"1-Adam-12, AM Watch clear," Jim mumbled, not bothering to keep the grumpiness
from his voice.
"1-Adam-12, clear and a call. See the man, 1400 West Main. 311, indecent
exposure. Respond code 2."
"That'll teach you to sass dispatch," Pete told him.
"1-Adam-12, roger." Jim shoved the mic back on its clip. He glared at
Pete but didn't say anything.
"Look, Reed, don't blame me for this. It wasn't my idea to work another
shift with you."
"I'm not blaming you. After the day I had, I'm just not happy about missing
a night at home in bed with my wife, all right?"
"Hey, I understand, believe me. Just don't take it out on me."
"I gotta take it out on somebody-"
"And I'm handy," Pete finished for him. "Thanks a lot, partner."
Jim tried to keep scowling, but his lips twitched and he finally laughed.
"What else are partners for?"
"Watch it, kid. You still have another seven and a half hours to go.
That's plenty of time for me to make your life miserable."
Jim shot him an evil grin, then cranked his voice up several octaves.
"Down with the pig! Down with the pig!"
Pete let out a long-suffering sigh. "Reed, I rue the day we pulled over
that guy and his toucan."
"Actually, it was a mynah bird."
"Whatever."
"The only toucan that talks is that one on the cereal commercial."
"You sure? I thought toucans talked like parrots."
"Well, no, I'm not sure, but the bird in that guy's van wasn't a toucan.
Toucans have big long banana beaks."
Malloy slid his gaze toward his partner, then back to the road. "Banana
beaks," he repeated.
"Yeah, big yellow beaks, kinda look like bananas." Jim moved his hand
to his nose and pantomimed a big, yellow curving beak on his face.
"I can't believe we're discussing banana-beaked talking birds."
"Toucans don't talk, Pete," Jim insisted.
"Would you quit with the bird-brained facts already?"
"Aw, now who's grumpy?"
Malloy turned his head and glared. "Reed, I'm not above pulling my gun,
shooting you in the head and reporting it as an accidental discharge."
Reed just grinned at him, then faked a shudder and flailed his hands in
the air. "Ooh, big bad cop. I'm scared."
Malloy stared at him for another moment, then laughed. "We better hope
they never put cameras in the patrol cars. We'd get booted out for insanity
unbecoming to the uniform."
"Speaking of insanity, there's our 311," Jim said, pointing toward a small
bungalow.
"What's he doing?" Pete asked as he squinted at what looked like a naked
man cavorting across the lawn. Pete parked the car along the curb.
"Uh, it looks like he's taking a shower with the garden hose."
Malloy shut his eyes briefly. "It's gonna be a long night."
A middle-aged man with a comfortable pot belly concealed by a plaid bath
robe stood watching the scene from the driveway. He hurried over to the two
officers. "Harvey Crandall. I'm the one that called. That's Chester Shaughnessy.
Chester's harmless, really. Just going a little soft in the head now that
he's getting up there in years. But I couldn't convince him to go inside."
Pete watched the naked old man, who was lathering up and singing 'It's
a Long Way to Tipperary', apparently oblivious to the fact that he was out
under the stars instead of safely tucked away in his bathroom.
"What do you think, Pete?" Jim asked.
"I think he's a longer way from Tipperary than he realizes." Pete glanced
at the neighbor. "Is he married?"
"No, Flora passed away about three months ago. Chester just hasn't been
the same since."
Pete nodded sympathetically. "You pretty good friends with him?"
Crandall shrugged. "Lived next door to him for thirteen years."
"Okay. Look, I don't wanna spook the guy, so would you mind talking to
him again for us? Jim, you stay back a ways."
"Right, Pete." Jim moved back about fifteen feet.
Crandall hurried over to Chester. "Hey, Chester, why don't you go on inside?"
Chester broke off in mid-song. "Harvey Crandall, what in tarnation are
you doing in my bathroom?"
"Chester, I'm not in your bathroom! You're out on the front lawn! Now,
come on, please. Let's go inside."
Chester spied Pete standing just behind Crandall. "Officer, this man has
invaded my bathroom! Arrest him!" Chester made a threatening gesture toward
Crandall with his bath brush.
"All right, sir. Calm down. We'll take care of it." As he pulled Crandall
away from Chester, Pete glanced back at Jim. "Look, get a blanket out of
the trunk, would you?" he called softly.
Pete tugged Harvey's arm and said loudly, "Mr. Crandall, come on. Time
to leave Chester's bathroom."
Harvey shot him a look that clearly said he thought the officer had lost
his mind, but Pete put a finger to his lips and silenced Crandall before he
could protest.
Jim returned with a blanket draped over one arm. "What do you have in
mind?" he asked.
"Hold up one end of it. I'll hold the other."
Jim's lips quirked. "Shower curtain?"
"Can you think of anything better?"
Jim just grinned and shook his head.
They stretched the blanket between them so it shielded most of Chester's
anatomy from public view. Chester continued scrubbing and singing World War
I songs as if it were completely normal for him to have two LAPD officers
acting as shower curtain rods. After a few minutes, the old man turned off
the hose at the nozzle. Pete and Jim had to hurry with their blanket screen
to keep up with him as he headed for the porch. He climbed the steps, opened
his front door, and disappeared inside. The front door slammed shut with
the clicking of the lock.
"Guess he's getting a towel," Jim said.
