The Stuff of Nightmares (2/2)
February 16, 1973, 2:13 p.m.
"Okay, now swish and rinse."
Pete squirmed around in the dentist's chair until he could crane his head
over the little ceramic sink next to him. In addition to the broken tooth
from the TA, the wicked tooth doc had found three cavities, one severe enough
to warrant a root canal. But at least for now, the ordeal was almost over.
The drilling, the jaw-cracking "open wide, wider!" commands, the glaring
white light shining in his eyes, the pounding as they fit the temporary crown
over his left canine; it was all thankfully over. He suppressed a shudder.
He hated going to the dentist.
"Okay, Mr. Malloy, you're all finished. You know, if you'd come in a little
more regularly for a checkup instead of waiting for some criminal to knock
a tooth out, you wouldn't have such a hard time of it."
Malloy didn't trust his numb lips to try to respond to his dentist, so
he just grunted and headed for the receptionist's desk.
"That'll be $320."
The pain that made Pete wince had nothing to do with his sore tooth. He
sighed, pulled out his checkbook and ravaged his bank account. The department
would pay for the broken canine, but the rest was his burden to bear. "Vultures,"
he muttered. With the packing in his mouth, it came out sounding something
like wushures. The receptionist gave him a saccharine smile and snatched
the check from him.
Pete walked down the narrow flight of stairs from the second-floor dentist's
office down to the street. He emerged blinking into the bright afternoon
sun just in time to see an LAPD black and white roll up to the curb with a
honk of the horn.
He leaned down and peered into the passenger side window. "Weed? Yuh
in a ehw-caw?"
Reed grinned at him. "That's an L-Car, Pete, with an 'l' and an
'r'. What's the matter? Did the dentist take out your ability to enunciate
when he took out that tooth?"
"He din' take owt mah toof . . . he did a woot canaw and ga' me two cwowns."
"Pete, please, just don't talk! Get in and I'll drive you home."
"Huh-uh. Caw's 'wound back."
"Maybe I should follow you, just in case you drool too much and drown."
"Funny, pawdnuh, weal funny. Why yuh by yuh-sef?"
"We're shorthanded. Brinkman and Wells got called into court today, Wickersham
is in Hawaii on vacation, Mac called in with the flu, and Johnson's wife had
her baby."
"Wow. Guhl o' boy?"
"Little girl. Marissa Claire."
"Pwetty."
"Well, hey, I gotta get back on patrol. You sure you're okay?"
"Uh huh. You wike it by yuh-sef?"
Jim gave him an evil grin. "Yeah, I really do. A guy could get used to
all this peace and quiet. Oh, and Pete?"
"Wut?"
"You're drooling."
Jim laughed, beeped the horn and drove off. Malloy wiped his chin with
his handkerchief and shook his head. Those horse teeth of Reed's never got
cavities. Life just wasn't fair.
###
Jim's smile lasted as long as it took to get out of sight of his partner.
He was glad, in a way, that Malloy hadn't needed a lift. As foul as his
mood was today, it had taken just about everything he had to maintain a cheerful
facade. The last thing he needed was Malloy prodding and asking questions
that he couldn't answer.
"1-L-17, 415 unknown, 6599 Wilshire. Handle Code 2."
"1-L-17, roger," Jim muttered, then pulled a u-turn to head back north
to Wilshire. He passed Malloy's brown Mustang and flashed his lights briefly
at him, then turned onto Wilshire. 6500 block was another half-mile away.
He glanced in his mirror. Pete had turned after him. What are you doing,
Malloy? Checking up on me? You live in the other direction. Swallowing
his irritation, he pulled into the parking lot at 6599 Wilshire, an apartment
complex with about a hundred units. He grabbed the mic. "1-L-17, Code 6
at scene. Did you have an apartment number on that 415?"
"1-L-17, negative. All the informant gave was 6599 Wilshire."
Jim frowned and tapped the mic against the steering wheel. He didn't like
the feel of this call. "Do you have a call-back number?"
"1-L-17, stand by." A long pause, then, "1-L-17, no answer at
call-back number."
Jim blew out a harsh breath. "1-L-17, Roger. Request assistance at this
location, possible Code 77, identify Tac 2."
"1-L-17, roger. All units in vicinity of 1-L-17, 1-L-17 requesting back
up at 6599 Wilshire, possible Code 77. Identify and meet him on Tac 2."
Jim flipped the frequency and almost immediately, Sanchez' voice floated
out of the speaker. "1-Adam-11 to 1-L-17, go."
"Juan, what's your ETA?"
"I can get there in about three."
"Roger."
Malloy's car pulled up alongside his."Whatcha got?" He'd taken the packing
out of his mouth and sounded a lot clearer.
"415, unknown. No apartment number, no answer at the call-back. Just
smells funny to me."
"You got back up coming?"
"Yeah. Sanchez."
"Want me to hang around?"
Jim felt his chin lift. "I don't need a sitter, Pete."
Pete's left eyebrow did a brief dance. "I'm not saying you do, partner,"
he said in a mild tone. "I'm just offering."
"Sorry," Jim sighed. "I'm a little out of sorts. I don't like working
L-car."
"Aww, you do miss me!"
Jim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like I'd miss catching a cold. Get outta
here."
