“Well, I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Reott replied, and blew a large cloud of smoke up toward his office ceiling.
Lieutenant Crawford smiled grimly. He knew that they were in the eye of the hurricane right then, so he did the only thing he could do at the moment. He sat back and enjoyed his cigar, too.
NINE
2053 hours
Officer Katie MacLeod walked past the sergeant’s office toward the roll call room. The door was closed but through the door’s glass window, she saw Lieutenant Saylor and Sergeant Shen talking with the Major Crimes Lieutenant. Shen looked up and noticed her pass by. He gave her a barely perceptible nod.
Once in the roll call room, Katie walked to the Baker Sector table to choose a chair. Seating wasn’t assigned, but police officers were creatures of habit and slaves to seniority. Everyone had their own chair around the table and it was a major event if someone broke the seating chart rules.
“You about done with that, Matt?” she asked Matt Westboard, choosing an empty chair and sitting down. He was reading the daily intelligence flyer from a three ring binder that contained the last several months worth of bulletins.
“No,” Westboard said, pretending to ignore her.
“Good thing there’s pictures on those flyers,” Katie teased. “Otherwise, it’d be a quick read for you.”
Westboard glanced up at her, then around the room. Satisfied that there were no ears that might be offended, he jabbed back. “The only pictures today are from the ad for your 1-900 number. Unfortunately, they’ve been blacked out in places-“
Katie threw her pen at him and caught him square in the forehead with the cap end of her plastic Bic.
“Whoa, MacLeod!”
“You should watch what you say, Westboard.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s all fun and games until someone gets an eye put out.” He picked up the pen and put it in his breast pocket. “If you think I’m giving this back to you, you’re nuts.”
“Keep it,” she said. “I’ve got plenty.”
“Plenty of callers, huh?”
Katie flashed her middle finger at him.
Westboard feigned shock. “Not a very lady-like gesture.”
“Are you finished with the flyer or not?”
Westboard slid the binder across the table to her. “I’m only giving you this to avoid having knives thrown at me next.”
Katie pretended to ignore him and scanned the flyer. It consisted of noteworthy events and arrests made recently, outstanding wanted persons of some notoriety and unsolved crimes. It was an accomplishment of some measure in the patrol division to make an arrest that found its way into the daily intelligence flyer.
As she read, other members of her platoon drifted in and took their seats. Anthony Battaglia sat immediately to her left. She could smell his cologne, which wasn’t unpleasant, just a little too strong. Connor O’Sullivan sat directly across from O’Sullivan.
“You done with that flyer yet, Katie?” Battaglia asked her. He spoke with an intentional hint of a New York accent. Sometimes he and O’Sullivan spent their entire shift with Battaglia speaking in a thick New York Italian accent while O’Sullivan used a barely decipherable Irish brogue.
Katie slid the binder across the table to him.
“What am I, chopped liver?” O’Sullivan asked her.
“You gotta ask for sumpin’ to get it, Sully,” Battaglia said, upping his accent a notch.
“Oh, really?” retorted O’Sullivan in Irish brogue. “Well, will ya listen to the guinea over here with all the answers to life’s many mysteries?”
“Do you guys ever quit?” Katie asked.
“Never!” O’Sullivan said. “Never quit until the English are driven out and Ireland is free of tyranny!”
“Stupid Mick,” Battaglia muttered.
O’Sullivan smiled.
Battaglia smiled.
Simultaneously, they extended a middle finger at each other.
Katie laughed in spite of herself.
“You ever going to choose a seat, MacLeod?” Officer James Kahn asked, sliding into his self-assigned chair. Katie imagined that he’d been sitting in that same plastic chair so long, it probably bore the impression of his buttocks. “Every time I come to roll call, you’re in a different seat.”
Kahn was still looking at her, so she tilted her head from side to side and said in her best ditzy voice, “They’re all so nice, I just can’t make up my mind.”
Everyone except Kahn broke into a smile. He stared disapprovingly at her for a minute, then turned to Battaglia. “You done with the flyer?”
“I’ve got dibs,” Sully said.
“Screw your dibs,” Kahn said. “I’ve got seniority.”
Sully opened his mouth to reply, but the door to the roll call room swung open and Sergeant Shen and Lieutenant Saylor walked in together. Shen took his position at the head of the Baker Sector table and Saylor stepped up to the podium. He addressed all three platoons.
“Listen up,” he said, and the conversation died down. He handed several sheets of paper to one of the officers at the Adam sector table. “Here’s a few stolen vehicles and some fresh warrants that I’ll pass around. The main thing I want to go over tonight is the kidnapping of a little girl earlier today.”
There was a low murmur throughout the room. Katie leaned forward and listened carefully.
Saylor continued, “Some of you may have seen something about it on the news. At about 0830 this morning, six-year-old Amy Dugger was abducted from the area of 4800 N. Waterbury. The suspect vehicle was a full size blue or brown van. The driver was a black male, very large. The guy who grabbed her was a Hispanic male, jeans and yellow shirt. He wore a full face mask, had a Mexican accent and a tattoo on his right elbow of a spider web.”
“There’s an original idea,” Kahn muttered loudly.
Saylor looked up. “As of now, this little girl is still missing. There haven’t been any ransom requests made. We’ve teletyped all Western States police agencies and there’s been some news coverage already. Detectives Tower and Browning have been assigned the case. They would appreciate you stopping anything out there that resembles this description.”
“That might ruffle a few feathers, El-Tee,” Thomas Chisolm said from the Charlie Sector table.
“I don’t really care, Tom,” Saylor said. “There’s a little girl missing.”
“I agree,” Chisolm said. “I’m just saying, there will be feathers ruffled.”
Saylor looked out at the assembled officers. “Let me be clear. If you see a van matching this description, stop it. Be polite. Be professional. But you stop anything moving that matches this description and then let me and the administration worry about the fallout. Like I said, there’s a little girl missing.”
There was a collective murmur of agreement.
“All right. Carry on, then,” Saylor said. He left the podium and exited the roll call room.
The sergeants began their platoon meetings.
“If you have any problems like Chisolm mentioned,” Sergeant Shen told Baker Sector, “just call me. I’ll try to deal with it before it becomes a complaint. Like the lieutenant said, be professional and be polite. But dig. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Okay,” Shen said. “Make sure you read the stolens and warrants that are floating around and let’s hit the streets.”
The group stood almost in unison to leave.
“Katie,” Shen said. “I need to see you in the office, please.”
Katie’s face flushed slightly. “Yes, sir.”
Shen nodded and left the table.
Battaglia made an “ooh” sound.
“Think you’re in a wee bit o’trouble there, lass?” O’Sullivan half-sang.
Katie ignored them and followed Shen.
“Hopefully he’s going to talk to her about picking a goddamn seat and sticking with it,” Kahn said.