moving so the third vehicle in the convoy can get out of the kill zone in case there’s additional IEDs. Our vehicle lurches forward again until we’re clear of the debris.

The door opens and when I rush outside with the rest of my unit I get a front-row view of the damage. The lead vehicle has been hit, mostly on the passenger side. The seven-ton vehicle looks helpless, little more than a beat-up tin can. Its passengers yell for assistance. Orders are barked into my ear and as the soldiers from the third vehicle set up a perimeter around the disabled MTVR, the Marines from my group are assisting the wounded.