“I’m about a minute off,” Reiser advised.
Winter approached the vehicle carefully. He rested his hand lightly on his gun, something he rarely did anymore. The driver watched him, stock-still. Both of her hands clutched the steering wheel.
Winter scanned the back seat. Empty. And surprisingly clean. Nothing other than three unopened cans of motor oil lay on the vacuumed floor. The front passenger seat was likewise empty.
“Is there a problem, officer?”
Winter met her gaze. He saw nothing there beyond the nervousness most motorists displayed when stopped by the police. “You failed to signal for a lane change.”
The woman turned red. “Oh, my God, did I?”
Winter nodded.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
Winter asked for her license and she handed it over. Winter scrutinized it, his suspicion fading.
“Charlie-253, I’ve got him by the Buck Bonanza.” Ridgeway’s voice held steady. “He’s heading across the parking lot toward a blue Datsun pickup.”
“-257, I’m with him,” Gio radioed.
“Charlie-252,” came Reiser’s voice, “I can divert if -251 is code four.”
Winter keyed his mike as he handed the woman back her license. “Charlie-251 is clear and en route.”
The woman gave him a confused look.
“Drive carefully,” he told her, and hustled back to his cruiser.
The Buck Bonanza, where everything in the store cost just one dollar, was located at about 27th and Freya, a straight shot down 29th. Winter, usually a cautious driver, activated his lights and siren and drove like a graveyard officer. Civilian cars peeled off to the right to make way for him. He cranked the volume on his police radio and listened, knowing it would all be over before he could get there.
As he approached Southeast Boulevard, Gio’s voice came over the air, out of breath. “Charlie-257, one in custody. Have units lower their code.”
Winter shut off his sirens but kept his lights on as he cruised into the parking lot. He spotted Ridgeway rummaging through a small blue pickup. Gio stood over a proned out and handcuffed white male. Winter parked his car and approached.
Gio smiled at him and held up a black wig. “Lookee here, Karl.”
Winter returned the grin.
Gio hooted. “Whew! Day tour nabs Scarface! Graveyard would’ve needed forty troops and an hour to do this.”
Winter eyed the suspect lying very still on the ground. Hands cuffed behind his back, the man’s head faced toward Winter. He remained motionless, his eyes wide open and staring. Winter would have suspected the man was dead if hadn’t noticed him breathing heavily and blinking occasionally.
Karl Winter frowned. He saw a fake scar on the left side of the suspect’s face. It hung limply from his cheek, partially peeled away. Winter also noticed a very real gash on the man’s brow. A trickle of blood flowed from it.
“Stupid,” Winter muttered.
Ridgeway joined them. A black gun dangled by his pen in the trigger-guard. Winter noticed it sway back and forth easily as Ridgeway approached. Too easily.
“Plastic,” Ridgeway told them both. “Moron robbed the store with a toy gun.”
Gio shook his head. He handed the wig to Ridgeway who put it in an evidence bag, along with the plastic gun. Then Gio and Winter stood the suspect up and put him in Gio’s car. “I’ll take him to Major Crimes if you want to stay with the scene, Mark.”
Ridgeway nodded as Sergeant Michaels pulled up. With Poole on his day off, the north side sergeant was in command of their platoon, too. Not that these veterans needed much commanding, Winter thought.
After all, he added with a smile, they’d caught the infamous Scarface robber.
And that was something Swing shift and Graves had failed to do after fourteen chances.
1225 hours
When the phone call from Dispatch came, Lieutenant Alan Hart had been interviewing a citizen who wanted to file a complaint against one of his officers. Officer Jack Stone, a ten-year-veteran, worked the north side. Based on what the citizen had told him thus far, it sounded like a founded demeanor complaint to Hart.
Now, he hung up the phone with mixed feelings. It was a feather in his cap that Scarface had been caught by his shift, and not Saylor’s. But it also precluded any need for his task force, which Captain Reott had tentatively approved. As a result, he attained some small glory where he could have achieved a lot.
I just have to make the best of it.
He turned his attention back to the citizen. “Mr. Watson, I appreciate you coming in. You have a valid complaint. I will definitely forward this information to our Internal Affairs Unit. Someone will contact you for another interview. If it’s not convenient to come in, they can conduct it by telephone.”
Mr. Watson rose and shook Hart’s hand. “Thank you. I hope the officer doesn’t get in too much trouble. I just wanted to let you know what had happened.”
Hart gave his most political smile. “It’s citizens like you who help us make this a better department.”
Mr. Watson left, obviously pleased with himself.
Hart locked his office and hustled over to Major Crimes to check on the Scarface investigation.
1845 hours
Duke’s, the bar preferred by patrol, pulsed with excitement. Still flush with their success, Gio and Ridgeway celebrated. They stood at the bar, re-telling the story over and over to cops and patrons alike. Johnny, the bartender, and Rachel, the waitress, had each heard the tale at least six times.
In high spirits, Gio tipped back his beer. He found the day tour comfortable. They handled a lot of boring calls, but you couldn’t beat the hours. During the summer, all the little hotties came out in shorts and tank tops, providing nice scenery, too. Even so, he often longed for more action. Today had satisfied that longing.
“There I was,” Ridgeway told Jack Stone, the newest arrival, “on routine patrol.”
Stone smiled at the age-old joke. “Don’t you mean, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ or something like that?”
“This is a police story,” Ridgeway told him. “And every good police story starts out like that.”
Stone raised his hands. “All right. There you were-”
“Right,” Ridgeway said, “on routine patrol.”
Gio smiled. Though not yet five o’clock, both Ridgeway and Stone had downed two beers and two shots. Gio consciously slowed down after the first triumphant beer and shot.
“Anyway,” Ridgeway continues, “so I see this guy sneaking around the parking lot-”
“Sneaking? In broad daylight?”
“Yes, like the idiot that he is.” Ridgeway paused to take a slug from his beer. “Anyway, I know it’s him. He’s got a paper bag hanging out of his jacket pocket and long black hair. It’s obviously a wig. I mean, you can see that from clear across the parking lot.”
“What’s he wearing a jacket for, anyway?” Stone added. “It’s almost eighty degrees out today.”
Ridgeway stared at Stone in mock-anger. “You want to tell this story?”
“No, go ahead.” Stone grinned.
“All right.” Ridgeway paused and peered at his beer. “Where was I?”
“On routine patrol,” Stone quipped.
Ridgeway shot him a look of warning. “I’m in the parking lot. And I see this guy. So I go buzzing up there as he gets into the pickup. I see Gio coming the other way. We jump out and run up to the truck. I’ve got my piece out-”