Vigilare (2 page)

“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” he yells, his voice high-pitched. He swats, swings and kicks at her. Each attempt easily combatted, he finally stills, exhausted, his chest heaving up and down for air.

“Not so tough now, are we?” she echoes his own words, a wry smile forming on her lips. Her hand clasps his neck, the way he had hers, applying firm pressure. “That’s the problem with you thugs. Always have to be put in your place.” She locks her sparkling emerald eyes on his, replaying all the images of his past, the havoc he wreaked in the lives of others. With each new reflection, she squeezes harder. The slideshow eventually extinguished, along with his breath.

THE NEXT MORNING, Detective Gina DeLuca and her partner, Officer Sam Marks, are on duty at the Vanguard Police Department. They have been assigned a new patrol car, the department’s first Dodge Challenger Hemi.

“Okay, who’s feeling frisky? A car chase, anyone?” Gina asks, her hands caressing the steering wheel with anticipation at how the vehicle might handle when they are not running their rudimentary patrol of the neighborhood—at a safe twenty-five miles per hour.

“Did you see the look on Gronkowski’s face?” Officer Marks asks, smiling indulgently. “When Chief assigned the car to us this morning?”

“Can you blame him? Look at that pile of metal he has to shove around on four wheels,” she says, referring to Detective Gronkowski’s old-school Pontiac Gran Prix.

Officer Marks laughs. “Ah, he’s up next for renewal. Wonder what they’ll give him?”

Gina smiles. “Maybe a Prius.”

“A Prius?” he replies, chuckling. “And I thought you liked Gronkowski.”

“I do. I just don’t want to fight over who’s first in anymore.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Why do you do this job?”

She looks at him perplexed.

“I just mean. Well…you’re kinda pretty. You don’t need to do a job like this. You got options, DeLuca.”

“I like my job. And, by the way, don’t ever tell a woman she’s
kinda
pretty,” she replies through an easy smile. “Why do you do it?”

“Good versus evil. Simple as that. I always wanted to be the good guy as a kid. Well, that and Erik Estrada. He looked so cool in those sunglasses,” he says with a charming grin.

“Base to 223,” a voice calls over the radio.

“Oh, please be a car chase. Come on, I dare ya,” Gina crosses her fingers.

“Base, this is 223,” Officer Marks radios back.

“Domestic dispute, the corner of Rio and 25th, possible weapon.”

“We’re on it,” Officer Marks confirms.

“We’re in the area, too,” a deep voice, that of Detective Tony Gronkowski comes over the airwaves. “We’ll take first in. Marks, you take backup.”

Gina grabs the radio from Officer Marks. “Gronkowski, we got the call. We’re first in. You take backup.”

“Drop the ego, DeLuca. Possible weapon. We’re first in,” Tony argues.

“Ego? Look who’s talking,” she rolls her eyes, as if he can see her through the radio. “Tell you what, first car there, first in.” She hands the radio back to Officer Marks and slams the accelerator to the floor, talking nearly as fast as she is driving. “Why do I do this job? You’re right Marks, I do have options!” Her siren blaring, her speed steadily increases as she takes a ninety-degree corner barely on two wheels, throwing Officer Marks to the left. He grabs for the dash. She guns the engine, pulling the car out of its skid. The force pushes Officer Marks steadily back into his seat.

“DeLuca. Gina,” Gronkowski calls from the radio.

“Ah, she’s a little busy right now,” Officer Marks answers him nervously.

“Marks, get DeLuca on the line. Now!”

Gina continues down the street at break-neck speed, blasting through a yellow light, driving up onto the curb to avoid a bicyclist. A combination of roses, carnations and lilies from the flower shop on the corner fly onto the windshield and up over the hood of her cruiser before she gets it leveled back out onto the road. “I guess I do this job to get heckled by some boorish man who thinks I’m too delicate to be first in. Come on baby,” she strokes the dashboard of the car, coaxing it on.

As they near the residence from which the 911 call was made, Gina turns the siren off, and pulls up to the curb cautiously, as she and Marks make a visual assessment of the scene. The rundown house sits surrounded by others of the same make and model. The front porch steps creak as they accept the weight of Gina and Officer Marks. They share an uneasy glance, both putting on supportive smiles as they approach the main entrance. Gina knocks authoritatively, but only a few times.

“Vanguard PD. Detective DeLuca. Open up,” she identifies herself, her hand casually but purposefully resting on her gun belt.

