“. . . so watch out for a green Chevy Malibu with rust spots
on the hood. The suspect was armed with a sawed-off shotgun and is definitely
dangerous. If you spot him, call for back up and approach with caution.
The bank security guard who died was an off duty L.A. County Sheriff Deputy,
so this suspect is already looking at a murder charge for killing a law
officer. He won't have anything to lose.” Lieutenant Moore eyed the
men gathered for Roll Call sternly. “I don't want to lose any officers
to this character, so play it safe. And Sergeant MacDonald here has something
for you as well.”
Sergeant MacDonald took over the briefing of the daywatch of Central
Division of the Los Angeles Police Department. “There's been a string
of chemical warehouse and supply store break-ins. Malloy, they've been
mostly in your district, so you and Reed might want to patrol those places
a little closer.”
“Right, Mac,” Pete Malloy nodded.
“All right then, men, fall out for inspection,” Mac dismissed
them and left the room.
Patrol Officer Jim Reed blew out his cheeks as he shut his notebook.
A thousand questions squirreled around his brain about what must have
happened during the bank robbery, but he knew better than to ask. He curbed
his natural tendency to chatter and simply said, “Sure is sad about
Murphy.”
“A good man in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Pete
Malloy, Jim's partner and training officer of one week, agreed. “Get
the shotgun, Reed.”
“Yes, sir. I'll meet you at the car.”
###
7:35 a.m. Wilshire Boulevard Jim watched the morning rush of traffic flow around their patrol car,
trying to spot anything out of place, anything that didn't look right.
A week of getting out on patrol duty had finally given Jim a little bit of
a feel for what to watch out for, but he still worried that he'd miss something,
that a stolen car would flash by them and he wouldn't even realize it.
He picked up the list of hot plates.
“You'll never memorize them,” Pete said mildly.
Jim blushed and put it back on its holder. “I'm just afraid
I'll miss something.”
“You will miss some. You're a human, not a robot. Nine times
out of ten, you won't spot a stolen car unless we pull the driver over
on something else. Most GTA's think the law doesn't apply to them, including
traffic laws, so we wait for them to do something stupid and nab 'em.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pete winced. “I thought I got you to quit calling me 'sir'.”
“Sorry, Malloy. Uh, Malloy?”
“What?”
“That L.A. County deputy–did you know him?”
“Nope.”
“Wonder if he was married.”
Pete glanced over at him, then back to the road. “Let it go,
Reed. You can't save the world.”
Jim made a face. “I know. It's just sad. The guy was probably
moonlighting to earn a little extra money for his family and look what
happens. All because of money.”
“You don't know that. The guy could have been addicted to a
uniform and took the guard job as a hobby.”
“Malloy, c'mon. You don't really think that.”
Pete smiled. “No, I don't.”
“You know, if they paid us a little more, then maybe that guy
would still be alive.”
“So write your councilman a letter.”
“I might just do that.” Jim straightened up in his seat.
“Have you ever moonlighted as a security guard?”
“Nope.”
“I've thought about it, what with the baby coming and all. The
extra cash would be nice. But I'd hate to spend more time away from home
than I already do. I mean, I'm already gonna miss out on a lot of things,
like maybe his first word, or his first step. But there's so many expenses
with babies–diapers, baby food, toys, clothes. Maybe a second job
wouldn't be so--”
Dispatch cut in before Jim could finish his rambling thoughts on a
second job. “All units in the vicinity and 1-Adam-34, 211 in progress,
Charter National Bank. All units responding identify. 1-Adam-34, respond
Code 3.”
Jim glanced at Pete for guidance. “Let's take it,” Pete said.
“1-Adam-12 will respond to 1-Adam-34's call,” Jim responded,
then replaced the mic. “Wonder if that's the same one that Mac told
us about this morning?”
“We'll find out,” was all Pete said. Jim nodded and concentrated
on watching the side streets for cars failing to yield the right-away.
###
7:47 a.m. Charter National Bank, Wilshire Boulevard
Pete pulled up behind Ed Wells' black and white
on the block just north of the bank. “What've you got?”
“It's our man,” Ed replied, leaning down to look in Pete's
window. “Green Chevy parked out front, rust spots, the works.”
“How do you wanna handle it?”
“We'll take the front if you and the kid there wanna cover the
back.”
Pete nodded, told Ed to monitor Tac 2, then pulled 1-Adam-12 in a tight
u-turn to access the next sidestreet to the north. Jim was quiet on his
side of the car. Pete noticed the surreptitious way Jim wiped his palm on
his pant leg. “What'd they teach you about holding the rear of a
bank during a 211?”
“Kneel behind the unit for cover, keep the gun drawn and aimed
at the probable exit. Watch for suspicious people, vehicles or activity
in the surrounding area. Notice any license plates on parked vehicles.”
“Good, but you forgot two things.”
A panicked look flickered across Jim's face. “W-what?”
he stammered.
“Follow your training officer's lead and don't do anything stupid.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim nodded two or three times quickly and it
was all Pete could do to keep from laughing. Reed was as eager a beaver
as ever hit the LAPD, but all Pete had to do to yank his chain was make
some allusion that he hadn't remembered everything he'd ever learned in
the academy.
“Calm down, Reed,” Pete ordered as he parked the car.
He could feel the waves of nervousness emanating from Reed, but to his
credit, Jim didn't hesitate as he opened his door and squatted low behind
it. He pulled the shotgun out of its holder on the floor near the front
seat and held it ready in a textbook pose.
Pete grabbed the mic and flipped the radio to the tactical frequency.
“Wells, we're in position.” He replaced the mic, then looked
at his partner. “If the suspect comes out the back, what do you
do?”
Jim cleared his throat once, then answered, “I yell, 'Freeze,
police!'”
“And if he doesn't freeze?”
“If he runs away on foot, pursue on foot–”
“I pursue on foot. You get on the radio and get Wells
to back us up.”
“But–”
“Reed, do you remember our first shift together?”
“Yeah.”
“What did I tell you to do after you insisted on chasing off
after that gang when I specifically told you not to?”
Jim didn't take his eyes off the back door of the bank. “You,
uh, told me to stay put and marry that tree if I had to.”
“Reed, consider yourself engaged to the patrol car.”
Jim glanced briefly at him, exasperation clearly showing in his blue
eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Pete smiled inwardly. The wheels were cranking away in his young partner's
head. He was secretly proud of the kid for the way he seemed to always
be thinking ahead. But Reed was green, so green grass stains wouldn't show
up on him. And all big-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to take on the world.
I was never that young, surely.
Five quiet minutes passed and Pete noticed Jim was starting to fidget.
“Easy, partner,” he murmured.
“My foot's asleep.”
“Get in the car and stretch your leg out.”
“But that's not what–”
“Welcome to the streets, Reed. Sometimes the book doesn't allow
for the frailty of the human condition.”
Jim nodded, then eased onto his seat and stretched his leg out. “Sure
is a lot to learn,” he commented.
“Yep.”
Ed Wells' voice floated out of the radio speaker. “1-Adam-12,
code 4. Suspect's in
custody.”
Jim grabbed the mic and acknowledged, then stood up and stamped his
foot. Pete slid behind the wheel. “Are you coming?” he called
irritably.
Jim practically fell into the seat and hurriedly slammed his door.
“Oops,” he muttered when he pulled the seat belt. He opened
the door again and freed the trapped belt, giving Pete a sheepish grin. “The
belt was caught in the door.”
“Yeah. Shut your door, Reed.”
Jim shut his door and Pete dropped the car into gear. “We'll
check around front, then you can clear us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pete sighed.
“I mean, sure, Malloy.”
Pete glanced heavenward. Green.
###
“So how's the kid working out?” Ed Wells asked.
Pete pulled an extra pair of shoelaces out of his locker and sat down
on the bench. He glanced at the other officer. “Fine, Ed. He's
doing just fine.”
