“Our group policy doesn’t cover that type of treatment,” he said. “It covers skin cancer, of course.”
“I see,” Rachel said. She shifted awkwardly, uncertain how to proceed.
“Is there anything else, Simmons?” Madison asked, wondering why the woman had bothered him with such a trivial request.
“No,” Rachel said. How could she speak out against a fellow officer? Townsend might have shoved her, but he had at least made an attempt to apologize. When people were under pressure, they occasionally stepped out of character. With the problems Townsend was experiencing at home, she didn’t feel right jeopardizing his job. “I’d better head out to the field, sir.”
After she checked out her unit and pulled out onto the street, she blinked her headlights at one of the other units. Chris Lowenberg pulled up alongside her car to see what she wanted. A dark-haired officer in his mid-twenties, Lowenberg already had a wife and three young kids to support. Like Rachel, he supplemented his income by working at State Farm.
“Did you pick up our checks from State Farm?” she asked. “My bank account is seriously depleted.”
“Yeah,” he said, plucking an envelope off his dashboard and tossing it at her through the open window. “Look, I hate to tell you this, Rach, but we both got pink slips from the insurance job.”
“What do you mean?” Rachel said. “What happened?”
“They decided to hire their own security guards, so I guess we can kiss that gravy train goodbye.”
The news was devastating, but it wasn’t Chris’s fault. “Thanks for telling me, Chris,” she said, gunning the engine and driving off. It would all work out, she told herself. She would find another job, maybe one that paid more money. Even at the end of his life, her husband had been a positive person. Nothing could be accomplished by dwelling on the negative, he had always said. Change was part of life.
Because there was a lot of activity in the field, the dispatcher could not afford to have both Carol Hitchcock and Rachel out of service at the same time for their prearranged meal break. Instead, they met at McDonald’s for a quick cup of coffee, taking their portable radios inside the restaurant with them.
“Grant said you were going to visit your parents this morning after work,” Rachel said. “He wants me to go to the watch party. If you were going, Carol, I wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to be the only female there.”
“I go to all the parties,” the woman said. “Maybe if you came to some of them, Rachel, you would get to know the men better. We have a lot of fun. People act different when they’re out of uniform.”
“You’ve never had a problem, then?” Rachel had heard stories about men commandeering vehicles just so they could go for a ride in a Mercedes, shooting off tracer rounds at the beach.
“Of course not,” Carol said, taking a quick gulp of her coffee. “You’ll have a great time. Just stay away from Grant,” she added, only half-jokingly.
“What’s happening with you two?” Rachel asked. “Are you going to get married?”
Carol fell silent. She had been thinking about it a lot lately. Her biological clock was ticking. She was several years older than Grant. She had begged him to marry her because she was desperate to have a child. All her sisters had large families. The situation with Grant was far from perfect, however. There were many complexities, many areas of their relationship they had yet to sort out. She had to work with what she had, though. Even though Grant had forbidden her to tell anyone at work, they were planning to get married in the fall. “We’re not living together,” she said, “but we don’t date other people. Why are you asking me these things? Is it because you’re interested in Grant?”
“No,” Rachel said. “I was just curious. I know you’ve been dating Grant for a number of years. Chris Lowenberg thinks you guys are secretly married.”
Hearing something on the radio, Carol turned the volume up. “There’s a pursuit going on,” she said, sliding out of the booth. “We better get back on the streets before the dispatcher starts looking for us.”
Chris Lowenberg entered the squad room at 4:40 and collapsed in a chair at the oak table where Rachel was working on her reports. “Tired?” she asked, seeing the officer stifle a yawn.
“Yeah,” he said. “Losing the second job is a blessing in some ways. At least till the bills pile up again.” He removed some notes from his briefcase. “I hear Grant arrested the robbery suspect from last night.”
Rachel had already heard. “He tried to rob another convenience store on the west side of town,” she said. “Grant stopped him five blocks from the store.”
“That lucky son of a bitch,” he answered, making a smacking noise with his mouth. “I would have loved to pop this jerk for two holdups. I haven’t made a felony bust all month. My stats are way too low.”
