Union Jacked

by Diane Vallere

  Loncar shook his head.

  A fresh round of fireworks fired. Loncar put his hand over his ear and whacked it a few times with his palm. “Were fireworks your idea?”

  “No. I wanted to charter a biplane with a banner that said, ‘Loncar Retires! Round up the usual suspects.’”

  Loncar shook his head. “No party.”

  I jabbed my finger close enough to his chest to make my point while not assaulting a police officer. “This party isn’t for you,” I said. “It’s for your department. And your daughter. And the employees of the store who thought they were going to be out of a job. And the city of Ribbon who want to celebrate your career.”

  “I want to approve everything from the invitees to the color of the icing on the cupcakes.”

  “Who said there would be cupcakes? Do you want cupcakes? I was thinking donuts. Do you like cupcakes?”

  “No donuts. Nothing that mocks the department. Just do what you’re going to do and keep me posted.”

  Like I said: practically partners!

  Loncar approached the picketers, and I finished my flask of coffee. I taste-tested three biscuits and called in an order for fish and chips to number six on Yelp’s list of Best British Food in Ribbon. The picketers appeared to be on a break. My phone rang. The name of my close friend and adjacent picketer Eddie Adams flashed on the screen, and I answered.

  “Coffee. Black. Blacker than black. How black? None more black.”

  Since Piccadilly had announced their plans to buy out Tradava and assort us with British merchandise, Eddie had taken to talking like Christopher Guest’s character from This Is Spinal Tap. You might think a Pennsylvanian surfer dude can’t pull off an East London accent. You’d be right. (I kept my opinion to myself.)

  “I can’t leave for coffee. Moneypenny went inside to negotiate with Harvey.”

  “Harvey came out of the store a couple of minutes ago. If this strike is over, we’re celebrating.” He hung up.

  Harvey emerged from the group and called me toward him. I risked the value of Victoria’s tea and biscuits and met him halfway.

  “Did Victoria forget something?” I asked.

  “No, we reached an agreement.” He grinned broadly. “Strike’s over.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “She wants you to meet her inside. Something about tacky prom dresses she didn’t approve?”

  I gave him a tight smile. “Great. Thanks.”

  I left Harvey and passed through the picketers when a fresh round of fireworks was detonated. This time they sounded closer, though the noise faded into the background, having become part of the morning soundtrack.

  The accompanying screams were new.

  A spear of panic shot up my spine and down to my feet. Those weren’t fireworks.

  They were gunshots.

  I spun around. My chest tightened. Picket signs clattered to the asphalt, and several protestors did too. I ran back through the crowd and searched for the police, the shooter, or something to prove what I suspected wasn’t real. But past the picket line, lying on the ground, was something I’d never wanted to see in my life.

  Two men lay motionless in the parking lot. One was Harvey Monahan.

  The other was Detective Loncar.

  3

  Shots Fired

  I ran across the parking lot toward the detective’s body. Someone screamed my name, but I kept going. I dropped onto my knees and grabbed Loncar’s hand.

  “Detective?” I said. “Come on, Detective. Open your eyes. Please. If you don’t, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll—” Paralytic fear crept through me. I couldn’t think clearly and was desperate to say something to make him wake. “I’ll have to find the shooter myself.” For all Loncar’s “Stay out of this Ms. Kidd” lectures in the past, a tiny part of me hoped the threat of my involvement would shock him back to consciousness.

  He didn’t respond.

  I called 911. “Emergency in the parking lot outside Tradava East. Shots fired into a crowd. Two people hit. Please, hurry.” I remained on the line while the dispatch officer took down my name, location, and details about the shooting. I kept my other hand gripped around Loncar’s.

  I let my phone drop from my ear to the ground. Loncar’s eyes opened, and he stared up at the sky. He blinked a couple of times and tried to sit up.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “You were shot.”

  “Who else?”

  “Harvey Monahan. The union leader.”

  “Condition?” Loncar asked.

  “The bullet went through his shoulder,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned and saw Eddie squatted by Harvey’s body a few feet away. Eddie had taken off his cat hat and pressed it against Harvey’s wound. The attractive strike leader had lost the air of confidence that had surrounded him earlier, and his dark complexion seemed to have paled. His eyes were trained on Loncar. He moved his hand to Eddie’s hat and held the knit in place. Next to him, the middle-aged cheerleader stood with her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot, and tears streamed down her cheeks. I looked back at Eddie and tipped my head toward her. He stood and turned her away from the sight of the two men.

  Loncar started to move, and I put my hand on his chest and restrained him. “This is not your investigation.”

  Despite my level-headed instructions, the detective pushed my hand away and sat up. Everything I knew said he shouldn’t move until paramedics arrived and made sure he was okay.

  “My job is to protect these people.”

  “Right now, your job is to protect yourself.” Sirens sounded in the distance. They seemed too far, like they would never arrive. I turned to Eddie. “Can you get everybody into the store?”

  Eddie, who earlier had worn an expression of I’m-so-over-this was quick to nod. His eyes were wide and reflected the panic I felt.