“Think he'll come through in a tight spot?”
“He already did once,” Pete reminded him.
“Yeah, after he ran off into the dark when you told him not to.”
“So he's got initiative.”
“That's not what I heard you called it, my friend,” Ed
taunted. “I seem to have heard that you told the Lieutenant the
only thing good about that kid was that he wore the uniform well.”
“And he does,” Pete said mildly. “And I'm sure he'll
do a lot of other things equally well, given time, so lay off.”
Ed ignored Pete's let's-end-it-at-that tone. “Must be kinda
rough, breaking in another one, so soon after . . . well, you know.”
Malloy pulled the broken lace out of his shoe. “Ed, you have
all the tact of a rhino at a ladies' tea party, you know that?”
“Gee, sorry, Malloy. I was just trying to make conversation.”
“Well, go find someone else to make conversation with, would
you?”
Ed pulled his hat down low and marched out of the locker room, leaving
Pete alone with his thoughts. Ed was right about one thing–breaking
in Reed was painful, although he'd never admit it to a soul. He
tried not to, but every time he looked across the patrol car, he kept expecting
to see Steve McGill's round, homely Scottish mug. And he kept waiting to
hear Steve's laid-back, deep Southern drawl clearing them. Jim Reed's quiet,
almost monotonous radio voice still felt wrong to Pete's ears. Pete sighed
as he threaded the new lace through the holes. Give Reed time. It's
only been a week.
Pete missed McGill's fun-loving, happy-go-lucky nature. Reed was nice
enough, but he was almost too nice, like the way he kept pestering
Pete on their first day together to confide in him about McGill. McGill
would have let Pete stew, which is how Pete preferred handling his own problems.
McGill would have just said, “Buck up, Malloy,” and they would
have laughed and that would have been the end of it.
No, Reed was a whole 'nother ballgame. About the only thing he had
in common with McGill was a happy marriage, but with McGill, it was barely
noticeable. But not Reed. Reed had to be on the take from the marriage
license bureau as much as he pushed the domesticity doctrine at Pete. Yep,
no doubt about Reed–he was a married man. Boy, was he ever married.
Rushing home at the end of every shift, grinning like a fool every time
he mentioned his wife. No man could be married and be that happy.
It wasn't natural. That Jean must be some dame for a good-looking kid
like Reed to go totally monogamous at such a young age.
Yep, Reed was a class-A, dyed-in-the-wool straight arrow. Didn't drink
much, didn't smoke. Didn't chase girls, married his high school sweetheart.
All he could talk about was how wonderful marriage was, and how exciting
having a baby was, and how they wanted at least three kids, maybe more.
Pete was all for families and babies, but that was something other people
did. All of Reed's talk about babies was boring Pete out of his mind.
Pete heard the locker room door swing open, then he heard a locker
door open. “Reed, that you?”
“Yeah, Malloy. Getting my lunch.”
“Why don't we take 7 at Duke's?”
There was a brief silence, then a hesitant, “Okay.”
Pete kicked himself, knowing Reed was probably checking the contents
of his wallet. Reed was a probationer, a father-to-be with a wife to support
on not much money. “Forget it, Reed. Bring your lunch with you.
I want a coney from A & Z's instead.”
Pete slid his shoe back on and tied the laces. Jim came around the
lockers, brown bag in hand. “What's for lunch?” Pete asked,
nodding toward it.
“Liverwurst sandwich, an apple, a Snickers bar, some potato chips.”
Pete made a face. “How do you live on that?”
Jim shrugged. He didn't look entirely thrilled with his lunch either.
“Coney dog sounds a lot better.”
“Well, eat your liverwurst and think about the baby food you
can buy with the money you saved.”
Jim's face brightened almost comically. “Yeah, you're right.”
“Tell you what, if you can spot a stolen plate between the station
and A & Z's, I'll buy you a coney.”
“You're on!”
###
Jim stared at every plate they passed, but not a single one was on
the hot sheet. He even called in one that looked a little hinky, but no
dice. And no coney. He got out his liverwurst sandwich and tried not
to stare at the gooey, drippy, cheesy hot dog Pete guided into his mouth.
Think about diapers, and little Jimmy's Little League fees. Or little
Annie's ballet lessons.
To keep his mind off the heady scent of onion filling the car, he asked,
“Malloy, when did you start to feel comfortable doing this job?”
“You mean breaking you in? I'm still not comfortable with that,
Reed.”
Jim wasn't sure if Pete was teasing him or not, so he let the comment
slide. “No, I mean being a cop. Way back when you graduated.”
Pete gave him two seconds of blue-eyed glare before he answered, “It
wasn't so long ago, Reed.”
Jim felt his cheeks grow hot. “Sorry, I didn't mean it to come
out like that. It's just that you seem so confident. I'm just worried
that I won't ever reach a point where I'm that confident in myself.”
Pete's glare softened. “You'll get there, don't worry.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Reed, are you planning on screwing up?”
“No.”
“Then quit worrying about it. You're doing fine.” Pete
stuffed the last bite of coney into his mouth.
“Malloy?”
“Whu'?” he mumbled.
“Do you ever get scared?”
Pete took the time to chew and swallow a pull on his soda. “Yeah,
Reed. I do. The minute I stop being scared, I'll turn in my badge. You
wanna clear us? Lunch is over.”
Jim obediently cleared them, but he wasn't finished worrying. “Malloy,
what if something comes along that scares me so much I freeze up?”
“Reed, nobody comes out of the Academy knowing for sure that
he won't freeze up, but if you trust your training, and your instincts,
then chances are you'll be fine. You sure didn't show any signs of freezing
up that night in the park,” he reminded him.
Jim grinned faintly. “Yes, sir. I mean, Malloy.”
“Don't look so smug. You disobeyed my orders and I'm still not
happy about that.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim said quickly, wiping the smile off his
face.
“You got lucky that night. Don't pull a stunt like that again,
or I'll bust you out of the ranks, all right?”
“Yes, sir.” This had to be the tenth time Pete hounded
him on that. Jim had the distinct impression that even if he made Police
Chief, Pete would probably still be holding his first night over his head.
“1-Adam-12, ambulance traffic, TA, Barrington Way and Crawford.”
“1-Adam-12, roger,” Jim responded. They were only about three
blocks away.
When they arrived, they found the Los Angeles City Fire Department
working to extricate a victim from the crumpled remains of a station wagon
that had plowed into the side of a pick up truck. Pete pulled up just past
the accident scene. “You get the flares. I'll direct traffic.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim said, then pulled the highway flares out
of the trunk. He lit them and set them at intervals around the accident
scene and half a block up the street. He jogged back to the accident scene
to offer a hand if they needed.
The firefighters gave him a cursory glance, and one of them snapped
at him to get out of the way and keep the crowd back. Jim stepped onto the
sidewalk and held out both his arms. “Folks, please get back.”
The knot of rubberneckers moved back a step or two, except for one crying
woman who tried to rush past him. He grabbed her arm. “Hold it,
hold it, hold it!” he said. “Come back here.”
The woman, a heavyset blonde of about thirty with a gash on her forehead,
was nearly hysterical. “You don't understand! My baby's in that car!”
“Ma'am, the fire department's doing everything they can. You
need to stay back and let them work.”
She turned stricken eyes to his. “She's only two years old.”
Jim wished he could do something to ease the woman's worry, but he
knew he had to do his job. He pulled her back to the sidewalk. Then he
fished out his notebook. “What's your name, ma'am?” he asked
as gently as he could.
“Sylvia Mathers,” she muttered, her eyes never leaving
the firefighters. Jim glanced back and saw they were prying at the doors
with large metal pry bars.
“Ma'am, were you the driver?”
“Yes,” she said absently, then took a step forward off
the curb. Jim placed a restraining hand on her arm and gave up trying
to ask her questions. He simply stood beside her and watched as the firefighters
finally tore the door open and removed what looked like a lifeless, tiny
body. Jim's stomach knotted up as the woman let out a heart-wrenching wail.
