CHAPTER THREE
Cole Robinson arrived at the precinct station and made a beeline for the coffeepot.
“Burning the candle at both ends not workin’ out?” Cole’s partner, Mark, said.
Cole harrumphed. “Just glad we’re almost done with night shifts. I’m gettin’ too old for this all-night stuff.”
“Better suit up. Roll call in ten. I’ll meet you in there.”
After downing as much coffee as he could in five minutes and changing into his uniform, Cole met Mark and the rest of his squad for their pre-tour instructions. It was Saturday night, and everyone expected to be busy. As Cole poured himself a cup for the road, his commander cornered him.
“Robinson, got a sec?” the sergeant asked, pointing to his office.
“Sure, boss.” Cole followed the sarge into the cramped, messy space, wondering if he should clear off a chair and sit or if this really would only take a second.
“You got too much PTO on the books,” Sarge said, getting straight to the point. “About four weeks you need to burn.”
“You couldn’t have mentioned that before we started night shifts?” Cole would have gladly taken those weeks off.
Sarge shrugged. “You still riding with the detectives on your days off?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, now you can do it on paid vacation time. Seems like a win-win. Why don’t you take the next month off?”
“Is that a question?”
Sarge shook his head. “You could use a break. You’ve been kind of an asshole lately. No offense.”
Cole thought about it. It didn’t really matter. It would also give him more time to study for the detective’s exam. And maybe get a decent night’s sleep. “Yeah. All right,” Cole finally said. “Why not?”
Mark waited near the coffeepot, which gave Cole a chance to top off before they headed to their patrol car.
“In trouble, bro?”
“No. I’m sittin’ on too much leave. Sarge is making me take some time off.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mark said. “You’ve sort of been an asshole lately. No offense.”
Cole rolled his eyes and slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Got any plans for the weekend?” Mark asked once they had settled into the RMP and were moving. Their “weekend” was actually Monday and Tuesday, but Cole knew what he meant.
“I’ll be on call with the detectives again,” Cole said.
“Think shadowing them is doing any good?”
“Hope so,” Cole said, tapping the horn at a pedestrian who hadn’t reached the curb before their light turned green. “I’ve got about a month to prep for the exam. Every little bit helps.”
“Dude, all you do is work. When’s the last time you had a girlfriend? Or even went on a date?”
“None of your damn business, Nosy.” It came out harsher than he intended, probably because Mark had hit a nerve. Girlfriend? He couldn’t remember. Date? Maybe a couple of months ago? “I don’t have time or mind space for the drama right now. I gotta focus on this detective gig.”
“Drama?”
“My last girlfriend. She was constantly on me about my shifting schedule and would get pissed when I had to work late. Always texting to see what I was doing and needing help with stupid stuff. Way too clingy. I can’t do that again.”
“Takes a special woman to be a cop’s wife,” Mark said. “But once you find her, there is no drama.”
“Being married for one year does not make you a pro.” Although, considering Cole had never been in a serious relationship, Mark probably did have a leg up on the subject.
“It’s called work-life balance,” Mark said. “And you need to get you some.”
They’d been in the car ten minutes when a drunk and disorderly call came over the radio. Mark radioed to dispatch, advising they’d be en route, and Cole hit the lights. They pulled up to the Sip and Swirl and got out, slipping on their hats.
Patrons were standing on the street, sipping drinks and chatting. Nothing looked amiss.
“What’s goin’ on?” Cole asked a man.
“Bunch of booze got spilled while two chicks were goin’ at it. Just waitin’ for ’em to clean up.”
Cole nodded, and he and Mark pushed through the crowd. Inside, two people were mopping up a sudsy puddle of beer. One woman cried into a man’s shoulder, wailing that her shoes were ruined. Another stood a few feet away, shell-shocked and staring at the crying woman. A man approached from behind the bar.
“Sorry, guys,” he said. “I wouldn’t have called, but that lady says she was attacked and insisted we call the cops.” He put the word attacked in air quotes and rolled his eyes. “And by attacked, I think she means bumped into. Probably on accident.”
“Thanks, man. We’ll sort it out.”
Cole turned to Mark. “You take her,” he said, hitching his chin toward the overwrought woman. “I’ll talk to that one.”
“I hate being the junior partner,” Mark muttered, sulking over to the couple.
Cole took a few long strides to where the other woman stood. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than him, lean, and pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way. Huge hazel eyes met his, and judging from the deer-in-the-headlights look, he would bet his next paycheck she was from out of town.