Malloy smirked and moved his car out of the way. Sanchez and Watson pulled
up behind Reed's L-car. Sanchez strolled up to Jim's window. "Whatcha got,
Jim? I heard your second broadcast on the 415. No apartment number or nothing?"
"No, none. And no answer on the call-back number. It just feels funky."
Sanchez nodded. He'd worked with Jim long enough to know that when Reed
thought something smelled bad, there were rotten enchiladas somewhere nearby.
"You lead the way, hermano."
Jim got out of his car, sliding his baton in its belt loop. The apartment
building was two stories, with a tall glass atrium front entrance. He pushed
through the double glass doors. Nothing unusual in the lobby. "Why don't
you and Watson take the second floor?"
"You got it." They moved off toward the stairs and Reed moved down the
left hallway, listening for loud noises, angry voices, anything that might
indicate a problem. He really didn't want to start knocking on every door
in the building. The west end of the building was dead silent, so he retraced
his steps and headed down the east corridor, his feet sinking into two inch
red pile carpet. Whatever might be going on behind those closed doors, the
people living here paid well for their privacy. The east corridor was as
silent as the west. Jim pushed open the door to the back stairwell and jogged
up. Sanchez was three doors down when Jim emerged on the second floor. "Anything?"
"Nada. Not a blessed thing."
"Musta been a prank. Look, I'm sorry I dragged you guys up here. I just
didn't like the feel of it."
"Hey, don't worry. Nothing was going on in our beat anyway." Sanchez
gave him a smile, then left to collect his partner.
Reed stood in the hallway a minute longer, listening and watching the ranks
of closed doors. Something still fluttered uneasily in his gut, but he could
hardly go beating down all the doors. He sighed and headed back out to the
patrol car.
Malloy was leaning against the fender. "Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Probably kids."
"Yeah. Well, I think I'll stay here in the lot for a while, see if anything
happens. If nothing else, maybe I'll catch some expired plates."
"Ah, the life of a cop. Seven hours, fifty-eight minutes of boredom punctuated
by two minutes of sheer terror. Hope your day stays boring, partner."
"Yeah, me too."
Malloy gave Reed a wave, then got in his car and pulled away.
Reed looked around the parking lot, unaccountably feeling the hair rise
on the back of his neck.
Me, too, partner.
###
"1-L-17 clear."
Jim put the mic back and got out his notebook, making out the report about
the false alarm. That was really stupid, calling for back up on a false
alarm. At least it hadn't been Wells responding back up. He'd never let
me hear the end of it. But Sanchez, he's a straight arrow. If Pete wasn't
my partner, he'd be the one I'd want. He tried to brush off the nagging
embarrassment and settled back to watch traffic.
Fifteen minutes later he hadn't seen a single expired tag and he was about
to fall asleep. He glanced back at the apartment building. Still quiet.
"Oh, I give up. There's nothing going on here." He dropped the car in gear
and pulled out onto Wilshire.
"1-L-17, 415, 6599 Wilshire, Apartment 7C. 6-5-9-9 Wilshire, Apartment
7-C, respond Code 2."
He pulled a u-turn. "1-L-17, roger. Put me Code 6 at scene."
"1-L-17, roger."
Once more, Jim climbed from the car, slid the baton in his belt and entered
the glass atrium. He bypassed the elevator for the stairwell and took the
steps three at a time until he reached the second floor. He found apartment
7C from the swelling strains of an opera playing fortissimo on a stereo's
system. He banged on the door. No answer, so he banged a little harder.
"Police!"
The stereo abruptly shut off and Jim heard rapid footsteps approaching
the other side of the door. He stepped back and to the side, keeping his
hand on his gun, just in case.
After a flurry of lock-clicking, the door swung open and a tiny elderly
man peered myopically up at him. Jim dropped his hand from his gun, feeling
a little foolish about getting so jumpy over an opera-loving, elfin grandfather
who was probably half-deaf. "Uh, sir, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to
turn down your stereo. We had a complaint from someone in the building."
"What?" the old man yelled, cupping his hand around his ear.
"I said you need to turn down your stereo!" Jim said loudly. "We had a
complaint from someone in the building!"
"But if I turn it down, I can't hear it!"
Jim glanced at the man's ears. "Sir, do you wear a hearing aid?"
"What?"
"Do you wear a hearing aid!"
"I can't hear you! Let me go get my hearing aid!" the man shouted, then
slammed the door shut in Jim's face.
Jim chuckled to himself, then leaned one arm on the door frame as he idly
scuffed his shoe over the thick pile carpet, listening to the thumps and bumps
on the other side of the door. Sounded like the old man was tearing the
place apart trying to find his missing hearing aid. The door suddenly swung
open. Jim straightened up.
"Now, young man, what were you saying?"
"I have to ask you to turn down your stereo," Jim said for the third time.
"Oh, of course, of course. I just clean forgot to put in my hearing aids
this morning. Tell whoever called you that I apologize."
"No problem, sir." He scribbled on his complaint form. "Would you sign
this for me? It's not a ticket, just a statement that says I talked to you
about the noise." The old man scrawled his shaky John Hancock where Jim's
finger pointed. "Thank you, sir. You have a nice day."
"Oh, I will, I will. Good day, officer."