He had to forcibly hold her back as the ambulance men rushed over with
their gurney. They put the tiny child on the white-sheeted gurney and
hustled it into the back of the ambulance.
Sylvia Mathers turned and grabbed Jim's arm. “Where are they
taking her? Where are they taking my baby?”
“Probably to Central Receiving, ma'am. If you'd like, you can
ride in the front of the ambulance.”
The woman gave him a distracted nod, then hurried off to join the ambulance
driver. Jim watched the ambulance wail down the street, then turned to
the spectators. “Show's over, folks. Move along.”
He rejoined Pete at their car. “Is Accident Investigation coming?”
“Yeah,” Pete said, scribbling out the date and time on
the top of his report. “Did you get that woman's name?”
Jim pulled out his notebook and read off the particulars.
“Was she driving?”
“Yeah.”
Pete glanced up. “How'd she say it happened?”
“I, uh, didn't get to that.” Jim chewed his lower lip,
realizing he'd probably screwed up.
Pete closed his notebook. “That's okay. We'll get it at the
hospital.”
Jim dropped into his seat and picked up the mic. “Should I put
us Code 6?”
“No, put the incident Code 4 and tell them we're 'on follow-up
on the TA to Central Receiving'. We'll head over to the hospital to get
the woman's statement.”
Jim obediently called it in, stumbling a little over the wording.
He put the mic back on its clip.
“You're getting better at handling the radio,” Pete commented.
“I still go blank sometimes. All the codes fly right out of
my head. And the phonetic alphabet–sometimes the dispatcher rattles
off a spelling too fast for me.”
“Don't worry about it. You'll get the hang of it quicker than
you think.”
Jim watched out his side window. “Wonder if that baby's gonna
make it.”
“Don't know.”
Jim looked at the impassive face of his training officer. “Do
scenes like that ever get to you, Malloy?”
“Not usually,” Pete said abruptly, then after a pause,
added, “Little kids are the worst, though.”
“Makes me think about Jean and the baby.”
“Reed, anybody ever tell you that you think way too much?”
“I can't help it, Malloy,” Jim protested. “Sometimes
I see these situations and I just know that someday that's gonna be Jean.”
Malloy glanced over. “Did you know that med students think they
come down with every ailment they study?”
“What's that got to do with anything?”
“Reed, all this is so new to you you're letting it overwhelm
your perspective. Look at all these cars driving down this street–they're
not crashing into each other. Chances are Jean won't get in a TA the next
time she goes to the store. Keep your perspective.”
Jim thought about Pete's words, then finally nodded. “You're
right. I'll try harder.”
“Reed, if you try any harder, you'll explode. Just relax. You're
doing fine.”
Jim hunched his shoulders, then slowly relaxed them. Pete was right.
He wouldn't survive if he imagined the worst happening every day. He'd
be a basket case.
###
Forty-five minutes later, they'd gotten the woman's statement and learned
that the baby had died on the way to the hospital. The woman was inconsolable,
and Pete was afraid Reed was going to start to bawl right along with her,
but the kid had hung in there, holding himself together save for swallowing
hard several times. Pete backed out of the parking space. He waited until
they were on the street before he glanced at Jim. Reed's gaze seemed fixed
somewhere north of the Verdugo mountains. “Reed, you wanna clear
us?”
Reed jumped, then grabbed the mic. “1-Adam-12, clear.”
Pete let Reed reclip the mic before he commented softly, “Let
it go, Jim.”
Jim nodded. “Yeah,” he said, but his voice cracked. He
cleared his throat noisily and turned his head away from Pete to stare
out the side window.
Pete sighed to himself. Their first night together, they'd come close
to having a dead baby call, but Pete had been able to revive the infant,
who had nearly suffocated on a plastic bag. Pete had been so busy trying
to revive the baby that he hadn't really noticed how upset Reed was getting.
But once the baby had let out a healthy squall, Reed had recovered, and
Pete had pretty much forgotten about Jim's initial reactions. But now he
realized that it looked like his new partner had a weak spot for babies.
Hell, so did Pete, but he had learned how to handle it without letting it
affect his job. He remembered the first time he'd had a dead baby call.
He'd fought back tears the rest of the shift, couldn't work the radio, couldn't
even talk. His training officer, Moore, had finally pulled the car over
in Griffith Park and forced Pete out of the car with orders to find a quiet
spot where he could get himself under control. Pete glanced over at Jim,
saw him swipe the back of his hand across his nose, and aimed the car toward
Reese Drive.
Neither of them said anything as they circled the trees and meadows
in the park. Jim kept up a pretense of looking around, but Pete knew the
only thing he was seeing was that dead baby. Pete found the spot he was
looking for, pulled over and shut off the engine. “1-Adam-12, put
us code 6 at Reese Drive and Griffith Park Road.”
Jim's head snapped around. “What are you doing?”
“Get out.”
“W-what?”
“See those trees over there?”
Jim looked where Pete's finger was pointing. “Yeah.”
“Go over there, sit on the ground and for the next five minutes,
cry, swear, beat on a tree, whatever it takes to get this out of your system.
When you're done, come back and we'll get to back to work.”
“Malloy, I don't–“
“Reed, go!”
Jim gave him an uncertain look, then nodded and got out of the car.
Pete watched him disappear into the copse. He glanced at his watch and
waited, and precisely five minutes later, Jim re-emerged from the bushes.
He got into the black and white, keeping his eyes down. “Thanks,”
he mumbled.
“You all right now?”
“Yeah.” Jim took a deep breath, then nodded and repeated
with more certainty. “Yeah.”
Pete gave Jim a careful appraisal, then started the engine. “Who
do you like for the World Series next year?”
“Um, I don't know. Maybe the Cardinals, since they lost it this
year. The Tigers might repeat.”
“I think the Mets'll take it.”
Jim stared at him in shock, the exact effect Pete was looking for.
It was so outlandish to think the Mets could turn around after 61-101 and
73-89 seasons to become world champions that it would pull anybody out of
a funk.
“Yeah, I think the Mets'll take it,” Pete repeated. “See,
you gotta watch out for the underdogs.”
“Yeah, but they're the Mets. I know they were better
this year than last year, but they still had a losing season.”
“So, you wanna make a little wager?”
Jim grinned. “Loser writes up the reports until Christmas?”
“You're on.” Pete smiled. “Clear us, partner.”
###
“I still can't believe you think the Mets'll take it
all next year,” Jim laughed as he started painstakingly filling out
the report after wrapping up a 459 call.
“Told you–you gotta watch out for the underdog. The guy
you least suspect will reach up and nab you when you're not looking.”
Pete sipped his coffee as he watched his partner write.
Jim just grunted as he continued itemizing the evidence. One of their
first calls that morning had been a woman whose shop had been burglarized
during the night. Thanks to a sharp-eyed insomniac who'd been out walking
his dog in the early morning hours, they'd gotten a good description of
the vehicle involved, although they hadn't tracked him down until early
afternoon. Jim was happy for the store owner that they'd recovered the
merchandise, but now they had to check in seventy-two pieces of lingerie.
At least he guessed it was lingerie. The shop wasn't the kind of place
he'd ever go shopping for Jean. He held up a silver-studded leather . .
something . . . and tried to figure out what it was. There wasn't enough
material on it for any kind of label or tag. It didn't look big enough to
cover . . . well, Jim didn't want to think about what it wouldn't cover.
“Call it a bra,” Pete said dryly.
“What?”
“You're the married man. Don't tell me you've never heard of
a bra?”
“Well, yeah, I've heard of a bra, but this thing's not exactly
the kind of stuff Jean . . .” He stopped as he realized what he
was about to say, as a burning rush of heat flooded his cheeks. “I
mean, Jean doesn't . . . well . . . she doesn't go for . . .”