“I’m sure they’re not as low as mine, Chris,” Rachel said. “But other aspects of our job are also important, don’t you think?”
“Not to the brass,” Lowenberg said. “I gotta talk to the sarge. See you later.”
Rachel’s watch read five o’clock. Her shift ended at six. They called this the witching hour. Her mouth was parched, her breath tasted like rotten eggs. How many cups of coffee had she consumed during the night? Her stomach was gurgling and popping with acid. She had to go to the bathroom, but her legs were like dead weights, and she was too tired to get up and walk down the hall.
Ted Harriman walked in a short time later, dropping his briefcase on the table with a thud. An African-American, Harriman was a former sergeant in the Marine Corps who had spent his childhood in Georgia. He shaved his head, and his eyes bulged in their sockets. Over his lip was a neatly trimmed mustache. When he spoke, his voice resembled the smooth, clear notes of a saxophone. “Did you hear about the big bust tonight?”
“You mean the convenience store robber Grant apprehended?”
Harriman gave her a sour look. “Grant got credit for the arrest,” he said. “But I’m the one who chased the guy down.”
Rachel dropped her pencil on the table. “How did that happen? Carol and I heard the pursuit, but we thought it was Grant who was chasing him.”
“You tell me,” Harriman said, stroking his mustache. “I was driving past the market when the call came in on the robbery. I pursued the perp for about three miles. Grant heard me go into pursuit over the radio. I was about to initiate the stop when he screamed past me at about a hundred miles per hour, then forced the suspect’s car off the road. I almost slammed into the back of his unit. He cut right in front of me.”
“But you initiated the pursuit?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, running his tongue over his lower lip. “That arrest would have looked mighty fine in my jacket.”
“Did you tell Nick Miller what happened?”
“Waste of time,” Harriman said, picking his briefcase back up off the table. “Take it easy, pretty lady.”
Rachel smiled. “Are you going to the beach party?”
“Grant’s blowout?” he said, scowling. “They got their thing, you see, and I got mine. Cummings and his crew can keep on walking. I’ve got no use for their kind.”
* * *
Rachel tried to finish diagramming the accident, but even with her ruler, her lines were wavy, and she kept having to erase them and start over. In frustration, she pulled the pins out of her hair and ran her fingers through it. When she consumed too much caffeine, her scalp itched and tingled.
Hearing footsteps, she looked up as Grant and Ratso entered the squad room. “You missed all the excitement,” Grant said. “Did you hear I caught the robbery suspect?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Finish that up,” Grant said, soaring on the adrenaline of his felony arrest. “We want to take off for the beach on time.” He slapped Ratso on the back. “We’ve got some celebrating to do, isn’t that right, Ratso?”
“Grant, I—” Rachel was in no mood to go to their stupid party. The more she thought about it
, the more annoyed she became that Grant was coercing her by holding the incident at the Stop N Go over her head. How could he be so childish? Why did he even care if she came?
“Don’t even say it,” Grant said, popping his knuckles. “You owe me, Rachel. If I hadn’t caught the convenience store bandit with the gun and the bag of loot still on him, the DA would never have been able to convict him. The guy almost shot me. I’m just lucky I was able to disarm him.”
“Fine,” Rachel snapped, angry that he was bringing the subject up in front of Ratso. “As soon as I finish up here, I’ll change and meet you in back of the station.”
c h a p t e r
SEVEN
The morning sun seemed like an insult after a night with no sleep. Walking out the back door of the station, Rachel shielded her eyes with one hand while digging in her purse for her sunglasses. She had to call Lucy and tell her she wouldn’t be home at her regular time, but it was still too early. Since Oak Grove was a good twenty miles from the beach, she decided to stop at a pay phone on the ride over. She kept a set of street clothes in her locker in case she had to run errands after work, and had changed into a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the police academy logo.
She spotted Grant’s older BMW pulling into the secured lot where the police units were parked. Ratso was already installed in the back seat, his arm draped over a large blue cooler. Grant had purchased the BMW from a police auction in Los Angeles and had rebuilt the engine himself. He loved vintage cars and spent his free time constructing miniature models. He stuck his head out the window and waved. She walked over and climbed into the front seat.