The door shut, and Jim chuckled again, smiling all the way down to the
stairwell. Pete'll be sorry he missed that one. And I can't believe
I got so jumpy over an opera addict. The smile trickled away and he
stopped on the landing between the first and second floors. The echoes of
his footsteps faded and the quiet of the stairwell pressed down on him. He
craned his neck back up the way he'd come. Nothing up there but closed hallway
access doors and mute red Exit signs.
He rubbed his shoulder, then hurried down the steps and out of the building.
February 16, 1973, 5:57 p.m.
Jean Reed frowned as her husband pushed spaghetti noodles idly around his
plate, his gray eyes wide as he stared at some middle space between his plate
and the salt shaker. "Jim?"
"Huh?"
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
Okay, when Jim Reed comes out with his favorite stock answer, it really
means he's thinking about something heinous that he doesn't want to burden
me with. But if I don't pry it out of him, he'll be hurt and think I don't
care. Men! "Jim," she said chidingly.
"What?" he asked defensively, trying to soften his tone with that killer
smile of his that he knew still gave her butterflies.
She hardened herself to his boyish attempts at charming his way out of
telling her what was wrong. "Don't 'what' me with that smile of yours, mister.
Spill it!"
The smile faded as quickly as it appeared as his eyes dropped back to his
plate. "I, uh, was just thinking about those dreams . . . ." He paused and
glanced meaningfully at their three-year-old son.
Jean caught his hint. "Okay, little Jimmy, time for you to go play."
"But I want more p'sgetti!"
"Later, Jimmy. Now you run off and find your legos and build your daddy
an airplane like you did for me, okay?"
He grinned as she wiped tomato sauce off his chubby cheeks. "Okay!" he
yelled, than scampered off on chubby legs to his room.
Jean turned back to her husband, who was leaning his forehead on his clasped
hands. "Jim, what's the matter?"
"Today I got scared to death by an old man playing his opera records too
loud."
"What?"
Jim laughed, but Jean didn't see any humor in his face. "Oh, it was a
real dangerous call, all right. An old man playing his opera records too
loud. He didn't scare me, but I kept getting the heeby-jeebies in his apartment
building. I even called for back up. It was stupid! I don't know, I guess
we've just had too many close calls all run together lately. It's almost
like I've had to spend so much time keeping my guard up, watching for somebody
to suddenly pull a gun on me, that I can't shut it off. I can't quit watching
and getting ready to jump, but it's like I'm jumping at all the wrong things.
You know what, Jean? I can't even sit in church without looking at everybody
and wondering who's about to leap up and start killing people."
Jean bit her lip, intuitively knowing that this was something beyond her
power to fix. "Jim, maybe you need to talk to Mac, or Pete? Or our pastor."
Jim straightened up with a sigh. "Nah, I'll be all right. It's just something
that's been bothering me, and those stupid dreams I keep having don't help.
I'm gonna put in for next week off. We'll drive up the coast, maybe even
go all the way up to San Francisco. I just need to get away, take a break
from it all."
"If you think that'll cure you, I sure won't stand in your way," Jean smiled.
"I'll take any excuse to go to San Francisco, even a husband who's going
crazy."
"Hey!" Jim protested, assuming a mock-hurt expression.
"Oooh, I hurt his widdle feelings . . . how will he ever let me make it
up to him?" She leaned forward and kissed him gently, then with a little
more passion.
He pulled her into his lap. "That's a good start. It'll take a lot of
undoing, though. You really hurt my feelings. I'm almost ready to cry, in
fact."
She giggled and tried to bite his earlobe. He laughed and ducked his head
out of reach, then pulled her close in a hug. "I love you, Jean," he whispered.
"I love you, too, sweetheart. You'll be fine."
He didn't say anything as he shut his eyes and relished the moment of peace
in her embrace.
February 23, 1973; 10:58 p.m.
Pete was glad to find his partner back to his usual chipper self-well,
mostly chipper. But at least today the thundercloud on Jim's brow was put
there by a wayward son who refused to display an interest in potty-training.
"Pete, do you know how much money we spend on diapers? Jean was washing
them all herself, but then we sat down and figured out how much it was costing
in bleach and detergent and water and electricity, so we switched to one
of those laundry services, but it's still really expensive. That kid better
learn how to use the toilet or his college money is gonna go down the toilet
instead!"
Pete laughed. "College money. Get a grip, partner."
"He's your godson . . . how about forking over some diaper money?"
"No way, Reed. Being a godparent means I oversee his spiritual development,
not his, uh, not-so-spiritual development."
"Listen to you," Jim griped. "Am I supposed to think that the tricycle
you bought him last week is part of your spiritual-development plan?"
"Hey, if he's gonna go ye therefore into the world, he's gotta learn to
drive!"
Jim couldn't help laughing. "All right, all right. I give up."
"So how was San Francisco, anyway?"
"Lotta fun. Jimmy got carsick when we drove down Lombard Street, but other
than that we had a blast."
"Good. Now would you mind clearing us for the shift? Unless all that
vacationing made you forget why we're sitting together in this lovely black
and white car."
Malloy smiled at the way Jim jumped for the mic. Reed was too easy a mark
sometimes. He pulled out of the station and PM Watch began.
###
"So we're standing on the Golden Gate Bridge, right? And this guy walks
up to Jean and tells her that he's The Emissary from Polaris and he's chosen
her to be the mother of a new master race . . . all while I'm standing there
right beside her!" Reed shook his head in disbelief. And people thought
L.A. was the land of fruits and nuts.