Pete folded up the blanket and turned to Mr. Crandall. "Call us if he
comes back out."
Crandall just shook his head. "If that don't beat all. I'da figured you'd
have to arrest him or something."
"We may have to if he keeps pulling stunts like this. Does he have any
family in the area?"
"He's got a daughter in Pasadena."
"Do you have her number? We're not going to file any charges against him,
but we'll call her and let her know what happened."
"I'll get it for you. Hang on."
Crandall scurried off to his own house. Jim watched Chester's front door,
a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Sad, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
They didn't say anything else. Crandall rushed back out of his house with
a piece of paper in his hand. "Here you go, officers. Tell her that she
can call me if she needs to. That's my name and number right there under
hers."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Crandall. We'll see that she knows." Pete touched
the brim of his cap, then he and Jim got in the car.
Jim cleared them, then got out his report notebook. "You know," he said
as he scribbled down the information from the call, "sometimes I worry that
that'll be me in fifty years. Alone, senile and dancing around my front yard
with no clothes on."
"Nah, I'll make sure you keep your clothes on."
Jim didn't look up from his scribbling. "Gee, thanks, Pete. You're all
heart."
"Hey, I've looked out for you this long, no sense stopping just because
I'm chasing down the nurses at the old folks home in my black and white wheelchair."
"Complete with red lights and siren. Don't forget the red lights and siren."
Pete grinned. "How could I?" He pulled out into the street.
Jim cleared them, and dispatch immediately returned with a call.
"1-Adam-12, clear and a call. A 415, prowler there now. See the woman,
1690 East Wilmont. Respond code 2."
"Hey, that's two doors down from my house!" Jim exclaimed. He yanked the
mic. "1-Adam-12, roger," he muttered tersely.
"Take it easy, partner," Pete said quietly, feeling the waves of agitation
floating across the front seat.
They didn't say anything else to each other as they sped toward Jim's neighborhood.
The street was empty, as it should this late on a weeknight. Pete parked
the car in front of Jim's house. "Looks pretty quiet. Do you know the lady
in 1690?"
"Yeah. Mrs. Wannemaker. She's a widow. Tiny little thing, not even five
foot tall, but she's one tough old lady-if she called in a prowler, then there's
probably somebody out there." He grabbed the mic. "1-Adam-12, show us code
6 at location."
"Well, let's see what's up, then."
They climbed out of the car, shutting the doors silently. Pete motioned
for Jim to take the alley in back while he went around to talk to Mrs. Wannemaker.
Jim's house was quiet and dark, except for the front porch light. Pete scanned
the street as he walked to 1690. Quiet. Everything was quiet. A few cars
were parked along the curb, a few lights still gleamed in windows as night
owls watched the late show. He saw the blue glow of a television in the
living room of the house between Jim's and Mrs. Wannemaker's. He briefly
heard canned laughter from an old comedy float through the open screen door,
but it faded as he walked past.
He paused behind a large tree trunk in the corner of the yard. Nothing
moved in the front of Mrs. Wannemaker's. The glow of the sodium vapor light
on the corner bathed the yard in cold blue-white light. Pete watched for
almost a minute before he was satisfied no one lurked in the deep shadows
cast by the corner light. He walked up to the porch and knocked softly.
The door opened almost immediately. "Oh, officer, I'm glad you came so
quickly. Come in."
She opened the door wide enough to admit him, then hurriedly shut it as
if she was afraid the prowler was on Pete's heels. He glanced around the
living room. It was what he'd expect to see in a widow lady's house-aging
sofa covered with crocheted antimacassars, an old hutch filled with a lifetime
of knickknacks, the mantel nearly sagging with carefully framed family photos.
It reminded him of his own grandmother's house. "Ma'am, you called in a
prowler, correct?"
"Yes, young man," she agreed easily. She adjusted her cat-eye glasses
and peered up at him. She barely came up to his elbow. "I was sitting in
my chair, there, doing some crocheting-we old folks don't need much sleep,
you know, and I'm often up until two or three in the morning. But you don't
need to know that."
"No, ma'am," Pete said with a smile.
"Well, I heard a noise out back and thought it might be Oscar, the alley
cat that lives behind my house. He's the orneriest animal, but he seems lonely,
so I feed him out on the back porch, and sometimes he gets hungry for a midnight
snack and pounds on the back screen door until I come out and give him a
little treat. I figure that as long as he's getting fed here, he might be
less likely to eat the Reeds' pet rabbit. The Reeds, that's the family that
lives two doors down. Nicest family you could ever meet. He's a police
officer-maybe you know him? Such a dear, he's got a smile that could light
up Dodger Stadium." She actually blushed and tittered behind her hand.
Oh, boy, partner, are you racking up the girlfriends lately. A twenty-year-old
pizza waitress and now an octogenarian sweetheart. You are never gonna live
this down. Pete smiled. "Yes, I know him. He's my partner."
"Oh, my! Is he really? Oh, dear, don't tell him what I said about his
smile," she exclaimed. She turned a deeper shade of rose, but she nudged
him with her elbow. "I may be eighty-three years old, but I'm not dried up."
"No, ma'am," Pete agreed, carefully swallowing a laugh. "Ma'am, about
the prowler?"
"Oh, yes, of course. Well, Oscar wasn't out there, but I heard something
that sounded like a trash can lid banging to the ground. I peeked out the
back door, and saw someone digging through the Reeds' trash."