“Never mind,” Pete said hurriedly. “Don't spoil
my image of your wife, all right?”
“You've never met my wife.”
“No, but if she's as All-American apple pie as you are, I figure
she's a real princess and I don't want that image spoiled.”
“Aw, Malloy, is that a compliment you just gave me?”
Pete made a face. “Just finish the report, Reed.”
Jim grinned, then bent his head back over his report. A final period
and a signature and he was done. “Seventy-two leather and metal,
uh . . . items, all booked in as evidence,” he sighed with satisfaction.
He slid the forms to Pete to sign.
Pete picked up the top one, then riffled through several below it.
“Partner, I hate to tell you this . . .”
“What?” Jim asked suspiciously.
“You used the wrong form.”
“You're kidding!” Jim squawked. He grabbed the forms out
of Pete's hands and frantically pawed through them. He glanced up and saw
Pete's smirk and tossed them down on the desk. “You rat.”
Pete laughed and picked up his pen. “You know what your problem
is, Reed?”
“You mean besides my training officer?”
Pete shot him a mock glare. “Careful,” he growled.
Jim flexed the kinks out of his right hand and grinned. “Tell
me what my problem is.”
“It's too easy to yank your chain.” Pete signed his name
on the final page with a flourish and handed the stack back to Jim. “You
watch, the Mets are gonna take it all next year.”
Jim snorted. “You gotta be kidding!”
“Mark my words. 1969 will be the year of the Mets. Now come
on–lets get back out on patrol before Mac keelhauls us. We'll check
out those chem supply warehouses.”
###
The warehouses were all fine, doing business as usual, undisturbed
by thieves. Two of them were closed, but two others were still doing a
booming trade, trucks lined up to loading docks and workers with dollies
ferrying boxes in and out. Pete spoke briefly with a foreman, learned there
had been no trouble, then they rolled back out into the residential area
of their district. As Jim watched the houses, he laughed and shook his head.
“The Mets in '69. You're something else, Malloy.”
Pete started to reply, but the radio beeped. “1-Adam-12,
459. See the man, 1649 West Holly Hills Drive. Respond Code 2.”
“1-Adam-12, roger,” Jim said, jotting down the address
on a slip of paper. “1649 West Holly Hills Drive. That's a pretty
nice area.”
“Yeah. Been getting quite a few calls over there, too. Wonder
if some of those rich kids are getting bored playing with Daddy's money.”
“Could be.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence, pulling up in front of a
large colonial home with a circular driveway and a very agitated middle-aged
man hopping from foot to foot on the large front porch. Pete braked the
car and they got out.
The man approached them hurriedly. “L. P. Dennison, attorney-at-law,”
he said, shaking each of their hands firmly.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Dennison?” Pete asked
as he put his hat on.
“Come back around to the garage,” Dennison said, abruptly
turning on his heels and stomping toward the back of the house. Pete raised
an eyebrow at Jim and followed the man to a three car garage. A Cadillac,
a Corvette and a 1955 Thunderbird gleamed in the dim interior. “Someone
broke into my cars last night. You can see where the door is still ajar
on my wife's Corvette.”
Pete nodded, then looked at the open garage doors. “Did you
leave the garage doors open?”
Dennison's outraged expression melted briefly into sheepishness. “Well,
yes, inadvertently. I got home quite late last night. I was tired. I
must have forgotten to close the doors.”
“Was anything taken, Mr. Dennison?” Jim asked, pulling
out his notebook.
The sheepish look deepened. “Well, er, yes.”
Pete waited, eyebrows raised, but when Dennison didn't go on, prompted,
“Sir?”
“All right, all right. A box of Tootsie pops.”
It took a valiant effort not to laugh. “A box of Tootsie Pops?”
Pete repeated.
“Yes, yes,” Dennison spat impatiently. “A box of
Tootsie Pops. And a flashlight. But I'm not worried about that. I called
you because it's the principal of the thing!”
“Yes, sir,” Pete said mildly. “Did you hear anything
in the night? Any strange noises?”
“No, I didn't. I tend to sleep very soundly.” The lawyer
looked forlornly in the back seat of his Cadillac.
Pete followed the man's gaze and noticed a leather-bound book laying
on the seat. “Is that your book, sir?”
“No, it's my son's Bible. Of course, the thief wouldn't want
THAT.”
This time Pete did smile. “No, sir. He probably wouldn't.
Well, sir, if you didn't see anything, and nothing seems to be damaged
or stolen, besides the Tootsie Pops,” Pete added quickly, “there's
not a lot we can do. We'll make a report, though, and if anything else
happens, be sure to let us know. It's probably the work of kids. We've
had similar calls in the area.”
“You mean to say some of my neighbors have lost their Tootsie
Pops?”
“Er, no, sir, not exactly. But there have been some minor break-ins,
some lawn ornament thefts, things like that.”
Dennison sighed. “Well, if you find a box of 300 Tootsie Pops,
they're mine.”
“Yes, sir,” Pete agreed, then shot an amused look at Jim,
whose face was red from trying not to laugh. He had his eyes down as he
scribbled furiously in his notebook. “Come on, partner.”
Jim nodded a goodbye to Dennison, then followed Pete back to the car.
As soon as they were out of the driveway, Jim exploded into laughter. “Tootsie
Pops! I don't believe it! They could have hotwired any one of those cars,
and they take Tootsie Pops?”
“It's probably kids. Who else would want 300 lollipops?”
“A lawyer name Dennison,” Jim answered promptly.
“Smart boy,” Pete drawled.
“How do I put that down in the report?”
“Let's call it petty theft.”
The radio beeped. “1-Adam-12, 415 unknown, 1784 West Holly
Hills. Respond Code 2.”
“That's just a block down,” Jim commented as he responded
to the call.
Pete didn't say anything until they'd pulled in the driveway. He glanced
at the wide expanse of lawn, then did a double take. “Oh, boy. I
think we found Mr. Dennison's Tootsie Pops.” Dotting the lawn like
a sea of wildflowers were hundreds of purple, red, yellow and green lollipops,
each stabbed into the turf.
Jim grinned. “Looks kinda pretty.”
“First a lingerie bandit, now a Tootsie Pop prankster. We'll
be arresting the tooth fairy next.”
###
“Mac, would I make up a report like that?” Pete protested
when Mac's eyebrows practically shot off his forehead as he read about the
Tootsie Pop caper.
“No, you wouldn't, and that's what scares me. I hope my kid
never gets wind of this. I can just see me running down to McClaren Hall
to bail my kid out on a Grand Theft Candy charge.” Mac laughed,
then put the reports in the top tray on the corner of his desk. He leaned
back in the chair and locked his fingers behind his head. “So, how's
Reed working out?”
Jim was still down at the candy machine, inspired no doubt by the sight
of all those Tootsie Pops. “He's doing really well,” Pete said.
“He's eager, quick to learn, hasn't made the same mistake more than
three times, and on top of all that, seems to be a decent human being.”
Mac nodded in satisfaction. He'd figured Reed was a good one, and
it looked like he wasn't wrong. “And you? You regret not quitting?”
Jim knocked on the door and walked in before Pete could answer. He
handed Pete a candy bar and unwrapped one of his own. “That last
call made me hungry,” he said with a grin.
Pete looked at Jim, then at the candy bar, then at Mac. “No,
Mac, I don't regret it,” he said.
###
“1-Adam-12, clear.” Jim rehooked the mic, doublechecked
the hotsheet, then settled back in his seat to watch traffic. “I
think I'm starting to get the hang of this.”
Pete glanced at him in amusement. “You do, do you?”
“Yeah, I really think I do. I mean, I realize that I probably
only know about five percent of everything there is to know about this
job, but I'm starting to get an idea that most of the time it's the same
thing over and over again.”
“So you're expecting to find another lawn full of lollipops this
afternoon?”