"So what did you do?" Malloy turned their car down Wilshire.
"I told him to buzz off."
"And what did Jean do?"
"She thought the whole thing was hilarious. Now every time I leave the
toilet seat up or forget to pick up my dirty underwear, she reminds me that
she could leave me at any time to go be the Mother Goddess."
"Better watch yourself, partner. I'd sure hate to see you get ditched
for an alien."
"What is it about me and kooks like that, anyway? I mean, gee, what was
it, about six months ago we nabbed the Vulcan Bandit and I had to break up
a fight between four Klingons? I still can't believe that."
"I'd really rather not speculate on why you seem to be an alien magnet."
Jim shot Pete a glare. "You better watch it or I'll call the mother ship
and have them beam you into another universe."
"How about you call dispatch for seven, instead?"
"That I can do. 1-Adam-12, requesting Code 7."
"1-Adam-12, okay 7."
"Hey, we must be living right." Jim rubbed his hands together. A malt
at Eddy's sounded just the ticket. A single shoe laying on the sidewalk
caught his eye as Pete pulled up to the curb. "Pete, how come we never see
people hobbling around with one shoe?"
"What?"
"Look, see that shoe? It's always just one shoe laying on the side of
the road. What happened to all the other shoes?"
Pete stared at him, his blue eyes wide with incredulity. "Did you fall
and hit your head again?"
Jim laughed and pushed into the restaurant. Eddy looked up from his magazine
and greeted them. "Well, it looks like a week off did somebody some good,"
he grumbled.
"What gives, Eddy? Slow day?" Pete asked, looking around at the empty
restaurant.
"Aw, it's that new hamburger joint down the block. Mc-whatever. They
just opened last week and now all my customers gotta try 'em out. But I
had one of their burgers-my customers will soon be back."
"Well, you got two customers right here. How 'bout some food?"
"Chef salad again?"
Pete made a face. "No! A cheeseburger, onion rings and a big iced tea."
Jim took his hat off and sat it on the counter. "And a BLT, fries and
a chocolate malt for me, Eddy."
"You guys gonna actually pay for it this time?"
Pete pulled a five out of his wallet and slide it across the counter.
"In advance, Eddy. Get cooking!"
Jim rested his chin on his hand. "What a difference a couple weeks makes.
Last time I was in here I was about to explode."
"I guess that vacation did the trick." I hope. There was still
something not quite right about his partner, but he couldn't put his finger
on it. Maybe it was just that Jim was too cheerful. He grimaced to himself.
Malloy, you're never satisfied. You think Jim's too much of a grouch
most of the time, and now that he's finally in a good mood, you think something's
cockamamie.
Jim turned around on the counter stool and leaned his elbows on the counter
behind him as he looked over the restaurant. "Ever wonder what you'd do if
you weren't a cop, Pete?"
"I'd probably be flipping burgers down at that new burger stand. Or digging
ditches somewhere."
"I always thought it'd be neat to have a little restaurant like this."
"You don't cook!"
"I know. I didn't say I'd actually do it. I just said it'd be kinda neat."
Pete gave Jim a disbelieving look but didn't say anything.
Jim twirled back around on the stool and swivelled back and forth, tapping
his two index fingers against the counter like he was playing the drums.
Pete watched him for a moment, then shook his head. He's acting like a
manic six-year-old. "Reed, what are you doing?"
"Nothing. I've just got this song in my head that I can't get out. It's
driving me nuts."
"Well, go out in the car and sing it or something, would you?"
Eddie came out of the kitchen with their food. "One BLT and fries. One
cheeseburger and onion rings. I feel sorry for you, Reed, having to breathe
Malloy's onion breath the rest of the night."
"Yeah, maybe I should put in for an L-car."
Pete stuffed a whole onion ring in his mouth. "Go ahead and try," he mumbled.
The bell on the door jingled behind them. Reed took a bite of his sandwich,
then glanced over his shoulder. "Pete," he mumbled, elbowing his partner.
"It's TJ."
Pete turned half-way around on his stool and eyed their informant. TJ
looked his usual scrappy self: baggy, unmatched wrinkled clothes, hair lank
and not too clean. The L.A. Dodgers baseball hat was new. "Been down to
Dodger Stadium, TJ?"
"Hey, Malloy, Reed. Howya doin'?" He yanked the hat off and nervously
folded and unfolded the brim until it was completely mangled.
"What's the matter, TJ?" Pete asked. First Reed, now TJ. I'm surrounded
by nervous nellies tonight.
"I gotta talk to you, Pete. But not here." With that, he scurried out
the door.
Pete shrugged at his partner. "Well, I guess TJ thinks he's got a hot
one. I better go see what he wants." He grabbed his cheeseburger and sauntered
out the door. He found TJ hovering around a phone booth at the corner. "What's
up, TJ?" he mumbled around a mouthful of beef and onion.
TJ glanced around, made sure the sidewalk was truly empty, then waved his
hand at Pete to lean close. "There's a hit goin' down tonight, over behind
Scully's Bar."
"What kinda hit?"
"You know Charlie Branscombe?"