"Could you give me any kind of description?"
"It's dark back there. All I could see was that it was someone slender,
and sort of average height. As soon as I saw him, I hurried to call you people.
By the time I got back to the door, he was gone."
"Well, my partner's checking out the alley right now. Show me your back
door."
"Certainly, officer." She led him through a tiny kitchen to a screened-in
back porch. "I can see all the way down the alley from here," she whispered.
"Oh, there's Mr. Reed."
Jim was walking toward Mrs. Wannemaker's back yard. Pete stepped outside.
"Anything?"
"No, but somebody did a number on my trash. It's all over the alley,"
he said in disgust. "Hello, Mrs. Wannemaker."
"Hello, Mr. Reed. I'm so sorry about your trash. Are Jean and little
Jimmy all right?"
"Yes, ma'am. I peeked in the window-they're both sound asleep." Jim looked
at Pete. "No one's around that I can see. I did find some tire tracks where
someone had recently driven through a puddle, but nothing else."
"Anything missing from your trash?"
"I have no idea. Guess I better wake up Jean and see what might have been
in there."
Pete raised an eyebrow. "You mean you make Jean take out the trash?"
"No!" Jim protested indignantly. "But I don't dig through the bag before
I toss it out." He turned on his heel and headed for his own back door.
Mrs. Wannemaker giggled beside him. "I think you insulted Mr. Reed, young
man."
"Wouldn't be the first time, ma'am. Wouldn't be the first time." He smiled,
touched his hat brim, and followed after his partner.
###
"Sssh, honey, it's just me," Jim whispered as he slipped into their bedroom.
Jean sat up, blinking at him with bleary eyes as she squinted in the glare
of the lamp he'd just turned on. "What's the matter? Are you sick?"
"No, honey, I'm fine," he assured her, then gave her a kiss. "But our
trash can's not."
"What?"
"Mrs. Wannemaker called in a prowler. Somebody went through our trash,
scattered it all over the alley."
"Just ours?"
"Looks like it."
Jean shoved her hair out of her eyes. "Did you catch him?"
"No," Jim sighed. "Nobody was there by the time we arrived. I don't suppose
you heard anything?"
"No. After today, I was so exhausted I went to bed right after you left.
I was out like a light until just now."
"Was there anything in the trash we need to worry about? Bills, old checks,
anything that might have our social security numbers or bank account number
on it?"
She thought for a minute, then shook her head. "I don't think so. The
bills aren't due until next week. There may have been some junk mail and
old magazines in there, but nothing anybody could do anything with. There
were some fuzzy snapshots of Jimmy, ones that were no good. And there may
have been one of you."
"You mean you threw away a picture of me? How could you?"
Jean smiled at him, then burrowed back under the covers. "It was a tacky
picture."
"Excuse me, but I don't believe that's possible. I never take tacky pictures."
"If you find it out there, you'll see why I threw it away. It was the
one I took of you on our picnic to Big Bear last week. I was actually trying
to get a picture of Jimmy but he ran off just as I snapped it. That left
me with a picture of you staring into space with your mouth hanging open.
You looked like you were on a heroin trip."
Jim grimaced. "If I find it, I'll burn it. How's Jimmy?"
She smiled. "Sleeping like a baby. His fever's just about gone."
"Good. Look, I better get back on patrol. Don't worry about the prowler-he's
long gone."
"Okay. Turn on the back porch light when you leave, okay?"
"Good idea." He leaned down and kissed her. "See you later, sweetie."
She gave him another kiss. "I love you."
"Love you, too. Bye."
Jim walked through the house, checking doors and windows. Everything looked
secure. He checked on Jimmy. Sound asleep, just like Jean said. He tiptoed
back out, then walked through the kitchen to the back porch, flipping on the
light as he went. Pete was still in the alley, shining his flashlight around.
"Jean didn't see anything?" Pete asked as Jim approached.
Jim foot knocked an empty can of green beans. "Nope. She slept through
it."
"You know, Reed, you're really racking up the girlfriends. First, Tracy
from the pizza parlor, and now little old ladies on your street."
Jim scowled. "What are you talking about?"
"Mrs. Wannenmaker back there. She's carrying quite a torch for you."
Jim was glad the darkness hid his face. He could feel it burning. "Pete,
knock it off. She's not carrying a torch for me."
"Uh huh." Pete chuckled when Jim raised his fist threateningly, then changed
the subject. "Think you oughta check on Jimmy's rabbit?"
Jim stared at Pete for a moment, then hurried to the hutch snugged up against
the side of the garage. Pete followed him and aimed his flashlight into the
dark interior. The rabbit blinked unconcernedly at them both. Jim sighed.
"He's fine. Jimmy'd never forgive me if something happened to him."
"Did Jean know what was in the trash?"
"Said there wasn't anything important. The worst thing they could have
gotten was a bad picture of me and a blurry picture of Jimmy."
Pete feigned horror. "No! You mean you actually take bad pictures?"
"I know, I was as shocked as you, but Jean threw out one that she said
made me look like I was on a bad trip."
"Sounds like the way you look every day to me, glassy-eyed and drooling."
"Pete!"
Pete smirked at him, then headed for the alley. "C'mon, let's clean up
that mess."
###
Jim didn't find any pictures. "Pete, you don't think . . ." He didn't
finish the thought. It was too unsettling.