  By the time the police cars and paramedics pulled up to the scene of the shooting, the parking lot was close to empty. Clouds overhead had broken up, and soft, white puffs glided by, like wads of cotton pulled from aspirin bottles. I knew Eddie could have used help with the crowd, and I knew management in the store needed to be notified. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave Loncar and Harvey. I waited between the two men until paramedics arrived and moved them onto a gurney.

  A paramedic pressed an oxygen mask over Loncar’s face. He pushed it away. He grabbed my wrist. “There’s going to be an investigation into what happened here. I need you to leave this alone.”

  I kept my tone light to counter my internal shock. “Maybe the thought of me getting involved is the motivation you need to recover.” My voice broke on “recover.”

  Loncar’s hand moved from my wrist to the front of my sweater. He clutched at the bulky knit and pulled me down so my ear was next to his mouth. “This wasn’t a random shooting. It was about me.”

  “You know who the shooter was?” I asked, surprised by what Loncar said.

  “Make your statement, and then you’re out.” He took a labored breath. Paramedics pushed his gurney away and moved him into the back of the ambulance.

  Amongst the arriving help was a dark-gray sedan with a Kojak light on the roof. The man who got out was Detective Madden, a newer addition to the Ribbon Police Department who had handled a case while Loncar was on vacation in Tahiti last December. Madden had bright-red hair, curly but tamed by a styling product, and wore a blue shirt, blue tie, and dark-blue suit. Brown wing-tipped monk straps. Navy-blue argyle socks. I focused a little too hard on the argyle to help bring me back into a place of Zen.

  “Ms. Kidd, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Detective Madden.” Men in emergency gear flooded the scene and moved Harvey Monahan. When the doors to the second ambulance were closed, I found myself once again facing Madden’s extended hand. I held mine out to shake it and noticed a transfer of blood on my palm. I balled up my fist, and Madden withdrew his hand. He pulled a white handkerchief from his inside suit jacket pocket and handed it to me.

  “I understand you
were the one to make the call to dispatch,” he said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  I clutched the hanky. “Detective Loncar is about to retire in a week. Is he going to be okay?”

  Madden turned away from me and pantomimed drinking something to a uniformed police officer. I grabbed his arm and forced him to pay attention to me. “Your colleague was shot. I think you can wait five minutes while I give my statement before getting a cup of coffee.”

  The uniform brought a bottle of water to Madden, who took it and held it out to me. “This is for you, Ms. Kidd. What you witnessed here today must have been a shock. Take a moment to collect your thoughts. When you’re ready, I’d like you to go back to the beginning and tell me what happened.”

  I took the proffered water, uncapped it, and swallowed several gulps. I recapped the bottle and held it to my chest. I burst into tears. I thrust the bottle at Madden and buried my head in my hands and sobbed.

  Detective Madden guided me to a bench by the front of Tradava. I sat. He sat. I took a few deep breaths and fought to get control of myself.

  “How’s your friend?” Detective Madden asked. I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly. I cocked my head and stared at him without speaking. “The one with the baby? I believe her name was Catherine Lestes?”

  Madden’s change of subject was jarring, and it took me a moment to remember he was no stranger to my circle of friends.

  “Catherine—Cat. She’s well. She had a new year’s baby. Last year. A little girl.”

  “She was a nice lady. I hope things turn out well for her.” He pulled his glasses off, cleaned one of the lenses with the point of his blue tie, and put them back on.

  “Why did you ask me about Cat? What made you think of her?”

  “Ms. Kidd, you are upset over the events of this morning. I need to take your statement, but in times like these, I find it’s helpful to focus on something unrelated. Something pleasant. I remembered your friend and assumed she had a healthy baby, and that seemed like a pleasant subject.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that a shooter fired at a police officer in this parking lot this morning.”

  Madden’s eyes lit up. I stared at him and considered what I’d said, what I’d remembered, and why he seemed so interested.

  “What?”

  “Is that your statement? That a shooter fired at a police officer?” He turned away from me and shielded his eyes while taking in the parking lot. “There was a rally of union workers in front of the store. There was already a heated scene, and as management arrived, the confrontation would have risen. It stands to reason that the shooting was accidental and the victim was random, but you’re the closest thing I have to a witness.”

  “I am?”

  “You are. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear your statement.”

  Anger toward Detective Madden would accomplish nothing. My resentment toward him was born out of my fear that Detective Loncar would not recover, but if I were to help find who did this, Madden was the one I needed to trust.

  “I’m working with a representative from Piccadilly Group—the new owners of Tradava—on a grand reopening. Her name is Victoria Pratt. She and I have been out here all morning.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Sampling tea and scones.” I turned to the tent. The red teapot had gotten hit by a stray bullet and lay in a pile of broken clay. The tablecloth was saturated with tea which pooled by my folder. I moved it to my handbag and flipped the tablecloth up to contain the mess. If I hadn’t been off tea this morning, I was now.

  “Where is Ms. Pratt now?”

