Jonathon King
A Killing Night
PROLOGUE
Man, he loved that smile of hers. It was a killer.
He could see her using it from here, flashes of the white teeth that she swore she'd never bleached. The raised cheekbones in her profile every time she turned from the bar back to the register. He was too far away to see her brown eyes, but he knew their shine and the way they laughed when she smiled that smile. It was what had captured him, what made him know that this was the one, the girl who was going to save him this time.
He saw it again but he had to lean forward into the steering wheel to keep it in sight through the window as she swung back to her customer. The guy had parked himself right in front of the taps so he'd get to chat her up every time she poured a beer. When she tossed her hair back over her shoulder, he saw the smile again. That killer smile. His smile. So why the fuck was she giving it to this guy?
"Two-oh-four? Dispatch to two-oh-four."
The radio squawked and without looking he reached over and turned the volume lower.
"Two-oh-four. Report of an assault from caller at four-twenty- four Northeast Ninth Avenue."
Assault my ass, he thought. Some old lady trying to get us to run over to her place 'cause she heard a noise that'll turn out to be the damn cat. You don't get assaults in that neighborhood at one in the morning. Waste of time. He didn't bother answering, even though he knew it wasn't going away.
"Two-oh-four? What's your location?"
"Shit," he said out loud, snatching up the mike.
"This is two-oh-four," he answered, monotone, no emotion in his voice.
"I'm in the two hundred block of South Park Road on that burglary call out. I need to check this alleyway and secure the premises."
"Ten-four."
He could hear the exasperation in the dispatcher's voice. But the hell with her.
"This is four-eighteen dispatch," came another voice on the box. "I'm clear on the last call, I'll take that assault."
"Ten-four, four-eighteen. I've got you en route at oh-one- hundred hours."
Good ol' Roger, he thought. Always the hustler. Always coming through to build his numbers. He clipped the handset back on the dash and turned back to the bar. The first few pinprick spots of rain began to pepper his windshield and glistened like sugar in the high parking lot lights. She'd be on her shift another two hours. Then she'd do her cleanup for the girls on day shift even if he did try to convince her to leave it for them. Then maybe he'd find out what the hell she'd been talking about earlier with that fucking P.I.
He rolled down his window and took a deep draw of night air and the smell of rain in the breeze. He watched an old Camaro pass slowly through the parking lot and then pull a rolling stop through the stop sign onto Federal. Oughta light that guy up right now, he thought. Even if there isn't any traffic. These punks who think they can break the law any damn time they feel like it. He watched the red glow of the Camaro's taillights wink and then fade into the next block.
He turned back to the bar and she was still talking to the guy on the end stool and he could feel the heat rise into his ears and the twitch in his back that made him shift in his seat. The leather of his belt and holster creaked. He picked his personal cell phone up off the passenger seat and hit the speed dial and watched her turn to the bar phone as soon as he heard the ring in his ear.
"Kim's, can I help you?"
"Only by getting off early," he said, using his sweet voice.
"Hi, baby," she answered, but turned away from the window, hiding the smile that was supposed to be his.
"You know I can't, even if I want to. I'm on alone."
He watched her turn and hold the mobile phone close to her cheek and then cup her elbow with her palm in a sort of self-hug. He liked the move.
"How's it going out there tonight?" she asked. "Catch any bad guys?"
He knew she always wanted to hear the stories, take her away from the boring blather in front of her.
"Not much," he said, not willing to take the effort to make anything up off the cuff. "Pretty quiet. Rain you know. Policeman's best friend. How's it in there?"
"Dull," she said and he saw her step forward and pick up a bar rag while she cradled the phone with her shoulder.
"So who's the guy you've been flirting with for the last half hour?" he said, not able to control himself.
"What? You're kidding, right?"
He could see her look up at the window on the north side of the bar where he had parked his cruiser in the past.
"Oh. Tell me he's just another old friend from high school like that last one," he said.
She kept looking north and then walked out from behind the bar over to an empty table, wiped at the clean surface.
"Yeah, old is right," she said into the phone. "He's forty-eight. He's married to my old boss out at Ranchers."
She was trying to keep an easy, teasing tone in her voice. He wasn't close enough to see the tiny prick of fear that stained the light in her eye.
He was silent and watched her give up on the table and then disappear behind a wall and then come back into view in another window. She was wearing that loose white button-down blouse, open wide down the front. She had on a cotton jersey underneath that stretched tight around her breasts and accented her cleavage.
"You gotta wear that shirt open like that all the time?" he said, watching her move close to the window and look out in his direction. The reflective paint on the side of the squad car glowed like neon under the lights and he saw her eyes stop.
"You always seem to like it," she said and cupped her hand around the mouthpiece of the phone and moved closer to the glass. Her face was shadowed by the angle of the light.
"You know I get jealous," he said. "It's just that you're so beautiful."
She knew she was not beautiful. It was a line she'd heard a thousand times from men on the other side of the bar, spoken on the scent of bourbon and beer. But his was different. He had been different. She'd liked it when he said it because it wasn't a joke, or some bad come-on. Even when he'd said it the first time, it was with a touch of passion that made her believe that he believed it. Now she knew too much about where his passion came from and she had to tighten the hold on her stomach to keep the bile from rising in her throat.
In the patrol car the radio squelched again.
"All units, officer in foot pursuit of a fleeing suspect in the nine hundred block of Third Street. Requesting backup."
The dispatcher had cranked her flat voice up a notch.
"Two-oh-four?"
His was the only specific call number she used.
"Two-oh-four responding," he answered into the set while turning the key in the ignition and gunning the engine to life. He'd left his cell phone connection open and said into the phone, "Gotta go catch some bad guys, babe," and then hit the light bar and siren and pulled out of the parking lot into the street.
He was smiling now, jacked at the chance to show off. She watched the red and blue lights flash across the south windows and felt the small jump of adrenaline nip into her blood.
"But you'll be back to get me, right?" she said, surprising herself with the coolness of the request.
"Sure, babe. I'll be back." He cut the siren at Ninth Street but kept up the speed, taking a corner with just enough control to keep the tires from yelping on the concrete. He was listening now to the radio crackling with the sounds of the foot chase and location of Roger's suspect. He could hear his fellow patrolman breathing hard while trying to talk into the microphone that all road officers kept clipped to the shoulder lapel of their shirts.
"Suspect…now northbound on…uh…Thirteenth Ave approaching Fifth."
The sounds of Roger's handcuffs ringing and his baton clacking on his belt came through the transmission each time he keyed the mic to speak. This asshole was giving him a pretty good run.
He pushed up his speed and then rode the brakes just a touch while blowing through a stop sign. He was watching for the telltale sweep of headlights. Anything dark was just SOL. From other radio traffic he could tell other units were closing in like some kind of foxhunt. But he wanted to get in there first, and without announcing himself or flushing the runner into somebody else's hands.