She drove slowly down the street, passing a car parked in front of the house, a Hispanic male at the wheel reading something. She parked on the other side of the street, three or four houses down, put Daisy on a leash, and walked back up the street toward the parked car, allowing Daisy to water the grass on the way, just a woman walking her dog. The man in the car seemed engrossed in his reading.
At Marina’s house she turned up the walk, and as she did, she heard a commotion inside. The front door was wide open, the screen door closed. She put her hand inside her purse, opened the screen with her leash hand, and walked into the house.
The room was in disarray, and there was a man present, wearing a sport shirt, loose at the waist, revealing a bulge, his back to her, his hand drawn back. Holly let the screen door slam.
The man spun around to face her. Holly didn’t know him, but Marina Santos was standing behind him, in tears. He said something in Spanish.
“How’s that again?” Holly asked.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, taking a step toward her.
“Daisy,” Holly said quietly, and Daisy bared her teeth and began growling. The man stopped. “Daisy, guard,” Holly said. Then to the man, she said, “I’m a police officer. If you move a muscle, the dog will kill you.” The man didn’t move.
“Marina,” Holly said, “go into the kitchen and call nine-one-one; tell them there’s an intruder in your home.”
The man said something sinister-sounding in Spanish, and Marina didn’t move.
“Don’t worry, Marina,” Holly said, “he won’t hurt you. If he tries, I’ll put the dog on him.”
Marina backed away from the man, then turned and went into the kitchen.
“You,” Holly said, “on your knees, hands behind your head.”
“Fuck that,” the man said, and his hand went behind him.
Holly shot him through the purse, the bullet striking him in the center of the chest, and he fell backward, a pistol flying from his hand. “Guard, Daisy,” she said, letting go of the leash. Daisy trotted over and stood perhaps five feet from the fallen man, still growling. Holly kicked the gun away from the man, then went and stood beside the door, waiting with her gun drawn for the man’s companion to enter. Instead, she heard the car start and drive away, burning rubber.
She checked to be sure, then turned back to the shot man. “Quiet, Daisy. Stay.” She knelt beside him, her gun under his chin. “Lie very still,” she said. “Marina,” she called out, “ask for an ambulance as well as for the police.” Holly held the fingers of her free hand to his neck, feeling for a pulse. It was weak and thready.
The man lay on his back, his breathing shallow and labored, his eyes open but unfocused, looking at the ceiling, his lips moving soundlessly. “Nothing I can do for you,” she said. She stood up and walked to the kitchen door. Marina was hanging up the phone.
“They’re on their way,” she said. “I asked for an ambulance.”
Holly heard a siren coming down the block. She put her gun back into her handbag and walked out the front door, stopping on the porch, holding her badge in sight.
Two officers, one a sergeant, spilled out of the police car, weapons drawn. “Police officer,” Holly said, waving the badge. “You won’t need weapons.”
The two officers stopped running and walked up the front steps. “I’ve got a perpetrator down in the living room,” she said, “one gunshot to the chest. He doesn’t look good, and there’s an ambulance on its way.”
The sergeant looked closely at her ID. “Orchid Beach? Where the hell is that?”
“Out of town,” Holly said.
He looked at her handbag. “Is there a weapon in there?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I’ll give it to you.” She reached into the bag, ran a finger through the trigger guard, and held out the weapon to him.
He took it from her the same way she was holding it and dropped it into an evidence bag. “Is that your only weapon?”
“Yes. There’s another on the living room floor that belonged to the perp. He was about to shoot me when I shot him.”
The sergeant started for the screen door. “Not yet,” Holly said. “Daisy,” she called out. “Sit, stay. It’s all right.”
The sergeant looked at her.
“Who’s Daisy?”
“The only witness,” Holly said. “You can go inside now.”
36
The sergeant opened the screen door and walked in. “Jesus!” he said. “Nice doggy.”
“Her name is Daisy. Say ‘Hello, Daisy.’ ”
“Hello, Daisy,” the sergeant said. “Can I touch the guy without him eating me?”
“It’s a she, and you’re friends now.”
The sergeant gingerly patted Daisy on the head. “Nice Daisy.”
“Yes, she is.”
He went and felt the wounded man’s throat. “He’s dead,” he said.
“Let’s wait for the EMTs to determine that,” Holly said, as they heard a siren coming down the street. “Daisy, come here.” The dog padded over, and Holly picked up the leash again. “Good girl, good dog.” Daisy nuzzled her leg.
“Now,” the sergeant said, “you want to tell me what went down here?”
“Why don’t we wait for homicide, so I won’t have to do it twice?”
The sergeant produced a portable radio and asked that homicide detectives be sent to the address.
Holly led Marina out to the front porch to wait. When the sergeant went to look around the house, Holly said, “Where is the notebook?”
“In the freezer,” Marina replied.
“Let’s leave it there.”
The homicide detectives secured the scene and called for a crime-scene tech, then they came back outside. “Can I see your ID?” one of them asked Holly. He examined it carefully. “And where is Orchid Beach?”
“Up the coast a couple of hours.”
“And what brings you to our jurisdiction, Chief?”
“I came to see Ms. Santos. When I arrived, the perp was threatening her.”
“So you shot him?”
“Not right away, not until he went to his back for a gun.”
“And how did you know he had a gun?”
“I saw the bulge under his shirt when his back was to me,” she said. “I already had my hand on my weapon. I had told him to kneel and put his hands behind his head.”
“Did you identify yourself as a police officer and show him your badge?”
“I identified myself as a police officer, but I had my dog in one hand and my weapon in the other, so I couldn’t show him a badge right at that moment.”
“I see. And you believed it was necessary to use deadly force?”
“His weapon is lying next to him,” Holly said. “I haven’t touched it.”
“Why was the perp threatening Ms. Santos?”
“It appeared to be a robbery,” Holly said. “When I arrived, the living room was in disarray, and his hand was drawn back as if to strike her.”
“Was he looking for something specific, Ms. Santos?”
“I don’t know,” she replied innocently. “He was tearing up the living room when I walked in from the kitchen, and then Chief Barker arrived.”
“Did you know him?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before.”
“Was there anyone with the man?”
“When I arrived, there was a car parked out front with a Latino male at the wheel, reading something. After I fired, I heard the car start and leave in a hurry.”
“Any further description?”
“Dark hair, a mustache, that’s about all I could see. The car was a late-model Lincoln Town Car, black.”
“Great,” the detective said. “Not many of those around Lauderdale. Are you here on official business, Chief?” the detective asked.
“Yes. Ms. Santos was the fiancée of a man named Carlos Alvarez, who was murdered in my jurisdiction. I was here to discuss that with her.”
“And what, exactly, did you discuss?”