Katie sighed. She was starting to sound cynical, and after just three years on the job. Maybe she needed a vacation.
Yeah, a vacation from my life.
The radio squawked. “Adam-116, Adam-114.”
Katie keyed her mike and listened as Matt Westboard did the same.
“A domestic at 5117 N. Celtic Avenue. Caller can hear yelling and banging. Nothing further. No listing on occupants of the house.”
Katie copied and gave her location, about two minutes away from the address. Westboard copied from nearly downtown. Radio repeated their locations. Katie cursed at the dispatcher. Wasn’t there someone closer than Westboard to back her? No one answered up, though.
Light traffic allowed her to make good time, and she arrived on scene in less than a minute and a half. She checked out, parked a half a block away and walked in. The yards in this neighborhood seemed well tended and all the houses looked nice. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. DV’s happened in mansions and shacks alike.
She approached the house carefully. Except for the muffled sound of a television, no sound came from inside. The shades were drawn. Katie kept her radio covered with her hand as she crept along the side of the house. Still nothing.
The open porch had steps on both sides. She stepped up slowly, listening.
Then came the screaming, muffled through the closed windows and door. At least one male and one female. She could hear slaps and the sound of furniture being struck. It went on for about five seconds, then subsided for a moment.
Katie eased the screen door open and locked it out, her heart pounding. Clear as day, she heard another roar of human voices and sounds of struggle. Then a female voice cried, “Oh, no!” followed by a booming male voice, “Get up you, worthless piece of shit!” More sounds of strikes and furniture.
Katie keyed her mike and spoke in a subdued voice. “-16, how far off is -14?”
“Division and Buckeye.”
Damn. Katie’s breathing was shallow and rapid. She forced herself to inhale and then exhale more deeply.
More screaming. Loud pounding.
Another deep breath. Sweat collected on her upper lip and trickled from her armpits. Her vest seemed extra heavy.
She had to go in.
Damn!
She depressed the transmit button. “Adam-116, it sounds violent. Have -14 step it up.” She swallowed thickly and licked her lips. “I’m going in.”
Radio copied. The dispatcher relayed her message and restricted the channel, her voice tense. Katie didn’t notice. She wiped her damp palms on her uniform pants and drew her pistol. Just in case, she checked the doorknob.
Locked.
Another female screamed, “Oh, no, not again!”
Immediately after, a male yelled, “Get out of there!”
Katie stepped back and booted the door, putting her weight forward and striking just to the side of the knob, as she had been taught. The result was a loud crack and the door swung partially open. A small jagged piece of wood held it weakly to the doorjamb. Katie put her shoulder into the door and came crashing into the house.
As soon as she made entry, she swept her gun across all open spaces. She saw the threat immediately. A white male stood in the center of the living room off to her right with a fireplace poker in his right hand. He held it raised as if to strike. On the couch in front of him cringed a white female. Both stared at her in surprise.
She pointed the gun at him. “Police! Drop that poker now!”
The man just stood there, staring.
“Do it!” Katie’s finger slipped into the trigger guard. She began to squeeze.
The man did not move.
“If you don’t drop that poker right now, I will shoot you,” she told him in a low, intense voice.
The man shook his head as if just waking up. He let go of the poker. It clattered to the floor while he raised his hands.
“Now turn away from me,” Katie directed.
The man complied.
“Down on your knees.”
The man dropped to his knees. “What’s going on?”
Katie ignored his question and kept her gun trained on the center of his back. “Clasp you hands behind your head. Cross your ankles.”
The man did both without hesitation. She saw him trembling even from across the room.
Katie eased around the couch, not taking her eyes off the suspect. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“W-what?”
“Do you need medical treatment?”
“No. W-what’s all this about?”
Katie allowed herself to take a quick glance at the woman, who sat on the couch, a bottle of beer still clutched in her hand. She had no visible injuries. Katie noticed that her makeup wasn’t even smeared.
“You aren’t injured?”
“No. Why would I be?”
A terrible feeling seeped into Katie. “Where did he hit you?”
Her question was met with a confused look. “Hit me? Fred? No.”
“But I heard yelling and-”
“Boom-Boom,” Fred said, turning back to look over his shoulder.
“What?”
“We…we were watching Boom-Boom. The middle-weight boxer from River City?”
Katie glanced at the television and noticed the small ESPN logo in the lower left corner. Two men were boxing.
“You never heard of Boom-Boom Bassen? He’s number fourteen in the world.”
“No,” Katie whispered.
“He got knocked down,” the woman explained. “The black guy knocked him down.”
“Can I sit down now?” the man asked.
“What about the poker? Why’d he have that?” Katie asked the woman.
“Someone was breaking in,” she answered, gesturing toward the door.
Katie motioned to Fred. “Go sit down.”
Grateful, he rose and sat beside his wife on the couch. Katie moved the poker and holstered her gun, shaking her head.
Boxing fans. The only thing worse were football fans.
Remembering other units were headed her way, Katie keyed her mike. “Adam-116, code four.”
“Copy, code four. Adam-114 and all other units may disregard.”
Katie turned back to the couple who still stared at her, a shocked look on their faces. “We received a 911 call,” she explained. “Someone reported a disturbance.”
Outside, a car approached and then a door slammed.
Fred raised his hand tentatively, as if he were in school. Katie nodded at him. “Uh, who’s gonna fix our door?”
“The city will pay for it,” Katie assured him. “Would you like to speak to a supervisor, sir?”
Matt Westboard appeared in the doorway. His eyes surveyed the scene, then came to rest on Katie. He raised a single eyebrow questioningly.
“Boom-Boom Bassen,” she told him.
“Number fourteen in the world,” Fred added.
2130 hours
Lt. Hart stood in front of the lectern. He’d completed his briefing for the robbery special detail, repeating himself several times to ensure his instructions were clear. Plainclothes observers were not to engage the robber alone. He didn’t want anyone hot-dogging this operation.
“Any questions?”
No response. He looked at the seven participants. Were they here to catch the robber or just to suck up overtime? Probably some of both, he decided, but for the first time since he made lieutenant, he didn’t care what the OT costs were. He wanted Scarface.
That was his ticket to Captain’s bars.
2134 hours
Gio sat across the table from Marilyn. The dinner had been delicious. He didn’t care for seafood, but Marilyn loved it. He ordered a steak, though, so it all worked out.
He stared at her, watching her eat daintily, dab her lips with a napkin, sip her wine.