As he drove back to work, he whistled tunelessly to himself. But already, the gnawing desire within him began to grow again.
FIVE
Tuesday, April 16th
Graveyard shift
2014 hours
The ring of the telephone stopped Katie MacLeod at her door.
She paused, considering whether to answer it or not. As it was, she was going to have a difficult enough time getting her patrol uniform and gear on before roll call. Depending on who it was on the phone, she might not make it. And if it was her mother…well, forget it. She’d be on the phone for an hour.
I’ll wait to see who it is, she decided. In case it’s an emergency.
After the fifth ring, the answering machine kicked on. Her own voice sounded strange to her as it pleasantly asked the caller to leave a message at the beep.
The machine beeped.
“Katie?”
It was Stef.
Katie clenched her jaw.
“Are you there?” he asked, his words slurred. “If you’re there, pick up.”
Katie considered it for a moment. She thought very seriously about picking up the phone and telling Stefan Kopriva that he could go straight to hell. Which was where he seemed bent on going anyway, with the drinking and the pills.
“Katie, please. I… I have to… talka someone…”
The anger brewed in the pit of her stomach. Who did he think he was, calling her now? A year later? A goddamn year?
After what they shared together? What he threw away?
“Everythins’ so fucked up,” he slurred. “I’m so fucked up.”
She thought of Amy Dugger, the six year old girl that had died because of Kopriva’s mistake. A stab of pity cut through some of the anger in her belly. She took a step toward the telephone, letting the door swing closed.
“Jus’ the whole world,” he said.
She reached for the receiver. When her fingers touched the plastic, she paused.
Remember what he said to you? After what happened to you on the bridge, do you remember what that selfish bastard said?
She stood stock-still, struggling with her own thoughts. The cool plastic of the phone vibrated slightly with every word that came through the tiny speaker of the answering machine.
“Are you even there?” Kopriva asked, a tinge of anger settling into his voice.
“I’m here,” she whispered, but kept her hand still.
“Oh, fuck it,” he said. “Like you even give a shit.”
The line disconnected. A pair of clicks came through the speaker, then a dial tone. The answering machine stopped recording.
Katie stood at the phone, surprised that no more anger welled up inside her after his parting shot. Instead, she felt a deep sadness overcome her. She choked back the tears that rose in her throat.
“I did give a shit,” she whispered at the flashing red light on her answering machine. “Once. I really did.”
The light blinked in steady cadence.
“But not anymore,” Katie said.
She knew it was a lie as soon as she said it.
“Oh, Stef,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She reached out and pressed the delete button. The long beep that sounded when she pressed the button took on an almost accusatory tone. “Please don’t call me again.”
She’d considered changing her telephone number when she moved out of her apartment, but hadn’t. It was the same number she’d had since she moved to River City after graduating from WSU. She’d felt sentimental about it somehow. It was the first telephone number that belonged to her. Not her mother in Seattle. Not the entire dorm floor. Not her and three roommates that final year at college. Just her. So each time she moved, she kept the number. Now, she questioned that decision. The silence of her small house seemed to throb around her while she stood next to the telephone. She wiped away the beginnings of a tear from her eye and glanced up at the clock.
Great.
Now she was going to be late.
Katie turned and walked away.
2237 hours
“Adam-122?”
Battaglia reached for the mike. “Twenty-two, go ahead.”
“Respond on a vehicle theft report.”
“Great,” Battaglia said sarcastically, ignoring the dispatcher’s description of the call. “A real challenge.”
O’Sullivan didn’t reply.
The dispatcher relayed the address and Battaglia copied the call. Then he turned to Sully. “So I guess there’s no RPW to be done tonight.”
Sully made a U-turn. “Since when are stolen cars not real police work?”
“Stolen cars are real police work. They can even lead to pursuits. Which is fun.” Battaglia replaced the radio mike on the hook. “But stolen vehicle reports suck. There’s no challenge to them.”
“A call is a call.”
“A call is a call,” Battaglia mimicked. “Well, these calls suck. Every one is the same. And that’s if it is even actually a real stolen.” Battaglia mimed removing his notepad and flipping it open. He poised an invisible pen above his open palm. “Do you own the car? When did you see it last? Do you know who took it? What color is it? What do you want us to do with when we find it? Blah, blah, blah, boring.”
“Sometimes life is not all about every call being exciting,” Sully said.
“Oh, aren’t we just the philosopher tonight?” Battaglia observed. He paused to look through the windshield, then left and right. “What the hell?”
“What the hell what? That there’s actually a world out there?”
“Screw you, Soh-crayts.”
“Soh-crayts?” Sully shook his head. “It’s Socrates, you idiot. Sock-Ruh-Tease.”
“Like you know,” Battaglia said, waving his hand. “And the what the hell is, where are you going?”
“To the call.”
“Not the way you’re headed. Take Wall. It’s quicker.”
Sully snorted. “I’m driving, Guido. So don’t worry about it.”
“I’m telling you, Wall is quicker than Monroe.”
“It’s the same.”
“It’s quicker.”
“Shut up. Like you know this town.”
Battaglia raised his eyebrows in indignation. “I know this town like the back of my hand.”
“Bullshit. You can barely find the station on a good day. That’s why you always ride with me and that’s why I always drive.”
“I ride with you because no one else will and Sarge wants me to keep an eye on you.” Battaglia sniffed dramatically and rubbed his nose. “And I let you drive so I don’t offend your Irish sensibilities.”
“My sensibilities? Coming from Captain Sensitivo over here, that really hurts.”
“I know this town,” Battaglia insisted.
“Not only do you not know this town, you don’t even know anything about this town. You’re ignorant of your own city’s history.”
“Oh really? And what are you? The River City History Channel?”
“No,” Sully said, “but I know a few things.”
“So do I.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s called River City because it was founded by a river.”
“Oh, that’s good. Don’t stretch your brain.”
Battaglia shrugged. “It’s true. Deal with it.”
“So why’s Mount Joseph called by that name?” Sully asked.
“It’s named after some guy named Joseph.”
Sully slapped the steering wheel. “Another brilliant insight. Okay, Mensa boy, who was Joseph?”
Battaglia paused. “Some Indian, right?”
“Good guess. Yeah, some Indian. A chief, actually.”
Battaglia snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s it. Mount Joseph was named after Chief Joseph.”
Sully sighed. “No kidding. So what tribe did he belong to?”
“Sioux?”
“No.”
“Pawnee?”
Sully shook his head. “Uh-uh.”
“Apache?”
“Oh, come on. The Apache live down in the desert.”
“We’ve got deserts around here. You ever been to Yakima?”