"I heard of him," was all Pete would admit, although Branscombe's sheet
was longer than his arm. The guy was a classic bottom feeder, trying his
hand at all kinds of penny-ante ways of making a buck. Petty theft, a little
bunco, possession of weed, drunk and disorderly. He'd get in minor trouble,
they'd put him away for six months, he'd come back out and pick up right where
he left off. Charlie was more of a nuisance than a serious threat to society.
"Well, they say he's goin' huntin' for Dud Weaver. They say Weaver stiffed
Charlie for six grand and Charlie's gonna ice him."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Just how reliable is your, uh, source?
Branscombe's a small timer. I'm supposed to believe that Charlie's swimming
with the big fish all of a sudden?"
"I'm tellin' you, it's true. Branscombe's got some kinda deal worked out
with a major supplier, you know, like heroin, and Dud wanted in on it, so
Charlie says okay. He gave Dud ten big ones to do a buy, only Dud never did
the buy. I seen part of his roll . . . he was flashin' hundreds like ten
spots. An' he was braggin', like, about how he took Charlie to the cleaners."
Pete didn't know this Dud Weaver, but from the sound of it, he couldn't
be the brightest light on the Christmas tree. "Okay, okay, I'll take your
word on it, although it sounds like a rejected b-movie script. When's all
this supposed to go down?"
"What time is it?"
"11:15."
"Oh, jeez, Pete, you better get over there quick. Weaver said something
about 11:30. And that's all I know." He turned on his heel and ran.
"This had better be worth it," Pete muttered as he stuck his head in the
door to Eddie's. "Reed, grab your sandwich and bring it with you. We got
a possible 187 about to go down."
###
"So, do you think TJ's right this time?" Jim asked, brushing crumbs off
his uniform.
"I have no idea. Sometimes TJ seems to exhibit a very rich fantasy life."
Jim grinned. "Yeah, I have a hard time believing Charlie would ever have
six grand to get swindled out of. The man can't count to twenty with his
socks on."
"Well, stranger things have happened. If we had more time, I'd call in
narco, just to be sure. I've never heard of this Dud Weaver, but they probably
have. And they'd probably rather work Weaver and Branscombe to try to get
something bigger up the pipeline."
"Did you call this in to Mac yet?"
"No, why don't you do that now."
Jim grabbed the mic. "1-Adam-12, request 1-L-20 meet us on Tac 2."
"Roger, 1-Adam-12. 1-L-20, meet 1-Adam-12, Tac 2."
Jim switched the dial in time to hear the tail end of Mac's transmission.
"-20, go."
"Mac, we got a tip on a possible 187 involving Charlie Branscombe and somebody
named Dud Weaver at the vacant lot behind Scully's over on Bower. You wanna
meet us there?"
"Roger, 1-Adam-12. I'll meet you about a block north of Scully's."
"1-Adam-12, roger." Jim slid the mic back on its hook. Pete pulled onto
the cross street a block up from Scully's and parked along the curb where
they could see the pub and a good part of the empty lot behind it. The neon
shamrock above Scully's Irish Pub flickered uncertainly, casting eerie green
shadows intermittently across the sidewalk. The empty lot behind the bar
looked pretty much like empty lots everywhere: scraggly tangles of dead grass,
broken bottles, empty tin cans. Trees lining the back edge. A tumbledown
shack leaning precariously along a back fence . . . Jim's heart started beating
just a little bit faster. It could be the stockyards all over again.
Pete's voice jarred Reed's unwelcome thoughts. "I don't see anything.
Let's wait on Mac before we get out."
Jim just grunted his affirmative. That BLT he'd swallowed almost whole
was starting to sit like a lump of lead in his stomach.
Almost immediately, Pete asked, "You okay, partner?"
"Yeah. Just ate that sandwich too fast." He pulled at his belt, but that
didn't east the knot cramping his stomach.
"You're not about to get sick on me, here, are you?"
"No, no. I'm fine, really."
"I'm gonna start stocking the glove box with Rolaids, as often as your
stomach gets upset."
"My stomach doesn't get upset that often."
"No, only when you eat French food, Chinese food, American food or bratwurst."
"C'mon, Pete. You're exaggerating."
"Well, maybe, but you gotta admit, you don't exactly have an iron stomach.
Or an iron shoulder . . . is it still bothering you?"
Jim dropped his hand away from his left shoulder, disturbed that he hadn't
even realized he'd been rubbing it. "Uh, no, it's not."
"Then why the heck do you keep rubbing it?" Pete demanded.
Good question. Wish I had an answer. He just stared toward the empty
lot. "I don't see anything out there. I think this is a false alarm."
"Yeah, probably so. And here's Mac behind us." Pete got out of the car,
and Jim took a deep breath, winced at the sharp gas pain in his abdomen, then
sighed as he followed Malloy to Mac's car.
At least he'd gotten Pete distracted from asking any more questions that
he couldn't answer.
###
"I think TJ's information wasn't any good this time, Mac," Pete said, leaning
down to talk to Mac through the driver's window. "Sorry we dragged you out
here."
The blue-eyed Scotsman shrugged. "We gotta check these things regardless.
You guys get back on the streets. Reed, you okay?"
"My partner's got a stomach ache," Pete said drily.
"Again? Reed, what'd you eat this time?"
"Nothin', Sarge. I'm fine."
