OFFICER DEAR, OFFICER DEAD (1/5)
© December 1999
"Could you describe him to me, ma'am?" Patrol Officer Jim Reed stifled
an uncharacteristic surge of impatience. He kept his voice quiet and noncommital,
hoping the businesslike tone would help the distraught girl gather herself
together. Usually he had no problem sympathizing with and calming down hysterical
women, but for the past three days, he'd had a headache to end all headaches.
The doc told him it was allergies and a sinus infection, but the way his
head throbbed behind his eyes, Jim wondered if he had a brain tumor. Either
way, all his patience had been used up trying to stay civil with his partner,
Pete Malloy. He tried to work up a half-way sincere smile. "Take your time,
ma'am."
The woman he was calling "ma'am" wasn't much more than a girl. Twenty,
maybe, with long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail under her Smokey's
Pizza hat. She had bright blue eyes that right now were stretched wide with
fright and starting to overflow with tears. Jim could understand why-she'd
just seen four customers and her boss gunned down by a robber. No one was
seriously hurt, by the grace of God, but it still would have been an awful
thing to witness. It had been pretty upsetting even to him, but at least
he had been trained to deal with such tragedies, and having worked such scenes
more often during his three-and-a-half year tenure with the police than he
would have liked, he was learning how to shield himself from the horror to
a certain extent. He reminded himself that a twenty-year-old girl couldn't
be expected to handle it with the stoicism of an LAPD cop. Despite the headache,
his impatience faded. "Uh, look, ma'am . . . Tracy," he corrected himself
as he read her nameplate. "What's your full name?"
"Dalton. Tracy Elaine Dalton." She swiped her nose with the back of her
hand.
"Okay, Tracy. Let's go outside."
Tracy let herself be led out the door and toward the black and white squad
car Pete had angled into the curb out front. As soon as they were out the
pizza parlor door, she threw herself at Jim and started sobbing. Jim glanced
around helplessly, hoping to spot Pete or Mac or anyone who could take the
hysterical girl literally off his hands, but Pete was still gone on his own
foot pursuit of the second 211 suspect, and Sergeant MacDonald had his hands
full with another witness. He gently untangled himself from her clutches
and guided her down onto the back seat of the patrol car. He wished he had
a clean handkerchief to give her. "Calm down. It's all over and you're fine,
and everybody else in there is gonna be okay. C'mon, take a deep breath."
The girl took a shaky breath, then another deeper, steadier breath, then
finally managed a wobbly smile. "I-I'm sorry," she hiccuped. "I-I-I just
n-never saw anybo-o-dy get shot before."
"I understand. It's not something anybody should see, ever, but you're
okay. You didn't get hurt. Remember that, all right?"
She nodded and shoved her red paper hat further back on her head. "Okay,"
she said in a small voice.
Jim got out his notebook again. "Do you want me to call your folks?"
"No, they don't live in L.A. Mom's dead and Dad's back in Arizona someplace.
We don't exactly talk."
Jim didn't say anything, just put on his "sympathetic listener" face.
"Anyway, I live in L.A. by myself. But really, I'll be fine. The manager,
that's Bob, the one that got shot in the knee . . ." Tears welled up but
she sniffed and continued, "He'll probably want me to close up for him. I'm
the assistant manager," she added with a small blushing smile of pride.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three." The proud smile turned a bit rueful. "A little old to
just be an assistant lackey at a pizza joint, but I'm going to UCLA part time.
I want to be an architectural engineer."
Jim corrected his earlier estimation of her age. "Well, you'll probably
get there, too. Look, could you describe the man who robbed the pizza parlor
for me?"
Thinking about the robbery brought her back to the point of shaking and
tears again, but she managed to regain her composure and gave him a pretty
fair description. He jotted down the information, then told her to stay in
the car as long as she needed to. He moved to the front of the car and grabbed
the radio mic. "1-Adam-12, supplemental on second 211 suspect at the Smokey's
Pizza Parlor. Suspect last seen running north, wearing brown pants, green
army fatigue jacket. Caucasian, black/brown, 5-11, approximately 160. Suspect
is armed with a revolver." He clipped the mic on its holder, then spied
his partner walking slowly back up the street. He carried his hat in one
hand as he shoved his other hand through his sweaty, short-cropped blond
hair.
