Under a Raging Moon (11 page)

He radioed in his intention to stop the vehicle. The dispatcher sent Reiser to back him up. Winter swung in behind the large car and waited for her to clear the intersection and continue for another two blocks. As he watched, the driver nervously glanced in her rear-view mirror. When she changed lanes, again without signaling, he turned on his overheads and broadcasted his final location.

“I’m about a minute off,”
Reiser advised.

Winter approached the vehicle carefully. He rested his hand lightly on his gun, something he rarely did anymore. The driver watched him, stock-still. Both of her hands clutched the steering wheel.

Winter scanned the back seat. Empty. And surprisingly clean. Nothing other than three unopened cans of motor oil lay on the vacuumed floor. The front passenger seat was likewise empty.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

Winter met her gaze. He saw nothing there beyond the nervousness most motorists displayed when stopped by the police. “You failed to signal for a lane change.”

The woman turned red. “Oh, my God, did I?”

Winter nodded.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Winter asked for her license and she handed it over. Winter scrut
i
nized it, his suspicion fading.

“Charlie-253, I’ve got him by the Buck Bonanza.”
Ridgeway’s voice held steady.
“He’s heading across the parking lot toward a blue Datsun pickup.”

“-257, I’m with him,”
Gio radioed.

“Charlie-252,”
came Reiser’s voice,
“I can divert if -251 is code four.”

Winter keyed his mike as he handed the woman back her license. “Cha
r
lie-251 is clear and en route.”

The woman gave him a confused look.

“Drive carefully,” he told her, and hustled back to his cruiser.

The Buck Bonanza, where everything in the store cost just one dollar, was located at about 27th and Freya, a straight shot down 29th. Winter, usually a cautious driver, activated his lights and siren and drove like a graveyard officer. Civilian cars peeled off to the right to make way for him. He cranked the volume on his police radio and listened, knowing it would all be over before he could get there.

As he approached Southeast Boulevard, Gio’s voice came over the air, out of breath. “
Charlie-257, one in custody. Have units lower their code.”

Winter shut off his sirens but kept his lights on as he cruised into the parking lot. He spotted Ridgeway rummaging through a small blue pickup. Gio stood over a proned out and handcuffed white male. Winter parked his car and approached.

Gio smiled at him and held up a black wig. “Lookee here, Karl.”

Winter returned the grin.

Gio hooted. “Whew! Day tour nabs Scarface! Graveyard would’ve needed forty troops and an hour to do this.”

Winter eyed the suspect lying very still on the ground. Hands cuffed behind his back, the man’s head faced toward Winter. He remained motionless, his eyes wide open and staring. Winter would have suspected the man was dead if hadn’t noticed him breathing heavily and blinking occasionally.

Karl Winter frowned. He saw a fake scar on the left side of the suspect’s face. It hung limply from his cheek, partially peeled away. Winter also noticed a very real gash on the man’s brow. A trickle of blood flowed from it.

“Stupid,” Winter muttered.

Ridgeway joined them. A black gun dangled by his pen in the trigger-guard. Winter noticed it sway back and forth easily as Ridgeway approached. Too easily.

“Plastic,” Ridgeway told them both. “Moron robbed the store with a toy gun.”

Gio shook his head. He handed the wig to Ridgeway who put it in an evidence bag, along with the plastic gun. Then Gio and Winter stood the suspect up and put him in Gio’s car. “I’ll take him to Major Crimes if you want to stay with the scene, Mark.”

Ridgeway nodded as Sergeant Michaels pulled up. With Poole on his day off, the north side sergeant was in command of their platoon, too.
Not that these veterans needed much co
m
manding,
Winter thought.

After all,
he added with a smile,
they’d caught the infamous Scarface robber.

And that was something Swing shift
and
Graves had failed to do after fourteen chances.

1225 hours

When the phone call from Dispatch came, Lieutenant Alan Hart had been interviewing a citizen who wanted to file a complaint against one of his officers. Officer Jack Stone, a ten-year-veteran, worked the north side. Based on what the citizen had told him thus far, it sounded like a founded demeanor complaint to Hart.

Now, he hung up the phone with mixed feelings. It was a feather in his cap that Scarface had been caught by his shift, and not Saylor’s. But it also precluded any need for his task force, which Captain Reott had tentativ
e
ly approved. As a result, he attained some small glory where he could have achieved a lot.

I just have to make the best of it
.

He turned his attention back to the citizen. “Mr. Watson, I appreciate you coming in. You have a valid complaint. I will definitely forward this information to our Internal Affairs Unit. Someone will contact you for another interview. If it’s not convenient to come in, they can conduct it by telephone.”

Mr. Watson rose and shook Hart’s hand. “Thank you. I hope the officer doesn’t get in too much trouble. I just wanted to let you know what had happened.”

Hart gave his most political smile. “It’s citizens like you who help us make this a better department.”

Mr. Watson left, obviously pleased with himself.

Hart locked his office and hustled over to Major Crimes to check on the Scarface investigation.

1845 hours

Duke’s, the bar preferred by patrol, pulsed with excitement. Still flush with their success, Gio and Ridg
e
way celebrated. They stood at the bar, re-telling the story over and over to cops and patrons alike. Johnny, the barten
d
er, and Rachel, the waitress, had each heard the tale at least six times.

In high spirits, Gio tipped back his beer. He found the day tour co
m
fortable. They handled a lot of boring calls, but you couldn’t beat the hours. During the summer, all the little hotties came out in shorts and tank tops, providing nice scenery, too. Even so, he often longed for more action. Today had satisfied that longing.

