Under a Raging Moon (7 page)

Rousse obeyed. As the driver reached the car, Kopriva called to the passenger. “Dennis, come back here for a minute.”

‘Dennis’ obeyed. Kopriva half-expected him to run, but evidently he had faith in his name ruse. Kopriva almost laughed in disgust as he watched a black-haired male about five-ten and one-hundred-fifty pounds exit the car and approach the front of the cruiser.

“Stand right there by my push-bar, please.”

He complied, crossing his arms.

Kopriva eyed him for a full minute until the man finally raised his hands questioningly, “What?”

“Why are you lying to me, sir?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Kopriva said with a nod. “Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“No,” Dennis answered quietly.

“Did I forget to erase the STUPID stamp off my forehead before shift tonight?”

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is, you’re not Dennis. You’re not even close. What’s more, you look a lot like Pete Ma
x
well. Now can you explain that to me?”

“I am Dennis Maxwell.”

“What do you weigh?”

“One-seventy or so. But I lost a lot of weight in the last few months. I used to weigh almost two-forty. I was fat.” Sweat collected on his upper lip and he fidgeted from foot to foot.

“And I suppose you dyed your hair black, too, huh?” Kopriva’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

He nodded.

“And what? Shaved off three inches from the soles of your feet?” K
o
priva shook his head in disgust. “Uh-uh. Don’t insult my intelligence. You’re Pete Maxwell.”

“I am Dennis. Swear to God.”

Kopriva looked at Travis. The reserve stood enthralled by the entire exchange. Kopriva winked, then stepped around the car and leaned toward the fidgeting, sweating suspect. “Okay,
Dennis,
I’ll tell you what I am going to do. First, I’ll call for another unit to go to the station and get a pri
n
tout photo of you and your brother. He’ll bring those pictures up here while I detain you. See, Pete has a warrant for his arrest. So when my friends get here and show me the pictures and you mysteriously look like Pete and not anything like Dennis, that’s when I place you under arrest for the warrant.”

Dennis squirmed, then opened his mouth to speak.

Kopriva raised his finger to cut off his denial, “Not only that, I will charge you for lying to me about your name in order to avoid arrest. Plus, I will arrest your friend for the same charge, since he is backing up your lie.”

He gave Dennis a long stare. The suspect looked away and back again, shifting his stance from side to side.

“Now, if you save me from all that messing around and just admit who you really are and take care of your warrant like a man, I will only arrest you for the warrant. Nothing else.” Kopriva shrugged. “Otherwise, you get it all, the whole enchil
a
da. I’ll even write you for no seatbelt.”

A long minute of silence followed. The only sounds Kopriva could hear was the engine idling and the clicking and whi
r
ring of his overhead lights. Having played out his hand, he held the man’s stare, showing him that it wasn’t a bluff.

Finally, the dark-haired suspect looked away and sighed heavily. “I’m Pete Maxwell. I’ve got I.D. in my back pocket.”

“Pete, you’re under arrest.” Kopriva quickly cuffed and searched him. He found a marijuana pipe in Maxwell’s right front pocket and placed it on the hood. He put the rest of his property into a plastic bag. Travis guided Pete into the back of the police car.

Kopriva called Rousse out of the car.

“Stand here,” he said, pointing next to Travis at the front of the patrol car. Then he searched the car. In the center console, he found a small Tupperware container roughly the size of a fifty-cent piece. He opened it carefu
l
ly and saw a brown chunky substance inside.

Methamphetamine.

The rest of his search turned up nothing. Kopriva retrieved a field test kit from the trunk of his car. The small plastic vials had ampoules with chemicals in them that reacted with specific drugs by turning a parti
c
ular color. He used his knife to slice off a sliver of the substance in the Tupperware container and dropped it in. When he broke the ampules, the test tube imm
e
diately flowed orange.

Positive.

Kopriva showed the tube to Travis.

“What’s going on?” Rousse asked.

“You’re under arrest for possession of methamphet
a
mine,” Kopriva told him, applying a mild wristlock. He motioned with his head for Travis to handcuff Rousse.

“What’s that?” the man asked unconvincingly.

“Meth,” Kopriva told him. “Crank. Like you don’t know.”

“It’s not mine,” Rousse protested.

Kopriva searched him, finding nothing of importance. He requested another unit for transport. He sat Rousse down on the curb with his legs straight out in front of him. Travis stood guard behind him.

“Baker-123, is there a sergeant available?”

“L-123, go ahead.”

Sgt. Shen, Adam sector sergeant. Good.

“L-123, can you contact me at Regal and Olympic?”

“Affirm, from Division and Wabash.”

“Copy.” Kopriva allowed himself a tiny smile. So the Sarge was having coffee at Denny’s with the Lie
u
tenant, huh? Well, that wasn’t far off, at least. He shouldn’t be too long.

A dark brown Chevy cruised past the traffic stop slowly. Too slowly. Kopriva broke the snap on his ho
l
ster and rocked his pistol forward. The car looked familiar, and the passenger...

Isaiah Morris!

Morris was a gangbanger from Compton. He’d arrested the Crip about two months ago on a warrant and found crack cocaine stuffed into his sock. Not enough to prove Morris was dealing, but still a solid possession arrest.

Kopriva followed the car with his eyes. It rolled slowly by. Morris glared at him through the passenger window. Then the tires chirped and the car sped away. Kopriva switched to the data channel and ran Morris’ name. He doubted that Morris had appeared in court on the drug charge. Maybe there was a warrant out for him.

While he waited, Kopriva decided to see if he could plant a seed of trust. He picked up the marijuana pipe and opened the back door of the patrol car. “See this?” he asked Pete.