Jim waited until Pete staggered to the patrol car and leaned against the
fender. "No luck?"
Pete just shook his head. "And this is the last time I'm doing the foot
pursuit because you claim to have a headache. You coulda at least followed
me in the car!"
"Sorry, Pete. The other suspect ran right past me. I had to stop and
get him."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, partner." He reached in and grabbed the
mic. "1-Adam-12 no longer in foot pursuit of 211 suspect. Suspect last seen
in a tan and yellow Barracuda, white top, 4-5-7 William-Victor-Lincoln, heading
north on Santa Monica Boulevard."
Jim's jaw dropped when he heard the plate number. He waited for Pete to
finish the transmission, then blurted. "Pete, that's your car!"
"Gee, thanks for telling me. I hadn't noticed."
"How'd a 211 on Santa Monica end up with your car? Wasn't it parked on
the lot back at the station?"
"It was," he snapped. "But now I guess it's not, so would you lay off
the twenty questions? And who's sitting in our back seat?"
Jim glanced at Tracy. "Oh, that's the girl from behind the cash register.
Gave a good description of the guy, but she was pretty upset, so I told her
that she could sit there until she felt better."
Pete grunted, then walked over to Mac to tell him the bad news. Jim chuckled
to himself, then walked back to Tracy. "Uh, ma'am, you feeling better now?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you. You're, uh, really a nice guy," she said with a
shy smile and an unmistakable gleam in her eye.
"Thank you, ma'am, guess that's one reason my wife married me." He smiled
noncommitally and made sure he didn't grin wider at the disappointment that
clouded Tracy's eyes as she blushed crimson.
"Oh, sorry," she stammered. "I, uh, that is . . . I didn't see a ring
. . .and, well, you know." She shrugged.
Jim looked at his left hand and sighed. He'd forgotten to put his ring
on after he showered this morning. Again. After the first eight or nine
times his wife Jean had found it sitting on the bathroom counter, she'd finally
quit threatening to divorce him. Now she just threatened to hock the ring
for a new TV if he was never going to wear it. "I sometimes forget to put
it back on," he explained, wondering why he bothered. It was none of Tracy's
business whether or not he wore a ring. For cryin' out loud, Reed, get
a grip. It's not her fault your head's about to explode. He stifled
his irritation, then handed her one of his cards. "Look, if you remember
anything else, call me or Sergeant MacDonald at that number."
She took the card and held it carefully. "Okay, Officer Reed. I will.
Thank you." She got out of the car.
Jim gave her a dismissing smile and climbed in the front seat. He hauled
out his report notebook and got started on the paperwork.
Pete returned from his discussion with Mac and climbed behind the wheel
with a disgusted sigh. "I guess we have to go back to the station. Gotta
file a stolen vehicle report."
Jim grinned.
"Not a word, Reed! Not one word!"
Jim grinned wider, but didn't say anything. He grabbed the mic. "1-Adam-12,
clear."
###
"Looks like Reed's got a genuine admirer," Ed Wells smirked. The shorter
officer leaned against the report desk and watched Jim unwrap a box of chocolates.
Jim looked at the card and frowned. "'Thanks for being so kind last week.
Tracy,'" he read.
"So who's Tracy?"
"I don't know."
"You forget your admirers that easily?"
"Wells, shut up." Jim tapped the card against the palm of his hand, trying
to think. Last week was pretty much a blur, thanks to that stupid headache.
He'd finally had to admit defeat and called in sick the day after the pizza-"That's
it!" he exclaimed. "Tracy's the girl at the pizza place that had the 211
last Wednesday. Nice girl."
"Nice girl? Reed, I thought you were a happily married man?"
"I am. That doesn't mean that Tracy's not a nice gal, though." He opened
the box and fished out a piece. He took a bite, but it was coconut. He threw
it away and tried another. Caramel. Much better. "Here. Have some," he
mumbled.