“Name?” Cole asked.
“Holly. Holly Bennett.”
“What happened, Holly?”
“I…I…I have no idea,” she stuttered. “I got up to leave, and my sandal got stuck in the barstool rung. I was about to fall and caught myself by grabbing onto the nearest thing possible. Which turned out to be that lady’s boyfriend. She freaked and came at me, wanting to claw my eyes out.”
“Who pushed who?”
“No one pushed anyone. I tried to walk away and ran into the server.” She waved a hand up and down her beer-soaked torso. “She’s saying I attacked her, but I swear, it was all an accident.”
Cole grunted. “Stay here.” He walked over to Mark, who was getting an earful from another beer-drenched woman—this one with a New York accent accompanied by a New York attitude. Mark held up a finger, stopping her midsentence, and huddled with Cole.
“What’s her story?” Cole asked.
“Says that lady hit on her boyfriend, pushed her, and ruined her shoes by spilling beer on them.”
“All right. The one bartender thought it was accidental. I’ll talk to the other one. See if he saw anything.”
A minute later, he returned to Mark. “The other guy agrees it was an accident. Which squares up with Bambi’s story.”
“Drama Queen wants to press charges,” Mark said.
“Of course she does.” Cole walked back to Holly, who was swaying gently.
“How drunk are you?” he asked.
She blinked hard. “Not very. Why?”
“Uh-huh. You here alone?” He looked around, thinking she must have friends or a boyfriend who could help her home.
“Maybe. What’s wrong with that?”
He rolled his eyes. “Drunk enough to be churlish,” he muttered. “What hotel you staying at?”
“How do you know I’m not from here?” she said indignantly.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” she said. “I’m at the Hotel New York. Just a few blocks that way. I was going to hail a taxi.”
“Good thing. Because a taxi driver would know the Hotel New York is that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction she had. “Look, your friend wants to press charges.”
“What?” she screeched. He didn’t think it was possible, but her doe eyes got even wider.
He sighed. “Why don’t we give you a ride to your hotel? It’ll look like we’re taking you downtown, which should satisfy Ms. Fancy Pants, and it’ll get you back safely.”
“Oh, um, okay. You’re not going to handcuff me, are you?”
Ignoring her question, he grabbed her by the arm and headed for the door. Mark said some parting words to the couple and jogged over to meet him. “We taking her in?”
“Sort of. Let’s just get out of here,” Cole said, the three of them pushing through the outside crowd.
“A perp walk,” she mumbled. “My friends will never believe this.”
He opened the door to the backseat. “If I were you, I wouldn’t touch anything.”
She got in slowly. Whether she was drunker than she let on and being extra careful, or she’d taken his warning to heart and was avoiding contact with the car, he didn’t know. Or care.
Once underway, Mark got all friendly. “So, where you from?” he asked. Of course he had to chat her up. Mark was the most verbose partner Cole had ever had.
“Green Valley Falls,” she said. “That’s in New Hampshire.”
“On vacation?”
“Honeymoon,” she said dryly.
Cole snuck a glance in the rearview mirror and watched her Bambi eyes turn sad. He prayed she wouldn’t start crying.
“Where’s your husband then?” Mark pressed.
“Long story,” Holly said. “One that ends with me all alone at the altar. I guess the idea of marrying me was just too much.”
“Oh,” Mark said, suddenly quiet. “Sorry.”
“Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses came on the radio, and she perked up, her attitude changing instantly. “Ooh. Great song. Turn it up.”
“This isn’t an Uber ride,” Cole said.
“Obviously,” she said then muttered something about a two-star rating.
“We could have arrested you, you know?”
“For what? Being clumsy? If that were a thing, I’d live half my life in jail.”
“Drunk and disorderly conduct. Inciting a riot. Destruction of private property. Assault.” He listed several crimes that sounded like a big deal but would never hold up in court.
“You’re kind of an asshole,” she said. “No offense.”
Mark burst out laughing, and Cole rolled his eyes. He hit the brakes a tad harder than needed, and she lurched forward, shooting him a dirty look.
“Hotel New York,” he said. “Have a nice life.”
Mark got out to open the rear door, said goodbye, and slumped back into his seat. “She’s cute.” He raised both eyebrows.
“Shut up.” Cole glared.
“Too bad we’ll never see her again.”