STARTING OVER (31 page)

He sat stiffly in his seat, his attention focused outside the car except when he looked at his watch for at least the tenth time in the last hour. 

“Hey, we can swing by the station,” Sam offered.  “I can drop you off if you need to…go somewhere or do something else.”  The guy was starting to be annoying. 

“Oh no, I’m fine.  Just wondered what time it is.” 

“How about a break?”

“Sure.  Sounds good,” the
ridealong answered with the first burst of enthusiasm he had shown all night.

Maybe he just was tired of riding around in a car for so long or maybe he had to hit the john and was embarrassed to ask.  Cops were used to spending a lot of time in their rolling offices, but now, in the lull between midnight and the 2:00 a.m. witching hour when the bars closed and the drunks staggered out to the streets to find other entertainment, it was a good time to grab a sandwich.  Sam picked up the microphone, switched from the main to the car-to-car frequency and pressed the button. 
“Hey, Larry.  Ready for coffee?

“I thought you’d never ask,” a raspy voice responded over the radio.

“We’re heading to Tom’s.”

“Be there in ten.”

Sam replaced the microphone on its hook, and turned west onto Colfax.  Not coincidentally, they were only a few blocks from Tom’s 24 Hour Diner.  Strong coffee and homemade pie had made it a favorite cop hangout for years, and he and his old partner, Larry, usually timed their patrols to be in the area at about the same time every night.

They rolled along, passing buildings decorated with splashes of graffiti and protected by wrought iron bars on the windows and doors.  Most parts of the city were already asleep, but Colfax stayed up late.  People of all ages, genders (not limited to just male or female) and eras, from old hippies with scraggly beards and tie-dyed shirts to young
goths with pitch black hair and more eyeliner than Lady GaGa drifted in and out of the tattoo parlors, quaint bookstores and musty record stores that doubled as head shops.  Businesses of all kinds thrived on the heartbeat of Denver’s dark side.  Oddly, the only places not opened on Colfax after midnight were the churches.

The
ridealong straightened in his seat and pointed to a man and woman standing on the sidewalk.              “Hey, look at that.  Is that a hooker?”  For the first time all evening, the man looked directly at Sam.  With just a hint of a challenge, he asked, “Are you going to arrest her?”

Sam looked back at the hooker and sighed.  Arresting her was the last thing he wanted to do.

Maybe it was soft glow from the corner street lights that washed the harshness of street-life off her surprisingly pretty face.  Or it could have been the black leather mini skirt that accented long, bare legs.  Or the sparkly blue tube top clinging to her curves and revealing a view of generous cleavage. Or possibly, it was the audacity of a hooker hanging out less than a block from Tom’s.  Whatever, even before the ridealong had pointed her out, Sam had already noticed the stunning blonde standing near the curb in front of a boarded-up building. 

Yes, prostitution was illegal, but on a scale of one to ten, on Colfax it was about a two.  Unless there was a sting or a fight or a complaint, most cops usually looked the other way.  There were bigger dragons to slay.  But the
ridealong created a dilemma of sorts.  The good citizens of Denver had certain expectations, and with the spotlight on Sam, he had to, at least, put up a show of lawful compliance. 

He angled the patrol car to the curb and stopped so that his headlights bathed the woman in light.  Sam had no intention of running her in, but it wouldn’t hurt at least talk to her to keep up the department’s image…and to find out what the hell someone who looked like that was doing in a place like this.

Sam put on his hat and adjusted his utility belt as he stepped out of the patrol car.  

“Can I get out?”  The
ridealong’s eyes were bright with excitement.

Sam shrugged.  “Sure, just don’t get in the way.”  He took a step up onto the curb and started to walk toward the hooker.  “Good evening, miss.  Can I see your identification?”

“She ain’t doing nothin’ wrong.”  A young black man standing in the deep shadows behind her took a step forward into the pool of light.  Dressed in the street uniform of baggy, low hung jeans and sleeveless Nuggets jersey, the man’s sudden appearance was as disturbing as his aggressive attitude. 