Ed picked up a piece, poked his thumb in the bottom, sniffed it, didn't
like what he found and put it back.
"Hey! What are you doin'?" Jim protested.
"I don't like maple, all right? So sue me."
"You don't go poking in all the candies and then putting them back. That's
disgusting!"
"Hey, I coulda just bit it in two and then put it back."
Jim snapped the lid closed and tucked the candy under his arm out of Wells'
dirty-fingered reach. "Get your own chocolates."
Mac stuck his head out of his office. "Either of you guys seen Malloy?"
"He's in the locker room getting his lunch, Mac," Jim answered.
"Go tell him they found his car, would you?"
Jim scribbled his name on the bottom of the report he had just finished
and handed it to Mac. "Where'd they find it?"
Mac grinned. "In the back lot."
"You're kidding!"
"Nope. Guess the guy brought it back after using it for that 211 he pulled
last night at the American Grill. Nobody saw him do it. He's driving the
detectives nuts."
"They're not the only ones going nuts over that guy. Pete's been so cranky
since he got his car boosted I'm just about to request an L-car. Here, have
a chocolate."
Mac looked at the candies, picked one out, stuck his thumb in the bottom,
and put it back. Jim snatched the box away before he could plunder another.
"No! You take the one you stuck your finger in!"
Wells sauntered up behind Reed. "Better do what he says, Mac, or he'll
take his candy and go home. Reed's a real stickler on hygiene."
Mac grinned, grabbed three pieces, then disappeared into his office. Wells
snatched another piece out before Reed could get the lid back on, then laughed
as he jogged away. "I hope it's maple!" Jim yelled after him.
Jim fumbled to get the lid back on as he walked to the locker room. He
shoved the locker room door open and almost slammed into Pete. "Whoa! Sorry.
Hey, Mac says they found your car."
"Finally! Where?"
"Out in the back lot. The guy evidently just borrowed it."
"Borrowed it, my eye. Hey, are those chocolates? I'll have one, thanks."
Pete opened the box, picked one out, stuck his thumb in the bottom and tried
to put it back.
"No!" Jim yelled, his eyes blazing. "You are NOT putting that back in
my box of candy! You guys are all a bunch of cavemen!" He slammed the lid
down and marched over to his locker and stashed the candy away, safe from
prying thumbs.
Pete stared at Jim for a long moment, then shook his head and left to retrieve
his car.
###
"It was disgusting, Jean. Pete, Mac, Ed . . . they all stuck their fingers
. . . oh, no, Jean, not you too!" Jim's voice rose to a petulant whine as
Jean stuck her thumb in the bottom of a piece and put it back. "Yuck. I
don't think I'm ever gonna eat chocolates again."
"Oh, that'll be the day," Jean smirked. "So, who're they from?"
"Oh, some girl," he said, flashing her an evil grin.
Jean tossed her heavy blond hair back and raised an eyebrow. "Just some
girl, huh?"
"Yeah. She was real pretty, too. She was, ah, grateful for my kindness."
Jean crossed her arms. "Jim, do you intend to sleep in our bed tonight
or do you really enjoy sleeping in the doghouse?"
Jim laughed and gathered his wife of over six years in his arms. He kissed
her neck softly. "Sleep wasn't exactly what I had in mind."
Jean giggled.
###
Jim had just drifted off when the phone exploded on the night stand. He
jumped, then stretched his arm out and knocked the receiver off. After fumbling
around endlessly, he managed to snag the cord and drag the receiver to his
ear. "'lo?"
Silence.
Jim cleared his throat. "Hello?" He frowned as he heard someone breathing.
"Who's there?"
"Is this the Reed residence?" The voice was low. Jim couldn't tell if
it was a man or a woman.
"Yeah, who's-" But with a click, the line went dead. Jim slowly replaced
the phone on its cradle.
"Who was it, honey?"
"Don't know. They asked if this was the Reed residence, then hung up as
soon as I said it was."
Jean snuggled closer to her husband. "That's strange," she said sleepily.
