1. Libby #2
The aisles aren’t long — maybe twenty feet from one side of the store to the other — and the shouts and noise at the front counter cover the sound of my boots on the tile floor. I unholster my weapon, but hold it in my left hand. Then I slow at the end of the shelf and peek around.
One man. Mid to late twenties. Midnight black hair and pasty white skin.
He’s at least six-and-a-half feet tall, perhaps more, but he’s skinny as a pole and lacks muscle despite his muscle shirt.
His lips are cherry red, but his eyes are hidden by gas-station sunglasses.
He has what I consider jailhouse tattoos — as in, random small things, pushed together over time, rather than one thought-out piece with the talent of a real artist. Spider webs on his elbow, stars on his forearm.
Script beside that, and a date and ‘MOM’ a little below his elbow.
A baby’s footprint, a flower. Roses and guns.
Why do these guys always have the same drawings? Do they realize the stereotype?
He waves a black pistol in the cashier’s terrified face and spits as he shouts for the bag to be filled. The cashier, a man I know as Anton, hurriedly yanks the register open. He tosses bills into the black bag, then lifts the entire tray of coins and tosses that in too.
My coffee continues to sputter at the back of the store.
The stench of caffeine permeates my senses and makes me yearn for the mud I won’t get to drink, because I’ll have to take care of this, then the paperwork, then I’ll have to explain to the chief why I took a man down when I should have clocked out already.
All because Oz drank too much coffee overnight and had to piss.
Anton snatches up cartons of cigarettes from beside the half-filled display and tosses those into the bag, then he tosses phones and phone cards on top of that.
Creeping around the front of the shelves as slowly as I can, knowing my uniform will make my perp panic the second he sees me, I duck lower and thank my gym days for the depth of my squat and the fact I can duck-walk without the burn.
That boy from forever ago mentioned the dimples on my kneecaps, so I never skip leg day.
I catch sight of Oz through the store glass as he walks around the side of the building with an odd grin and a bounce to his step.
His hands are held in the space ahead of him, zombie-ish, which is weird, considering everything else that’s going on around me.
He doesn’t know what’s happening inside, and when he checks the cruiser and finds it empty, he turns toward the doors and alerts my gunman when the automatic doors whir open.
Uniforms. They get us every damn time.
Oz’s smile remains for a moment while his brain clicks over.
The gunman’s eyes widen, then his gun swings around, and I jump up from my crouch.
Grabbing the back of his head, and hating the oily sheen his hair instantly leaves on my skin, I slam him forward until his face smacks against the plexiglass, and Oz finally catches the hell on to the situation.
He jumps back into fight stance and whips the gun from his hip, but I pull my guy’s head back and slam it down again until blood explodes against the window, and Anton squeals like a stuffed pig.
“You’re under arrest for aggravated robbery.
You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney.
” When my chip-loving friends dash out the door to freedom, I pull my guy’s head back and slam it into the window once more for good measure.
Cartilage crunches under my force and reminds me of those snooty bitches from school.
Excessive force? Maybe. But does Oz stop me?
Nope. “If you cannot afford an attorney, the court will appoint one for free. Anything you say right now may be used against you.” I let him go, and sweep his weapon away when he drops to the floor with a deep thud.
I reach back for my cuffs and slap them around his skinny wrists as Oz slowly walks forward. “You okay?”
He leans over my guy as though to make certain this just happened. “Uh-huh. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“He okay?”
I lean around my guy and take note of the shattered nose and a single missing front tooth. I look around the space in front of me. “He might have already been missing that tooth. You’ll have to prove differently.”
Oz chuckles and re-holsters his weapon. “I’m not picking at you, Tate. I walked straight into a bear trap without looking. He pointed his weapon at an officer, and I almost didn’t go home to my family because of it; you’re good to use whatever the fuck force you want to.”
Nodding, I squat down and wait for my guy’s eyes to open. “You okay?”
“Bitch.” He spits blood onto the tile by my boots, hissing when he tries to breathe through a broken nose. “I wasn’t gonna hurt no one.”
“Uh-huh.” Standing, I look to Anton and nod for him to come to my side of the counter.