“There I was,” Ridgeway told Jack Stone, the newest arrival, “on ro
u
tine patrol.”

Stone smiled at the age-old joke. “Don’t you mean, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ or something like that?”

“This is a police story,” Ridgeway told him. “And every good police story starts out like that.”

Stone raised his hands. “All right. There you were—”

“Right,” Ridgeway said, “on routine patrol.”

Gio smiled. Though not yet five o’clock, both Ridgeway and Stone had downed two beers and two shots. Gio consciously slowed down after the first triumphant beer and shot.

“Anyway,” Ridgeway continues, “so I see this guy sneaking around the parking lot—”

“Sneaking? In broad daylight?”

“Yes, like the idiot that he is.” Ridgeway paused to take a slug from his beer. “Anyway, I know it’s him. He’s got a paper bag hanging out of his jacket pocket and long black hair. It’s obviously a wig. I mean, you can see that from clear across the parking lot.”

“What’s he wearing a jacket for, anyway?” Stone added. “It’s almost eighty degrees out today.”

Ridgeway stared at Stone in mock-anger. “You want to tell this story?”

“No, go ahead.” Stone grinned.

“All right.” Ridgeway paused and peered at his beer. “Where was I?”

“On routine patrol,” Stone quipped.

Ridgeway shot him a look of warning. “I’m in the parking lot. And I see this guy. So I go buzzing up there as he gets into the pickup. I see Gio coming the other way. We jump out and run up to the truck. I’ve got my piece out—”

“So do I,” Gio chimed in.

“—and I’m telling this maggot to show me his hands. Gio’s got a bead on him through the passenger window, and I’m about a step behind the door.” He took another drink.

Gio noticed the door open and a woman enter the bar. Immediately, he felt a stab of butterflies in his stomach. It was
her
, the blonde from the other night, the one with the pale blue eyes. She glided in and took a seat in the far corner. He noted with some satisfaction that she was alone.

Gio’s mouth went suddenly dry. He took a sip of his beer. His palms were suddenly sweating and rubbed them on his jeans.

Ridgeway set his glass down and continued his story. “Moron has his hands on the wheel, but now he’s ge
t
ting confused. I don’t see a gun, but the paper bag has fallen out of his jacket. Money is all over the front seat. He doesn’t know what to do, and he’s not listening to me. I’ve got his door swung open. I’m telling him to get out of the truck. Then he starts reaching inside his jacket.”

Stone shook his head, disbelieving. “Stupid bastard. Why didn’t you shoot him?”

Ridgeway shrugged. “Coulda.”

“But…”

“I cracked him upside the head instead.”

Stone chuckled. “With what? Your gun?”

Ridgeway nodded.

Stone laughed out loud.

“Tore that fake scar right off his face. It was hanging from his cheek.” Ridgeway allowed himself a rare grin. “Hanging right below the new
real
scar I gave him.”

“That is great,” Stone chuckled. “Mr. Master Shooter turns goddamn Wyatt Earp. Priceless.” He clapped Ridgeway on the shoulder. “You saved that guy’s life, Mark. You’re a bona fide hero. He should be dead.”

“Should be,” Ridgeway repeated.

“Of course,” Stone observed, “now that you saved his life, he’ll probably file a complaint and sue the city.”

Ridgeway’s grin melted. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Probably.”

Ridgeway considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Screw him. Who cares?”

Stone shrugged. “Speaking of complaints, that goddamn Lieutenant Hart called me in today. I got another IA complaint.”

Ridgeway snorted. “Big surprise.”

Stone shot Ridgeway a dark look. “It’s completely u
n
founded.”

“I’m sure.” The two men paused to take a long draft of beer, then Ridgeway asked, “You smack a guy with your gun or something?”

Both men had a long chuckle.

Gio waved Johnny over. The bartender leaned forward toward Gio. “Yeah?” Gio motioned to the blonde. He didn’t even have to tell the barten
d
er what he wanted to know. Good thing, too, because his throat and mouth were dry again.

Johnny studied her for a moment. Gio could see the computer hard drive behind the bartender’s eyes as it ground through information.
Accessing, accessing.
Then he turned back to Gio.

“Marilyn. That’s her name.” He kept wiping the bar in front of Gio. “She comes in once in a while, som
e
times alone, sometimes she meets a few girlfriends. I think she works near here. Not a groupie, though, Gio.”

Gio nodded his thanks. Without another word, Johnny left to serve another customer.

Stone recounted his meeting with Hart. “I mean, the guy will take something,
anything,
and blow it up so he can spend twenty minutes lecturing you. What a prick.”

Ridgeway nodded. “What was the complaint for?”

“Some old buzzard I told to move along at that fatal accident we had at Illinois and Perry last week.”

“That one where the high school girl died?”

“Yeah. Her little Toyota Corolla was t-boned by a 4x4. Anyway, people were acting like it was an inte
r
active version of
COPS
or something, and I was getting tired of being polite about moving them along. This guy musta slowed down and tried to look or something. I don’t even remember him.”

“Hart.” Ridgeway grunted the word like it was a curse and then threw back another slug of his Budweiser. “You hear he pulled Chisolm from the FTO program?”

Stone nodded. “Yeah. I heard Chisolm got so torqued he pulled a gun on him in the office.”

Ridgeway frowned. “C’mon, Jack. You really think Ch
i
solm would pull a gun on the lieutenant?”

Stone stared back at him, blinked and said nothing.

“Okay,” Ridgeway conceded, “but do you think he would still be working here if he did?”

“No. And I think Hart would be six feet under. The prick.”