by Darrell Case
After a long bath, Allison dressed in jeans and a blue pullover. She opened the freezer, and selected a chicken dinner from the stack of frozen meals. While it heated, she glanced through the folder Steel had given her with information about the murders. That afternoon she had searched the internet, gleaning as many news accounts about each killing as she could find. Then she started contacting agents she’d worked with in the past. Some were reluctant to join her team, others readily agreed. Slowly she built a competent investigative team.
She peeled the plastic off the mashed potatoes and stirred in some butter and salt. She placed the tray back in the microwave. Waiting in the room for the few minutes it would take to finish, she picked up the remote, and flipped through the channels until she came to the CBS evening news.
“Now to our top story. Six year old Bobby Freeman was laid to rest today. The F. B. I. is still probing his death. Agent Allison Stevens is. . .” Stabbing at the power button, Allison threw the remote at the TV. It struck the screen and glanced off. The phone rang. She let the machine answer it.
“This is Allison Stevens, start talking.” A raspy voice came through the device. “Agent Stevens, this is Alfred Greer. I'm the attorney representing the Freeman family. On their behalf, our firm is filing suit in the death of Bobby Freeman. The complaint names you as defendant. Please have your attorney contact me at 207-555-6347.”
Allison snatched up the hand set. “You have no reason to bring suit against me counselor,” she said. She could barely keep her voice steady. Sweat broke out on her forehead.
“We have every reason, Agent Stevens. It was your bungling that caused the death of a six year old boy.”
“Not so, counselor, your client's son was killed two hours be..”
“We have an expert who will testify that Bobby Freeman died at the precise moment the kidnapper did. The very moment.”
“When you're rich you can buy anything you want. Who's your expert? Some has - been or a wannabe?”
“Oh, I'm sure you are familiar with him, his name is Rome, Rome Jorgensen. You have a good evening, Agent Stevens.” Allison stared at the buzzing phone, then dropped it back in the cradle as if it were a rattlesnake. She knew Rome hated her, but to testify against a fellow agent. At that moment, she hated Rome Jorgensen as much as she did Joe Brimmer.
The microwave buzzed. Allison let it go. The thought of food made nauseated her. She tried TV flipping through the TV channels. Seinfeld, Andy Griffith, Little House on the Prairie, no good. She shut it off.
She scoured the apartment. She threw away month- old magazines, scrubbed counter tops, washing out the tub, vacuumed the bathroom, bedroom and living room carpets. That was her therapy when things were going wrong. Keeping her hands busy and her mind free gave her leave to mull over the case. At the end of two hours the apartment was sparkling but she was just as restless.
She glanced at the clock. Ten to eight. If she went to bed now, she’d be up at 3 AM. She took the cold dinner out of the microwave and threw it in the trash. The walls of the apartment closed in. Maybe a walk would clear her head.
Alison started walking west, not knowing where she was going. Just away. With her eyes downcast, she didn’t see the thugs until it was too late.
“Hey, sweet thing.” Allison's eyes shot up. A blonde boy of 19 or 20 leaned against an old white Cadillac parked at the curb. Alison knew the type. They ruled this neighborhood. Controlled the flow of drugs and ran protection rackets. The law couldn't stop them from menacing respectable citizens.
Not tonight. Tonight they picked the wrong person to mess with.
Three younger delinquents, possibly 16 or 17, pushed themselves off the car. A dark- haired boy stepped behind her, another one blocked the sidewalk in front of her progress. The leader joined the one in front. They were thin with, eyes glazed from heavy drug use.
“Let it go, boys,” Allison said calmly, moving around so her back was against a coffee shop wall. They closed in on her in a semi-circle. Reaching behind her, Allison whipped out her Glock.
“Oooh,” the leader mocked, holding up his hands. “Don't shoot, lady, I'm all scared and trembling.” He shook his hands in the air to show how frightened he was. The rest of the pack snickered. In a sudden move, the blonde boy lunged forward, grabbing at her. Allison drop kicked him in the groin. He cried out as he went down, holding himself as he sprawled on the cracked sidewalk.
“Get her!” he managed to choke out.
A Latino boy with pierced lips, eyebrows and ears moved up, arms wide. The other two held back moving apart acting as distractions. The pierced boy rushed her. Allison stepped aside, slamming the pistol into his gut. At the same time another charged. She dispatched him with a chop to the back of the neck. He smacked head-on into Pierced Face and they tumbled into a heap.
The last one standing grabbed Allison from behind. His arm across her neck cut into her windpipe. Allison struggled to stay calm. Blonde Boy had gotten to his feet. “Hold her for me, Roy.” Then to Allison, “Give me the gun.”
Blackness flickered before Allison's eyes. She stomped the instep of the boy holding her. Breaking his hold, she clamped onto his right arm and, squatting, hurled him over her shoulder into Blonde Boy.
They smashed into the Caddy, cracking the right passenger window. All four boys bounded to their feet. Allison trained her Glock on them, waving it low and slowly one to the other.
She was reluctant to fire on the juveniles. She aimed at the blonde's kneecap. “You tell 'em to back off or you'll never walk straight again.” She jacked a round into the chamber.
The three looked to their leader for instruction. Allison saw fear glinting in his hard eyes. Pride fought for dominance. He couldn't back down, he would lose respect. He started forward. Allison fingered the trigger. One step. Two steps. At the third, she would fire. Not at him, into the Caddy. His eyes never left her face.
“Hold it right there,” commanded a big booming voice commanded. Five pairs of eyes turned in its direction. A huge black D.C. cop in a shooter stance aimed his pistol at the group.
“Put down the weapon, ma'am,” he said, not taking his eyes from them.
“F B I, Officer. These men are under arrest for assaulting a federal agent."
“She ain't no F B I,” the blonde said, relaxing. "She my girlfriend. We just had a little fight.”
“Looks like a big fight to me,” the officer said. "Slowly ma'am, let's see some ID."
As her left hand reached into her back pocket, he rested his aim on her. Allison brought out her wallet. She flipped it open, and the gold badge glittered in the lamplight. The cop shifted his attention to the boys. “Looks like you boys picked the wrong female to pick on." He keyed the mike on his shoulder. "Officer needs assistance, corner of Fifth and Cherry.” Blondie took a run at her. Exhausted but still hyper-alert, Allison grabbed him by the neck and pulled him over hiking her knee hard into his stomach. Bent I half, he rammed head long into the brick wall.
Crumpling to the sidewalk, he lay still. The rest of the boys cowered against the Cadillac. Sirens sounded in the background, approaching fast.
“Agent…”
“Stevens,” Allison replied, trying to slow down her breathing.
“Agent Stevens, remind me to never make you mad,” the officer, said chuckling. Two police cars screeched to a halt at each end of the Caddy. The boys were read their rights, handcuffed and driven away.
After assuring the officers she would sign a complaint, Allison turned toward for home. “Let me give you a lift, Agent Stevens,” the black officer said.
Once Allison was
seated in the patrol car, she said, “I haven't had a chance to thank you,” She extended her hand. The man took it and said, “Name's O'Sean Davis. No thanks necessary, glad I could help. Though I think you would have been just fine even if I hadn’t not shown up.” They shook hands.
“You ever need anything Officer Davis, you be sure and let me know.”
“Same here, Agent Stevens.”
They pulled up to Alison's apartment building.
“Them boys been a pain on that corner for the last year. Maybe a little time in the lockup will straighten them out,” Davis said. “At least they'll be able to walk.”
“I wouldn't have hurt them. Just made them think I was going to.”
O'Sean grinned.
Chapter 14
