Chapter 11
Chapter 11
When the call comes over the radio, Deputy Kip Grayson is staring at the glowing white backside of a naked young man and trying to ignore the sharp scent of oregano and red wine vinegar tickling his nostrils. It’s his turn to patrol Baker’s Cove Beach, where teens notoriously sneak off to make out, drink cheap beer, and skinny-dip. He parked his car so that it’s hidden behind a dune but still affords him a partial view of the shoreline, and is trying to decide if he has it in him to ruin the night of these kids, who, while breaking the laws of public decency, really aren’t hurting anybody. His partner, Sandy, is biting into an Italian hoagie, the mix of mayo and oil dripping down her hand and onto her blue pants. “Dammit,” she says. “I just had these dry-cleaned.”
When dispatch announces a 10-71 at La Fin du Monde, Kip stifles a yawn and sits straight up at the mention of the famous restaurant. He does a double take at the radio as it hits him. A 10-71! It took a second for his brain to make the connection, because he has never had a gunshot-wound call before.
The “World’s Safest Beach”—the stretch of California coast ninety minutes north of L.A. that Kip and the eight other officers in his division cover—had seen its share of emergencies. A baby seal stuck on the rocks. Public urination. A missing person, once! Though the husband was found in mere hours at his boyfriend’s home. But never a gunshot wound. And never an incident at La Fin du Monde, a haven for celebrities and the wealthy. In fact, the closest Kip had come to celebrity was the time he pulled Emilio Estevez over for speeding—and he didn’t even realize it was him until he looked at his driver’s license. Starstruck, he rambled on about The Mighty Ducks being his favorite movie as a kid (truthfully, it was his favorite as an adult, too), then told him to slow down, as these curvy roads could be quite dangerous. It wasn’t until Emilio pulled off—squealing tires and speeding away—that Kip realized he’d forgotten to ask for an autograph.
Suffice to say, though he’d sat through hours of mind-numbing video training for active shooters and hostage situations and protest-crowd control and violent encounters with various weaponry, this was his first call for a real-life, bona fide emergency. Someone had been shot. With a gun! And Kip feels like the benched quarterback pulled into the game when the starter tears his ACL. This is what he trained for! This is why he became a cop! Not to arrest harmless skinny-dipping kids but to save lives . To be a hero.
He puts the CB to his mouth and holds down the button to speak.
“This is 92 Grayson. I’m at Baker’s Cove, three miles from the road to La Fin du Monde. Over.”
“We’ve got a male victim gunshot wound. Two ambulances en route. Officer Groebner is en route as well. As the senior-most officer, can you take command? Over.”
Kip swells with excitement. With Sheriff Cesar Guillermo out of town in South Carolina visiting his newborn (and first) grandbaby, Kip knew he was currently the senior-most officer in the precinct, but he’d not heard anyone say it out loud until now.
“Ten-four,” he says. “Moving out now. Over.”
He flips on the lights and siren (his inner child still getting a thrill, even after all these years) and throws the car into reverse, peeling out of the parking lot. The kids on the beach scatter, hearts pounding, a flash of their future selves explaining to their parents on their one phone call why they’re in jail lighting in their brains. But fortunately for them, tonight, that vision won’t materialize.
“Lucky kids,” Sandy says, but Kip doesn’t look back.
He’s got a job to do.