Don't Call Me Hero (9 page)

I reach one of the injured men. He’s so new to the unit, I don’t know his name yet. He’s been hit, and it looks pretty bad. His uniform is charred, torn, and bloody on the right side, and his leg has been shredded up from shrapnel. I yank a tourniquet out of my kit—Velcro straps on a plastic stick—and wrap it around his thigh.

“Oh, God!” he squeals when I apply pressure to the wound. “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!”

“Shut up!” I yell back. “You’re not going to die!”

I’m supposed to be the signal officer, but I’m more concerned right now with stopping the blood and saving this Marine’s life.

I’m tugged backwards by the convoy commander. “Get on the horn and call in some help!” he yells at me.

My training rather than my instincts finally kicks in, and I get on the foxtrot. “Medevac! Medevac!” I yell into the radio. “God damn it, I need a medevac!”

The sound of rotor blades above is like angels singing.

+ + +

Sunlight pierced the flimsy drapes that covered my apartment windows. I squinted into the late morning sun. Beyond the single pane windows, I could hear the sounds of a city taking its lunch break. I’d only gone to bed a few hours earlier, but it would take some time to acclimate to my new schedule of working at night while trying to sleep during the day. But more than the difficulties of getting used to working third shift, I typically avoided losing myself to too much sleep. It was safer that way.

I rolled over in bed and retrieved my phone from an end table. After the past few nights I was due a friendly, yet annoying voice.

Rich answered after the first ring. “Shit, girl. I thought you were dead. People disappear up there, you know.”

“You busy?”

“Nope. Having lunch at Mickey’s.”

“Damn it. Don’t rub it in,” I grumbled. I had been impressed by Stan’s diner, but nothing could compete with Mickey’s.

“You hear that?” The phone filled with loud crunching noises. “That’s the sound of me devouring a BLT, onion rings, and a strawberry shake.”

My body gurgled at the suggestion, and I pressed my hand to my stomach. “You’re a real asshole.”

He continued to chew in my ear. “What’s up?”

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair. “Just checking in. It’s been a while.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Miller. I didn’t figure you for the sentimental type.”

I grunted unintelligently.

He laughed. “Small Town, USA not everything you imagined it would be?”

“It’s fine. The people here are really nice and accommodating.”

“But …”

“There’s no ‘but.’ Things are good. It’s what I need right now.”

“That’s real good to hear, Cass.”

“So what’s new?” I pressed. “I’ve gotta live vicariously through you.”

Rich pushed out a deep breath. “All jokes aside, I’m actually working on a case that’ll turn your stomach.”

I sat up in bed with renewed interest in our conversation. Rich was a detective, but he was assigned to Internal Affairs. He always seemed in the thick of it.

“Illinois highway patrol stops a car with a burned out taillight. The plates check out, but the driver doesn’t have ID on him. They run his prints and discover the car belongs to his brother, who hasn’t yet discovered his car has been stolen, and his wife is dead in the trunk from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

The details were disturbing, but I didn’t understand why he was telling me this story. “If Illinois troopers pulled him over, why are you working the case?”

Rich sighed heavily in my ear. “One of our guys pulled him over hours earlier for the same broken taillight. He wrote the driver a ticket for not having his license on him, but didn’t bother to run his prints through the mobile scanner.”

“Oh no,” I sighed.

Rich was silent on the other end before he found his voice again. “If our guy had swiped his prints the first time, we could have stopped him before he got to Illinois; but more importantly, his wife would probably still be alive.”

“God, Rich. That’s horrible.”

I thought about Cyrus Tabor who owned the hardware store and his broken taillight. Without identification, I’d had to take him at his word that he was who he’d said he was.

“I know. Our guy’s a wreck. He’s been suspended with pay, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to bounce back from this. I don’t suppose you’ve got any advice for me?”

“Make him take the maximum time off, but don’t leave him out there on an island. Being alone with his thoughts and his regrets is gonna eat him up.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Rookie. That’s good stuff. Keep doing your thing up there, eh? I’ll let the gang know you’re kicking ass as usual.”

Kicking ass in Embarrass? Not exactly.

+ + +

Lori was on the phone when I visited the police station a few hours later.

“Is he in there?” I quietly asked, nodding towards Chief Hart’s office door. It was slightly ajar.

She nodded and continued with her call.

Inside his office, Chief Hart slowly pecked at his computer’s keyboard. A half-eaten sandwich that I assumed his wife had packed for him was on his desk.

“Hey, Chief.”

Chief Hart looked away from his computer screen and took off his readers. “Cassidy—what are you doing here? Didn’t you just get off duty a few hours ago?”

I flopped down in the chair across from his desk. “Yeah, but I had a question I wanted to ask you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Does the department have mobile fingerprint readers?” 

His eyebrows knit together. “I’m guessing no since I’ve never heard of this thing before.”

“Oh.” I sat up straighter in the chair. “Well, it’s this device that attaches to your smart phone. If you pull someone over and they don’t have identification, you can swipe their fingerprints and the mobile reader checks it against AFIS.”

The Automated Fingerprint Identification System, or AFIS, was the state’s fingerprint database. The FBI managed the national database.

“David and I know everyone in town. You’ll learn everyone’s names soon enough, too.”

“But what about people from out of town?” I pointed out.