"Think what?"Pete slapped the lid on the trash can.
"Nothing."
"What?"
"It's those pictures-why would anybody want to steal pictures of me and
Jimmy?"
"Well, Jimmy's easy-he's adorable. But why they'd want a picture of your
ugly mug is beyond me. Come on, let's get back on patrol."
Jim stayed where he was. "Pete, what if it's some perverted sicko that
. . ." He couldn't even finish the thought.
Pete stopped. "Let's head back to the station and check with the detectives
in the sex crime unit," he said quietly.
Jim didn't argue.
###
"He's about three feet tall, blue eyes, blonde hair. Here's a picture
of him." Jim fished a photograph out of his wallet and handed it to Detective
Phil Stoner, a dour man who's fifteen years of fighting the seamier side of
L.A. crime had etched permanent lines of pessimism into his countenance.
If there was a new way under the sun for his fellow man to sink deeper into
the slime, Phil Stoner had seen it already. Twice.
Stoner's perpetually mournful face lightened. "Cute kid. This the picture
that got stolen?"
"No. The one that got stolen was a blurry snapshot of him at the lake.
Wasn't worth keeping."
"So what exactly are you wanting me to do? I mean, it ain't like he's
missing or anything. You told me yourself he's safe at home tucked away
in bed." He pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboro's out of his pocket and torched
one off. He offered the pack to Jim.
"No thanks," Jim said. "Look, I don't know what I want you to do. I guess
just keep your eyes open."
"Always, Reed. And I'll let you know if I hear of anybody out there using
that M.O. to nab kids. But I wouldn't count on it. Seems pretty far-fetched."
He took a long drag, then peered at Jim through a blue haze of smoke. "Look,
I got some time this evening. I'll dig around the files a little. See if
anything turns up."
Jim nodded.
"I'm a dad, too, Reed."
Jim sketched him a smile. "Yeah. Thanks."
"Get outta here and let me work."
###
The long shift finally ground to a halt as the sun was painting the eastern
sky with gold. Jim barely gave the sunrise a glance as he and Pete trudged
back into the station. Mac met them as they were leaving his office after
dropping off their final reports. "Hey, how're my two iron men?"
"Rusting," Pete growled. "You got no right busting in here looking so
cheerful when Reed and I have just pulled sixteen hours on duty."
"Yeah, Mac," Jim agreed. "Next time, I'm going bowling with the rest of
the guys. At least they got to sleep last night."
The big Scotsman shook his head. "What a couple of crybabies. Go home
before you turn the whole division into a bunch of whining malcontents."
Pete merely saluted and walked off. Jim started to follow, but Mac's voice
held him back. "Hey, Reed, wait a minute!"
"What?" He was too tired for small talk.
"There's a bouquet of roses for you out on the front desk."
Jim frowned. "Roses? Why?"
"How should I know? I didn't send him."
Jim rubbed his face wearily. "I bet I know who did."
Mac grinned. "At least this time we know it's not a bomb."
"Mac, what should I do about her? She's getting a little carried away
with this infatuation, if that's what it is."
"Aw, it'll pass, Jim. She's just got a crush on you. It's really kinda
cute."
"Not to me, it's not. I'm a married man, Mac."
"So tell her that."
"I did. Didn't seem to make any difference."
Mac settled himself behind his desk. "Well, Reed, whatever you end up
doing, tell her this is a police station, not the Jim Reed Fan Club Headquarters."
Jim felt his cheeks burn. "Right, Mac. See you later." He hurried out
of Mac's office before Mac could tease him any further. He wished he could
take Tracy's . . . attachment . . . a little more lightly, but it bugged the
daylights out of him. No, actually it bothered him on a deeper level than
that. It just wasn't normal for a girl to keep throwing herself like that
at a married man-or an unmarried man, for that matter. There was something
really odd about it. He pushed through the locker room door.
"Hey, ole`! Don Juan has arrived!" Ed Wells shouted, jumping on a bench
with a red rose clamped between his teeth.
Reed put his hands on his hips. "Funny, Ed. Real cute."
Ed jumped off the bench and flamenco'd around Jim like a demented bullfighter.
"Tell me how you do it, Senor Jim. How do you get ze ladies to send you
ze roses and throw zemselves at your feet?"
"Knock it off, Ed," Jim growled, yanking off his tie as he headed for his
locker.
Ed tucked the rose behind his ear. "Aw, c'mon, Reed. You're eating up
all the attention this Tracy bird's giving you. Admit it."
Jim glared over his shoulder. "Ed, I said shut up."
Pete turned around from his own locker. "Take it easy, Jim. He's just
teasing you a little."
"Well, he can stop any time he wants."
Ed plopped down on the bench beside Jim's locker. "C'mon, Reed. You like
the attention. Admit it."
Jim unbuttoned his shirt. He didn't say anything.
"Spoilsport," Ed finally muttered, tossing the rose in the bottom of Jim's
locker. "Malloy, you got a real winner of a partner, here. Sense of humor
like his'll play real good down at the funeral home."
"Leave it alone, Wells," Malloy said.
As soon as Wells was gone, Jim sagged to the bench with a tired sigh.
"Pete, what's with girls like Tracy? She's giving me the creeps."
"Come on, partner. She's just got a little crush on you. It'll pass."
"That's what Mac said."
"See? Great minds think alike. Now get changed and let's go get some
breakfast."