“No,” Jim retorted. “The details will change, but
no matter what the call, the reports will be the same, and the procedures
and all that stuff.”
“At least until they change the laws and the forms,” Pete
said dryly, then laughed at the dismayed expression on Jim's face. “I'm
kidding, Reed. They don't change the laws much.”
Jim sighed and opened his report folder, his confidence collapsing
like a pin-pricked balloon. “I'm never gonna learn it all.”
He started digging through papers, then slapped it shut and reached over
the back seat and grabbed his briefcase.
“What are you looking for?”
“The penal codes,” Jim muttered.
“You were looking in your folder for that thing? Jim,
the book's three inches thick.”
“Oh, that . . . I wasn't looking for the penal code book then.
I was doublechecking the forms.” He opened the penal code book
and started riffling through the pages.
Pete stopped at a red light. He reached over and plucked the book
out of Jim's hands. “Jim, being on patrol means looking out the
windows. Not sticking your nose in the penal code book.”
“I just wanted to look up something,” Jim protested, grabbing
for the book.
Pete transferred it to his left hand, then stashed it under his seat.
“No way, partner. You study the book on your own time.”
“Yes, sir.” He went back to digging through the notebook,
finally finding what he was looking for.
Pete glanced over at the half sheet of paper Jim placed in the crack
along the top of the glove compartment. “What are you doing?”
“I made up a study sheet of some of the weirder penal codes.
I've been having trouble remembering all of them, so I made up some lists
to hang in the bathroom or here in the car, so I can glance at them and memorize
them.”
Pete stared at the rookie for a long moment, then scowled. “Get
that thing off my dashboard.”
“But–”
“Reed!”
“Yes, sir,” he sighed, and pulled the sheet off.
Pete smothered a grin. Trying to memorize all the penal codes. Crazy
kid. Jim had that pugnacious look on his face, the same one he had when
Pete chewed him out that first night. The look that told him those wheels
were cranking. Pete chewed the inside of his cheek. He had to make sure
he found ways to give Jim some free rein to test out all those fine theories
he undoubtedly had in that squirrelly brain of his, or he had a feeling
Jim would turn sulky on him. “Reed,” he finally said.
“Yes, sir?”
Pete flashed him a look.
“I mean, Malloy,” Jim hastily corrected.
“Look, I know you think I'm being hard-nosed, but you gotta wean
yourself from all those notes and books and start leaning on your instincts
and the knowledge that you passed all the book work with flying colors.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pete rolled his eyes as the light turned green. So much for Jim not
sulking. “Look, Reed, you finished, what, ninth in your class?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“Did you cheat?”
Jim's head shot around so fast Pete was afraid Jim had given himself
whiplash. “No!” he asserted, his glare so fierce that Pete
fully expected to feel Jim's fist thudding into his jaw at any moment.
“Settle down, Reed,” he snapped, and the blue glare subsided
marginally. “I know you didn't cheat. That was a rhetorical question.
I'm just trying to make a point.”
“Sorry, sir,” Jim mumbled.
“Don't be sorry, Reed. Just tell me you understand my point,”
Pete said.
Jim nodded emphatically. “I'm sorry, Malloy. Guess I'm a little
touchy sometimes. I mean, I'd never cheat. What would be the point?
I have to know all this stuff backwards and forwards. If I cheated, then
it could mean a good bust goes down the tubes in court. Or worse, I could
get shot, or let something happen to you or another officer or a civilian.
I couldn't live with myself if that happened. I guess that's why I'm so
worried I'll forget something.”
Pete regretted his earlier impatience. He flashed a weak smile at
his earnest young partner. “You're doing fine, Jim,” he said
softly.
Jim's troubled eyes cleared as he smiled. “Thanks, Malloy.”
As Jim went back to trying to watch the entire city all at once, Malloy
reflected on what a change a week can make. Seven days ago, Pete had been
deliberately rude to the kid just to keep him at arm's length for those
eight final hours of his last shift with the LAPD. Eight hours. It had
taken Reed only eight lousy hours to worm his way past all of Pete's defenses.
That alone should have told Pete to give up, to face the fact that Reed was
just one of those irresistible forces in the universe, but Pete hadn't wanted
to face that. He still didn't want to, if he was perfectly honest with himself.
He sighed quietly and watched an old lady slowly cross the boulevard in
front of them. Why'd Reed have to be so darn likeable, anyway?
He had totally screwed up Pete's decision to leave the force, and that irritated
Pete to no end. Fact was, despite what he told Mac, a big part of Pete still
felt unequal to the task of breaking in a new kid. Unequal, hell–the
idea scared him to death and kept waking him up in a cold sweat in the middle
of the night.
For a while, he figured he could just be Reed's training officer and
leave it at that. No buddy-buddy stuff, no 'gee, let's be pals'; just
keep it strictly business and keep Reed alive until he was trained and Pete
could hand him off to whoever his permanent partner would be. And to that
end, all week he'd tried to keep up the brusque facade. But the facade
was starting to crumble, and each hour in the car beside Reed chipped away
a little more of the wall. It was just that something about Reed reminded
Pete of a kicked puppy, and how do you not fall for a puppy? He'd get
that flash of hurt in his eyes any time Pete snapped at him, but just like
some stupid golden retriever, five minutes later he'd be over it and grinning
that sappy grin of his, telling Pete how much he was learning, or yakking
about his marriage or his plans for his kid or laughing over the riddle
inside his candy wrapper. How could you not like a guy who still laughed
at Bazooka Joe?
“Hey, Malloy?”
“Huh?” Pete blurted, startled out of his reverie.
“That car up ahead. It's on the hotsheet.”
Pete glanced at Jim's finger pointing out the stolen plate number.
He reached over and hit the lights. “Good catch, Reed. You wanna
make the bust?”
“Do I get a coney now?”
Malloy shot him a glare, but the sappy grin just beamed back at him
all the wider.
###
They finished booking the car thief at the station and cleared for
patrol once more. Jim yawned, a jaw-cracking, eye-watering yawn that made
Pete wince. “Nap time?” he asked.
Jim shook his head. “Nah. I just get sleepy around two o'clock.
Those folks in Mexico have the right idea about afternoon siestas. We
oughta start doing that here.”
“You think so.”
“Yeah, I do,” Jim said, warming to the subject. “Think
about it–productivity in the factories would probably go up because
the workers wouldn't be forcing themselves to stay alert. And you know,
crime in the afternoon hours would be non-existent because everyone's asleep.”
“That means our productivity would go down,” Pete pointed
out. “No collars from two to three.”
Jim frowned. “Yeah, guess it would. Maybe that's not such a
good idea after all.”
“Whatever you say, Einstein.”
Jim glanced at Pete, unsure how to take the remark. Pete had that
bright-eyed look that Jim was starting to recognize as a sign that he was
pretty pleased with life, so he relaxed. Trying to read Pete's moods was
turning into the hardest part of Jim's job. Sometimes Pete seemed almost
friendly, bantering and laughing with Jim, but then other times it was
almost as if a light switch got turned off and Pete would snarl and growl
at him like he couldn't stand the sight of him. Jim always thought of himself
as a pretty secure guy, but Pete's moods were starting to give him a complex.
But he did notice that the number of times he got his head snapped off each
day was decreasing. He hoped that was a good sign.
“1-Adam-12, assist the Griffith Park Rangers, 415 unknown, Travel
Town Road, by the locomotive display. Respond code 2.”
“1-Adam-12, roger,” Jim responded, not bothering to write
down the address. He wondered what could be going on at the transportation
display. “Think some kid won't crawl down from the locomotive?”
he joked.
“No telling. Last time I had a call like this out there, a
man and his wife were beating the stuffing out of each other in one of
the boxcars.”
“Crazy.” Jim just shook his head. He couldn't imagine
hitting Jean, let alone doing it in public in a boxcar.
