In the sergeant’s office, Shen was already doing paperwork. He looked up when Katie entered. “Guys give you a razzing?”
She shrugged.
Shen smiled. “They like you. You know that, don’t you?”
Katie shrugged again. She considered Westboard a friend, though they didn’t associate off-duty. Battaglia and O’Sullivan were like twins, but they seemed to tolerate her at least. Kahn definitely did not like her.
“I’m serious,” Shen said. “Cops only tease other cops if they like them.”
“Did I do something wrong, Sarge?”
Shen’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. “Wrong? No. Is that why you think I called you in here?”
She turned over her palms and shrugged.
Shen shook his head. “No, you’re doing fine, Katie. I have a special assignment for you tonight, that’s all.”
“What kind of assignment?”
“It is part of the kidnapping detail,” Shen told her. “Officer Giovanni is assigned to the victim’s family. He needs to be relieved.”
“Doing what?”
“Being there in case there’s a ransom demand. Or if the family thinks of something important.”
Babysitting, Katie thought. And who better to baby-sit than the girl on the platoon?
“You look disappointed,” Shen said.
Katie disguised her expression. “No, sir.”
“All right, then,” Shen said, handing her the address on a slip of paper. “Go ahead and head straight up there to relieve Giovanni. He’ll relieve you at 0700 hrs tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Katie said and left the office.
Down in the basement, she exacted some measure of revenge by refusing to tell any of her sector-mates what the sergeant had wanted, no matter how wildly they speculated. She stood waiting for a car to come in with her patrol bag at her feet.
After a few minutes, the heckling died down. Westboard wandered over and stood next to her. “You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said sharply, and immediately regretted it.
Westboard waited a few seconds, then asked, “Something the sergeant said?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Boyfriend trouble?”
Katie glanced sideways at him, wondering if he knew about her and Stef. His expression was open, though, and without guile.
“No.”
“Family?”
“No. Matt, I’m fine.”
He nodded slowly, then asked, “Problems with the 1-900 phone line?”
She gave a small laugh. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“I figured,” Westboard said.
Swing shift rolled into the long basement sally port and parked in a line. The graveyard officers waited a few minutes for the swing shift officers to de-plane.
“You wanna get coffee later?” Westboard asked her.
“Can’t,” she said, picking up her bag. “I got stuck on a babysitting detail.”
Westboard’s brow furrowed in confusion, but Katie ignored him and took the nearest vehicle. After conducting a swift pre-flight check, she strapped her patrol bag into the passenger seat and pulled out of the basement.
Without thinking, she sound-checked the siren and air horn and checked the emergency lights. Everything worked fine.
The drive up to the Dugger residence was a quick one. The after-work rush hour was long past and the traffic was thin. She pulled up behind Giovanni’s marked car and got out. As she walked up the sidewalk to the house, she saw Giovanni’s face peering out the kitchen window at her. He met her at the door.
“Hey, MacLeod,” he said in a whisper. “Welcome to baby-sitter central.”
2209 hours
Thomas Chisolm drove slowly around the lower south hill neighborhood, watching for any blue or brown vans, whether moving or parked. Each time he came across one, he ran the license plate, then had the dispatcher check the registered owner. If the R.O. was a black male, he made a note of it. He planned to drop off the list to Detective Browning in the morning.
After the third or fourth license plate, the dispatcher figured out what he was doing. After the seventh or so, she was sick of him doing it. Chisolm didn’t care. Dispatchers came and went. A little girl was missing.
When he heard his call-sign come over the radio on the main south side channel, he was reasonably certain that the data channel operator had told the south side operator to make sure he went to the next call.
“Charlie-143, Charlie-145?”
Chisolm clicked his mike.
He heard Charlie-145, Officer Bill Lindsay, answer up with his location. As usual, he was far south and away from the crime-ridden areas of their sector.
Chisolm shook his head in disgust. It wasn’t that he had anything against rich people getting a ticket-in fact, the idea somewhat appealed to him-it was just that whenever Lindsay was called, he was deep south. That meant that he wasn’t going to be there to back anyone up very quickly.
“An unwanted guest, downtown at the State Theater,” the dispatcher said. “Complainant is the theater manager, who says a white male in his forties entered without a ticket and is refusing to leave. Description of suspect available.”
“Disregard the description,” Chisolm said into the microphone. He considered going Code 4 and disregarding Lindsay, but decided against it. He’d let the lazy bastard drive downtown and do a little police work for a change. He was next up on the detective’s promotional list and would soon get made, anyway. Then he’d be able to duck work even more effectively.
“Copy Charlie-143,” the dispatcher said. Chisolm imagined her and the data channel operator slapping a high five.
There was a short silence on the radio. Chisolm knew Lindsay was waiting, hoping someone offered to go in his place or that Chisolm would go Code 4. After a short time, he came on the air.
“Charlie-145, copy,” he said in a dejected voice.
Chisolm smiled to himself.
His smile faded as he headed downtown. He was reasonably certain that it was a drunken bum who had wandered in to the business. Downtown was full of winos, due to several outreach centers being located there. There were three competing churches that gave out sandwiches and bible verses on different days of the week. The transient population generally behaved themselves when they were in the outreach centers because to act up was to get booted out. However, once the doors closed for the evening, it was time to get liquored up and sleep in an alley or under the freeway. The luckier ones found their way into the Detox center, which was also conveniently downtown.
He felt disgust for some, pity for others. Most claimed to be Vietnam vets and most were lying. As a veteran of that war himself, he took considerable exception to those false claims.
As he pulled up in front of the State Theater, a kid about nineteen in a faux tuxedo and a red bow tie stood impatiently out front.
“Charlie-143, on scene,” Chisolm told Dispatch.
“Copy,” the dispatcher said.
“Charlie-145, I’m still a long ways off,” Lindsay said, a last minute plea for reprieve.
Chisolm switched on his portable radio as he turned off the police car and stepped out. No other units answered up to rescue Lindsay. It was still early in the year, but his sector-mates were wise to Lindsay’s games.
“Are you here for the trespasser?” the kid in the tux asked.
Chisolm glanced up at the marquee for a moment, then back at the kid. “Huh?”
“I’m the manager,” the kid said. “I called the police for a trespasser. He’s inside.” He pointed. When Chisolm didn’t respond immediately, he dropped his arm. “Are you here for that?”
Chisolm shook his head. “Nope.” He pointed up at the marquee. “I’m here to see Dances With Wolves.”
Confusion swept over the manager’s features, headed toward panic. “But I’ve got this guy inside…”
“Relax, kid,” Chisolm said with a smile. “I’m just pulling your leg.”