A Woman of Valor, page 11
Gil remained in the corner, still frozen in place, staring at her while she devoured his treat. He relaxed and slid back to the center of his bench, shaking his body like a dog shedding water.
“So, I guess we’ll, ah, continue to split the beat?” he asked.
“Yes, yeah, you bet,” Val said with a little too much enthusiasm. “Let’s go.” She grabbed her coffee and scooted out the door, not waiting for him to follow.
She walked down Abernethy, her leg still tingling where it had pressed against Gil’s.
Tingled, in a good way.
A way she rarely—if ever—had felt before with a man.
***
Val sipped her almost-untouched Chardonnay and wondered why she’d ordered the same damned wine again that, in truth, she didn’t care for. It tasted bitter and musty, like an old oak barrel that had sat out in the rain for several years. She made a mental note to ask for something different next time. If the waiter ever returned to her booth.
She pushed the wine aside and checked the time. Shannon and Brenda must have gotten caught in traffic. She opened her news browser and scanned the headlines. Her finger hovered over the “Close” button, but a headline link at the bottom of her screen gave her pause.
Sex Offender Continues to Elude Clayton’s Finest
Her blood pressure rose. She knew she shouldn’t give in to the click-bait story title, but on the off chance it might contain new information the department hadn’t uncovered, she had to check. She clicked on the link, hoping against hope that she was wrong about the writer’s identity.
The byline appeared on screen and she sighed. No such luck. This was the “work,” if she could call it that, of Paul Peterson of Clayton Copwatch.
She scanned the piece, a rehash of facts cherry-picked from old news reports to make Clayton P.D. look bad. Toward the bottom, under a section entitled “Analysis,” she read:
Clayton police continue to be stymied in their search for the suspect, identified by confidential sources as Richard Harkins, a vicious thug reputed to have victimized several women and young girls in the city, particularly in the Abernethy District.
Critics say it’s easy to see why. “Not when they put rookie cops on the case,” said a source who asked to remain anonymous. “C.P.D. sent a woman half his size in to arrest him. What were they thinking?”
Val scrolled down to read the comments. Big mistake.
What, indeed?
- ClaytonLifer
Yah they send a teeny woman cop in to defend us but the South End gets big guys. No surprise who gets more crime.
- WrongSideofTrax
If Herkns was raping men they’d have the best and britest on the case beleeve you me.
- DancesWithBoys
Val seethed and slammed her phone onto the table. She grabbed her wine glass and chugged its contents, choking on its bitter aftertaste. Definitely needed to switch to red.
“The Sisterhood of the Traveling Gunbelt is here!” Brenda Petroni appeared at the end of the booth, dressed in a dark blue blazer, a pastel blue button-down blouse, and black slacks. Behind her, Shannon O’Reilly appeared, her strawberry blonde hair looking wind-blown, her cheeks red, and a motorbike helmet under one arm. Brenda signaled to the waiter and the two women slid into the booth across from Val.
“Bad day at the office?” Shannon asked, pointing at Val’s empty glass. “Or are we that late?”
Val tapped her phone. “I went browsing where I shouldn’t have again, and I don’t mean porn sites,” she said.
“Not that blogger again,” Shannon said.
“We warned you not to pay any attention to that idiot,” Brenda said. She called out to the waiter, “Two merlots over here, please.”
“Three.” Val pushed her wine glass to the end of the table. “Sorry, I can’t help it. I’m like a moth drawn to flame. I can’t resist.”
“More like a train wreck,” Shannon said. “Believe me, that Peterson jerk sheds no light on anything.”
“I don’t understand where he gets his information,” Val said. “Who feeds him this crap?”
“Let me see it,” Brenda said. She scanned the article on Val’s phone and tsk’d. “The old boys’ network is up to their tricks again.” She showed it to Shannon, who cursed.
“They did the same thing when I came in,” Shannon said. “Certain men in the department get bent out of shape at the prospect of women moving up in the ranks—or even women getting hired as patrol officers. It’s a constant battle.”
