It was about self-defense now, as Jack quickly sprang forward. His right elbow connected with the thief’s face, just under the nose. A groan and sounds of the druggie’s teeth rearranging themselves in his jaw echoed off the bricks in the narrow alley. Jack watched the knife fly out of the junkie’s hand and skid along the asphalt. The thief was thrown into the wall and he slid down in a heap.
Jack picked the purse up off the ground and brushed the dirt off it.
“Freeze!” The sharp order came from behind Jack. He turned toward the opening of the alley.
“Don’t move!” the policeman yelled. His gun raised, he moved forward. “Put your hands over your head.”
“Who, me?” Jack stared at the cop in disbelief as he realized that the order was directed at him. “But…” He looked at the purse in his hand. “Wait a minute—”
“Put your hands above your head,” the policeman ordered again.
Jack raised his hands while the junkie rose to his feet and slyly stepped closer to the opening of the alleyway.
Jack moved toward the junkie, but the policeman barked, “Freeze!”
Seeing that the cop’s attention was focused on Jack, the junkie bolted past the cop and toward the street.
“That guy’s the crook!” Jack pointed at the fleeing thief.
“Hands in the air. Now.”
“He’s getting away.” Jack’s voice was filled with indignation.
“You’re the one with the purse. Now show me your hands.”
Jack did what he was told.
“Drop what’s in your left hand.”
Jack started to lower his arm.
“Drop it.”
“It’s that old lady’s purse. Can I set it down?”
“Drop it!”
Jack released the purse.
“Keep your hands in the air and face the wall,” the policeman ordered. “Feet out and spread ’em.”
“I’m the good guy,” Jack grumbled as he put his hands on the brick wall and set his feet wide apart. “Can we hurry this up so you can catch the real thief?”
The policeman holstered his gun as he moved up behind Jack. “Do you have any weapons on you?”
“I don’t. But that guy did. A knife. It’s over there.” Jack nodded in the direction of the blade.
“Why were you beating him up?” the policeman asked in a low, authoritative voice.
“He stole a woman’s handbag outside Ma Barker’s.”
“That doesn’t explain you bashing him into the wall.”
“He pulled a knife on me. What was I supposed to do—ask him if he’d like some tea and crumpets?”
Chandler, panting heavily, thumped to a stop at the front of the alley and yelled, “Jack!”
“Stay where you are!” The policeman kept one hand on Jack’s shoulder and pointed the other at Chandler.
“What happened?” Chandler asked.
Jack grinned. “I’m getting frisked.”
Chandler shook his head. “That’s not a good thing, Jack. Why are you getting frisked?”
Jack shrugged as the policeman patted him down. “He thinks I was beating up that junkie for no reason and I stole the old lady’s handbag.”
Chandler frowned and walked forward.
“You too”—the policeman stepped back and pointed at Chandler—“against the wall.”
“Yes, sir.” Chandler joined his friend, upraised hands against the wall.
“Why are you treating him like a criminal?” Jack asked. “Because he’s black?”
“Shut up, Jack,” Chandler snapped. “You’re going to get us arrested.”
“For what? We’re the good guys.”
“Both of you shut up and face the wall.”
Jack kept his hands on the wall and craned his neck to get a better look at the cop. Young guy, no evidence of a sense of humor, but then, maybe he was just as scared as Jack and Chandler.
The cop directed his next question to Chandler. “Now what’s your story?”
“We were coming out of Ma Barker’s on D Street when this junkie stole an older woman’s handbag,” Chandler politely explained.
“Is she all right?” Jack asked quietly.
“Her knees were all bloody, but I think she was okay. All she talked about was her husband’s medicine. She’ll be happy you got it back.”
“Did you see the other man steal the handbag?” The policeman finished patting Jack down.
“Neither of us did,” Jack said over his shoulder, “but the lady was screaming, ‘He stole my bag,’ and that junkie didn’t exactly look like the purple handbag type.” He figured this explanation would surely exonerate him and started to turn around.