Mac shot Pete a disbelieving look, then drove off. Pete hitched his gun
belt a little higher and looked at the slightly green pallor of his partner's
face. "I don't think that green color is from the neon sign, Jim. You sure
you're okay?"
"Pete, I said I'm fine."
"All right, all right." But Pete watched his partner closely as Jim jerked
off his baton and shoved it into the door holder, then slammed his door hard
after he climbed in. Malloy's suspicion that whatever was wrong with Jim
hadn't been fixed by a week off swelled another notch. Pete hesitated just
a moment, then slid behind the wheel and shut his own door a lot more gently
than usual. He wasn't sure if he did it to keep from knocking the car further
out of alignment after Jim's frame-shuddering slam, or if he just didn't want
to disturb his partner. "Look, Jim . . ."
"Pete, lay off, all right? It's just a stomach ache." Jim reached for
the mic to put them available, but Pete stayed his hand.
"Reed, no. We need to talk, right here, right now."
"Pete-"
"Listen to me, Jim. You're on the edge of something and I have no idea
what, but you gotta do something besides hope it'll go away."
Jim stared stonily out the front of the squad and didn't say anything.
"Jim, it's been a long time since I was your training officer and you
were just a green rookie, but I'm still your superior officer. Don't make
me pull rank." When Pete saw Jim's eyes suddenly shut, he tried to gentle
his voice. "Jim, as your friend, I'm tellin' you: you gotta let it go before
you explode."
Jim opened his eyes again, but he wouldn't look at Pete. "It's just a
stomach ache."
"All right, if that's how you're gonna play this." He snatched the mic
off its holder. "1-Adam-12 clear," he growled. He felt like slamming his
fist on the steering wheel-or upside his partner's head-but instead he started
the engine and pulled out.
###
"That guy looks a little hinky, Pete," Jim said, pointing at the car traveling
slowly ahead of them. It was the first words he'd spoken in over an hour.
At least he's talking to me again. "I think you're right, partner.
Let's drop back and see what he does." He slowed their car another five
miles per hour. The green car slowed as well. Pete frowned. "I think we've
got somebody with cop fever. Let's check him out." He flashed his lights
briefly and honked, and the sedan pulled over.
"1-Adam-12 requesting wants, warrants and DMV on Lincoln-Edward-John 787,"
Jim mumbled. They waited until the dispatcher returned the information.
"1-Adam-12, Lincoln-Edward-John 787, no wants, no warrants. Registered
to Tyrone Hamm, 2803 Westchester Lane, Pasadena."
"1-Adam-12, roger," Jim acknowledged. He got out of the car without waiting
for Pete. Pete thought about letting Jim handle it by himself, but he needed
to stretch his legs anyway. He strolled up to the passenger side of the car.
He pulled at the trunk lid as he walked past, then stopped abruptly when
it started to open. He slammed the lid shut and pulled out his gun. "Reed,
watch it!" he yelled.
Jim froze in his tracks, just behind the driver's door. He yanked his
revolver out and pointed it at the driver. "Both hands up against the windshield
where I can see them!"
The driver hesitated.
"Now!" Jim shouted. He risked a glance into the back seat, but it was
empty. The driver put both hands flat up against the windshield. Jim walked
slowly forward and yanked open the door. "Keep both hands where I can see
them and step out of the car."
A thirty-something year old man slowly crawled out of the car, keeping
his arms held high. "Hey, man, I ain't done nothin'."
"Get down on the ground."
The man complied, and Reed bent down and put cuffs on the man's wrists.
After he was certain the man was going to stay on the ground, he walked over
to Malloy. "Okay, Pete, you wanna tell me what that was all about?" he whispered.
"Didn't you see the open trunk lid?" Malloy said, equally soft.
Jim paled. "No . . . I . . ."
"Hey, don't worry about it for now." Pete moved over to stand above the
subject. "Would you like to tell us what-or who-you've got in that
trunk?"
The man just spat on Pete's shoes. Pete gave Jim a wry smile, then got
out his handkerchief. "All right, we'll just haul the car off to the impound
garage and in a couple, three days we'll get around to opening it."
"All right! All right. My cousin. Okay? I got my cousin in there."
"And does this cousin of yours happen to be armed?"
"Yeah. He's got a .30-.06."
Pete raised his eyebrows. "Lovely," he muttered to Jim. "Get on the horn
and get us some back up."
Jim nodded, then hurried to the black and white. Pete moved well away
from the blue sedan. "This cousin of yours, what's his name?"
"Vinnie."
"Any particular reason he's in the trunk and not in the front seat with
you?"
The man shrugged as best as a person could when he's cuffed and laying
on the ground on his belly. "Vinnie's got a phobia. He don' like to be
seen, especially by the fuzz."
Jim came back. "Help's on the way. How do you think we should play this?"
"I don't know yet." Pete walked over in front of the suspect's car, putting
the engine and plenty of metal between himself and the trunk, in case the
suspect got trigger happy. He pulled his gun out as he mulled the situation
over.
"Hey, are you two gonna arrest me?"
Jim glanced down at the driver. "What's your name?"
"Benjamin Franklin."
Jim rolled his eyes at Pete, then bent down and pulled out the man's wallet.
"Benjamin Franklin," he said in surprise. "Well, Mr. Franklin, how is it
you're driving this car?"
"It's my cousin's."
"Another cousin?" Pete asked, breaking off his reverie.
