Edge of Truth

Prologue

Officer Lainie Jensen yawned as she patrolled her downtown Long Beach beat. The early morning darkness had a hypnotic effect when the police radio was quiet. Her partner had called in sick, so she would be alone for the entire shift. It was the first time in her brief career that had happened.

At first, fears of inadequacy about performing her job without having that safety net of an experienced officer next to her threatened to overwhelm.

What if something crazy happens?

Will I make the right decisions should I need to act fast?

Will I do my job right?

But in the squad earlier, when the teasing started, she knew she’d be fine.

“Hey, rook, you want us to put some training wheels on your cruiser?”

“Maybe give you the nice, quiet academy beat?”

Lainie still smiled a bit when she recalled the jibes. The ribbing in squad meetings didn’t bug her. The older, seasoned cops only wasted their teasing on peers. Though technically a rookie until the next academy class graduated, she was off probation and a peer now—a part of the team.

Once seated in her black-and-white, nervousness spread through her gut like melted butter on dry bread. But it was an okay feeling. It meant she was alert and paying attention. Her duty was to search for trouble—and head straight for it. Lainie wanted to keep a little edginess.

The novelty of being by herself wore off quickly. Being solo on graveyard patrol meant she was a Robert car—a car dispatched only to report calls, of which so far there had only been four. She wrote some tickets and assisted on a few calls, but overall it had been a boring, uneventful night.

Around 6:00 a.m., with two hours left in her shift, more traffic began to roll as early risers headed to work. Lainie felt more alert, hoping to write some traffic violations before she went EOW, end of watch, to the station.

She’d imagined that a career in law enforcement would be a little more exciting than it had been tonight.

Training officers warned recruits that real police work was not like what they watched on television—95 percent adrenaline and 5 percent downtime—but rather the reverse.

Once field training began, Lainie learned right away how true that was.

Officers on cop shows hopped from one hot call to the next.

Real-life police work just didn’t move at that frenetic pace.

Still, Lainie wouldn’t be doing any other job.

After a few circuits around downtown, even ticket writing didn’t pan out—everyone was driving according to the rules. Today was her Friday, so she considered heading in early. Then a black Lincoln Town Car ran a red light right in front of her without even slowing.

Lainie activated her light bar, turned right, and accelerated after the vehicle. It wasn’t speeding, and she caught up in about half a block.

Ignoring her lights, the driver continued rolling, running a stop sign.

Though adrenaline surged—a vehicle failing to yield could be a stolen car—her instincts said the guy was probably drunk. He didn’t seem to be evading per se; he just wasn’t stopping. She grabbed her radio mike and asked dispatch to run the plate for wants and warrants.

“Robert 8, 28/29 on license plate 4-David-Tom-William-987. Northbound Chestnut Street approaching 7th.”

“10-4, Robert 8, stand by.”

They continued rolling north, and the vehicle ran another light. Lainie beeped her siren and got no response.

“Robert 8, 28/29 returns no want or warrant, application in process.”

Lainie groaned. It wasn’t stolen, but app in process meant she couldn’t know who the car truly belonged to. Time to let everyone know the guy wasn’t stopping and that she thought the driver was drunk.

“10-4, be advised I’m following the vehicle north on Chestnut, just crossing 10th. He’s failing to yield, probably deuce.”

She hoped her voice was steady. Her adrenaline had ramped up, but she didn’t want any of the older guys accusing her of being hysterical. Traffic stops could always go wrong; every training officer had instilled that lesson.

“Any unit in the area to assist Robert 8 with a vehicle failing to yield, northbound Chestnut crossing 10th.”

Lainie muttered her standard prayer, “Lord, I pray for wisdom and safety—for all involved in this stop.”

Several units answered up to assist.

Lainie turned her siren on, hoping that a bunch of units didn’t show up just to watch her wrestle with a drunk driver.

The siren had no effect. The Lincoln continued north without even pausing at intersections. Thankfully traffic was light, and they were in a residential area. Maybe he was heading home.

The car came to an abrupt stop. He didn’t pull over; he simply stopped in the middle of the street. As if all of a sudden he saw the cop car behind him.

Lainie jerked to a stop as well, shutting down her siren but leaving the emergency lights on while she notified dispatch. “Robert 8, the vehicle stopped on Chestnut just north of 10th Street.”

Another unit pulled in behind her, and she heard them tell dispatch that they were on-scene, 10-97. It was Jason Griggs and Sara Green, both from her class. That was good; an officer with more time in patrol might jump in and take over.

This is my chance to handle something from start to finish on my own, Lainie thought as she stepped out, staying behind the door, never taking her eyes off the Lincoln Town Car.

Sara came up on her left and Jason took the cover-officer position on the passenger side.

“What’d he do?” Sara asked.