"I'm not hungry. I'm just going to head home and crash."
"Okay. See you tomorrow, then. Oh, and don't forget your roses."
"Pete!" Jim protested, but Malloy's quiet laughter had already faded as
the locker room door swung shut behind him.
###
"Okay, turn on the water!" Jim called out from under the sink. He heard
Jean crank the main shut-off open, then a gurgling sound traveled up through
the pipes. Jim hurriedly crawled out from under the kitchen sink and turned
on the faucet, but instead of a gentle stream of water from the spigot, a
hissing spray of water erupted from the joint between the spigot and the porcelain
sink. "Shut it off! Shut it off!" Jim yelled as he tried to shield himself
from the deluge.
Jean managed to get the water shut off but not before Jim got soaked to
the skin. She came back in through the back door and started to giggle when
she saw her wet, bedraggled husband glaring balefully at the kitchen faucet.
He transferred his stare to her. "What are you laughing at?"
"You! Mr. Home Improvement-I'll-Save-Money-Doing-It-Myself."
"I am saving us money!" Jim protested. "You know how much it costs to
hire a plumber?"
"Yes, and after watching you, I'm beginning to see why they charge so much."
Jim ignored his wife's insult as he dried his face on a kitchen towel.
"They charge thirty-five bucks an hour, and that's just for labor. You'll
thank me for saving us all that money."
"I'll thank you when I can use my kitchen sink again, Jim. How long is
this going to take?"
Jim crawled back under the sink. "Never rush genius, honey." He applied
the wrench to the leaky pipe and tightened it some more. "Okay, go turn on
the water again."
He felt a towel land on his chest. "Here," Jean said. "Be prepared this
time."
He gave her a wry look as she left the room for the water main. He raised
himself up on his knees and turned on the faucet again. "Oh ye of little
faith," he muttered, but he held the towel over the joint as the water came
back on. Only after the water ran freely for a full minute did he gingerly
pull the towel back. He watched the joint suspiciously for another few minutes,
during which Jean rejoined him and watched from a safe distance.
"Well?" she finally asked. "Is the patient going to live?"
He flashed her a triumphant grin. "I think so." He grunted as he stood
up. "Man, plumbing's hard on the knees."
She handed him an envelope. "Mail came. Here, this one's for you." She
settled down at the kitchen table to leaf through a catalog.
Jim frowned. No return address. He sniffed it. It was perfumed
. "Uh, Jean, did you send this to me?"
She glanced up from a glossy page full of evening wear. "Why would I waste
a stamp mailing something to you when I can just hand it to you in person?"
Jim pursed his lips, then slid his finger under the flap. He pulled out
a letter. "Oh, brother," he muttered. He scanned the page quickly, then
crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.
"What was it?"
"Nothing."
Jean narrowed her eyes. "Then why are your ears turning red?"
"They're not red!" he protested, reaching up and rubbing them, as if that
would make them burn any less than they already were.
Jean fished the letter out of the trash. Jim tried to grab it from her,
but she danced away to the other side of the table. She smoothed the crumpled
floral sheet of paper. "'My friend, Officer Reed,'," she read, pausing
long enough to cock an eyebrow at her fidgeting husband. "`I so enjoyed
seeing you yesterday. I hope you enjoyed the roses. Your friend, Tracy.'
Tracy, huh? You having a fling on the side that I don't know about?"
Jim knew more than his ears were red. His entire face felt like it was
on fire. "No! I'm not. She's just this, I don't know, this weird woman
who I helped at a robbery about a week ago. She's been pestering me ever
since."
"Pestering you. Like with those chocolates?"
"Yeah. And cookies, and yesterday she sent a dozen roses to the station."
"So how'd she get our address?"
"I don't know," Jim sighed, blowing out a frustrated breath. "Honey, you
know that I'd never, that there's nothing . . ."
Jean wadded up the letter. "Yes, Jim. I know." She tossed the letter
in the trash. "Now, can I use my sink again?"
Jim grinned and gave her a hug. "Yep." He kissed her. "You're the best,
know that?"
"Yes, I do." She pushed him away gently. "And you have a broken window
to fix, and a rabbit hutch to clean out, and-"
"All right, all right. I'm going." Jim let out a long-suffering sigh
and grabbed his honey-do list off the refrigerator.
###
"1-Adam-12 Daywatch clear." Jim returned the mike and stifled a yawn.
"How's Jimmy?" Pete asked.
"Better. He was running around like a wild man yesterday."
Pete smiled. "That's more like my godson." He cut a glance at his partner,
who had gone mysteriously silent. Jim was studying the hotsheet, clicking
his pen absently. Pete sighed. "Out with it."
Jim glanced up. "What?"
"You're clicking the pen again. Out with it."
Jim stuffed the pen in his shirt pocket. "I'm fine."
"Reed, how long have we worked together?"
"A little over three years, I guess."
"Don't you think I can tell by now when you're not fine?"
Jim didn't answer, just stared moodily out the window. Malloy rolled his
eyes. "All right. Stew in your own juices."
"She found out where I live."
Pete glanced over. "Who found out where you live?"
"Tracy. She sent me a letter. On perfumed stationery."
"Whoa-ho!" Pete laughed. "Bet Jean loved that!"
"She wasn't exactly pleased, but she understood." Jim fidgeted in his
seat, then fixed worried eyes on Pete. "I don't know what else to say to
this girl to get her to lay off."