After a few moments, the front door opens slowly. Gina scans down from the open space behind the door until her eyes meet those of a child, trepidation written in her expression. A young girl, maybe six-years old, her curly brown hair disheveled and unkempt, steadily wringing one hand in the cotton fabric of her oversized T-shirt, while the other grips a telephone.

“Hi,” Gina says, flashing a settling smile at the girl. “Are your parents home?”

The girl’s eyes remain locked in on Gina’s, as tears form in them. “No,” she replies, as her head nods up and down, contradicting her words.

“Maybe we have the wrong address.” Gina winks at her. “Since we’re here, how would you like to see a real live police car?” Gina holds her hand out. The girl hesitates only for a moment before putting her hand in Gina’s, squeezing tightly. Gina looks to Officer Marks. He silently reads the direction in her expression, taking the little girl’s hand, escorting her to the safety of the patrol car. Gina maneuvers stealthily inside the front door, her Light Double Action 1911 pistol engaged, her eyes peer through the sights, searching.

“Vanguard Police. We received a call to this house. I can’t leave until I talk to someone,” Gina coaxes as she clears the living room and kitchen, making her way down the hall. A muffled cry, a woman’s voice, is heard on the other side of the door to her right, followed by a shifting of bodies.

The door flies open, Gina quickly backs up to a safe distance, her pistol aimed and pointing at her target.

“I’ll cut her up, you come any closer,” a male voice pumped full of adrenaline yells, his arm clenched tightly around his victim’s neck.

“Please, just leave,” the woman chokes through tears as her hands remain locked around her captors forearm, attempting to maintain her balance and keep the pressure of the knife blade off her neck.

Gina flashes her eyes around the room, clear of anyone else. The shattered mirror over the sink smeared with blood matches the bruises and lacerations on the woman’s forehead and eyebrow. Her lip is cut open and swollen. Gina swallows hard, curbing her instinct to verbally admonish the man. “Put the knife down. Nobody’s in trouble here.” She lowers her weapon, reholstering it, her hands palms out at shoulder level, as a sign of good faith. “I’m only here to help. Talk to me. Put the knife down and talk to me.”

The man hesitates, his facial expression flashes from desperation to helplessness. His eyes begin to water as he loosens his grip on the knife around the woman’s throat. “I didn’t. I didn’t mean to,” he whimpers.

The front door to the house bursts open, startling the man. He tightens his grip, pulling the woman backwards, dragging her to the room behind him. “Liar!” he yells through clenched teeth, shutting the door.

“Nice Gronkowski,” Gina growls, as he and his partner, Officer Torres enter the hallway.

The sound of shattered glass echoes from behind the closed door. Detective Gronkowski plants his shoulder into the frame, forcing the lock. Gina pushes past him into the room. In front of her, jagged glass hangs from the window frame. To her left, the woman sits in a corner, her knees hugged to her chest rocking back and forth, holding pressure to her neck. Gina kneels in front of her, inspecting her wound.

“Where’s my daughter?” the woman cries.

“She’s safe. She’s with Officer Marks, out front. Everything’s going to be okay, ma’am.”

Gronkowski catapults out the window in pursuit of the fleeing man.

“Torres,” Gina beckons. Torres exchanges places with Gina, comforting the woman. “Call an ambulance. Stay with her.”

Torres radios in, watching Gina successfully launch through the window pane, her feet plant firmly onto the concrete as her knees and lower back take the brunt of the impact. In a full sprint, it takes her a few seconds to catch up with Gronkowski.

“Just can’t stand it, can you? Always have to be first,” Gronkowski says through labored breaths, maintaining a steady run. “Were you a middle child or something?”

“It’s not about being first. I’m not a quitter. This was my call. I started it. I finish it. And, FYI, I was an
only
child.”

“That figures,” he replies, accompanied by a cough, the cold air stinging as it makes its way forcefully in and out of his chest.

“What’s the matter Gronkowski, riding patrol making the lungs soft?” She chuckles. Their pace matched stride for stride, their boots dig into the grass of neighboring backyards as they dodge clotheslines and swing sets.

“Yeah, that’s it. It couldn’t be the two hours of Jiu-Jitsu training I had this morning.”

“Jiu-Jitsu? Nobody told me.”

“Don’t worry DeLuca. It’s not through the department. Kills you to think you might be missing out on something, huh?”

“50 bucks...he goes for the fence,” Gina wagers, her words interrupted by her lungs requiring maximum oxygen intake at this rate.