“This gadget sounds like it costs money, Cassidy. And if you’ve got eyes, you’ll notice we don’t have a lot of that around here.”

He nodded in the direction of a blue plastic bucket in the corner of his office which was catching water dripping from an exposed pipe.

“Oh, speaking of money,” he said, “don’t forget to fill out your I9s and W2s so you get paid.”

“Who do I need to see about that?” I asked.

“Wendy Clark. She’s the city clerk, which means she’s basically in charge of the city’s bank accounts. I’d recommend talking to her right away. Your stipend came from a federal grant, but we should probably follow up to make sure the money doesn’t get earmarked for something else.”

I immediately stood up. “I’ll go talk to her right now.” I wasn’t about to let my meager living allowance get used for a park bench.

Wendy Clark’s office was on the first floor. When I’d entered the Office of the City Clerk, an assistant had informed me that Mrs. Clark was busy in a meeting and that I’d have to wait. I stood in the atrium of City Hall, hands shoved in the pockets of my leather jacket, as I waited for the City Clerk to wrap up her meeting.

Concept art for future buildings and other city projects hung on the walls in the atrium. I stood in front of blueprints and inspected the concept art for a proposed city park. In addition to a castle-like jungle gym there was also a splash pad—a miniature water park.

“Can I help you with something?”

I looked away from the blueprints in the direction from where the voice had come.

A man who looked to be in his mid-forties stood outside of his office with his hands shoved into the pockets of his flat-front dress pants. He was the first person I’d seen in town wearing a tie.

“I’m just waiting for Mrs. Clark to finish her meeting.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Not unless you’re in charge of payroll.”

He laughed and held his hands up. “Nothing so important as that.”

I spotted the nameplate on his office door. “Peter Lacroix. City Architect,” I read aloud. “Nope. Not important at all.”

Peter Lacroix was a tall, thin, mustached man who looked like he’d played Division II basketball in his college years, but now had to settle for pick-up games during lunch hour with other city employees.

“Did you draw all of these?” I asked, nodding to the concept art displayed on the hallway walls.

Peter slipped beside me. “Most of them. I did the plan for the City Hall upgrades that were completed last fall, and the face-lift to Veteran’s Park.”

“It looks like there’s been a lot of improvements to the city recently,” I observed. “You guys must be doing something right.”

“Well, the Veteran’s Park renovations never happened, unfortunately,” he said, tapping the drawings I’d so recently admired. “We applied for a grant to get the work done, but it didn’t get chosen. Do you have kids?”

“Me? No.” The answer came out a little too adamantly. “You?”

Peter nodded. “A boy and a girl. They were really excited about the park when I was working on the plans at home.” He pointed to the drawing. “My youngest one, Amelia, she even suggested the miniature lighthouse that sprayed water from its lantern.”

“That’s cute,” I mused. “Maybe the park redesign will still happen someday.”

Peter looked thoughtfully at the framed plans. “Yeah. Maybe.”

High heels clicked down the hallway, and somehow I instinctually knew that Julia Desjardin wasn’t far behind. I hadn’t seen her in town since the grocery store on Tuesday evening. I had wanted to reach out to her after that, but I hadn’t wanted to seem like a stalker. Her steps faltered only slightly when she spotted me with the city architect.

Peter sucked in a deep breath as if readying himself. “Hi, Julia,” he greeted.

“Hello, Peter.” Her eyes landed briefly on me. “Detective Miller.”

“Madam Prosecutor,” I returned evenly, schooling my reaction. I was surprised she knew my title and last name, but she’d managed to hunt down my apartment, so I shouldn’t have been too shocked.

“Miller!” Peter Lacroix’s face lit up in recognition. “That’s why you looked so familiar. From the newspaper.”

I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Yeah, a regular old celebrity. That’s me.”

Julia snorted and continued on her way to the single elevator in the center of the city building. Unforgiving heels clicked down the corridor.

“It was nice meeting you, Peter,” I said absently. I found myself unwontedly staring at the elegant woman who waited for the lift. “Good luck with that park. I hope Amelia gets her lighthouse.”

Peter nodded his thanks and slipped back into his office.

The purpose of my first floor visit momentarily forgotten, I sidled up next to Julia.

“Where are you headed to?”

She stared straight ahead at the elevator that refused to arrive. “I’m going to trial. Some of us actually work, Miss Miller.”

“I’m off-duty. You can call me Cassidy.”

Julia mashed a manicured finger into the elevator button again as if to hasten its arrival. “I’d rather not.”

“Why don’t you take the stairs?”

“Because, Detective, the courtroom is on the third floor and these are new shoes,” she said with an annoyed sigh. “I’d rather not have to be on my feet all day while I’m defending the city, distracted by the blisters on my ankles.”

“Have you been avoiding me?”

“I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

I struggled for a witty retort, but before one came to mind, the elevator doors swished open. Julia stepped inside without another glance.

The doors closed in front of my face.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The national weather alert warned of flash flooding and hail the size of golf balls, but instead of being curled up in my apartment, I was on duty. As the daylight hours turned to night, the storm had only intensified. The lightning came so frequently, it was like strobe lights outside the police car windows. I tried to ignore the flashing lights, knowing they could trigger unpleasant memories, and read a book by flashlight.