Chapter 7 #2
He nods, sighing. "I thought about settling back there and really digging in, but they got wind of me asking questions and I woke up with a dead rat on the pillow next to me." He grins sheepishly. "I made the mistake of telling Mom about it, and she made me promise to let it go."
"And you did."
He nods. "A promise to your mother is not one you break, sir.
" He sighs. "Plus, she was right. I had this idea in my head that I'd go there and solve the crime.
But in reality, I'd have just ended up dead myself.
Those cops were exactly those kinds of dudes.
I don't know anyone in St. Louis, not anyone that matters, at least. This isn't a movie where I can blast my way out, you know?
Taking on corrupt cops with friends all over the city?
As a 21-year-old with zero experience? Mom told me she'd rather have me alive than justice for Dad. "
"Shitty choice to make, kid, but for what it's worth, I think you did the right thing.
Your dad's gone. Getting the cops who let him get away, or getting the guy who shot him?
Not gonna bring him back. And you're right—fighting corruption like that is a losing game when it's just you.
Not that it's not worth it, sometimes, but… " I trail off with a shrug.
"Yeah, I know. It still bothers me, but Mom needs me." He lets out a breath, shaking his head. "She made Dad give me an American name when I was born. That's why my name is Carter Mosely and not Zhou Li, which is what my name would have been." He smirks at me. "I know you were curious."
I shrug. "The question crossed my mind, sure. But your descent or name or whatever has nothing to do with what kind of cop you'll be, so there's no reason to ask. It's your business, not mine."
Mosely nods. "I was told you're the chillest, most even-keel dude I'd ever meet." His gaze is piercing and curious. "Can't help but wonder what kind of personal shit you've got going on that would make you act so far out of character, by your own admission."
I huff. "You don't miss a trick, do you, Mosely? You asked around about me?"
"Carefully, yes.” This has me revising my estimation of him—I haven’t caught him asking about me, and this is my town.
“I spent three days here before the interview, checking things out.
I don't make decisions without a lot of consideration and research.
Knowing what kind of person you are, what kind of cop you are, what your reputation is, that stuff is important.
I couldn't accept the job without knowing that beforehand. "
I nod, mentally congratulating myself for making an even better hire than I'd thought. "My ex is in town kind of unexpectedly," I say, answering his original question. "It's just bringing up a lot of stuff. I'm good." I tilt my head, listening. "Hear that?"
Mosely mimics my action and then looks at me. "Sounds like a crotch rocket."
I tighten my seatbelt and set my coffee in the cup holder. "Get ready to go after him. "There've been reports for weeks of some reckless asshole riding a red crotch rocket up and down Division going ninety and a hundred, weaving through traffic. Time to put a stop to that bullshit."
While Mosely tightens his own belt and puts the cruiser SUV into gear, I get the radar gun out.
The high-pitched whine of the motorcycle rapidly grows louder until a red blur streaks by, going well over a hundred; the radar gun reads 115.
Mosely nails the accelerator while I hit the lights and sirens.
Traffic clears to either side, giving us a straight shot down Division to go after the reckless rider.
We crest the low hill, expecting to see a tiny dot in the distance.
Instead, we see a trail of debris littering the roadway—bits of plastic and glass and metal are everywhere, and a tire wobbles and bounces onto the shoulder.
A small pale blue sedan is cockeyed across the left turn lane, half in the intersection, the driver's side crumpled into a twisted mess of metal, the glass shattered.
The driver is visible in the mangled mess, still moving weakly.
A hundred yards away, the rider of the motorcycle lays motionless in a crumpled heap.
Mosely brakes to a stop and hops out, grabbing flares from the trunk while I call it in, requesting more units and at least two ambulances.
I clap Mosely on the shoulder as he somewhat tentatively approaches the decimated sedan. "I hope you have a strong stomach, Mosely. Welcome to the not-as-great part of policework. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”
Once again, it's after nine before I get home, and I've been up since three.
My eyes are heavy and gritty and burning, and all I have energy for is to wash down a protein bar with a shake.
I'm too fucking tired to even take a shower, and usually after a day like today, I need to rinse the existential ick off.
I drag myself upstairs to my bedroom, tossing my gun in the lockbox before draping my uniform over the chair in the corner, which is also piled up with jeans that are too dirty to put away but not dirty enough to wash.
Boots stay with the uniform. Shuck my undershirt and climb into bed in my underwear, blissfully drifting toward sleep before my head has even hit the pillow.
And my phone rings.
"Fuck." I peer at it—it's an unknown number with a 248 area code, meaning from the Detroit Metro area: Lacey. I answer on the third ring. "Lace. What's up?" I can't hide the exhaustion in my voice.
"God, Cole, you sound wiped. I heard you had a rough day?"
"Heard? From who?"
"Well, your newest deputy, Carter, was at The Cellar tonight, and he got to talking with Layla Cartwright, whom I have also been texting with today. She told me that Carter said you guys responded to a bad accident today. I just wanted to see if you were okay."
The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. I don't remember the last time anyone called to check on me. Even the guys, unless they know something particularly terrible happened, don’t really call to just check in on my emotional state.
But then, I don't think that's how most guys operate with each other. I dunno. Maybe it's just us.
"Yeah," I rasp. "I'm good. Just beat."
"Cole. I know how you sound when you're faking fine. Your voice gets tight and monotone and you answer in one or two words."
I inhale slowly and deeply, hold it, and let it out with a soft groan. "It was fucking brutal, Lace," I whisper, my voice ragged. "A motorcycle rider T-boned a sedan going a hundred and twenty down Division."
“Holy shit, Cole,” she breathes.