Less than five minutes later, they pulled up to the train display in
Griffith Park. A small knot of people stood gawking at a man who was standing
on top of one of the box cars. Jim looked closer. “Uh, Malloy?”
“I see him,” Pete sighed in resignation as they got out
of the car.
Jim couldn't take his eyes off the man, who was dressed up in a purple
velvet cape, matching knickers, white stockings, and a large velvet hat
with a huge feather in it. As they walked closer, Jim could hear the man
belting out a song. “I'm 'enery the Eighth, I am, 'enery the Eighth
I am, I am . . I got married to the widow next door . . . she's been married
seven times before . . .”
“Good grief,” Pete muttered.
“Herman's Hermits,” Jim said.
“Who?”
Jim jerked his head toward the velvet cape. “That song. It's
by Herman's Hermits.”
Pete gave him a disbelieving look, then walked over to the two bemused
park rangers. “How long's he been at it?”
“About twenty minutes. Refuses to come down for us. Said he
wanted us to call the Sheriff of Nottingham.”
Jim grinned. “Sounds like the guy's mixing his metaphors.”
“He's mixing more than his metaphors. We found his stash of
whiskey in the locomotive. He's apparently been hitting the bottle pretty
heavy. No telling where he came up with the purple get-up.”
Pete squinted up at the man. “Mister, this is the police. Come
down from there!”
The man stopped his singing to peer down at the patrol officers. “Hey!
You the sheriff of Nottingham?” he asked blearily, his English accent
slipping.
Pete glanced hopefully at Jim. “Reed's an English name. How's
your British accent?”
Jim looked askance. “My accent? Are you kidding? I've
hardly ever been out of California. What about you?”
“I'm Irish. He'd never believe it.”
Jim glared at him, but took a deep breath. He scratched his forehead,
working up his nerve. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, then
yelled more loudly, “I say, old chap, come down from there, and we'll,
uh, raise a tankard at the pub.”
Pete winced. “That the best you could do?” he whispered.
“That's why I'm a cop and not an actor,” Jim whispered
back.
“Ah, 'tis indeed the good Sheriff!” the man shouted in
delight. He immediately moved to the ladder on the end of the box car
and made his wobbly way down. Jim and Pete snagged him by the arms as
soon as he touched earth.
“What's your name, pal?” Jim asked, abandoning the accent.
“Zounds, I've been tricked! You're no more the Sheriff of Nottingham
than I'm the czar of Russia.”
“And you're no Henry the Eighth, either,” Pete reminded
him. “Do you have some identification?”
The man drew himself up and stared haughtily down his nose at Pete.
“A king needs no identification.”
Pete rolled his eyes at Jim. “All right, then, your highness.
Your carriage awaits.” They guided the drunk man into the back
of the patrol car. The two park rangers thanked them for the assist,
and they headed for the station. They hadn't gone a block before King Henry
started belting out his song fortissimo.
Jim was sure he'd be deaf in his right ear before they made it back
to the station.
###
Jim whistled under his breath as they drove along Pico Boulevard.
“Do you hate me?” Pete suddenly demanded.
“Huh?”
“Would you quit whistling that song?”
Jim grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Ever since we arrested that
drunk it's been going through my head.”
“Mine too, and your whistling is making it worse, so knock it
off.”
“They say the best way to get rid of a song is to go ahead and
sing it.”
“If you start singing, I'm going to pull my gun out and shoot
you.”
Jim laughed at Pete's glare. “Don't worry, I'll save it for
the shower.”
“Please do,” Pete agreed emphatically. “One more
hour and we're finished. I'm going home and putting Sinatra on. I don't
wanna ever hear Herman and the Hermits again.”
“That's 'Herman's Hermits', Pete. And they're not a bad group.”
Pete snorted.
“Really, Pete, they're kinda fun. Jean and I listened to their
stuff all the time in high school. I like the Beach Boys, better, though.”
“Reed, you're making me feel old, and you don't want to make
your training officer feel old.”
“Aw, come on. Surely you listen to the Beach Boys!”
“No, I do not.”
Jim studied Pete for a long moment. “You know, a person's preference
in music says a lot.”
“Reed,” Pete growled dangerously. “If you don't
shut up, you'll be singing the blues in about half a minute.”
Jim shut up. But he still tapped his finger on his knee to the song
running through his head.
“1-Adam-12, 211-silent, at the warehouse, 7200 West Market. 7200
West Market. Respond code 2.”
Jim heard Pete's sudden intake of breath as he responded to the call.
“What?” he asked as he replaced the mic.
“Nothing.”
It sure didn't look like nothing to Jim. Belatedly, he put two and
two together. “That's the place you lost your partner, isn't it?”
“Yeah,” Pete said shortly, effectively shutting the door
to any more comments from Jim.
Jim chewed his bottom lip as they rushed to the call.
###
Pete jerked the black and white to a stop outside the warehouse, one
of the two closed businesses they'd checked earlier in the day. He reached
out and grabbed Jim's arm before the young man could hop out of the car.
“Hold it, Reed,” he snapped.
Jim turned to look at Pete, one leg out of the car, shotgun in hand.
“What?”
“Two things about this place,” Pete said, his voice as
low and hard as he could make it. “One, it's full of crates stacked
helter-skelter to the ceiling. There's more places to get jumped than
in your worst nightmare. You stick close to me and don't try any heroics,
understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Jim nodded. Then, when Pete didn't go on,
he asked, “What's the second thing?”
“You know this warehouse is owned by a chemical supply distributorship.
Those crates are full of toxic chemicals of every kind. If we find the
suspects and they have anything in their hands–bottles, cans, whatever–treat
it like they're holding a gun. Keep your distance until they put it down.
I don't want to have to tell Jean her husband's blind because some punk
threw acid in his face. Got it?”
Jim swallowed reflexively. “Yes, sir.”
Pete grabbed the mic and put them Code 6 at the scene. “Come
on, partner,” he said as he finished. He slipped his nightstick out
of the door holder and into the ring on his belt, trying to ignore the
sick, shaky feeling twisting his guts. He pulled his .38 out of its holster
as he climbed the stairs to the warehouse door, Jim two steps behind him.
“Take it easy,” he said softly as he eased the door open.
They both eased through the doorway, Jim quickly pulling it to behind him.
The unlit interior seemed darker than night after the bright afternoon
sunshine outside. Pete paused long enough to let his eyes adjust, but
he was also using the wait to listen. The warehouse was silent. He motioned
for Jim to follow him down the steps onto the warehouse floor. Pete tried
to keep his emotions contained, but as the musty odor of sawdust, mold
and old chemical spills assailed his nose, the image of the shotgun blast
and McGill's lifeless body slamming back against the stairs threatened
to overwhelm him. Pete swallowed hard and told himself he was only imagining
the smell of cordite and blood. He glanced back at Jim, reassured by his
solid, very much alive, presence.
Pete stepped off the stairs onto the gritty concrete floor, his eyes
trying to take in everything at once. McGill had been two steps behind
him, just like Reed. But this time, Pete would make damn sure no shotgun
flashed in the darkness. And if it did, Jim wouldn't be the one to buy
it. He jerked his hand in a violent motion for Jim to get closer behind
him.
Wooden crates and cardboard boxes towered over their heads, limiting
their view to a long, narrow corridor just wide enough to allow a forklift.
Pete checked that Jim was still close, then eased forward on the balls
of his feet, keeping his steps soft and his breathing quiet. Whoever was
in there could probably hear the thunder of his heart pounding, but there
wasn't much Pete could do about that.
“Malloy,” Jim breathed in his ear, barely audible. Pete
glanced back and then followed Jim's pointing finger. A shadow moved
along the far wall, a distorted outline of a man. Pete licked his dry lips
and watched the shadow, waiting to see if another joined it.
“Think there's just one?” Jim whispered.