Jim thought it was strange too. Strange enough to raise the hair on the
back of his neck. He considered calling the station to ask the watch commander
to make sure he sent a patrol around their neighborhood tonight, then shook
his head in disgust. It was just a prank call, no more, no less.
He tugged the blankets closer and went back to sleep.
###
"1-Adam-12, 415 unknown, 6565 North Truman. Handle code 2."
"1-Adam-12, roger," Jim acknowledged, then looked at Pete. "6565 North
Truman. Isn't that where those two old ladies live? The ones that got in
a dispute with their neighbor over his oak tree?"
"Yeah. They were the ones that stuffed his tree full of dynamite and blew
it up because it was dropping leaves on their yard."
"Great. I was hoping I was wrong. Those two old biddies hate me."
"Well, it didn't help that you let their cat escape when you left last
time."
"I didn't do it on purpose! That cat was so spooked by the explosion that
it's no wonder it hightailed it out of there. They had no reason to write
that letter to the captain."
Pete grinned. "Well, here's your chance to make it up to them, partner.
I'll let you do all the talking."
"Oh, thanks a lot, Pete," Jim muttered, then got out of the car. He adjusted
his hat and walked up to the creaky front porch with all the martyred air
of a missionary in Bora Bora watching the natives light the bonfire. He rang
the bell.
Thirty seconds later, a pinched round face peered at him through the tattered
screen door. "You!" she scowled. "I don't want you! You go back and get
me some other officer."
"Ma'am, there's no other officers avail-"
"No, no, none of your weak excuses, young man. You nearly killed my cat
last time you came and I won't give you another shot at it. Now, shoo!"
She slammed the door in his face.
He knocked again, and this time, a different yet equally wrinkled face
scowled at him. "You heard my sister! Go away!" Slam.
Jim stared at his shoetops and tried to remember why he liked his job.
He turned around and walked back to the patrol car. "You try. They remember
me."
Pete smirked, then walked up to the porch and knocked. Jim watched from
the car as Pete talked to the first little old lady at some length, then disappeared
inside. "At least he's getting somewhere," he muttered to himself. As he
sat in the warm sunshine, wondering what the problem was and anticipating
imminent tree explosions, he heard a car pull up behind him. He craned around,
expecting to see another black and white, but it was a battered yellow Volkswagen
bug. He grabbed his hat and climbed out. "Can I help you?" he called. Then
he recognized the driver. "Oh. Hi, Tracy."
Tracy Dalton hopped out of the car. "Hi! I was on my way to work and
saw you parked there so I thought I'd stop and say hi. So, hi!" she added
with a giggle.
Jim smiled. "Hi. How are you doing?"
"Oh, fine. Had a few nightmares the first week, but I'm much better.
And we put in a security camera and a warning sticker on the door that says
we only keep $50 in the registers. Hopefully we won't get any more robberies."
"That should help. How's your manager?"
"He's doing better. He won't be back to work for another month or more,
but he'll be fine. I'm running the place while he's out, which reminds me."
She dug around in her purse until she came up with a stack of coupons for
free salad with a pizza. "Here. Take these and give them to everybody in
the station. Just my way of saying thanks."
"Uh, no thanks. We can't accept gratuities."
"They're not gratuities-they're just coupons!"
"Still . . ."
She sighed and tucked them back in her purse. "All right. But any time
you and your partner want lunch, it's on the house."
"That's nice of you, but we'll pay for our own meals."
"But-"
"No, really," Jim interrupted. "It's not necessary. But thanks all the
same."
Something dark flitted across her eyes, then she shrugged and Jim figured
he'd just imagined it. "Suit yourself," she said. "Hey, did you catch that
guy yet?"
"No, not yet. We're still working on it, though." Jim glanced back at
the house, but no sign of Pete.
"Did you get the chocolates?"
"Yeah, thanks, but you really shouldn't have. I was just doing my job."
"Don't you like to know what you do is appreciated?"
Jim glanced toward the house again. C'mon, Pete. "Yeah, guess
so. But please, no more gifts, all right?" Jim heard the radio squawk.