“Keep facing the wall. You too,” the cop reminded Chandler.
Chandler, who hadn’t moved a hair, said, “Yes, sir,” to the brick wall.
“He didn’t do anything,” Jack persisted.
“Shut up!” the policeman snapped. He patted Chandler down, then stepped back and looked back and forth between them. “Names,” barked the cop. “You first.” He scowled at Jack.
“Stratton. Jack Stratton.”
“And you?”
“Chandler Carter, sir.”
The policeman reached for his shoulder radio. “This is Officer Denby. Have there been any reports of a situation around D Street and Forty-Third?”
As the officer called it in, Chandler whispered to Jack, “How about trying to get us out of this?”
“We didn’t do anything. We’re fine.”
“No, we’re not. Have you forgotten what it’s like in the hood?”
“No. I never forget.” Jack gave Chandler a meaningful look. “What took you so long to get here, anyway?”
“I…er…I wanted to make sure the old lady was okay.”
Jack frowned. “You haven’t been exercising, have you?”
“I have,” Chandler muttered.
“Yeah, right.” Jack cocked an eyebrow toward Chandler’s belly and said in his best imitation of a drill sergeant’s growl, “You’ve got three months to lose fifteen pounds, soldier.”
“Ten.”
“That was last month. You’ve gained.”
“I plateaued.”
Jack chuckled.
The policeman’s radio beeped, and they heard the dispatcher: “Officer Jenkins is on scene. Possible mugging.”
“Eat less, run more,” Jack said.
“Just keep your big mouth shut or neither of us will have to worry about my weight,” Chandler grumbled.
“Why?”
“Because we’ll be disqualified before the weigh-in.”
The policeman spoke into his radio. “Officer Jenkins? This is Officer Denby. Do you copy?”
Jenkins’ voice came through the speaker: “Copy.”
“Can you give me a description of the perp?”
“Tall. Thin build. Wearing a red hoodie.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“No. But two teenagers chased after him. One African American, one Caucasian, both male.”
Jack kept his hands on the wall and looked over his shoulder. “And one of them is tall and really good-looking, right?”
“That would be me.” Chandler grinned and raised himself up to his full six foot six.
“I’m with them now,” Denby said.
Over the radio came the voice of the old woman. “My purse, where is my purse?”
“Hold on, ma’am,” Jenkins said. “Did you recover the handbag?”
Jack smiled broadly.
Officer Denby responded, “That’s affirmative. We did.”
Jack glanced over at Chandler and mouthed, We?
Chandler shook his head and mouthed, Stop.
“I’m driving the victim over to you. What’s your location?”
“I’m in a dead-end alley between J and K. Cross-street is Forty-First.”
Denby clicked his radio off and ambled toward Jack and Chandler. “Okay, you two can turn around.” He somew
hat begrudgingly added, “I know you thought you were doing the right thing, but you should have called the police.”
“I didn’t want him to get away,” Jack said.
“He won’t. We’ll pick him up.” Denby took a small notebook and pen from a pocket on his shirt. “Anything you can tell me about him?”
“Approximately five foot eleven. One hundred forty, maybe fifty pounds. Newer white Nikes, ripped blue jeans, grubby red hoodie. Medium-length sandy hair. Oh, and a Grim Reaper tattoo on his neck.”
The cop’s eyebrows traveled in different directions.
“And he’s missing at least two front teeth.” Jack topped off his performance with his signature grin. At which Chandler lowered his eyes and shook his head.
“What?” Jack shrugged.
“How did you remember all that?” Denby asked.
“I’m studying to be a cop.”
Denby radioed in the enhanced description of the perp, then nodded toward the weapon on the ground, pulling a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. “This is the knife the guy had on him?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chandler pointed to Jack’s side. “Did you tear your shirt?”
Jack looked down at the slice in his T-shirt and groaned. “Oh, no, it’s one of my favorites.”
Chandler almost-yelled with concern, “Did he stab you?”