  “Inside the store. She and Harvey had a meeting with senior management about the union demands. Harvey came out and said Victoria wanted to see me in the store, so I headed inside.”

  I knew there was something wrong with my chain of events, but I kept talking while my memories were fresh.

  “I heard the shots right after I got through the crowd. I was facing the store. My back was to everybody. When I turned, all I saw were people and picket signs on the ground. Nobody had a gun. If you’re right about the heated scene and the potential for arguments, then Loncar wouldn’t have been part of the crowd, he’d be in front of the crowd. And for someone to hit him and nobody else, it seems to me that he’s right. He was the target.”

  “Do you know why Detective Loncar was at Tradava this morning?” Madden asked.

  “No.”

  “What were the two of you talking about?”

  “A party. His party.” I pressed my lips together and stared at a loose pebble by Madden’s monk strap. “Captain Valderama asked me to plan Detective Loncar’s retirement party, and I approached Tradava about using the grand reopening party space to save time and money. We’ll already have tables and chairs set up, and the joint press between the police force and Tradava would go a long way to help both. Loncar seemed to already know something was up. I confessed.”

  Madden nodded along as if it made sense. He showed neither appreciation nor disdain for my idea.

  “I’m not stupid,” I said, interjecting what I thought he was thinking. “I know the captain asked me as a joke—well maybe he did need somebody to plan the party, but Loncar and I haven’t been best of friends since I moved back to Ribbon. Asking me to plan this party is a slap in the face of both of us. I agreed because I know I’ll take it seriously. I didn’t want to give anybody the opportunity to turn it into a farce.”

  “You’re an independent person,” Madden said matter-of-factly. “Whatever you plan, there’s no reflection on the force.”

  Why were we talking about Loncar’s party? Why weren’t we talking about the shooting?

  “Detective Loncar said he knew who the shooter was,” I said. I studied Madden’s face, hoping for signs that he knew too.

  “When did he say that?”

  “When I ran to him after the shots. I thought he was unconscious and I tried to wake him with a joke. What kind of person does that? He was shot, and I made a joke.”

  Madden didn’t answer my question. “What did he say?”

  “He said the shooter was after him, and I was to give my statement and then walk away.”

  “Ms. Kidd, the police force appreciates your cooperation in this matter. We will be in touch should we require anything further from you.”

  The ambulance drove toward the exit. The second ambulance followed closely. In under a minute, the vehicles were out of my line of vision. “Where are they taking him?” I asked.

  “That is not your concern.”

  “But what if I want to visit him?”

  “Detective Loncar will be closely monitored in private quarters.” He pulled out his card and handed it to me. “Should you remember anything else, do not hesitate to call.”

  After the police left, the store requested all members of management make the rounds and send staff home. The store closed early. The single benefit of already being on a depressing sales trend was that staying open wouldn’t have made that much of a difference.

  I doubted I’d remember anything that I hadn’t already told Madden. I collected my things and drove home. That’s when I realized what had bothered me about my statement to Madden. Victoria had gone inside Tradava with Harvey, but Harvey was in the parking lot when the shooting happened.

  Which meant either Victoria had been incredibly lucky by dawdling inside the store, or she’d known not to come out in the first place.

  4

  Late

  Perhaps now is a good time to explain why I was knee-deep in plans for a party Detective Loncar didn’t want instead of manifesting a peaceful life with my new husband.

  Nick Taylor and I got married in a decided-on-a-roulette-wheel-bet in Las Vegas last August. It’s been eight months, and we are still in our honeymoon phase. A fact that may or may not have to do with the fact that Nick’s been out of the country for the past month.

  As a shoe designer, Nick spent about half of the year traveling.
Recent trouble had destroyed his business, and he’d taken a year off to regroup. Two months ago, he left a multi-city tour of Asia to explore the possibilities of producing a luxury sneaker collection. This was the first time we’d been apart since being married last August, but long before then, I accepted that Nick’s business required him to spend months at a time out of the country. It was the price I paid for getting free footwear. Despite knowing what I was getting into when I married him, it had been harder than expected to watch him leave.

  In my attempts not to violate the no-interruptions-during-work rules we established before he left (which, may I point out, were my idea), I surrounded myself with his presence. I wore his cologne. I drove his truck. I slept on his side of the bed, although that was more of a concession to my cat Logan.

  Get PoPT! says it’s essential to create a world where we want to live instead of accepting an environment where we don’t thrive. So while Nick is in China, I’ve been focusing on how to be a better person. I even ate a salad two nights ago.

  But there was one thing about life with Nick that was a big question mark: children. Which possibly was the kind of thing we should have talked about before spinning that roulette wheel in Las Vegas, but I figured we’d deal with it later.

  Turns out later was now. Because I was late.

  Ten days late.

  I would be more than happy to sit here and tell you all about Nick’s possible luxury sneaker collection, but Nick doesn’t want to jinx anything until after he’d found a production team.

  And I could go on and on about married life with Nick (except for his disturbing habit of watching . . . sports. Sports! I didn’t even know I paid for those channels.)