“Never assume anything,” Pete said softly. He didn't like
the situation. Didn't like it one bit. They needed to split up. Logic
told him to let Reed go around the far side, so they could close in on the
suspect from opposite directions, but McGill's ghost seemed to hover reproachfully
over him. Pete had never told a soul, but at McGill's funeral, he'd silently
promised McGill that he'd never lose another partner. It had been a stupid
thing to do, really, since McGill was long past hearing, but at the time,
staring at the closed casket, it had helped ease his guilt. He fully intended
to keep that promise by quitting the force, but Jim Reed had sabotaged that
plan but good, and now there was a better than even chance that Pete would
lose another partner. He swallowed an unreasonable anger at Jim and brought
his thoughts back to the dangerous present. Pete looked all around them,
above his head, at both ends of the corridor, and could find no reason
not to let Jim go. With an apologetic prayer that he knew McGill couldn't
hear, Pete motioned for Jim to go around the opposite end of the warehouse.
I can't keep him chained to my belt, Steve. I hope to God you understand.
Jim moved quickly down the corridor, paused to peer cautiously around
the corner, then gave Pete an all clear. He slipped around the corner out
of Pete's sight.
Pete's gut churned mercilessly. Get a grip, Malloy. Get a grip.
He eased back against the crates, crabbing sideways until he could
see around the corner. Finding another empty passage facing him, he ducked
low and jogged quickly toward the far end of the warehouse.
So far, so good.
Then all hell broke loose.
Pete heard Reed shout, “Freeze, police!” But then he heard
the shattering sound of breaking glass and another man's yell. Pete gave
up any attempt at stealth and ran to the lighted area beyond the sea of
crates. He pulled up briefly before he emerged, taking in the scene. A
large white male had a crate pried open, and was pulling a bottle from the
excelsior packing material. The man cursed and lobbed it toward Jim, who
ducked quickly back behind another crate. The bottle shattered against the
crate in a spray of liquid and glass, and the biting odor of sulfuric acid
billowed into the air. Pete stepped into the open and leveled his gun. “Freeze,
Mister! Police!”
The man spun around and glared defiantly at Pete, but he didn't run.
Pete started forward, the acidic fumes making his nose burn and his eyes
water. “Reed! You okay?” Jim didn't answer, but Pete couldn't
take his attention away from the suspect. He motioned with his gun for
the suspect to move away from the spilled acid. As the man moved over to
his left, Pete noticed his gaze darted just past Pete's shoulder. At the
same moment, something hard and cold pressed against Pete's neck. Pete immediately
froze.
“Drop the gun, pig,” a low voice growled from behind.
“Don't be stupid,” Pete said in a low voice. He wondered
what Jim was doing, if he was all right. There was no sound or movement
from behind the stacked cartons where he'd last seen Jim.
“I ain't being stupid, cop. But if you don't drop that gun right
now, that'd be stupid.”
Pete kept his eyes on the first suspect, but out of the corner of his
eye, he saw a stealthy movement in the shadows. The suspect wasn't looking
directly at Pete, so he risked a quick glance sideways. Jim, standing
in the shadows where he could barely be seen, frantically pantomimed at Pete
to bend low. Pete raised his head in a half nod, then slid his gaze back
to the first suspect, who was so busy trying to open the bottle of acid
he didn't see Jim's silent motions. Pete waited another beat, then slowly
released his gun and let it drop to the floor. As soon as he did, he ducked
down and let out a yell, hearing a loud shout from Jim at the same time.
The suspect behind him fired, whether at Jim or himself, Pete couldn't take
the time to tell. Pete spun sideways and back, grabbing for the second man's
gun arm and knocking the weapon out of his hand.
Pete yanked the man's arm behind him, whipping out the cuffs as he
dragged the man over to a support pole. He threaded the mans arms around
the pole, risking a look to see how Jim was faring as he snapped the cuffs
around the man's wrists. His partner had tackled the first suspect, knocking
him and his bottle of acid to the floor. The suspect dropped the bottle,
which broke and splashed more acid across the concrete. Jim didn't seem
to notice it as he struggled with the squirming man. They rolled dangerously
close to the growing puddle.
“Reed, watch it!” Pete yelled, but he was too late. The
suspect smashed a fist against Jim's jaw, then knocked the stunned officer
off partially into the smoking pool of liquid. The man lunged to his feet,
launching himself straight at Pete. Pete didn't have time to brace himself
before the suspect rammed him in the stomach, driving him hard against
the packing crates. The back of Pete's head rapped sharply against the
unyielding wooden box, and his gun fell from suddenly nerveless fingers.
The world dimmed as little bursts of light exploded at the edges of his
vision. He felt his knees buckle. He tried to brace himself with his hands,
but they slid ineffectually over the splintery boards. He would have fallen,
but the suspect grabbed his shoulders and shoved him against the crates again.
Pete threw a clumsy punch toward the man's face. That earned Pete a hard
fist to the abdomen, and this time nothing halted his slide to the floor.
Pete wondered vaguely what was keeping Reed, but a blow from the man's
construction boot drove all the air out of his lungs, and just about all
conscious thought from his head. The man drew back for another kick, but
suddenly changed tactics and scooped Pete's gun off the floor. He drew
the hammer back and aimed it between Pete's eyes. “So long, pig,”
he said softly.
In the split second before the hammer fell, Reed flew out of nowhere
with the loudest, most blessed-sounding shout Pete had ever heard. The
gun went off, but Jim's tackle ruined the suspect's aim, and the bullet
zinged harmlessly toward the rafters. Pete shook his head to clear it,
then struggled to his feet to help Jim subdue the crazed maniac. Jim's
momentum had carried him past the suspect, so Pete threw himself at the
man and managed to pin him to the floor with a knee to his back. “Jim,
you all right?” he asked breathlessly as he pulled his handcuffs off
his belt. He glanced up to see if Reed had his gun out, but was surprised
to see Jim stagger away a few steps and started ripping open his uniform
shirt.
It was then that Pete saw that the dark blue material covering Jim's
right arm was smoking. Pete couldn't do anything for Reed until
he had the suspect subdued, so he abruptly yanked the suspect upright and
dragged him to another post. “Reed, I'll be right there!”
he yelled. It seemed to take forever to fumble the man's wrists into the
cuffs, but he finally managed it and ran to Jim, who was still struggling
with his shirt buttons. “How bad is it?” he asked tersely.
Jim just shook his head. “I'm all right. Look, there's a third
guy. I saw him duck toward the front entrance. I started after him but
you needed help. Go get him . . . I'll be–” he suddenly gasped,
then his movements grew more frantic as he started coughing.
Pete grabbed the lapels and gave them a good yank, ripping the shirt
open. Jim squirmed out of the sleeves and then ripped his t-shirt off
over his head. Pete steadied him, trying not to touch Jim's burned right
arm or shoulder. He could feel Jim trembling. “C'mon. There's
an emergency wash station over on the wall. Did you get any on your pants?”
Jim shook his head. “Don't think so,” he grunted, his
teeth clenched against the pain.
Pete hurried Jim to the sink, then cranked open the faucet and aimed
the sprayer hose at Jim's right arm and shoulder, which were already turning
red. “Did you get any in your eyes?” Pete asked, noticing the
tears tracking down his partner's face.
Jim shook his head and coughed. “No. Just fumes . . .”
Pete knew he had to radio for back up, and an ambulance, but Jim was
shaking so hard he wasn't sure the kid could stay upright, let alone keep
the water flowing over his burns. “Does the water help?” Pete
asked gently.
Jim nodded once.
Pete spied a stool about a yard away and snagged it with his foot.
He dragged it to the sink and lowered Jim onto it. “Sit down, partner.”
Pete guided him onto the stool, then took a closer look at the burns, which
covered the upper portion of Jim's arm and part of his shoulder and back.
They looked angry, red and very, very painful. Pete grimaced, amazed at
how stoically Jim was taking it. He was still shaking, but he wasn't coughing
as hard, and he didn't moan or carry on like Pete figured he'd do in Reed's
place. “Better?”