“No.” Jack pulled back. “It’s just a scratch.”
“A guy almost slices you up and you’re more worried about your T-shirt?”
“Well, I look really good in it.”
Chandler shook his head. “You need to call the cops. Simple math. Bad guys have knives. Cops have guns.”
“I got the handbag, didn’t I?”
Denby stood to the side, tuning them out to write up his paperwork.
“Don’t you get it?” Chandler said. “Nothing’s worth getting killed over, Jack. What would your father say?”
Jack ran his hand through his thick brown hair. “Don’t bring my dad into it,” he said in a low voice. “That’s crossing the line.”
“Ha!” Chandler said. “Your dad would flip out and he’d be right.”
“Whatever. I got the purse back.”
“You pull any of that hero stuff in the Army and I’ll shoot you myself.” Chandler shook his head, but grinned.
Sensing that the cloud of testosterone and adrenaline had somewhat dissipated, Denby picked up the purse and began walking toward the street. “You boys enlisted?”
Jack nodded, in step beside Denby. “Yes, sir. We go to basic in three months. Serve two years. Pay for college with a GI bill, and then off to the Police Academy.”
“I went through Fort Benning.”
“We don’t know where they’re sending us yet,” Chandler said.
A police cruiser stopped at the end of the alley, the old woman peering out the back window.
Denby handed the purse to Jack. “You can do the honors.”
Chandler nudged him forward. The woman opened the window and leaned out, her hands gripping the frame.
Jack held out the purse. “Here you go, ma’am.”
“Oh, thank you.” Her bruised hand trembled as she unzipped it. When she saw that the pharmacy bag was still inside, she clutched it to her chest and her deep brown eyes searched Jack’s face. “Thank you. Thank you, young man.” She reached out for Jack’s arm, light as a bird, and patted him. She waved them closer, then squeezed Chandler’s hand too. “You boys are my heroes.”
“It was our pleasure, ma’am.” Jack felt like he was about to float into the sky—like he could do anything, fly maybe, or lift the police car up with one hand, with the officer and the lady in it.
“We’re just happy to help, ma’am.” Chandler tipped his head to the woman, then to Denby, and he and Jack headed down the street.
When they were out of earshot, Jack swaggered like a cowboy and in his best John Wayne Texan drawl said, “Just happy to help, little lady,” tipping an imaginary ten-gallon hat.
Chandler was quick to bring his friend back to earth with a punch in the arm. “Quit joking around. That cop was right—you should have called the police.”
Jack just walked faster. “What was I supposed to do? When I saw her, all scared and helpless, I had to do something.”
Chandler grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him to stop. “Seriously. I know you’ve had a hard life, and you want to help others. But you can’t help everyone.”
“I’m not trying to. Believe me, I stick my neck out for nobody.”
Chandler jogged a few paces to catch up. “Someday you’re going to find someone you can’t help, Jack. Not everyone can be saved.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jack said, but as he walked toward home, a pit began to grow in his stomach.
2
A Bright Future
All was silent around Stacy Shaw’s little cubicle. The last of her coworkers had gone home over an hour ago, but just to be sure, she raised herself up on the arms of her chair and peeked over the cubicle wall at the maze of cubbies. Only when she was certain she was alone did she dare to break one of the standing rules at H. T. Wells Financial and, with a little gasp of pleasure, slip her aching feet out of their high-heeled prisons. Wiggling her toes, she settled back in her stiff office chair and let herself enjoy her mini-rebellion.
The serenity was broken when her phone beeped, announcing yet another text from her mother. She glanced at the screen. Her mother had forwarded her an advertisement for a Taser. Personal Protection Guaranteed, the ad promised in giant type. In the picture, a white-haired grandmother posed like Rambo.
Stacy didn’t reply to this, the fourth similarly themed text in the last few days, suggesting pepper spray, guard dogs, even a gun safety class. It all started after her mother read an article about a rash of purse snatchings in Fairfield. In spite of Stacy’s insistence that their new home was in a quiet bedroom community, and that she and Michael already had friends in the neighborhood, her mother still worried.