“I didn’t say she was.”  Sam’s hand automatically moved up to his holster and unsnapped the strap as he forced his attention from the dazzling display of warm female flesh to focus on the man who was obviously her pimp.  “I just wanted to ask her a few questions.” 

“She don’t talk to no cops.”

Sam looked back at the woman, searching for any signs from her that she needed help or wanted to say something about her situation.  Instead, her steady gaze met his, and he noticed an amused twinkle in her wide turquoise colored eyes.  “Are you okay,
miss?” he asked.

She shrugged one pale bare shoulder suggestively.  “Don’t I look okay?”  She tilted her head and her long blonde hair spilled provocatively down over the generous curve of her breast. 

Better than okay.  But Sam suspected that even if he was so inclined, he couldn’t afford her.  He glanced back at the ridealong who had gotten out of the patrol car but hung back behind the protection of its open door, watching the scene with interest.   A car door slammed, and Sam noticed another patrol car had parked nearby.  He smiled and nodded at the police officer who had just exited his cruiser and was walking toward them.             

“Need any help?”  What Officer Larry
Resnick lacked in height, he made up for in width.  Short, stocky and all muscle, he’d been on the force for almost thirty years, most on the night shift by choice.  He hooked his thumbs on his gun belt and rocked back and forth on his heels as he observed the confrontation with wry humor.

“Nah, let’s go.”  Sam turned to leave, but he couldn’t resist a last glance back at the woman.  She smiled at him and winked.  Sam’s steps faltered, and he was tempted to arrest her…just to get her off the streets and away from someone else’s dick.  He shook his head and would have stepped away, but a movement jerked his attention back to the young man at her side.

The pimp’s dark eyes had narrowed to piercing slits, his gaze focused on Larry with a fierceness that was palpable.

The air crackled with a sudden surge of tension as powerful as a bolt of lightning.  A large pistol appeared in the pimp’s hand while his other arm snaked around the hooker’s waist and jerked her against him.  “Fuck you, Pig,” the young man growled at Larry.  The woman’s startled screams mingled with the blast from the semi-automatic’s barrel. 
             

As if in slow motion, Sam yelled, “No!” even as he helplessly watched the bullet imbed itself in his friend’s throat, just a fraction of an inch above the protection of Larry’s Kevlar vest.  The old cop gasped as blood spurted simultaneously from the wound and from his open mouth.  His eyes widened,
then glazed as his body crumpled to the ground. 

Too shocked to think, Sam reacted instinctively.  “Drop the gun, Asshole!  Let her go!” he shouted, trying to distract the young man while inching closer.  Sam had automatically drawn his gun and steadied it in both hands but couldn’t get a clear shot at the pimp who was using her as a shield.  Her smile had been replaced by a slack-jawed look of shock and horror.   She clung to the man’s arm as if it was the only thing holding her upright.

The pimp whirled and turned his gun on Sam.  Careful to keep the woman between them, he fired again.  The first shot pounded into Sam’s vest with the force of a 300 lb. linebacker, knocking him back a couple steps.  Sam steadied his stance and kept his gun leveled and his gaze locked with the killer’s.  For a split second, they froze, each looking down the barrel of the other’s gun.  A slow vicious smile curled one corner of the pimp’s lips.  He knew the young cop wouldn’t risk hitting the woman, and he also knew there were a lot of vital areas on Sam’s body not protected by Kevlar.  With cold, deadly intent, the pimp squeezed the trigger.

“Fuck you, too,” he said with cold blooded hatred.

Anticipating the shot, Sam dodged.  There was no pain as the bullet pierced his right shoulder, only a sort of electric shock jolting along his nerve endings…then nothing.  Sam didn’t even feel the gush of blood that poured down his arm.  His fingers relaxed, no longer able to hold the gun that clattered to the concrete and slid under the patrol car. 

The woman took advantage of the distraction to land a sharp elbow into the pimp’s ribs.  Caught by surprise, and no longer needing the shield, the young man released his hold long enough for her to twist away.  Instead of running for freedom, she grabbed his arm.