His hands shake. His shoulders bounce, but not with dance this time. Candy bars and water bottles litter the floor and provide landmines for him to dodge as he enters the password for the safety door and comes around to stop between me and Oz.
“Him too.” I look to Oz. “I want to bring him in, too.”
“What?” Anton screeches.
Oz’s eyes widen, but his reflexes are fast when Anton turns and tries to pivot away. He grabs him around the collar and pulls him back, until the cashier trips over the other perp and lands heavily on the tile.
“Charges,” Oz asks. “Or just for funsies?”
“He threw those cigarettes in without being asked. Phones. Chargers. Headphones.” I peek into the bag and pull out a bottle of Gatorade. “I’m just saying, I bet we could run these guys’ files side by side and find a connection. Their mommas know each other or something. Fifty-buck bet.”
“You’re on.” Oz reaches out and takes my hand to seal the deal.
He’s all smiles and adrenaline rush after almost dying, but his smile turns to a grimace when the oil from my perp’s hair transfers from my palm to his.
“The fuck vat of oil you plunge your hand into, Tate? Jesus.” He pulls back and wipes his hand on his pants. “You’re disgusting.”
“It’s his hair.” Groaning, I bend forward and slowly pull my guy to his feet. His face is red and tender. His mouth is bleeding, and that tooth definitely fell out today. I don’t see it among the fallen candy bars or drinks, but my chief might have words with me when we get back to the station.
My father was a dirty cop who hurt people for the sake of a dollar.
He’s been removed from his position of power, his money and titles have been stripped, his only luxuries now are three hot meals and a cot.
I might have followed him into the very same field of law enforcement, but we’re not the same kind of cop. We’re not cut from the same cloth.
Maybe I use too much force on occasion, but I don’t hurt innocents.
Maybe I have less patience for stupidity, but I never have, nor would I ever, trade the life of an innocent for a little luxury or cash.
I’m the cop who will arrest fairly and with legitimate cause.
I’m the cop who will admit her wrongs when I’m wrong.
And I’m not infallible – it happens. But I own it.
I’m the cop who would never steal a colleague’s lunch, and the one time I was accused of such a thing, I was both hurt and pissed.
So fucking pissed that someone would accuse me of a damn thing.
I’m the cleanest cop on the force, cleaner than my colleagues even, and they’re good cops. I drag myself to work every day to make the streets safer, to clean up the mess my father and his friends created so many years ago.
One day at a time. One armed robbery at a time.
An hour after arresting Jude Donohue for armed robbery and slamming him into the cages at the station, I walk out again and pause at the sight of Oz sitting back with a cup of coffee in his hands and his feet on his desk.
I still didn’t get my coffee. And he looks entirely too happy for someone who didn’t sleep yet.
“What?”
“Seems I owe you fifty bucks and a high-five.”
“Yeah?” That turns my sour mood around as I walk toward our desks. “Their moms, right? I feel like this was a mother’s group set up from twenty years ago.”
“Totally their moms.” Chuckling, he sips his coffee and turns the screen so I see both men side by side.
“They were born in the same hospital, thirty-six hours apart. Their moms were connected through some community event thing that helped new moms socialize. Myriam and Tracey — those are their real names, by the way — became pals. The boys were friends because they were always in each other’s space.
Eventually, they grew and made other choices, but they stuck it out, and now they’re buddies.
Anton’s apartment building is just one block from Donohue’s.
They hatched a plan to rob Anton’s place of employment just forty-five minutes after the boss clocked out to go home.
Donohue was supposed to be in and out, grab the loot, and…
” He reaches toward the evidence bag tossed haphazardly on the corner of his desk.
Smiling, he pulls out the black pistol, points it at my stomach, and squeezes the trigger.
If I didn’t trust him so implicitly, I’d be pissed.
But I do. I trust him with my life. So I remain still while water squirts from the end of the gun and leaves a line along my shirt.
Oz’s trouble-filled eyes meet mine with a grin. “Hands up, motherfucker.”
“Dumbass white trash piece of… gah !” I wipe at the water and grit my teeth. “I was legit scared he was gonna shoot you, and that prick had a water gun? For three hundred bucks, smokes, and phone credit? What the hell is wrong with those dumb shits?”