“It’s just traffic. He blew a couple of lights and a stop sign. Like I said, probably a deuce.”

Sara nodded knowingly. This time of the morning, drunk drivers were not uncommon.

Lainie stepped from behind her door and started for the driver’s side of the Lincoln, moving cautiously. Eyes on the back of the driver’s head, her adrenaline still running high, she worked hard to fight off tunnel vision.

Pausing at the trunk, she placed a hand on the lid to make certain it was closed. The vehicle’s motor still rumbled, and that bothered her. The back windows were darkly tinted, and she couldn’t tell immediately if anyone else was in the car.

Flashlight in her left hand, right hand on the butt of her gun, Lainie approached the driver’s door, stopped just at the doorpost, and shone her light at the driver.

The window was down. Behind the wheel was a white man, maybe forty, squinting in the beam of her flashlight. He wore a button-down shirt with a black necktie partially untied, as if he’d begun to take it off and then stopped. He craned his neck and peered back at Lainie with bleary gray eyes.

Definitely drunk. A nasty, jagged scar ran across his left cheek.

He held up a hand to shade his eyes from her light. “Is there a problem?” A pungent odor of alcohol wafted up toward Lainie when the man spoke.

“Can you turn off the car please?”

“What did I do?”

“Please turn the car off.”

He mumbled something that sounded like a curse, but he complied.

“You ran a couple of red lights. Do you have your license, registration, and proof of insurance?”

“It’s not my car.”

“You’re driving. Do you have a license?”

“I’m almost home.”

“Sir, I need to see your license.” Adrenaline dissipated in a cloud of annoyance. Drunks were rarely easy to deal with.

Lainie leaned forward, shining the beam of her flashlight around the car’s interior. Someone was lying down in the back seat, but Lainie left that to Jason. She needed to concentrate on the driver, grateful she had backup with her.

She asked one more time for his license.

“Officer, you’re making a huge mistake. I’m almost home.” He had both hands on the steering wheel, and he now stared straight ahead.

“Sir, can you step out of the car please?”

“I said, I’m almost home.”

She shoved the flashlight in her sap pocket to free up her hand, then pulled on the door handle and opened the door. “I need you to step out of the vehicle.” Lainie had clear probable cause to administer a standard field sobriety test.

Anger flashed across his features. This time she heard the curse loud and clear, but he climbed out of the car.

The odor of alcohol grew much stronger now, the stench rolling across her nostrils in a noxious wave. He stumbled and she caught his arm. Sara stepped up and grabbed his other arm.

“What is this?” He stiffened. “You guys are wrong, wrong I tell you.” His words were slurred. He attempted to pull away, but they both held on tight.

“I smell alcohol on your breath, sir. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

“You will regret this. It’s wrong, I tell you, wrong.” Like most drunks, he repeated himself. He tried to jerk away again, but his balance and coordination were almost nonexistent.

As she and Sara guided the drunk back toward her patrol car, Jason stepped up to help.

“We got him,” Lainie said. “Can you check out the person in the back seat?”

He nodded and returned to the Lincoln’s passenger side.

Lainie and Sara guided the driver to the hood of the black-and-white. Lainie had already made the determination that she had enough objective symptoms of driving under the influence to arrest him without the balance test.

“Do you have any weapons on you?” She began to pat him down.

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

Lainie felt a wallet in his left back pocket and then the butt of a gun in his right front pocket.

“Gun!” She grabbed his right wrist and twisted it behind his back while Sara did the same with his left arm.

“Ow! Stop it,” he cried as he resisted.

Recharged with adrenaline now, Lainie held on tight and quickly reached for her handcuffs. Once he was secure, she retrieved the gun. It was a small semiautomatic handgun, probably a .22. She handed the gun to Sara and then retrieved the wallet.

“Lainie.”

“What?” She turned to Jason.

He looked pale in the glare of the flashing red-and-yellow light bar. “You have to see this.”

“Okay. Let me get him in the car first.” She flipped open the wallet. The drunk’s name was Dallas Vine.

“Mr. Vine, you’re under arrest for driving under the influence. And for carrying a concealed weapon.”

He said nothing.

Lainie finished her pat down and found nothing else on the man. With the gun and the wallet on the hood of the car, Sara helped Lainie slide Vine into the back of the unit and strap him in. He was tight-lipped, maybe sobering up a bit. Once she closed the door, she turned to Jason. “Show me.”

They walked to the Lincoln’s rear passenger door, and Jason opened it.

A woman was sprawled across the back seat, half dressed.

“She’s dead.”

Lainie stared at Jason. “You checked her pulse?”

He nodded. “She’s cold, Lainie. Been dead awhile. Bullet hole in her head. You got more than a drunk driver.”

Had she arrested her first killer?