“Stop!  Are you crazy?” she shouted.  She watched, horrified, as her pimp kept the gun aimed at Sam. 

“They’re all the same.”  The pimp shook her off, his focus never leaving the wounded cop.     

Sam’s own gaze never wavered as he stared into the crazed eyes of the last man he’d probably ever see.  His left hand closed around the baton still attached to his belt, and he yanked it out.  But before he could take a swing, the pimp stepped closer, his arm extended, the heavy black gun held steady in his hand by a fierce hatred. 

Sam didn’t even have time to brace for the impact.  There was a sparkly blue blur as the hooker lunged forward, followed by a deafening explosion as the gun belched fire and lead.  Sam staggered backward, aware of a blinding explosion of pain and a fresh flow of thick, hot liquid pouring down the side of his head.  There was a muffled pounding in his ears as the garish lights of Colfax spun around him.  He struggled to focus, but his knees buckled beneath him.  The concrete came up much too fast and hard.  He tried to push himself up, but the dizziness dragged him back down. 

All the things that should have been going through his mind, the whole “life flashing before you” thing and thoughts about how upset his mother would be at his death weren’t as prominent as his own disappointment that he hadn’t seen this coming.  Stupid, stupid, stupid…he’d let his guard down and ignored all his training.  Now his old friend already lay dead, and within seconds, Sam had no doubt he would be joining him.  Precinct Shit had claimed two more victims…three if the girl didn’t get away.  

His senses foggy, he thought he heard another shot.  His eyes were almost closed as a bright red stain spread across the Nuggets jersey.  In disbelief, the young black man looked down at the gaping wound in his chest,
then melted to the ground.  

Sam felt soft, trembling fingers touch his cheek.  He forced his eyes open and looked up into the face of an angel.  His foggy senses cleared long enough for him to recognize the wide blue-green eyes of the hooker.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry,” she whispered over and over. 

Sam fought the waves of unconsciousness that tugged at him.  He managed to lift his head enough to look around at the bloody scene.  Both Larry and the pimp lay dead, only inches away from each other on the sidewalk, their blood oozing out and meeting to form a shiny dark red puddle.  The
ridealong was crouched behind the open door of the patrol car with his arms braced on the sill of the open window, Sam’s pistol grasped between both of his hands.

In the shocked silence, Sam became aware of the sound of sirens approaching.  He blinked through the veil of blood that was flowing into his eyes and looked back at the woman.  But she had vanished.  Had he only imagined her gentle touch and soft voice?

A half dozen patrol cars slid to a stop, their flashing red, white and blue lights joining the dizzying whirl, then everything went black as Sam lost his precarious hold on consciousness and slid into darkness.

* * *

Kate leaned against the closed door of her apartment, then whirled around and scrambled to lock all three locks.  Her fingers were trembling so violently, it took several seconds to get the safety chain into its small round hole.  Her first impulse was to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, curl into a ball and not move for at least a week.  If she was lucky, this would all be an awful nightmare, and at any moment, she would wake up and everything would be just as it had been several hours ago.  Back to the worries about coming up with the rent, getting a good long-term job, having enough extra money to get the brakes on her car fixed and maybe even being able to afford a new pair of shoes. 

But tonight Kate wasn’t so lucky.

She glanced down at her hands and realized they were splattered with dried brownish-red spots.  Blood.  She pressed her lips together and struggled to swallow the rush of bile that suddenly filled her throat.  With increasing panic, she saw there were more dark red splotches all over the front of her tube top and skirt and even on the bare skin of her shoulders and chest. 

Oh God, she had to get them off.  Frantically, she clawed at the fastener of the skirt and yanked it off.  She peeled off the tube top and dropped it on top of the skirt and added her shoes to the pile.  Finally, she pulled off the long blonde wig and tossed it on a chair. 

Wearing only black bikini panties and a black strapless bra, she hugged herself, trying to stop the shivering that had wracked her ever since the first shots were fired.  Her jaws ached from being clenched for so long.  She needed a shower…a long, hot shower to wash away the blood and the horror and the death…