"Why don't you go to the pizza parlor, sit down with her and spell it all
out plain and simple. Tell her you're a married man and just not interested.
She'll get the picture. Just don't smile at her," Pete chuckled.
"Pete, this isn't funny!"
"I'm sorry, partner, but it is. I can't believe you're getting so upset
over a twenty-year-old girl."
"Twenty-three."
"What?"
"She's twenty-three, Pete."
Pete shrugged. "Twenty, twenty-three, when you're as close to forty as
I am, anybody under thirty seems like a kid. You included."
"Pete, I'm twenty-six. That's hardly a kid."
"That's barely an adult, Reed."
"Hey, I've got a wife, a son and a mortgage. That makes me an adult."
"And you've got a lover. Don't forget Tracy."
"Pete!" Jim squawked. "For cryin' out loud, she is not my lover!"
Malloy noticed with interest that the tendons were starting to stand out
on his partner's neck. He grinned. "Uh huh."
###
Pete flipped on the lights and hit the siren, spinning the wheel violently
as he stood on the brake. They slewed around the corner nearly on two wheels,
but lost valuable ground in their pursuit of the robbery/homicide suspect.
Jim pushed himself upright after sliding into his door and grabbed the
mic. "1-Adam-12 now heading northbound on 23rd," he muttered, but the words
were barely out of his mouth before Pete wrenched the wheel again and they
hurtled westbound into an alley. Trash dumpsters and fire escapes whizzed
by the windows almost close enough to knock the side mirrors off. "1-Adam-12,
now westbound in the alley west of 23rd."
Jim barely noticed the link operator repeating the pursuit broadcast.
He was too busy watching for obstacles. They came to the end of the alley
without mishap. "Clear right!"
They shot out of the alley onto Market. "1-Adam-12, northbound on 24th."
"Jim, watch out!" Pete suddenly barked as the suspect on the passenger
side leaned an arm out the window. Smoke bloomed from a revolver in the
man's hand.
Jim ducked but the bullet didn't come near them. "1-Adam-12 requesting
backup. Shots fired."
Another bloom of smoke and this time the windshield on Jim's side crazed
as a neat round bullet hole appeared near the rear view mirror. The mirror
popped off and clipped Jim on the forehead. "Ouch!"
"You all right?" Pete asked, keeping his eyes on the suspect and the curving
road.
Jim rubbed his bruised temple. He pulled his fingers back: no blood. "Yeah,
I'm fine. Clear right. My side of the windshield's smashed. Can you see?"
"Yeah, my side's fine."
"1-Adam-12, 1-Xray-14 is code 100 at 24th and Rosemont."
"1-Adam-12, roger," Jim replied, bracing himself again as Pete slung the
car around a sharp curve. "I think I'm going to transfer to Kansas," Jim
muttered. "Or any place that's only got straight streets."
Pete didn't reply. He was too busy making sure he didn't lose control
of the car. The Chevrolet stayed maddeningly about two-tenths of a mile
ahead of them. Pete pushed the car as fast as he felt prudent, but the Chevy
had better handling. "We're losing 'em," he growled.
"Xray-14'll get 'em," Jim said.
"Hope so."
"Pete! Look out right!" Jim yelled as he spied a car starting to pull
out of a driveway.
Pete swerved to the left, then fishtailed back to the right, missing the
car by inches. Jim had a glimpse of a wide-eyed civilian as they rocketed
past. As soon as Jim's heart crawled back down in his chest he muttered,
"Too close."
Thanks to the heedless civilian, they lost sight of the Chevy. Pete drove
two blocks before finally letting off the accelerator. "We'll never get
those bozos now. Let's go back and have a chat with that idiot back there."
Jim sighed his frustration as he grabbed the mic. "1-Adam-12 no longer
in pursuit. Suspect last seen still northbound on 24th at a high rate of
speed. Put us code 6 at 1300 block of 24th."
Pete turned the car around and headed back. They found the civilian still
sitting in his station wagon. Pete parked the patrol car so it blocked the
wagon, then climbed out. "Sir, didn't you see my lights?" he barked.
The slight man behind the wheel stammered an apology. "I-I-I didn't, I
mean, no, I . . . well, you see, I was trying not to hit the mailbox or the
car parked along the curb and I-I . . ."
"May I see your driver's license?"
Jim strolled up while the man fumbled for his wallet. "Car checks out
clean," he murmured. He took in Pete's clenched jaw and fists. "Want me
to handle it?"
Pete gave him a sharp glance, then took a deep breath. "Sure, he's all
yours," he growled and walked back to the patrol car.
The sweating man finally fished out his license and handed it to Jim.
"Thank you, sir. I'll be right back," Jim told him, and returned to the
car. He grabbed the mic, but Pete stopped him.
"Pursuit's still on. No broadcasts."
"What do you think?" he asked Pete.
Pete looked over his shoulder at the harmless-looking man. "Ah, give him
a citation and let him go. He doesn't exactly look like the other half of
Bonnie and Clyde. Make sure you rattle his cage good, though. He could have
rammed right into us and gotten himself killed."
"Or us," Jim added.
Pete just grunted. Jim grabbed his ticket book and walked back to the
man. "Mr. Hobart, failure to yield to emergency vehicles is a serious offense.
You interfered with our pursuit of a homicide suspect who may now get away."
