“One-eighty-seven, motherfucker-r-r-r-r-r!” the gangster yelled.
Kopriva raised his gun in case Morris fired, but the tires squealed and the Cadillac pulled away. At the intersection, they took a right and disappeared.
What is he doing out of jail already? Kopriva shook his head. What a screwed up system.
When he holstered his gun, he suddenly realized he was breathing rapidly. Damned adrenaline. Kopriva took several deep breaths, taking his time and forcing himself calm before he got into the patrol car and started the engine. By the time he notified dispatch that he was clear, he felt steady again.
Sunday, August 21st
Day Shift
1132 hours
There are some things that a man should be left alone while doing. As far as Sgt. David Poole was concerned, working on his car was one of them.
He adjusted the valves on his 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle Super Sport. It had a huge engine, a 396 large block that sucked gas like a greedy bitch. He’d put a stock, stiff four-speed in it and it had never given him any trouble. Then again, he never missed a power-shift, either.
He’d sipped a Michelob throughout the valve adjustment and now that they were fine-tuned, he allowed himself a deep draught. It felt good to have completed something worthwhile for a change. Something that made him happy. The beautiful rumble of the 396 did just that. He reached down near the carburetor and revved the engine slightly. The rumble rose to a slight roar.
Beautiful.
Then his sister Angela arrived and broke into the sanctity of his garage.
“Davey?”
Damn, he hated being called that.
“Over here, Ang.”
Angela Poole-Nyerson appeared at the edge of the garage. “Working on the racecar?” she teased.
“Yup.” Poole took another slug of his Michelob. “What’s up?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Have you been home?”
“Been home.” Poole started to wipe off his tools and put them away. Damn. And today had been a fairly decent day, too. Not like I get many of those these days. “I turned off the phone.”
“Hiding from work again?” she needled playfully.
He looked up. “Would you want the Bon Marche calling you on your days off?”
Angela smiled and winked. “What days off?”
Poole softened the tone in his voice. He knew Angela meant well. Hell, she was the only one in the family who even talked to him since the divorce. He probably shouldn’t alienate her as well, but he had no patience any more. He’d heard somewhere that you shouldn’t burn bridges that you don’t have to or something like that. That thought ran through his mind like a logic problem, and he found that he really didn’t care either way.
“What did you want, Angela?” He wiped off a wrench, and hung it on his pegboard.
“Okay, grump. Mom’s birthday is next Monday. Donald and I are putting together a surprise party for her. It’s a picnic at Franklin Park. Can you come?”
Why was she asking? Poole wondered.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Come on, Davey. It’s her birthday.”
“No one will miss me if I’m not there,” he told her.
“Mom will.”
Poole shrugged. His mother had been the first person to tell him that he blew it with Sherrie. Not that she was sad that it hadn’t worked out or even that she’d always liked Sherrie. That he blew it. “I doubt it. If so, she’ll be in the minority.”
“Well, what do you expect?” Angela flared.
“Nothing.” He refused to look at her but his jaw clenched. “I expect nothing.”
Angela swore and turned away. Then she stopped. “No. You need to be told.” She stepped around the car to face Poole. “I really do want to know what you expect, Davey. I mean, you cut yourself off from everyone in the family. Your kids never see you. Mom doesn’t, either. You don’t hardly ever call me or Donny. What are we supposed to do?”
Poole didn’t answer, so she went on.
“I’m sorry your life is the pits, Davey. I’m sorry you got divorced, that you’ve been alone this past year. I know it’s hard.”
You have no idea.
“And I’m sorry if your career isn’t going the way you want. But all I’m asking you to do is show up for one lousy afternoon on your own mother’s birthday.” Angela paused. She opened her mouth to say more, but stopped again, half-sobbing instead. “Goddamn you.”
Poole looked up and caught her eye. Tears streamed down her face, but it didn’t move him. Through clenched teeth, he told her, “Don’t preach to me, sis. Everyone in this whole happy family knew Sherrie was fooling around on me. Did anyone think to tell me? No.”
“It was none of our business!” she protested, wiping her eyes.
“Well, it certainly became everyone’s business when I filed for divorce, didn’t it? When, suddenly, I somehow became the bad guy? Tell me how the fuck that happened!”
“No one can talk to you!” Angela yelled at him and ran out of the garage.
Poole listened to her descending footfalls. He heard her Jeep start and squeal off. He tried to care but failed.
It wasn’t so bad that he got the divorce. It was being played the fool that made him angry. He never really loved Sherrie. Just a pair of kids themselves, they’d married because she’d gotten pregnant. It wasn’t like she’d been the love of his life.
Somehow, being duped and having everyone know it seemed worse when no heartbreak had been involved. Or maybe he just noticed the anger more because there wasn’t any heartbreak taking up space on his emotional hard drive.
Most of the real anger came from betrayal. Not so much from Sherrie, but from the rest of the clan. She got to each of them with her sweet public persona and they bought into it, leaving him to play the role of the bad guy in the whole affair.
Poole replaced the valve gasket and cover, trying not to hurry. Dark anger continued to build inside of him. Anger at his family, whom he considered a pack full of traitors. Some for Sherrie, for not just breaking it off with him first before she started sleeping around. And the job, of course. The fucking job. Hart making his gold bar and everyone considering him the lieutenant’s flunkie. Hart probably most of all. Some friend he turned out to be.
Life just plain sucks.I need some heavy metal.
He pushed a button and Metallica roared out of his boom box. Carefully, he tightened down the valve cover. By the time he slammed the hood, he really needed to drive.
1216 hours
The robbery alarm tone caught Karl Winter by surprise. Scarface had never hit before eighteen hundred, and Winter couldn’t recall a robbery on day shift since June or so. He slipped his sandwich back into his lunch cooler and brushed the crumbs off his shirt as he listened intently.
“Suspect fled eastbound. White male, tall and thin wearing black jeans and a blue windbreaker. Long black hair with a scar on the left side of his face.”
That had to be him. The description was too close. Winter dropped the car into gear and headed in the direction of the robbery. He decided to put his theory to the test, so he drove to Grand Boulevard and parked. He watched cars as they cruised past, looking for single females driving large cars.
Ridgeway and Giovanni both radioed their arrival at the area of the robbery near Southeast Blvd.
There!
Winter saw a slender white female with dark, stringy hair westbound on 29th approaching Grand. She appeared nervous and made the right turn without using her signal. A thrill shot through Winter. That could be it.
He radioed in his intention to stop the vehicle. The dispatcher sent Reiser to back him up. Winter swung in behind the large car and waited for her to clear the intersection and continue for another two blocks. As he watched, the driver nervously glanced in her rear-view mirror. When she changed lanes, again without signaling, he turned on his overheads and broadcasted his final location.