"Yeah, so sue me. I come from a big family."
Jim shoved the wallet back in the man's back jeans pocket. "I'll run him."
He helped the man stand, then guided him to their patrol car, settling him
in the back seat and shutting the door. He leaned in his window and grabbed
the mic. "1-Adam-12, requesting any wants or warrants on Benjamin Franklin,
DOB 2-17-52."
"1-Adam-12, roger. Stand by."
"This your current address?" Jim asked.
Franklin nodded.
"1-Adam-12, Benjamin Franklin, DOB 2-17-52, wanted in Marin County for
felony auto theft. Hold for transfer to Marin County."
"1-Adam-12, roger." He pulled out his notebook and flipped it to the Miranda
rights. "Mr. Franklin, I'm arresting you for felony auto theft in Marin County.
You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up the right
to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a
court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning.
If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you at no cost
to you. Do you understand these rights that I've given you?"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."
Jim tucked his notebook away and leaned against the fender of the patrol
car. Then he thought about the discharge of a .30-.06 and decided to move
the black and white back another fifty feet. "Hey, Pete, I'm gonna move the
car back, just in case that guy decides to shoot his way out of the trunk."
"Good idea." Pete stayed where he was. After several minutes of silence,
he thought he heard a soft thumping noise coming from inside. "Jim, bring
the prisoner over here. We'll let him open the trunk."
Jim nodded, then opened the back door of the patrol car. "Out."
"Hey, man, I ain't openin' that trunk! He'll shoot me!"
"Nah, he wouldn't shoot you, not if you're family." Jim uncuffed the man,
then pulled his gun out.
Pete gestured with his gun. "Okay, Mr. Franklin, get out your keys and,
pardon me for sounding like a TV cop, but don't do anything stupid."
Franklin carefully fished out a set of keys, then reluctantly approached
the trunk, where the banging noise was getting louder and more urgent. Jim
moved to the right as Pete took the left. "Now, open it," Pete ordered.
With a resigned sigh and shaking fingers, Franklin fit the key in the lock.
"Wait a minute!" Pete snapped. "You, in the trunk. Your buddy's about
to let you out, and there are two LAPD police officers out here with guns
aimed and ready. When the trunk opens, throw out your weapon and climb out,
keeping your hands visible at all times." Pete then nodded to Franklin.
"Open it. Slowly."
Jim took a better grip on his gun as the trunk lid opened. A gun clattered
to the ground. "Kick the weapon toward me, Franklin!"
Franklin gave the weapon a kick, but Jim didn't look at it right away.
The suspect in the trunk slowly climbed out.
"Oh, for cryin' out loud," Pete muttered, holstering his weapon and grabbing
the skinny arm of the twelve-year-old boy and helping him out. "Kid, are
you this man's cousin?"
The kid shook bright red hair out of his defiant eyes. "Yeah, what of it?"
Jim stooped down and picked up the Daisy BB gun laying on the asphalt.
".30-.06, huh?" he asked Franklin. "Turn around and put your hands behind
your head."
"Jim, better cancel that back up."
Jim finished cuffing Franklin and guided him back to his seat in the patrol
car. "1-Adam-12, Code 4."
"1-Adam-12, roger."
Jim opened the other passenger door and let the kid scramble in, then climbed
in to sit beside them. Pete tossed his hat on the front seat, shaking his
head. "I'm almost afraid to ask what that was all about," he muttered.
###
After they'd processed the prisoner and sent the boy off with an officer
from Juvenile, Pete cornered Jim as he sat at the report desk finishing up
the paperwork. "So you wanna tell me what happened out there?"
Jim glanced around the busy hallway. Wells was heading toward them. "Not
particularly."
"Not particularly right here right now, or not particularly ever?"
Jim tried to keep the anger out of his face, knowing that Wells' beady
blue eyes would catch any sign of dissension and pounce on him for it. "Out
in the car," he muttered.
As Wells approached, Pete smiled benignly, looking for all the world like
he and Reed had been discussing where to eat a 3 a.m. breakfast.
The shorter man stared from one officer to the other. "What's up with
you two? Lover's spat?"
"Ah, no, not really. We just can't decide where to seven."
"I want bacon and eggs," Jim muttered. "It's too late at night for pizza."
"All right, all right. I'll get my own pizza after the shift."
Ed narrowed his eyes, certain there was something more going on than an
argument about food, but he knew he could never break through the Malloy/Reed
front once they'd erected it. "Something's going on with you two, and I'm
gonna find out what."
"Ed?" Jim said.
"What?"
"Shoo."
Wells gave them both a sour look, then strutted off down the hallway.
Jim watched him go, then shook his head. "Suppose he's obnoxious because
he's so short?"
"Short-man syndrome? Maybe. Then again, maybe he's just a jerk."
Jim shoved the report at his partner to sign. Pete scrawled his name.
"Let's go have that talk," he said softly, then headed for the patrol car.
Jim shoved the report in Mac's box, shut his eyes briefly, then followed
Malloy.
###
Pete barely let Jim get settled in the seat before he pounced. "All right,
out with it. I was willing to let your odd-ball mood swings slide until that
last little stunt. How could you forget to check the trunk, Reed? That's
a green rookie mistake and I've said before, you're way past being a wet-behind-the-ears
probationer. As your senior officer, but more importantly, as your friend
, I want you to talk to me."