He hardened his eyes. "Your actions put your life, our lives and the lives
of innocent bystanders in jeopardy."
"Y-y-es, sir," the man whispered.
Jim tapped the license against his palm, considering. "I've half a mind
to haul you into jail, but I'm just going to write you a ticket." He opened
the ticket book and started scribbling. "This your current address?"
"Yes."
Jim glanced up at the man briefly. "Something wrong?" he asked, noting
the way the man was sweating.
"No, no, nothing wrong."
Jim didn't like the way the man's gaze kept darting toward his car. "Sir,
step up on the curb, please."
Jim followed him. "Put your hands on your head," he ordered. Hobart obeyed,
and Jim briskly patted the man down, running his hands along the seams in
the man's clothes, checking the pockets and the waistband. He grunted as
his hand encountered an object tucked in the man's belt. He pulled it out,
but it was just a miniature flashlight. "Okay, you can put your hands down."
He handed the man his flashlight back. Seemed a strange thing to have tucked
in his belt, but Jim couldn't put his finger on why. In fact, he couldn't
put his finger on why everything about this man screamed hinky to him. He
left Hobart on the curb and looked in all the car windows. He even tugged
on the trunk, but it stayed latched. "Stay put," he said, then walked back
to the black and white.
Pete raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything as Jim grabbed the mic.
"Is the channel clear?"
"Yeah. They caught the Chevy about two minutes ago."
Jim keyed the mic. "1-Adam-12 requesting wants and warrants on Gerald
David Hobart, DOB 3-21-37."
"What's the matter?" Pete finally asked as they waited for dispatch to
return.
"Gut feeling. He's acting a little hinky. Eyes going everywhere, sweating
. . . " Jim shrugged.
"1-Adam-12, Gerald David Hobart, DOB 3-21-27, no want, one traffic warrant
for an outstanding parking ticket."
Jim frowned. "1-Adam-12, roger," he replied absently, then looked at Pete.
"Think we can check his trunk?"
"What's your probable cause?"
"Traffic warrant?"
"On an unpaid parking ticket?" He shook his head. "I doubt it would hold
up."
"Mind if I get a second opinion?" Jim lifted the mic again. "1-Adam-12
requests 1-L-20 meet me on Tac 2." Jim waited for dispatch to repeat his
request, then flipped the radio to the other frequency.
"L-20 to 1-Adam-12, go."
Jim explained the situation to Mac. "Do we have enough PC to check the
trunk?"
"Sorry, Jim. Doesn't sound like it to me. Cite him and let him go."
"Roger, Mac," Jim sighed. He returned to Hobart and handed him his license.
"Okay, buddy, you can go. Get that parking ticket paid and watch where you're
driving next time."
Hobart scurried off to his car without saying a word. Jim climbed back
in the squad car and, as Pete drove out of the man's way, watched him carefully
back out and drive off. "Why do I feel like we're gonna regret letting him
go?"
"Let it go, Jim. You can't reel 'em all in."
"Yeah, you're right."
"Of course I'm right. Now get in and let's head back for a new car and
7. I'm starving."
"Best idea you've had all day." Jim grinned, then called it in.
"1-Adam-12, is your car driveable?"
At Pete's nod, Jim responded affirmative.
"1-Adam-12, stay on patrol and handle this call. Illegal dumping. 7213
West Holland. 7213 West Holland. Respond Code 2."
Jim nodded. "1-Adam-12, roger." Jim scribbled the address down as dispatch
acknowledged. "Wonder what it is this time? I hate illegal dumping calls."
Pete didn't bother to speculate as he wove through the side streets. He
turned right on West Holland. "7213 should be on the left."
"Tell me that's not what I think it is." Pete parked the car along the
curb. A half-acre expanse of immaculate green zoysia swept uninterrupted
toward a two-story colonial. Uninterrupted, that is, except for . . . Pete
wrinkled his nose as he climbed out of the car. "Horse manure," he muttered.
"I think I just lost my appetite."
Jim moved quickly upwind to join the homeowner, who stood disconsolately
on his driveway. "Sir, do you know who may have dumped this here?"
"It's those kids. My son's friends. They did this. Oh, it'll just ruin
my zoysia."
Jim pulled out his notebook. "Can I have their names?"
The man supplied them, and after a promise to call for a street maintenance
truck, Jim left the homeowner staring at his pile of steaming fertilizer.
"Hard to believe how much work kids'll go to just to pull off a prank,"
he muttered as he climbed in the car beside Pete. "If they studied that hard,
we'd have the cure for cancer by now. I'm tellin' you, Pete, kids don't
appreciate good education any more-"
"Are you gonna harp on this the rest of the day?" Pete interrupted tiredly.
"Nah. Guess I'll let you off the hook this time."
Pete didn't return Jim's somewhat evil grin, but he nodded. "Thank you.
How about clearing us for a new car and seven."
Jim radioed in and crossed his fingers. He grinned as dispatched cleared
them for both. "Ha! Won't have to eat out of the vending machine after all."
Pete grimaced. "You and your candy bars. I could really go for pizza.
Smokey's is right around the block. We could eat first, then switch cars."
Jim shot him a scandalized look. "Pete! I am not setting foot
in that place."
"Jim, they've got the best pizza in town. I refuse to short-change my
palate because of your women troubles."
"I don't have women troubles."
"Okay, woman troubles. Singular. You know, she may not be working
today."