"Uh, look, I better get back to the radio. Thanks for stopping."
"It was my pleasure," she said softly, then turned and got back in the
Beetle. She beeped her horn once, then drove away.
Jim tossed his hat in the back seat. Something about Tracy bugged him
but he wasn't sure what. Maybe it was just that he thought she was being
a little too friendly toward a married man. Yeah, that's probably it.
I'm afraid she's gonna start chasing me just like that oil-rich socialite
did Pete. He grinned to himself, opened his report book, and went
back to monitoring the radio.
###
Pete dropped into the driver's seat. "Who was that in the Beetle?"
"Tracy from the pizza parlor. She wanted to give me some coupons to hand
out to the guys, but I told her we couldn't take them. Was real nice of her,
though."
"Uh huh."
Jim's head swivelled sharply around. "What do mean, 'uh huh'?"
Pete shrugged. "Nothing. Just 'uh huh'."
"Uh huh. I know when you say 'uh huh' you don't mean 'uh huh'. You mean
'UH HUH'."
"Reed, what are you babbling about?"
"C'mon, Pete. You're thinking something's up between me and Tracy, aren't
you?"
"I never said a word!"
"But you said 'uh huh'."
"You got a guilty conscience or something?"
"No!"
"Then what is your problem, partner?" Pete started the car.
"I don't have a problem. You're the one saying 'uh huh'."
Pete pulled out into the street. "Would you just clear us already?"
"1-Adam-12, clear," Jim muttered.
"1-Adam-12, roger."
Pete felt Jim's gaze boring into the side of his skull, so he glanced over.
"What?"
"I'm not cheating on my wife. I have never, ever, cheated on my
wife and I never will. Understand?"
"All I said was 'uh huh'," Pete protested, more than a little exasperated
at his partner's obsessive behavior. He decided to change the subject. "Don't
you want to know what happened back there?"
"No," he snapped, then rolled his eyes. "Okay, yeah. What happened?"
"Mrs. O'Flannery's cat crawled up on top of the chiffarobe and wouldn't
come down."
"What's a chiffarobe?"
"Some kinda big cabinet thing. I climbed up there and grabbed at ol' Mister
Whiskers and he clawed me." He showed Jim the thin lines of fresh blood on
his hand. "And then Mister Whiskers jumped down easy as you please. Those
two old biddies didn't even thank me."
Jim smiled. "Ah, the life of a patrol officers. They oughta make a TV
show about us."
"Uh huh."
###
Jim stifled a yawn as he scribbled notes at roll call. He felt Pete's
elbow nudge him. "What?" he whispered.
"Late night?"
"Sick kid."
Pete nodded. Mac finished updating them on the latest, which included
the apprehension of the pizza parlor bandit. Jim was almost too sleepy to
appreciate knowing that they no longer had to worry about finding at least
one of the Caucasian needles in the haystack of L.A.'s streets. The squeaking
of thirty-some chairs swivelling brought him out of his stupor. He shut
his notebook and got slowly to his feet.
"So how much sleep did you get, partner?" Pete asked.
"Umm . . . more like how little sleep did I get. I don't think I got any."
"What's wrong with my godson?"
"I think it might be strep. Jean's taking him to the doctor this morning.
He ran a 104 temp all night, wouldn't stop crying."
"Anything I can do, let me know."
"Thanks."
"Reed!" Mac called. "You got a package at the front desk."
"Thanks, Mac. Look, Pete, meet you at the car."
"Get the shotgun," Pete reminded him.
Jim nodded. He yawned again as he walked down the hall to the front of
the station after retrieving the shotgun. "Hey, Woods, how's your ankle?"
Officer Jerry Woods waved a disgusted hand at the ace bandage encasing
his left ankle. "Aw, it's just a sprain, but I'm gonna be stuck on desk
for a couple more days."
"Tough luck," Jim agreed, then grabbed a small brown-paper wrapped box
with his name on it. He turned it over, but no other name appeared on it.
"You see who brought this in?"
"Nope. It was laying on the desk when I got here."