"Pete," Jim said slowly, his voice uncertain. "Have you ever . . . ever
felt like you couldn't trust your instincts any more?"
Pete was quiet for a long moment. "Jim, you've got better instincts than
any man in the division. I trust my life to that every day."
Jim leaned his head back against the headrest and let out a frustrated
sigh as he stared at the headliner. "I feel like all my wires have been
reversed. I get jumpy at the supermarket and in the living room and at church,
and then sometimes, like that last call, it's like I'm in a stupor or something.
The adrenalin just isn't there. I feel like . . . almost like I'm not even
there."
"So when did all this start?" Pete asked, but he had a pretty good idea
already.
"August."
"When you got shot?"
"Yeah. But it started getting worse after Watson and Sanchez TA'd."
Pete spread his hands on the steering wheel and frowned at them. "Jim,
I think you need to pull yourself off patrol." Lord, it hurts me to say
that. He blinked a few times.
When Jim didn't say anything, Pete risked a glance at him. Jim was chewing
his thumbnail, staring out his side window.
"Jim . . ."
"I know, I know. I think so, too. Just, gimme a minute, would you?"
"Sure, partner. Take all the time you need," Pete said softly. He reached
out and gave Jim's leg a quick squeeze, then got out of the patrol car.
He needed to talk to Mac.
###
"How long's this been going on, Pete?" Mac asked, his blue eyes full of
concern.
"He says since he got shot in August, but except for some moodiness, it
hasn't affected his job until today." He explained the incident with the
kid in the trunk, then added, "It wasn't that big a deal, really, but it could
have been, so I called him on it. That's when he finally told me what's been
going on. He's still a good cop, Mac. He just needs . . . something. I
don't know what."
"Where is he right now?"
"I imagine he's still sitting out in the patrol car. Uh, Mac?"
"What, Pete?"
"Can we keep this under wraps? It's bad enough as it is, but if somebody
like Wells finds out, it'll be hell for Jim."
"I think we can figure out a way to keep the real reason confidential.
Go get your partner and bring him in here."
###
Five minutes later, a dejected Jim Reed sprawled in the metal chair across
from Mac's desk. He stared doggedly at his shoe tops, as embarrassed as he'd
ever been in his entire life. "Sorry, Mac," he mumbled. "I don't know what's
wrong."
"I do, Jim. You're shell-shocked. I saw it a lot in Korea and it's nothing
to be ashamed of."
Jim's head came up. "But I haven't been to war."
"You think you and Pete and every other officer on the street doesn't go
to war every day? You may not be in a rice paddy half a world away, but you've
been in your own war just the same. I think you know that, especially after
getting shot last August."
"So I am crazy. Great. Just great." He lunged to his feet and
started to prowl around the office like a caged tiger.
"Jim, calm down. You're not crazy. You just need to take a break."
Jim stopped his pacing and put his hands on his hips. "Mac, I don't wanna
quit being a cop." Jim's chin trembled just a little, but his eyes were clear.
"You don't have to. I want you to talk to the department's psychologist,
and I'm going to put you on light duty for now. Don't worry-we'll tell everyone
your shoulder's giving you trouble still. Heaven knows we've all seen you
rubbing it enough lately."
Jim smiled a little ruefully. "Yeah, I guess so. Look, Mac, I'm really
sorry-"
"Quit apologizing, Reed. It happens to the best of us. It happened to
me when I was about as far into my career as you are right now."
"Really?"
"Really. And we didn't have a department shrink back then. I had to muddle
through on my own. But my partner helped me, and Pete'll help you. Don't
sweat it, okay?"
Jim nodded, unable to speak. The simple act of finally sharing what he
was dealing with had helped enormously. He took a deep breath and stood up.
"Thanks, Mac."
"Don't thank me, Reed. Thank that partner of yours."
"Yeah, I will."
March 25, 1973 07:00 a.m.
Jim grabbed the mic. "1-Adam-12, Daywatch clear."
Pete smiled. "Well, you ready for this?"
"Yeah. It's good to be back."
"Really?"
Jim thought about all the sessions with the psychologist, all the talking
and praying he and Jean had done the first dark week he was off patrol, and
then he thought about the long boring stint working the desk. He thought
about thinking too much and second-guessing himself, and whether he could
really trust his instincts as he resumed the battle in the streets.
He grinned. "Yeah, really."
Pete looked him thoughtfully in the eyes for a moment, then nodded. "You
are ready."
Jim gave him a puzzled grin. "You can tell just by looking?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
"Oh, nothing, really. Just kinda seems like the sun's out after a long
cold winter."
Jim laughed. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing, Reed. Nothing at all."
Special thanks to Lisa O. for editing/proofing/encouraging. Thanks
also to the creators of Adam-12-hope you don't mind my borrowing your characters.
And thanks to a couple of my friends in blue, both of whose casual comments
about their jobs spawned the idea for this story. One told me of a recurring
dream she had where the bullet in her gun wouldn't fire, and the other told
me that after a rough day of training he had trouble "turning off" even at
church (he really was watching all of us in the pews to figure out who would
jump at him with a gun). Both stories caught my imagination, and poor Reed
had to suffer for it. Hope Jim forgives me for putting him through the wringer
in this one!