“You’re saying he’s getting this misinformation from within the department?” Val asked. Color drained from her face. She’d assumed Peterson got his made-up facts from know-nothings on the street, or from his imagination. She’d never considered that her own comrades in blue would undermine her.
“Be careful who you talk to,” Brenda said, thanking the waiter for their fresh round of wine. She passed a glass to each of her companions and raised her own in a toast: “To cops we can trust.”
“AKA, women,” Shannon said, and they clinked their glasses together.
The merlot tasted chocolaty and smooth, far better than the fruity Chardonnay. “I hope we can trust more than just each other,” Val said, feeling the wine’s warmth in her throat. “I’d like to think I can trust my partner.”
“Gil’s one of the best you’ll find,” Brenda said. “At the opposite end of the spectrum, Pops is an antique. We should have put him out to pasture a century ago. Gibson is all right, but no saint. Blake too—wait, why that face?”
Val blushed and tried to hide behind her wine glass. “Travis didn’t impress me as the most progressive of men in our last conversation,” she said, and recounted their recent meeting.
At the end of the story, Shannon shrugged. “That almost qualifies him as a feminist in this department,” she said. “My sergeant asked me out a dozen times in my first year—and he was married. I had to wear Kevlar in my pants to stop him from grabbing my ass all the time.”
“At least Travis took your side on the complaint,” Brenda said. “That’s more than most would have done.”
“But who’s talking to Peterson?” Val sipped her merlot again. She’d definitely stick to reds from now on. “I can’t imagine it’s the detectives on the case. They came off looking pretty bad.”
“You can eliminate them, and the women in the department,” Shannon said, twirling the stem of her wine glass on the table. “That narrows it down to...oh, three hundred people.”
“The bottom line is, you can’t worry about what the idiots in the press say, especially on the Internet,” Brenda said. “Nobody reads their stuff anyway.”
“But someone in the department is trying to discredit me,” Val said. “Shouldn’t I be worried about that?”
Shannon and Brenda exchanged glances. “All I can tell you,” Brenda said, “is to trust few, and talk even less. And...” She and Shannon raised their half-empty glasses, waiting for Val to follow suit. “When in doubt, come to us. We’re always here for you.”
“Hear, hear,” Shannon said.
“Likewise,” Val said. “I’ve got your backs, too.” They clinked glasses and downed the rest of their drinks in unison.
Chapter Thirteen
Two nights later, Val hurried along the boarded-up storefronts of Jacobs Street. She apologized mentally to the various regulars that, tonight, she didn’t have time to stop and chat up. She should have walked this stretch over an hour ago. Not that anyone kept her on a clock, and Gil had warned her not to get too “regular” on her beat or she’d lose the element of surprise. But on this warm Indian summer night in late October, people came out in numbers. She’d made several stops and spoken longer than usual with “the clientele” on both sides of the trouble coin: shopkeepers, tavern bouncers, loitering teens, street musicians, and homeless old men carrying hand-drawn cardboard signs pitching for money. All part of good community policing.
“How goes it?” Gil’s voice crackled over the radio.
“I’m a little behind,” Val said. “Lots of people out. You?”
“Slow over here. I’m jealous. Coffee in fifteen?”
Before she could respond, a noise about 100 feet away interrupted her. A woman’s voice, or a young girl’s, leaked out of an apartment window of a mixed-use building, two stories above a street-level grocery. “Stop, please! You’re hurting me!”
“Shut up, bitch!” a man’s voice replied. Next came the sound of skin slapping skin, and a cry of pain. Definitely a young girl.
“You need help up there?” Val’s hand rested on her baton, her other hand on the radio mic.
No response. A light flickered on. Glass shattered, and the light blinked off. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going, bitch?” a man snarled. Another scream, this time, muffled.
“What’s going on?” Val’s heart raced. “Come to the window, mister. Let me see you. And her.”