"Huh. Thanks," Jim said absently as he wandered back into the hallway.
He hefted the package, which was about the size of a shoebox, then shook
it, but neither gave him any hint of its contents. He put it and the shotgun
on the report desk, then went in Mac's office. "Got a pair of scissors?"
"Yeah, in the can there." He pointed at a pot of pens on the corner of
his desk. Jim fished out the scissors.
Mac followed him as far as the doorway and watched him cut the strings
around the package. "Who's it from?"
"Dunno. Doesn't say."
Mac straightened up. "Reed, don't touch it!" he snapped.
Reed pulled his hands back as though he'd found a snake. "What?"
"I don't know. It just seems hinky. It's not ticking, is it?"
Reed rolled his eyes. "No, Mac, it's not ticking."
"Hey, don't laugh. I just read in the paper about a college professor
who got blown to bits opening an unmarked package some creep mailed to him.
It had a bomb in it."
Jim paled. "You really think . . ."
"I don't know. But I don't think you oughta open it. Lemme call the bomb
squad."
Jim swallowed and very carefully stepped back from the desk. "Um, I better
tell Pete."
"He out in the car?"
"Yeah."
"Don't worry about him. I'm going to evacuate the building. You stay
put and make sure nobody touches that thing."
Jim didn't like the idea of standing watch over a potentially deadly package
but somebody had to do it, and it did have his name on it. "Okay,
Mac."
Less than thirty seconds later, officers from every cubicle and corner
swarmed out of the building. All except Jim, of course. He watched everyone
flee for safety with more than a little jealousy. He felt a distinct wave
of relief when he saw Mac and two officers from the bomb squad coming down
the hall. "It's right here." He pointed to the package.
Albert Lister, a forty-something, balding man with jaundiced eyes and two
missing fingers, eyed the package. "You cut the strings?"
"Yeah."
"You know who sent this?"
"No."
"You wanna leave?"
Jim grinned faintly. He'd done his share of bomb squad duty and never
cared for it. "Yeah."
Mac nodded. "Get outta here. We'll handle it. But wait for me outside."
Jim hurried down the hallway, not the least bit ashamed. He happened to
like all his fingers.
###
"What's going on?" Pete demanded as his partner finally came out the door.
"Somebody left me a package and Mac got a bad feeling about it. He called
in the bomb squad."
"Who sent it?"
"Didn't say. It was just a plain wrapped shoebox with my name on it."
"So, can we go out on patrol or does Mac need you to wait?"
"He wants me to wait."
The wait ended about ten minutes later. Mac opened the back door and strolled
over to their patrol car, a shoebox in hand. "Care for cookies, gentlemen?"
"Cookies?" Pete asked.
"Yeah. Cookies. And a note, 'To Officer Reed, many thanks. Hope you
like chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies. Tracy.'" He shoved the box at
Jim after taking out two. "Next time tell your girlfriend to mark the outside
of the package."
Jim felt his face grow hot. "She's not my girlfriend!"
"I don't care who she is. Just tell her not to leave any more unmarked
packages." Mac scowled, grabbed a third cookie, and marched back inside.
Reed sighed and looked at the box of cookies. "I can't believe this."
"Uh huh."
"Pete!"
###
"1-Adam-12, meet 1-L-90 on Tac 2."
"1-Adam-12, roger." Jim switched frequencies. "1-Adam-12 to L-90, go."
"Jim, you need to call your neighbor, Mrs. Wannemaker, as soon as you can."
Jim gave Pete a worried glance, then keyed the mike. "Roger, Mac. Thanks."
Pete was already pulling to the curb by a phone booth. He left the engine
idling as he watched Jim talking to his neighbor. It didn't look like Jim
was saying much, just listening and occasionally nodding as he briefly said
something. By the time he hung up, his face was as grim as Pete had ever
seen it.
The door opened and Jim dropped into the seat.
"What's wrong?"
"Jimmy's in the hospital. They think he's got meningitis."
Pete let out a low whistle. "You wanna get back to the station?"
Jim ran his hands through his hair. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do.
