by Freya Barker
“The smart thing to do would’ve been to call 9-1-1. Not running into a dangerous situation in the middle of the night, especially when you’re outnumbered. They could’ve easily turned on you.”
Her eyes narrow and her head tilts slightly to the side, like she’s looking at something particularly distasteful. I snap my mouth shut but the damage is already done.
“It’s Radar, right?” I nod affirmatively. “Well, Radar, if you think I’m gonna stand by and let a couple of punks beat a woman to death with a baseball bat, you’re out of your mind. I’m an ER nurse, I work at a homeless shelter, you think I sit and crochet doilies all day? Puleeze, spare me your chest-pounding, sexist, alpha bullshit. I’ve got no time for that.”
She waves a dismissive hand, turns on her heel, and starts walking toward the apartment building. I glance over at the detectives, who obviously heard me being told off—Garcia shooting me a sympathetic shrug—before I quickly stalk after her. Phil struggles to keep up with me on her short legs.
“Go away, Radar. I’ve had a long fucking day and I need some sleep,” she fires off, without turning when she hears me close in.
“Just walking you to your door.”
I fall into step beside her, catching the roll of her eyes.
“I’ve managed to find it by myself for years now,” she snarks.
If she thinks her attitude is any kind of deterrent, she’s dead wrong. I grin as I climb up the stairs and walk right up to the door behind her. Normally, I don’t care about my neighborhood or who lives next door, but I can’t deny discovering Hillary is right around the corner in the same apartment complex is a perk I didn’t expect.
“You can go home now.” With her key in the lock, she turns to look at me before glancing down at Phil, who dropped down at my feet. “Is he okay?”
“She’s fine. A little dramatic because she doesn’t like her evening walks,” I explain. “She’d rather be in bed. She’s a morning girl.”
“I see.” If I’m not mistaken, that’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I thought she was a boy with that name. Not exactly the kind of dog I’d have picked for you.”
“Me neither.” I look down at my feet where Phil’s head is now resting on my boot, her eyes blinking up at me. “More like she picked me. As for her name, it’s Philomena, and no, I didn’t choose that either. She came with it. She’s a rescue.”
Hillary bends down to pet Phil when the little hussy rolls to her side right away, flutters her ridiculously long eyelashes, and offers herself for a belly scratch.
When Hillary glances at me, this time it’s with a hint of a smile that immediately turns into a jaw-breaking yawn.
“Sorry,” she mumbles behind the hand she slammed over her mouth.
“You should get some rest,” I prompt her. “What time should I pick you up tomorrow?”
“Sorry? Pick me up?” She’s about to open her door when she swings back around.
“Mug shots at the police station. Didn’t they ask you to come in?”
“Well, yeah, but…I can get myself there. I have a shift in the morning first.”
“So what time is good?” I persist.
“The police station is a couple of blocks from the shelter,” she starts. “I’ll stop in on my way home. It would be ridiculous for you to go out of your way.”
She’s going to think I’m some weird stalker if I push any more, so I let it drop, but not before I share, “Not exactly out of my way, since it appears we’re neighbors.”
Without waiting for a response, I bend down, scoop my lazy dog under one arm, and head down the stairs.
I cross the parking lot to my side of the complex, and am about to head up the stairway to my place, when I turn to glance back and see her outlined in the window of her apartment, watching me.
Hillary
“Hey, Hillary.”
Brad, our resident cook, is carrying a tray of muffins into the dining room as I’m fixing myself another coffee.
A disabled veteran, Brad had a hard time adjusting to civilian life and ended up on the streets. He was one of the shelter’s first residents when Rosie opened the doors last year, and as I’m told, almost immediately took over the kitchen.
He’s now officially on staff and a good cook, feeding every hungry mouth; something he says makes him feel useful.
“Banana walnut muffins?” I ask, sniffing the air.
“Last time I checked.”
I ignore his snippy response—he prefers the solitude of the kitchen to dealing with people—and smile at him, snagging a muffin to go with my coffee.
I walk back to my office and sit at my desk, groaning when the flavors of my first bite hit my taste buds. It’s the first thing I’m putting in my stomach, aside from the gallon of coffee I’ve already consumed today. The need for caffeine is high, since I didn’t hit my bed until about quarter to four this morning. I almost flung my alarm through the window when it went off just two and a half hours later, after a restless sleep.
That poor woman’s face; even with all I’ve encountered in my years in the ER I’ve never seen that kind of damage on someone who was still breathing. Hell, she even tried to talk through the mangled mess of tissue and bone. I wasn’t really sure what she said, like I told the police, but it sounded like school, which made no sense under the circumstances.
Unfortunately, when I called the hospital this morning to check in on her I was told she didn’t make it through the night. My heart feels heavy as I keep going over what more I could’ve done. Not the first time that’s happened, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Another challenge that comes with the job.
I’m just finishing up the last report of the day when Rosie walks into my office and sits down.
“What the hell happened?”
“What do you mean?”
She leans forward and wags a finger in my face. All five foot nothing of her. I’m not a giant by far, but I feel like one next to my friend.