Pete nodded.

“Since you told me the truth about your name, I’m going to dump it and not charge you. Next time I talk to you, don’t lie to me.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I found Meth in your console.”

Pete winced. “Can’t you just dump the crank, too?”

Kopriva shook his head. “A pipe is one thing. Nobody cares too much. Drugs are something else. People care about drugs. Especially meth. It’s a problem.”

“Yeah,” Pete said mournfully. “I know. My niece just went through D.A.R.E. at school.”

“Then you get what I mean. Besides, my sergeant is coming here. I think he wants to charge both of you.”

“What? Hey, that shit’s not mine, man. It’s his.”

Kopriva held up his hand. “I’m sure it is, Pete. I’ll try to talk him out of it, but this isn’t my normal se
r
geant. This guy is kind of a hard ass about drugs. So we’ll see.”

“All right,” Pete said, resigned. “Thanks for chucking the pipe, man. Straight up.”

“No problem.”

Kopriva closed the door and walked to the sidewalk where a dutiful citizen had put out his garbage can. With a casual look around to satisfy no one was watching, he slipped the pipe into the garbage.

Rousse sat on the sidewalk curb, looking dejected and angry. Travis stood behind him.

Kopriva got his attention and asked, “Whose crank is that, anyways? You guys share?”

Rousse sniffed. “Nice try.”

“Nice try what?”

“Whatever it is you found, it ain’t mine. Just like I said. So you can save your little cop interrogation games, all right?”

Kopriva glanced at Travis. “He gets a little testy when things don’t go his way, huh?”

Before Travis could answer, Rousse said, “Fuck you, man. I want to talk to my lawyer. His name is Joel Harrity.”

Kopriva smiled. Harrity was a local defense attorney who crusaded against the police department. Most of the maggots who claimed to be a client couldn’t afford him.

“What’re you smiling about, punk?” Rousse demanded. “I want to see your sergeant.”

Kopriva shrugged. “People in hell want ice water. That don’t mean they get it.”

Rousse glared at him, then shook his head. “Wha
t
ever.”

Baker-122 arrived. Officer Anthony Battaglia climbed out of the passenger side. His partner, Connor O’Sullivan, remained in the vehicle.

“What’s up, Stef?” Battaglia asked.

“Got a warrant, found some meth in the car. That’s the driver,” he pointed to Rousse. “Can you transport him to jail for me? I’ll be right behind you after I talk to Sgt. Shen.”

“Sure.” Battaglia waved O’Sullivan out of the car and they walked to where Travis guarded Rousse. Each officer took an arm and pulled Rousse to his feet. At their patrol car, O’Sullivan searched Rousse again. Kopriva didn’t take offense, though he knew some officers did. Which was too bad, in his opinion. If he put someone in his car, it was only after he searched them himself. He expected the same from other officers.

Once Rousse was safely stowed in the back of the patrol car, Battaglia waved to him and the pair headed south on Regal, slowing to talk momentarily with someone in another police car. Kopriva recognized it as the Sergeant’s car. After a moment, O’Sullivan accelerated away and continued south.

Sergeant Miyamoto Shen pulled his car in behind Kopriva’s and waited. Kopriva walked over and leaned i
n
to the window.

“What do you have, Stef?” the trim sergeant asked him.

“I stopped the car,” Kopriva explained, “and the passenger played the name game. Once we got that straightened out, it turns out he has a warrant. He’s the one in my car. Anyway, I found some meth in the console. Battaglia and Sully have my driver and they’re running him in for me on the meth.”

“So what do you need?”

“I want to do the weasel in the passenger seat, too. He’s the registered owner. I’d like to arrest them both for constructive possession.”

Shen considered. “So the driver is not the registered ow
n
er?”

“No.”

“And the RO was in the passenger seat?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you find the drugs? The glove box?”

Kopriva shook his head. “No, the console between the seats. Both had access.”

“What are they saying?”

Kopriva’s radio crackled.
“Bravo-123.”

“Neither one has been read their rights, but both say it’s the other guy’s meth,” he told Shen, then a
n
swered the radio. “Go ahead, I’m clear for traffic.”

“Morris is in as a confirmed gang member. He has a felony want for possession of crack cocaine, bail is $25,000.”

“Copy. I don’t have him here. Also, have records ship over the warrant for Maxwell.”

“Copy.”

Kopriva explained to Shen, “Isaiah Morris drove by us while I was waiting for Sully and Battaglia. So, what do you think about these two here?”

Shen stroked his chin for a moment. “Do them both for constructive possession. Be detailed in your report on where you found the dope and the issue of access for both parties. Their statements, too.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Good stop, Stef.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

Shen drove off. Kopriva locked the doors to the Monte Carlo and r
e
turned to his patrol car.

Maxwell leaned forward, his voice muffled by the plastic shield. “What’d he say?”

“He said I have to do you both. Sorry, man.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, man, I don’t need this shit.”

“Sorry.”

“Shit. Well, thanks for trying, man. Thanks for the pipe, too.”

Kopriva nodded. He turned on his favorite rock station and faded the music to the back. The tactic kept the prisoners from hearing the convers
a
tion between the officers.

“Advise radio we are en route to jail with one and our mileage is reset.” Kopriva punched the trip odom
e
ter reset. “And get our time of stop and a report number.”

Travis advised radio and carefully noted the time and report number. “Wow,” he said. “That was cool.”

“That is the way the game is played. That suspended ticket we wrote Rousse? He most likely won’t a
p
pear in court for it, so it’ll go to warrant. Next time he gets stopped, he gets arrested again and we get into his car and find his drugs again. Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing.”