His knees gave out, and I couldn't hold him much longer. My injured palm was bleeding freely, soaking into his shirt. But leaving DNA was the least of my problems. This was a busy bank, and someone would be walking by any second.
I yanked out the knife, having to put my knee against his back to do so because of the suction; gravity knives don't have blood grooves. Then I wiped the blade on his shirt, and jammed it and the cash into my jacket pocket.
He collapsed onto the machine, and somehow managed to croak, “Please.”
“No sympathy here,” I told him, pushing open the security door. “Guys like me got no scruples.”
Pot Shot
A lot of my readers like Herb, but for some reason I don't enjoy using him in shorts as much as Jack, Harry, and Phin. This is a rare exception. I originally wrote this as a chapbook, to give away at writing conferences. It deals with Herb's retirement, a topic later covered in greater detail in my novel Dirty Martini.
“How did you know pot roast is my favorite?”
Detective First Class Herb Benedict stepped into the kitchen, following the aroma. He gave his wife Bernice a peck on the cheek and made a show of sniffing deeply, then sighing.
“I've been making pot roast every Friday night for the past twenty-two years, and you say that every time you come home.”
Herb grinned. “What happens next?”
“You pinch me on the bottom, change into your pajamas, and we eat in the family room while watching HBO.”
“Sounds pretty good so far.” He gently tugged Bernice away from the stove and placed his hands on her bottom, squeezing. “Then what?”
Bernice gave Herb's ample behind a pinch of its own.
“After HBO we go upstairs, and I force you to make love to me.”
Herb sighed. “A tough job, but I have to repay you for the pot roast.”
He leaned down, his head tilted to kiss her, just as the bullet plinked through the bay window. It hit the simmering pot with the sound of a gong, showering gravy skyward.
Herb reacted instinctively. His left hand grabbed Bernice and pulled her down to the linoleum while his right yanked the Sig Sauer from his hip holster and trained it on the window.
Silence, for several frantic heartbeats.
“Herb...”
“Shh.”
From the street came the roar of an engine and screaming tires. They quickly blended into Chicago traffic. Herb wanted to go have a look, but a burning sensation in his hip stopped him. He reached down with his free hand, feeling dampness.
“Herb! You're been shot!”
He brought the fingers to his mouth.
“No—it's juice from the pot roast. Leaked down the stove.”
Motioning for his wife to stay down, Herb crawled over to the window and peered out. The neighborhood was quiet.
He turned his attention to the stove top. The stainless steel pot had a small hole in the side, pulsing gravy like a wound.
Herb wondered which was worse; his Friday night plans ruined, or the fact that someone just tried to kill him.
He looked into the pot and decided it was the former.
“Dammit. The bastards killed my pot roast.”
He tore himself away from the grue and dialed 911, asking that they send the CSU over. And for the CSU to bring a pizza.
#
Officer Dan Rogers leaned over the pot, his face somber.
“I'm sorry, Detective Benedict. There's nothing we can do to save the victim.”
Herb frowned around a limp slice of sausage and pepperoni. Over two dozen gourmet pizza places dotted Herb's neighborhood, and the Crime Scene Unit had gone to a chain-store. The greasy cardboard box the pie came in probably had more flavor.
“You might think you're amusing, but that's an eighteen dollar roast.”
“I can tell. Look at how tender it is. It's practically falling off the bone. And the aroma is heavenly. It's a damn shame.”
Officer Hajek snapped a picture. “Shouldn't let it go to waste. When you're done, can I take it home for the dog?”
Herb watched Roberts attack the roast with gloved hands and wanted to cry at the injustice of it all. Another slice of pizza found its way into Herb's mouth, but it offered no comfort.
“And...gotcha, baby!”
Rogers held up his prize with a pair of forceps. The slug was roughly half an inch long, shaped like a mushroom and dripping gravy.
It looked good enough to eat.
“I think it's a 22LR. Must have been a high velocity cartridge. Punched a hole through the window without shattering it.”
Herb and Rogers exchanged a knowing look, but didn't speak aloud because Bernice was nearby. Your typical gang member didn't bring a rifle on a drive-by shooting. Twenty-two caliber long range high speeds were favored by hunters.
And assassins.
Herb's mind backtracked over his career, of all the men he'd put away who held a grudge. After thirty-plus years on the force, there were too many to remember. He'd have to wade through old case files, cross-reference with recent parolees...
“Herb?”
“Hmm? Yes, Bernice?”
His wife's face appeared ready to crack. Herb had never seen her so fragile before.
“I...I called the glazier. They're open twenty-four-hours, so they're sending someone right away to fix the window, but they might not be here until late, and I don't know if–”
Herb took her in his arms, rubbed her back.
“It's okay, honey.”
“It's not okay.”
“You don't have to worry. Look how big a target I am, and they still missed.”
“Maybe we should put an APB out for a blind man,” Hajek offered.
Bernice pulled away, forcefully.
“This isn't a joke, Herb. You don't know what it's like, being a cop's wife. Every morning, when I kiss you before you go to work, I don't know if...”
The tears came. Herb reached for her, but Bernice shoved away his hands and hurried out of the kitchen.
Herb rubbed his eyes. No pot roast, no HBO, and certainly no nookie tonight. The evening's forecast; lousy pizza and waiting around for the glass man.
Being a cop sure had its perks.
#
The alarm went off, startling Herb awake.
Bernice's side of the bed remained untouched. She'd stayed in the guest room all night.
He found her in the kitchen, frying eggs. The stainless steel pot with the hole in it rested on top of their wicker garbage can, too large to fit inside.
“Smells good. Denver omelet?”
Bernice didn't answer.
“The glass guy said that homeowner's insurance should cover the cost. If you have time later today, can you give our agent a call? The bill is by the phone.”
Bernice remained silent, but began to furiously stir the eggs. They went from omelet to scrambled.
“There will be a squad car outside all day. Let me give you their number in case...”
“In case of what?” Bernice's red eyes accused him. “In case someone tries to kill me? No one's after me, Herb. I don't have any enemies. I'm a housewife.”
Herb wanted to get up and hold her, but knew she wouldn't allow it.
“I'll also have an escort, all day. It's standard procedure.”
“I don't care about procedure.”
“There's nothing more I can do, Bernice.”
“Yes there is. You can retire.”
Herb let the pain show on his face.
“I've got six more years until full pension.”
“Forget the full pension. We've got our savings. We've got our investments. We can make it work.”
“Bernice...”
“This isn't about money, and you know it. You'll never leave the Force. Not until they kick you out or...”
Bernice's eyes locked on the holey pot.
Herb had no reply. He skipped breakfast, showered, shaved, and began to dress. Normally, Bernice laid out an ironed shirt for him.