“Yeah. I'm fine. You need to get the other guy.”
Pete couldn't help smiling. “Reed, don't worry about it, all
right? I'll take care of him as soon as I radio for back up.”
“I'll go with you,” Jim insisted, shutting off the water.
“No way, partner. The only place you're going is Central Receiving.
Stay by that sink and keep the water on.” He emphasized his
point by turning the flow back on. “Is your gun usable?”
Jim gingerly reached down and pulled his gun out of the holster. Pete
took it, checked the loads, then put it in Jim's left hand. “Hope
you don't have to use it, partner,” he said softly. He arranged the
hose so Jim could keep his burned arm under it, then headed for the black
and white.
###
Jim watched Pete walk out of the warehouse, then shut the water off
and followed. He had a hinky feeling about that missing suspect. Besides,
the burns weren't so bad. At least that's what he kept telling himself.
He didn't want Pete out there by himself. Not with some acid-tossing freak
hiding in the shadows. Now there's a switch. Usually the acid freaks
shoot up with acid; they don't throw it like grenades. Jim almost smiled,
but it turned to a grimace as the burns swelled to fiery life. He blinked
back tears of pain and took a firmer grip on his gun. It felt wrong in
his left hand, but he didn't trust his right arm.
He reached the doorway and heard Pete suddenly shout, then he heard
a mad scramble of footsteps. Jim ran outside in time to see the missing
suspect dive through a second doorway at the far end of the building, Pete
hot on his tail. Holding his right arm close to his body to keep from
moving his burned shoulder, Jim hurried after them. He jerked open the door
in time to hear a scuffle, and Pete's voice shouting harshly, then a thud.
His heart pounding even harder, Jim broke into a run. He paused as he
checked around the corner. “Thank God,” he murmured as he saw
Pete kneeling with one knee on a third suspect's back, applying a pair of
white nylon restraints. Jim stepped out of the shadows. “Is it
a Four?” he said with a faint grin.
Pete's head jerked up as he glared at Jim. “I thought I told
you to stay by the sink! By God, Reed, don't you ever stay where you're
put?”
Jim swallowed. “I was afraid you . . . I didn't want you out
there without any backup. . . what if that guy'd thrown more acid at you?”
“Reed, get back to that sink. Now!”
Jim backtracked to the sink, feeling more stung by the scorching anger
in Pete's eyes than by the chemical burns on his arm, which were starting
to throb at monumental proportions. He turned on the faucet and started
running the water again, feeling some relief almost immediately.
Less than a minute later, Pete walked up to him. “Suspects
are in the car. Mac's on his way to transport. And an ambulance is on
its way for you.”
Jim just nodded, keeping his concentration on making sure every square
inch of burning skin was under the cooling spray.
“Look, uh, Reed, I'm sorry I bit your head off back there.”
“It's all right.”
“Well, no, it isn't all right, but if that's all you have to
say, fine. I just have one request.”
Jim glanced up. “What?”
“Next time I tell you to stay put, will you please do it?”
Pete asked plaintively.
Jim grinned. “I can't make any promises.”
###
Pete watched Jim stoically apply the water to his burns. It hurt Pete
just to look at the angry red splotches, but Jim didn't seem fazed by it,
now that the initial shock had worn off. The kid was tough as nails, Pete
had to hand it to him. He felt himself relax now that the danger had passed,
and allowed himself a small smile. He looked at Jim's bare torso as he
shook his head. “You're a disgrace to the uniform, Reed.”
“Sorry. I'll try harder.”
“I've heard that before,” Pete said dryly.
Jim grinned fleetingly, then frowned. “What about you? That
was quite a hit you took.”
“Nothing hurts this hard Irish skull.” Pete regarded Jim
for a long moment, then took a deep breath. “I owe you one, partner.”
Jim blushed, then shrugged. “Buy me a coney dog.”
Pete's reply was interrupted by Mac's arrival. The sergeant parked
his black and white station wagon beside Adam-12, glanced at the three suspects
crammed into the back seat, then made his way over to Pete and Jim. “What
happened?” he asked, his blue eyes wide as he took in Jim's wet,
bedraggled, half-dressed condition.
Pete gave Mac a smile, then nodded his head toward his partner. “Reed
got in the way of a puddle of sulfuric acid.”
“How bad is it?” Mac demanded.
Jim turned off the water. “It's nothing–”
“Pretty bad,” Pete interrupted, turning the water back
on. “Read the sign, Jim. Flush affected areas for fifteen minutes.
It hasn't even been ten yet.”
Mac looked at the blistered areas on Jim's shoulder. “Ouch,”
he muttered. Then he saw the bruise on Jim's jaw, and the tear in Pete's
uniform. “What about you, Malloy?”
“Me? I'm fine.”
“He took a pretty hard whack to the head, Sergeant,” Jim
piped up, ignoring the pained look Pete aimed at him.
“Both of you get to Central Receiving, then. And as soon as
they spring you loose, I want a full report.”
“Right, Mac,” Pete sighed. As soon as Mac walked away,
Pete glared at Jim. “Anybody ever tell you you talk too much?”
“It would have been in the report,” Jim pointed out.
The ambulance wailed to a stop outside. “Of all the rookies
in your class, I had to draw you,” Pete muttered under his breath,
then whistled at the ambulance attendants. They clattered over with their
gurney, giving Jim a once over.
“I don't need the gurney,” Jim said, uneasily eyeing the
hovering attendants.
“Might be a good idea,” Pete said, grabbing the blanket
from the stretcher and draping it over Jim's left shoulder.
Jim shut off the water. “I'm fine,” he insisted, then
walked over to the ambulance. Pete shrugged at the two silent attendants,
then joined his partner, who had paused before climbing in.
“Hey, Malloy?”
“What?”
A twinkle appeared in Reed's blue eyes. “I guess you could say
I passed the acid test tonight.”
Malloy gave him a full five-second stare. “Get in the ambulance,
Reed.”
Jim complied, and Malloy climbed in and sat down beside him on the
bench. He let out the long sigh of relief he'd been holding back, leaned
his head against the window behind him and shut his eyes. With a jostle
and a bump, the ambulance rolled down the street. Thankfully, they weren't
rolling code 3, so the growling whine of the siren was blessedly absent.
The monotonous hum of the tires on the pavement started to lull Pete into
a light sleep, but another sound intruded. Pete frowned, unable to believe
it, then opened one eye and looked toward his partner. Jim was leaning
with only his left shoulder against the window, eyes shut, lips moving slightly.
“. . . 'enery the Eighth I am . . .”
Pete couldn't help smiling. The kid was gonna do fine.
###
Epilogue, 1 Year Later
Reed stared at the television. “I don't believe it.” Pete stretched his arms over his head and grinned.
“Ya gotta believe, partner,” he said, then got up and turned
off the television, banishing the image of the wildly celebrating Mets baseball
team to electronic limbo. He walked over to his jacket, fumbled in the
pocket, found what he was looking for and walked back to where Jim sat on
the couch, still staring at the blank television screen. “For you,
partner.”
Jim blinked, then looked at the package of ballpoint pens in Pete's
hand. He glared up at his partner. “Pete–”
“I just don't want you running out of ink writing all those reports,”
Pete said innocently. He grinned at Jim's scowl, then, humming “Take
Me Out to The Ballgame,” walked to the kitchen in search of more pretzels.
Parts of the story you have just read are true:
a lawyer really did fall victim to a Tootsie pop thief, and the New York
Mets really did win the 1969 World Series, much to the disgust of Cardinal
fans like myself. Special thanks to Susu, Karen and Jennifer for their eagle-eyed
beta reading, and to LA Williams for providing a home for new Adam-12 stories
and her willingness to fight coding glitches. This one's for Adam-12 fans
everywhere.