“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything this morning and I had to hear it from Jake.”
Ah. My new neighbor, the one I was caught watching last night, must’ve been flapping his mouth.
“Radar,” I conclude out loud.
“Whatever,” she dismisses. “Are you nuts? Throwing yourself into a dangerous situation like that? You could’ve gotten hurt.”
“I didn’t. I’m fine.”
“But you could’ve,” she insists, and I can see the concern on her face.
Great, now I feel guilty.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. “And you know you would’ve done the same thing. Not that it matters,” I add dejectedly. “The poor woman didn’t make it.”
“I heard.” Her tone is instantly sympathetic. “Jake mentioned she lived in the building across the street? A teacher?”
For a second I wonder where the hell he got that information, then I remember what he does for a living.
“I didn’t know who she was,” I admit. I don’t tell Rosie; even had I known the woman beforehand, the likelihood of me recognizing her would’ve been slim to none. But now I know she was a teacher, the word she uttered makes a little more sense. Which reminds me I should get to the station and meet up with Detective Garcia.
“I should get going.” I get up and shrug into my coat, slipping my purse over my shoulder.
“Are you sure you’re still able to babysit Thursday?”
“Off course,” I assure her. “Been looking forward to having that little angel to myself for the night.”
Thursday is a day off for me and I can’t think of a better way to spend it than with Tessa. Rosie and Jake need a little break and I don’t have to go into work until Friday afternoon.
Detective Garcia looks up when I’m shown to his desk.
“Ms. Glenwood, thanks for coming in. I just have a statement for you to sign, and then I’ll take you to a quiet room so you can look at some pictures.”
“Before we get to that, I assum
e you’ve heard the victim didn’t make it?” When he pulls his eyebrows into a frown I quickly add, “I’m an ER nurse, remember? I checked in this morning and was told she passed away.”
“Yes. Unfortunately Sandra Elliot died.”
“And she was a teacher.”
He registers surprise. “Yes, she was.”
“Right, and last night I mentioned to you she mumbled ‘school.’”
“You said it sounded like it might have been ‘school,’” he corrects me. “Are you telling me you’re sure now?”
“It makes sense now, it didn’t last night because I had no idea who she was. Had I known she was a teacher at the time, I wouldn’t have doubted it was what I heard.”
“I guess that’s reasonable.” He shoves a document across his desk. “If you want to make that adjustment on your statement, go ahead, but please initial it.”
After I read and sign, he leads me into a small room with a computer on a table and two chairs. There, for the next hour and a half, I flip through grainy images until my eyes get blurry from the intense staring at the screen, without recognizing anyone.
“I’m sorry, I wish I could’ve been more helpful,” I tell Garcia when he walks me to the lobby.
“Not to worry, this is usually a long shot anyway.” He pushes open the door. “You have my card, please contact me if you think of anything else.”
“Of course.”
I have to admit I’m a little disappointed. It would’ve been nice to point my finger at a picture of those animals, but I guess it’s not that simple.
A dark gray truck pulls into the parking lot just as I slip behind the wheel. The only reason I notice is because of the tall man behind the wheel. I recognize the glasses and longish hair escaping the dark beanie and flopping over his forehead.
For a moment I consider getting out to say hello, but instead I end up ducking low, pretending to look for something in my purse.
Tempting, but too close on all fronts.
Chapter Three
Radar
“I’ll stop by Home Depot on my way.”
“Faucet in the kitchen’s leaking as well.”
“I’ll have a look at that tomorrow night as well, okay, Dad?”
My father is quiet on the other end, probably looking around his six-hundred-and-twenty-square-foot mobile home to see what else needs fixing. There’s a lot, the place has been falling apart around him.
I grew up in Montrose, where my dad did thirty years with the police force before retiring at fifty-five. He and my mother got a few good years of traveling in when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, and in a matter of eighteen months she was gone. That was thirteen years ago.
Dad couldn’t bear to stay in the house they’d lived in most of their married life and sold it, buying a mobile home instead. Big enough for him, he’d claimed at the time. For years he’d been able to manage the upkeep by himself and until recently he refused any help, despite his arthritis slowing him down.
I’m heading down there this weekend to start on some repairs. Apparently the winter hasn’t been kind on the roof and he has a few leaks. I’m not exactly a handyman—my brother, Hugh, fits those shoes—but I can find anything I need to know on Google or YouTube.
“Meeting in five.” Yanis, my boss, sticks his head around the door of my office. I give him a thumbs-up.
“Dad, I gotta get ready for this meeting, but if you think of anything else, just gimme a call, okay?”
“Bring some donuts,” he grumbles. “None of that fancy stuff, though. Don’t care for the sprinkles.”
I grin because he tells me the same thing every time. I always bring him donuts, and except for that one time, years ago, when I thought I’d broaden his horizon with a fancy assortment, they’re always the regular ones.
“Gotcha, Dad. Gotta go. See you tomorrow.”