"Uh, no," he finally decided. "Let's go straight to the hospital. I don't
want to leave Jean alone." He pounded his fist against the dash. "We shoulda
taken him to the ER last night."
"Easy, Jim. He'll be all right. Beating yourself up over it won't solve
anything."
Jim took a shaky breath, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then nodded.
"What'd the doctor say?"
"I don't know yet."
"Hang in there, partner."
###
Jim outdistanced Pete as he hurried into the lobby of County General, looking
in vain for Jean. He ran up to the admitting desk. "I'm Jim Reed. My son's
a patient here, James Reed, Jr."
The nurse told him to wait one moment, then flipped through the inpatient
list. "No, there's no James Reed, Jr. listed as an inpatient."
"Well, check again. He may have come in through the emergency room."
She consulted another list, then shook her head. "I'm sorry, no James
Reed Jr."
Jim frowned. "Look, they said they were bringing him here. He has meningitis
. . . is there someone else I can talk to?"
"Mr. Reed, I'm the admitting nurse and this list was updated just ten minutes
ago. Have you tried Rampart?"
"No, they told me he was coming here." Jim's temper was flaring in proportion
to his growing frustration. "Look, call the emergency admitting desk, would
you?"
She gave him an arch look, but picked up the phone. Pete walked up while
she was talking to the person at the other end. "What's up?"
"She says he hasn't been admitted."
"But your neighbor did say Country General, right?"
Jim just nodded, too worried to speak.
The nurse hung up the phone. "No James Reed Jr. But they did receive
a child DOA about twenty minutes ago. Have you checked the morgue?"
Jim grabbed at the desk. He had lost all feeling from his chest down.
"DOA?" he whispered.
Pete steadied his partner, then glared at the woman. "Look, I want to
see your supervisor, now!"
The woman looked at the two uniformed officers, then scuttled off to another
room. Pete kept a tight grip on Jim's elbow. "Take it easy, Jim. It may
not mean anything."
A heavy-set man in an ill-fitting suit and horn-rimmed glasses came out
of the office. "May I help you, gentlemen?"
Jim opened his mouth several times, but couldn't get any words out, so
Pete answered for him. "Look, your nurse here just scared the wits out of
my partner by telling him to check the morgue for his son."
"Well, could his son be dead?"
Pete heard a strangled groan come out of his partner, and his temper erupted.
"We don't know! You people have apparently lost track of him!"
"Sir, we are not in the habit of losing track of our patients," the man
huffed in offended tones.
Pete would have argued, but he'd just taken a look at Jim's face. Reed
was about two seconds from passing out. "You wait right there, mister. I'll
be right back." He steered Jim to a chair and set him down. "Head down between
your knees," he ordered.
Jim obeyed without question. Once Pete was satisfied Jim wasn't going
to keel over, he returned to the desk. He kept his voice deceptively calm.
"Look, mister, we've worked with this hospital a lot, and most of the time
you run a pretty tight ship. But that man's son was definitely brought here,
alive, this morning, and is probably still alive somewhere upstairs. Now,
go dig around in those files again and tell me where James Reed, Jr. is, all
right?"
The man and woman both disappeared to consult the rolodex in the inner
office, and Pete returned to squat down beside his partner. "You doing okay?"
he asked gently.
"Yeah," Jim said absently. "Pete, what if . . ."
"He's not. Take it easy."
A female voice called from the elevators. "Jim?"
Jim's head shot up. "Jean!"
Pete flailed at the chair arm when Jim knocked him off balance as he jumped
out of the chair. Pete managed to keep himself from falling down, then stood
up.
"Jean, where's Jimmy? They told me . . . they told me . . ."
"Jimmy's fine. The doctor said it wasn't meningitis after all, just a
severe inner ear infection."
Jim almost crumpled again as he hugged Jean. "Oh, thank God. Thank God."
Jean gave Pete a quizzical look. Pete blinked away a few surreptitious
tears. "Those yo-yo's at the admitting desk tried to tell us Jimmy was dead."
Jean's eyes widened. "Oh, Jim! I am so sorry! Jimmy's going to be fine,
just fine." She held him tight, and Pete realized that neither of them were
aware of his existence any longer.