“Stacy.” Her boss’s deep, slightly irritated voice broke the silence. Startled, Stacy jumped out of her chair, banging her knee on the desk drawer. So she wasn’t alone after all.
“Do you have a second?” her boss called out.
Ouch, ouch! “Yes.” She tried to put a smile in her voice. “I’ll be right there.”
Apparently that wasn’t good enough for Leland Chambers, director of finance, who now stepped out of his posh corner office to summon her like a boorish customer flagging down a waitress. “I need to speak with you.”
Stacy jammed her feet back into her shoes and rushed down the empty corridor after him.
“Here.” He dumped a stack of folders into her arms, then cocooned himself in his high-back leather chair behind his wide mahogany desk. “I’m taking a long weekend on the Vineyard. I’ll need those done by Wednesday.”
“Yes. Certainly, Mr. Chambers.”
“Call me Leland.”
Stacy nodded, but had no intention of honoring the request. Leland Chambers was upper management and she was a worker bee who badly needed a job. The haves and have-nots didn’t mix—not if they wanted to stay employed.
Stacy Shaw was a mid-level financial analyst. Everything about her dress matched her position—plain and practical, from her gray silk blouse, classic black skirt, and narrow leather belt, to the simple (yet uncomfortable) black heels to compensate for her diminutive stature. Her makeup was light and natural, her blond hair neat, her only jewelry a pair of pearl stud earrings. All compliant with HR’s dress code; all designed to make her blend in, or rather, not to stand out in any way.
“Do you need anything else?” she asked. “I’d planned to work late tonight.”
“Won’t your husband be upset?”
Is he implying something? Gross! “He’s out of town on business.” Stacy self-consciously held the pile of papers to her chest.
Chambers swiveled slightly in his chair and sized her up. “I’m surprised he le
aves your side.”
Double gross! She pretended to read the top folder in an attempt to hide her disgust at the shallow come-on. “He has to, for his job.”
Chambers snapped his fingers. “Now I know who you look like. I’ve been trying to nail it down since you came on board.”
“Who?” she asked, and immediately regretted doing so, fearing who she was about to be compared to.
“Jennifer Lawrence. A lot shorter, but your smile is spot-on.”
Stacy lowered her eyes as her hand tucked an errant strand of naturally blond hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she mumbled, and turned to make a hasty exit.
“Hey, wait a minute.” He jumped up and followed her. “I’m heading down to O’Flaherty’s. Accounting just wrapped up the end of the quarter, and they’re celebrating.”
He stopped with one foot inside her cubicle and angled his shoulders. From his tasseled leather loafers and pleated khakis to his fitted white shirt and perfectly groomed goatee, Mr. Chambers’ style seemed carefully lifted from a GQ magazine. Even his fingernails were expertly manicured. He seemed to be striking a pose. It wasn’t the first time in her short tenure at H. T. Wells that Stacy had wanted to strangle him with his own silk tie.
After he had showed both profiles for her adoration, pretending to survey the hallways, his gaze settled on her. “Would you care to join me?”
Stacy shook her head. “Thank you, but I want to finish up a couple of things.” She sat down.
“That works out well for me.” A suggestive smile spread across his broad face. “I’m going for a quick run around Hamilton Park first, while it’s still light out. It’s a beautiful park—during the day.” He twirled the key ring to his Porsche Carrera 911. “That gives you an hour. By that time, the accountants will have enough drinks in them that maybe they won’t be so boring. C’mon, it’ll be fun. All work and no play …”
“Actually …”
“You’ve done enough time in the mines for one day. Besides, the buck stops with me. I’ll adjust your time card.” This gem came with an over-the-top, slow-motion wink.
“I couldn’t let you do that.” She smoothed her skirt and rested her hands on the hem so it was as long as possible, covering as much of herself as she could, and scrunched up in her chair.
Detective Jack Stratton Box Set Page 50