By the time I have my notes and laptop gathered for the meeting, I’m the last one to walk into the conference room.
“Sorry,” I mumble, as I take a seat beside Bree Graves, our only female team member.
The only one missing is Shep Kirwin, who is somewhere in South America providing security for a corporate executive. Shep and Kai Olson have taken over a lot of the international travel assignments since joining PASS full time last year. The rest of us—Jake Hutchinson, Yanis Mazur, and his brother, Dimas, Bree, and myself—tend to stay closer to home.
Plenty of work right here in Colorado with a pretty full roster of steady clients, which is why we have these meetings twice a week. In part to brief on the ongoing jobs, but also to discuss possible new projects.
“Where are we on the GJPD report?” Yanis starts, referring to our in-depth investigation of the local police department. “The chief is expecting to see something on his desk on Monday.”
“I’ll have mine ready before the weekend,” I promise.
“Bree? What about the psychological profiles?”
“About done,” she answers him, without looking up.
I’ve been responsible for digging into backgrounds, looking at financials for any irregularities, and flagging anything that looked off. Bree would draw up a profile based on employment records and the info I provided, and Jake and Dimas would take on the investigation and sometimes surveillance of those officers.
We uncovered sixteen of the hundred and thirteen sworn officers who looked to be engaged in some criminal activity or another. A little over fourteen percent of the entire department. That’s pretty substantial for a relatively small force. Add to that the nine civilian employees who fit those same criteria, and you have a problem on your hands. Or at least, Chief of Police Chris Underwood does.
In order for him to use the information we uncovered to clean up his department, we have to make sure every piece of evidence is substantiated in our report for each of the names on that list.
Arguably the least favorite part of any project for any of us is the writing of reports, but Yanis insists on it.
“Mine is ready, I’m just waiting on Hutch for his part,” Dimas announces, and all eyes at the table turn to Jake who throws up his hands.
“Hey, you’ll have mine on your desk sometime this weekend.”
“Famous last words,” Dimas mumbles, earning him a sharp elbow in the ribs from his best friend.
“Just you wait until you’re up at all hours with a teething baby,” Jake throws back at Dimas who grins, having succeeded in rattling Jake’s cage. “If I had eight hours of sleep this entire week I’d be surprised.”
“Maybe you guys need a break?” Bree suggests carefully.
“We do. We’re going out for dinner, a movie, and we’ll hopefully get some sleep tonight.”
“Where’s Tessa gonna be?”
“Rosie’s friend, Hillary.” My ears perk up at the mention of her name. “She offered to keep her overnight. Nothing fazes that woman, not even a screaming baby,” Jake adds.
We move on to new business, but my mind isn’t in it. A few times Yanis has to call my name when I’m not paying attention.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bree asks, following me into my office after the meeting.
“Me? Nothing.”
Unfortunately Bree is like a human lie detector and narrows her eyes on me.
“You lie for shit.”
I drop down in my chair and lean back.
“Fine. It’s that attack outside my building,” I give her part of the truth. “I can’t leave it alone. The cops aren’t in a sharing mood, and I can’t find anything on that license plate when I started digging. I’m starting to wonder if I saw it wrong.”
“They don’t have any suspects yet?”
“None they’re sharing with me.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. We’re persona non grata with the GJPD for the time being.” Bree sighs and I know she’s had her own issues with the department. She’s the one who maintains contact with law enforcement, and I can’t imagine these past months have been easy. “Are
you sure of what you saw?”
“Positive. QLK. You can even see it on one of the pictures, although the last three digits are not quite clear. I’m pretty sure the first one is a six, then a three or maybe a five, and a one.”
“Show me.”
She rounds my desk and looks over my shoulder as I pull up the image I’ve been trying to clean up.
“See? QLK.”
She leans closer and squints her eyes at the screen.
“Is that the original?”
“No, I’ve been working on this one. Sharpened the edges.”
“Can I see the original?”
I pull up the second one and display them side by side.
“See this?” She grabs a pen and points at the tail of the Q. “That’s dirt. See how gritty and uneven it is compared to the rest? You’re looking at an O.”
For fuck’s sake.
She’s right. I can’t unsee it now and yet when I look at the second image I cleaned up, it’s clearly a Q. Or maybe I turned it into one because that’s what I believed.
“Not all is as it seems, even when you’re staring right at it,” Bree says sagely before walking out of my office.
An hour and a half later I send off a list with three possible license plates, along with their respective DMV registrations, to Detective Bissette.
I don’t hear anything back.
Assholes.
Hillary
I slept in this morning.
Don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve vegged in bed until eleven, but I did this morning. It was necessary.
Talk about the week from hell. One thing after another, and all of it messing with my sleep. To top it all off, Karla decided to flex her muscles again last night. I’d been tending to a five-year-old with seizures, who’d been brought in by his frantic mother, when she sent in another nurse to take over because I was needed elsewhere.
A homeless guy had come in with diabetic sores on his feet and lower legs that had been horribly neglected, and Karla insisted I look after him since working at the shelter I should be ‘used to the stench.’