The silhouetted figure of a man darkened the opening for a moment, then darted away. “Shh!” someone said from inside. “See what you’ve done?” The man’s voice.
“Bring the girl to the window.” The pounding in Val's chest made it hard to hear. “I want to make sure she’s all right.”
Again, no response. Val moved closer.
“Leave me al—mmph!” The girl’s shout disappeared, as if swallowed up by a blanket.
“Suspected 428 on Jacobs and Leach,” Val barked into her microphone. “Backup requested. Gil, how close are you?” Val hustled to the entrance of the apartment building, a solid metal door next to an electronic security panel. No way to bust in there. She pushed several call buttons, but no one picked up or buzzed her in. Candy wrappers fluttered on top of a pile of cigarette butts in the corner of the entryway.
“I’ll be there in less than five,” Gil said over the radio. “Is that the Jacobs Arms?”
Val read the nameplate over the security panel. “Affirmative. You know it?”
“There’s a rear exit and a fire escape,” he said, out of breath. “We’ll need to cover the exits. Dispatch, where’s that backup?”
Another scream erupted from the third floor, along with the sound of fabric tearing. Val moved away from the building to get a better view. Shadows flitted across the window, including what looked like a man pulling the hair of a much smaller girl, then pushing her down.
“Leave her alone!” Val shouted.
The man’s response: More yelling. Another scream, from the girl.
Val’s blood boiled. Jesus, this guy had balls.
But he wouldn’t when she got done with him.
“Hello?” An old woman’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Is someone there?
“Police!” Val shouted. “Responding to a domestic disturbance. Please, buzz me in!”
The lock clicked, and Val yanked open the door. Odors of stale tobacco smoke, spicy food, and urine seared her eyes and made her gag. Fighting for breath, she raced up the stairs two at a time. She arrived at the third-floor landing in time to spot a dark-haired man in a yellow tank top and jeans emerging from a doorway midway down the hall.
“Stop! Police!” Val shouted, reaching for her weapon. The man glanced at Val and ran the opposite direction, disappearing down a staircase at the other end of the hall. He carried an object in his right hand—something dark and metallic.
She broke into a run, heading toward the stairs he’d descended. A girl of eleven or twelve stuck her head out the door he’d just exited. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her dark, tangled hair draped over her torn blue blouse. The girl wiped blood from her lip. “He—he has a gun,” she said, sniffling.
“Are you all right?” Val slowed up as she approached the door.
The girl broke into tears. “He...tried to...” She pulled the door part way closed and tugged her blouse down to hide her underwear. “I didn’t let him, and he...got mad.” More sobs.
Val’s muscles tensed, and her whole body shook. Another one! “Stay inside!” she shouted and pulled the door shut. She dashed to the stairs, following the man down. He had already passed the second floor, on his way to the first. “Freeze!” she shouted.
The man looked up at her—a mistake. He stumbled, missed the last few stairs, and tumbled to the landing between floors. He lurched back onto his feet and continued down the final flight of steps. Val gained ground on him, but not before he burst through the heavy metal door into the alley behind the building.
“Stop! Police!” she yelled after him. The man ran through the alley toward Jacobs Street. She grabbed her radio off her belt. “In pursuit of 428 suspect fleeing southbound from the Jacobs Arms,” she puffed into the mike. “Suspect is Asian male in his thirties, five-eight to five-ten, one-sixty to one-eighty, and armed. Request backup, stat! Gil, where are you?”
She clipped the radio onto her belt. Calling in had slowed her, and the suspect had gained ground. She gritted her teeth, put her head down, and charged harder. Even harder than when she’d run to Antoinetta’s, or when she’d chased Dog. Her heart pounded, but she felt good. It had been a long time since she’d run this hard. Not since the 440 relay at the regional meet the year before. Her lungs ached, sucking in air.
The suspect looked over his shoulder and right-angled across the street, dodging cars. She followed on a diagonal, closing the gap to fifty feet, then forty. The man turned onto a side street. She followed. Thirty feet. He had to make choices. That slowed him down. All she had to do was run.