Jim set his jaw. "Pete, no. I'm not eating there."
Pete tried another tack. He really wanted pizza. "Jim, don't you want
to settle this thing with her?"
"Eating where she works will not help settle anything," Jim insisted.
"I'm afraid it will only egg her on."
"C'mon, Reed, I'm giving you a golden chance to straighten things out with
her."
Jim stared moodily at the jigsaw pattern of cracks on the windshield in
front of him.
"Does your silence mean we can eat there?" Pete asked hopefully as he steered
the car toward Smokey's.
Jim didn't reply. Malloy glanced at him and saw he had switched his gaze
to his side window. "Okay, how about if I get a pizza carry-out? She won't
even see you, I promise."
"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."
Pete's patience faded. "Look, Jim, it's broad daylight and we're just
going in for pizza. She's not gonna jump you."
Jim glared at him. "Malloy, I'm not going in there. Not now, not ever."
He spied a burger stand across the street. "I'll be over there." With that,
he climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Pieces of the shattered windshield
jarred loose and clattered against the dashboard.
Pete stayed in the car, glancing at his watch. I give you fifteen seconds,
partner. He watched as Jim marched stiffly across the lot. Jim suddenly
stopped and lowered his head for a moment. The rigid set of his shoulders
relaxed. He kicked at a rock, then turned around and came back. Pete hurriedly
stifled his grin as Jim pulled open his door and leaned down to look in with
troubled eyes. "Pete, look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you like
that."
"Don't worry about it. Get in. I'll drive over to the burger stand."
Jim shook his head. "No, Pete. It's silly of me to make you skip out
on good pizza. You're right. I can't keep running scared from a twenty-three-year-old
teenybopper." He gave his partner a weak grin.
"All right, if you're sure."
"I'm sure, Pete."
Pete couldn't resist one last jab as he got out of the car. "I dunno,
Reed, what if I'm wrong about her not jumping you?"
Jim narrowed his eyes. "I could put in for a permanent L-car assignment
any time, Pete."
Pete chuckled all the way across the parking lot, then laughed at the way
Jim paused at the front door, as if he were expecting a 211 suspect to jump
out at him. "Would you just go in," Pete said, yanking open the door and
giving Reed a shove.
Jim hurriedly slid into the first booth they came to, then sat perched
on the edge of the bench as if ready to fly out the door at the first sign
of Tracy. Pete leaned forward. "Relax, partner," he whispered.
Jim scooted back a half-inch.
"That's more like it," Pete said drily.
"Officer Reed!"
Jim jerked like he'd been stung by a scorpion, but he managed to stammer
out a greeting as Tracy came over to their booth.
She smiled at them both, but Pete noticed the way her eyes lit up when
she looked at Reed. He hid another smile and carefully avoided catching
Reed's gaze.
"What can I get for you gentlemen today? And don't worry, no discounts
and no free food, I promise."
"How about a large pepperoni? If that's okay with you, Jim?" he asked.
Jim nodded without speaking or looking at Tracy.
"And what do you want to drink?"
"You got Orange Smash?"
"Yes, sir. And how about you, Officer Reed?"
Jim gave her a panicked glance, then stammered out that a coke would be
fine. She scribbled down their order on her pad and disappeared.
"Oh, boy," Jim breathed. "This is a mistake. Big mistake."
"Reed, all she did was take our orders. Don't hyperventilate over it."
"I was afraid that just my coming in here is going to give her the wrong
idea, and it has!" he hissed. "Did you see that look she gave me?"
Pete leaned forward and lowered his own voice. "So instead of stammering
around like the cat's got your tongue, say something to her."
"But what if . . ." He stopped. His ears started turning red.
"What?"
"What if I make a big deal out of the cookies and stuff and it turns out
she's really just trying to be nice after all? I'll look like a fool and
hurt her feelings besides."
Pete couldn't find his voice for a moment. "Reed," he finally managed.
"She sent you roses and a perfumed letter. That's way beyond trying to be
nice." Pete couldn't believe after all Jim's fussing about coming in he
was about to chicken out. "Look, why don't I conveniently go use the men's
room when she comes with our drinks. That way you can talk to her alone-"
"No!" Jim nearly shouted, then glanced around and lowered his voice. "No,
stay here. I don't want to be alone with her."
"Reed!" Pete protested. "I don't want a ringside seat!"
"I need you, partner," Jim pleaded.
"Okay, okay," Pete relented. "Here she comes."
Jim drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and waited for her to set the
two drinks down before he said anything. "Uh, Tracy, wait a minute, would
you?"
She smiled brightly. "Yes?"
Jim glanced at Pete for reassurance, then looked up at her. "Uh, Tracy,
I know you mean well, sending those cookies and then the roses, and the letter.
But it's got to stop."
Tracy's smile wavered. She glanced uncertainly at Pete. "Um, maybe we
should talk this over privately," she suggested.
Jim frowned. "Tracy, there's nothing to discuss. I don't want you sending
me anything. No more letters, no more flowers. No more cookies and candy.
I'm a married man. I have a son. Do you understand?"
Tracy stared at him for a moment, then silently picked up his coke and
without a word, poured it in his lap. While he yelped and reached for the
napkins, she turned on her heel and walked away.
Pete watched Jim frantically swipe napkins across his soaked pants. "That
went well," he finally commented. "Wonder what she'll do when she brings
the pizza?"