“You’re on. Makes more sense to take the alleyway.” Tony pauses, catching his breath. “We’ll catch him on the fence.”

“Because criminals are always the sharpest tools in the shed.” Gina playfully thumps the back of her hand off Tony’s chest, inhaling and exhaling rapidly, before continuing, “See, there he goes.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Tony huffs at the sight, his labored breathing visible in the cool air. “The jackass is going for the fence.”

“When opportunity knocks,” Gina says, kicking up her pace, outrunning Tony. She lunges forward, scaling the front of the fence, her hands making contact with the man’s T-shirt as he is straddling the fence, preparing to jump off the other side. Her hands are now tightly wound in the cotton fabric. “Open the door,” she continues, letting her weight fall back to the ground, the man coming with her. His back comes to rest in the cold, dead grass, creating a dull
thud!

“You had to do it, huh? Had to be the one to take him down,” Gronkowski mutters through strained breaths, as he turns the man over, his knee shoved into his back, forcing his hands behind him into cuffs.

“Ow. Shit. Ow! My arms, man. You’re hurting my arms,” the man proclaims.

“Don’t be a poor sport. You get to manhandle him,” Gina chimes in, her choppy reply matching the arduous rise and fall of her chest. She grabs her radio. “We got him. We’re at the 600-block of Worchester Ave.” Pocketing her radio, she continues with a grin, “You’re built for brawn. I’m built for speed. We might as well stick with what we’ve got.”

Tony is roughly maneuvering the man to a sitting position against the fence. “This shit hurts!” the man yells into Tony’s face.

Tony grabs him by the neck scolding him through clenched teeth, “And you think what you did to your girlfriend felt good? I ought to turn her loose on you, right here. Put a baseball bat in her hand and let her beat your sorry ass to a pulp.”

“Tony,” Gina lays her hand on his back.

Tony shoves the man backward, bouncing his head off the fence behind him.

“You better be careful hotshot. I know my rights,” the man threatens.

“Good. I guess I won’t have to read them to you,
hotshot
.” Tony turns to Gina. “Besides, I slowed down so you could keep up,
speedy
.”

The sound of sirens wail as a police cruiser pulls up to their location. Gina and Tony bend on both sides of the man, pulling him to a standing position to be loaded in the car. "Denial...first step Gronkowski.” Gina shrugs her shoulders, a smirk across her lips, “Just staying.”

Chapter 2

EVENING. A WOMAN wheels her grocery cart to her car, exchanging pleasantries with a passerby. With one click of the car remote, her trunk gives way to its latch. She eyeballs her surroundings in front, to the sides, and in back prior to bending into the trunk, offloading her groceries to their temporary resting place. The coast is clear, leaving her to feel comfortable and safe. A conscientious citizen, she returns her grocery cart to its appropriate corral in the center of the parking lot, gets in her car and drives off. As she leaves the lights of town, she can’t help but feel unsettled in her gut, her innate instinct warming up. She searches in her mirrors, scanning the scene around her. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Oh stop it,” she coaches aloud. “Quit being a big scaredy-cat.” She smiles at herself into the rearview mirror, flicking the button on the radio.

I always feel like, somebody’s watching me
. The tune floods through her speakers.

“Geez-us!” she exclaims, quickly hitting the scan button, tuning the dial to a different song. “Someone actually thought that was a good idea for a song? Creepy.”

When the working day is done, oh girls, they wanna have fu-un. Oh girls just wanna have fun
. Cindy Lauper comes at her through the radio.

“Now, that’s more like it.” She cranks the volume, shimmying around in her driver’s seat. “‘That’s all they really wa-a-a-ant. Is some fu-u-u-un. When the working day is done. Oh girls, they wanna have fu-un.’”

“I like the last song better,” a voice sounds from the backseat.

Her eyes dart to the rearview mirror. A man wearing a baseball cap and full beard sits directly behind her. She slams on the brakes. The car screeches all over the road. She wants to scream, but can’t.

“There’s no need to cause a scene. Take your foot off the brake. Drive the speed limit. Now!” he demands, brandishing a .38-Special Revolver. He leans up over the seat, nuzzling the snub-nosed pistol into her hair directly behind her ear. The cold, hard steel causes the skin on her entire body to form goosebumps. She pulls the car back into the right-hand lane avoiding a collision with a pair of oncoming headlights, following his instruction. Her hands are visibly shaking as they maintain control of the steering wheel.