He turned again. She recognized the street. An alley—a dead end. Apartments with locked, secured entry doors loomed over street-level shops, all closed. He had trapped himself.
She followed him part way into the alley and hit a tidal wave of unwelcome scents emanating from dumpsters lining the walls on all three sides. She halted twenty feet from him, unholstered her revolver, and flicked off the safety. “Freeze!” she yelled. “Hands up! Now!”
He stopped, still facing away from her. As if in slow motion, his left hand drifted to his side. His right remained shielded from her.
“Turn around! Face me!” She edged closer, her weapon aimed at the center of his body mass.
His body twisted, achingly slow, counter-clockwise, his hands spread wide. For a moment his right hand ducked out of view. When it came back into view, it held something dark. His arm jerked forward, supported by his left. Something whizzed past her head just before the loud “pop” reached her ears. A memory from academy training flashed in her mind: Bullets travel faster than sound.
Instinct, training, and reflexes kicked in. She dropped to one knee, still aiming, both hands steady, supporting the weapon. He moved his arm, following her path, pointed again at her—
She fired.
A red blotch appeared in the center of his chest. Redness sprayed the dumpsters along the brick wall behind him. His body slammed into the dumpster, his arms wide, his feet forward but his weight supported by the metal wall behind him. He stared at her a moment, shock fading from his eyes. His head lolled to one side, his legs buckled, and he tumbled face-down onto the street.
And he stayed there.
Val remained in her crouch for two or three seconds, still holding her right arm in position with her left, both hands shaking. Voices murmured somewhere in the background. “Did she just shoot that guy?” said a man’s voice. “Is he dead?” asked someone else. The voices seemed far away. Recorded, like in a movie.
A woman’s voice above her broke her frozen stance. “You got him!” the woman yelled. “Good shot!”
She spotted the aging matron two stories up. “I saw the whole thing!” the woman yelled. “He shot at you first. I’ll testify!”
Val gave her a slow wave with her left hand and lowered her gun toward the fallen man. She stood, gravity tugging at her body, numbness washing over her. More voices, words she could not recognize.
Sirens wailed, and grew louder. Val trudged toward him. She knew before checking his pulse that he was dead.
She took a deep breath. Siren-blaring cruisers pulled up, doors opened and slammed shut. Shouting voices, most of them male. Gil’s among them, asking if she was all right.
She felt more than all right. She reholstered her weapon, staring at the man’s lifeless body. The pervert who’d attacked a young, helpless girl. He’d tried to rape her, and would have had Val not happened by. Fucking child molester.
She tried, and failed, to suppress the exhilaration swelling in her chest.
Got the bastard.
It felt good.
Too good.
Part 2
Harsh Reality
Chapter Fourteen
Val sat through endless hours of grilling under the command post canopy set up at the scene of the shooting with detectives, Internal Affairs representatives, and police union stewards. She ignored the shouted questions from reporters who snuck in too close when the officers securing the area let their guard down. She recognized few faces or voices, from the police side or the press. In particular, she did not spot the unwelcome presence of Paul Peterson.
Val sat numb throughout, repeating the same phrases to nearly identical questions: yes, he was armed, and shot at her first. No, she saw no other way to subdue him. Yes, she followed him alone, without backup. Yes, she and Gil had split up for a bit. No, she hadn’t met the man before.
Gil remained absent from the command post for the initial two hours. During a brief break, he sat by her, and set a cup of coffee on a nearby folding table.
“Can’t we do this at the precinct?” she asked.
Gil shook his head in sympathy. “Trust me,” he said, waving off the plainclothes detectives standing a few feet away. “There’ll be more discussion there, and a mountain of paperwork. But don’t worry. I’ll help you as best I can.”
“More?” Her head ached, like someone had split it open with an ax. “By my count, everyone in the department has asked me the same questions at least twice. Who’s left?”