To give them some privacy, Pete advanced on the admitting desk, then walked
around behind it and stuck his head in the office. "You can quit looking.
The boy's mother is here and told us he's fine. But if I can make a suggestion-don't
tell parents to look for their children in the morgue, all right?"
###
"You sure you're okay to go back to patrol?"
"Yeah. I'm fine, really."
Except for a red nose and swollen eyes, Jim did look okay. That pasty
gray color was gone. "Well, if you're sure, we really need to clear."
Jim nodded, then kissed Jean. "See you tonight. Call me if anything changes."
"I will. Bye."
He kissed her again, then got in the car beside Pete. As Pete pulled away,
he took a deep breath. "Hey, Pete?"
"What?"
"Thanks."
Pete raised an eyebrow, then grinned. "Uh huh."
Jim cleared him, then picked up his hat and rubbed some fingerprints off
the brim. "What a morning," he sighed, then tossed his hat in the back seat.
"A sleepless night, a bomb threat, a hospital telling you your kid's dead
when he's not-yeah, I'd say you've already lived a full 24 in the last three,
junior."
"Well, at least Jimmy's gonna be fine. That makes up for all of it. You
know, Pete, that rocked me. Thinking my little buddy . . . well, anyway,
thanks for being there."
"Thanks for not embarrassing me by passing out completely."
Jim blushed. "Sorry about that. Uh, do me a favor, would you?"
"I won't tell a soul."
###
Jim knelt beside Jimmy's bed in the pale light from the hallway nightlight.
His three-year-old son was sleeping peacefully, clutching Bobo, his stuffed
blue hippopotamus, under one chubby arm. He's so small. Barely makes
a dent on the mattress. Jim reached out and brushed a strand of hair
away from the boy's eyes, then leaned down and gave him a kiss. "Sleep tight,
Tiger," he whispered, then pulled the blanket up closer around his little
body.
Despite his care, Jimmy stirred. "Daddy?"
"Hey, buddy. You feelin' okay?"
"My chest huwts."
"Kinda like you need to cough?"
Jimmy nodded, so Jim sat down on the edge of the bed and lifted him up
into his lap. "How about I rub some Vicks on your chest?"
"'kay."
Jim fumbled with one hand to get the lid off the dark blue jar sitting
on the night stand. He stuck his finger into the goo and rubbed a good amount
gently onto his son's chest. "This'll make you feel a whole lot better, Squirt."
He pulled Jimmy's pajama top back down and settled his son against the pillows.
"That better?"
"Mmm hmm." Jimmy nodded, then reached out and grabbed Jim's index finger.
"'wuv you, Daddy."
Jim's breath caught in his throat. We came so close to losing him today.
He realized Jimmy was looking at him with worried eyes, so he smiled
and rumpled his hair. "Love you too, Squirt. Now go to sleep."
Jimmy gave him a sleepy grin, then rolled over and burrowed beneath the
blankets. A moment later, Jim was rewarded with the soft sounds of his son's
even breathing. He exhaled slowly. Can a heart explode from too much
love? His smile turned mocking at the schmaltzy thought, but it did feel
like his heart was expanding so much his chest couldn't hold it.
He heard the phone ring in the kitchen. Jean's murmuring voice answered.
He stayed where he was, watching his son, until Jean beckoned quietly from
the hallway. "Jim, it's Pete."
Jim reluctantly left Jimmy's room to answer the phone. "Yeah?" he mumbled.
"Mac's calling us in for the AM watch. Apparently seven officers called
in sick."
"Seven? What's the matter with them?"
"He told me half the shift went bowling together this afternoon and some
of them came down with food poisoning from the bowling alley chili dogs."
"Great," Jim sighed. He glanced at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall.
9:30. "All right. See you after a while."
He hung up the phone. He really, really did not want to work tonight.
After the day he'd had, he felt like someone had been whacking him with a
two-by-four all day long. He rolled his head on his shoulders, then trailed
into the living room to tell Jean the bad news.