“Maybe I should take my own car,” she told him. “I’ve got kids at home. Grant. I might not want to stay as long as you and Ratso.”
“You’re hurting Ratso’s feelings, Rachel,” he said, already pulling out into the intersection. “You can always catch a ride home with someone else. You don’t want Ratso to think you don’t want to ride with him, do you? He’s a sensitive fellow.”
Ratso leaned forward from the back seat. His short-sleeved shirt showed sinewy arms. Grant locked eyes with him in the rearview mirror. “I’ve seen eight-year-old boys with arms bigger than yours. You’ve got to scarf up some hamburgers, boy, put some meat on your bones.”
“I don’t eat meat,” Ratso said, thrusting his chin forward.
“Oh, really?” Grant said, cackling. “I swear I saw you gobbling up some cockroaches the other day. Maybe you should go to the grocery store now and then instead of eating whatever scurries out from under the kitchen cabinet.”
“Stop it. Grant,” Rachel said, turning to look at Ratso in the back seat. The man was just sitting there, a blank expression on his face. If Grant’s comments were meant to be funny, Ratso didn’t understand the humor. His back was straight, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his head tilted slightly forward as if he were praying. “Tell him to stop ridiculing you, Ratso, Stand up for yourself. Don’t let him talk to you this way.”
“You want me to leave you alone?” Grant said, a cruel tone to his voice. “Come on, buddy, say it.” He slammed on the brakes, craning his neck around to the back seat. “You can get out right here if that’s what you want.”
The opaque, disconnected look in Ratso’s eyes was replaced with a fleeting burst of anger. Rachel watched his chest expand and contract, hoping he was about to lash out at Grant and put him in his place. A comer of his lip quivered and he slowly shook his head, then turned to stare out the window.
“See,” Grant said, “you need to mind your own business, Rach. Ratso and I are friends. He’s the only guy I’ll let wash my car.”
“You make him wash your car?” Rachel said, incredulous.
“Why not?” he said. “They had a car wash at that place where he used to work. He’s pretty good, to tell you the truth. Never once scratched my paint job.”
After telling Grant she needed to stop at a pay phone to call Lucy, Rachel leaned back in the seat and shut her eyes, letting the brisk morning air drift across her face from the open window. Even though they were well into spring, evenings and early mornings were still chilly. Goose bumps popped out on her arms, and she rubbed them to take the chill away.
She was in a deep sleep when Grant nudged her twenty minutes later. He was steering the car into a service station directly across from the beach. “We’re going to get some more ice,” he said. “There’s a pay phone right over there. If you need to use the John,” he added, “now is the time to do it. We’re going to Seaside Park, but we don’t use the main beach, so it’s a long walk to the public Johns.”
Rachel put a quarter into the pay phone. Lucy Folger and her family had moved into the neighborhood only a short time after Rachel, and the two women had quickly struck up a friendship. When Lucy was diagnosed with breast cancer, her husband had flipped out and the couple had separated. At the time, Rachel had just quit her job at Robinson’s and was preparing to enter the police academy. Knowing her friend needed her, she stalled the department for over two months so she could care for Lucy and her four children while the woman underwent treatment. Her friend was cancer-free now and had recently reconciled with her husband. “Did I wake you?” she asked when Lucy answered the phone.
“Are you crazy?” Lucy answered, laughing. “Billy’s been up since five o’clock. He decided to make himself pancakes and bacon. Little snot almost burned the house down. The kitchen ceiling is black now. I guess we can call it contemporary decor. It looks like a ceiling in a nightclub. What’s going on? Are you still at the station?”
“No,” she said. “Some of the guys twisted my arm and talked me into going to the watch party. I should be home before noon. I just wanted to let you know that it’s okay to let Tracy and Joe go back to the house. Tell Tracy I’ll see her there, okay?”
“No problem.”
Rachel hung up, used the ladies room, and then walked back to the BMW. Grant and Ratso were waiting, the extra ice already deposited in the ice chest.
After driving south a few more miles on the Pacific Coast Highway, Grant steered the BMW into the public parking lot for Seaside Beach Park. Several of the men had already arrived and were slugging down beers in the parking lot. Most of them were wearing shorts and had already removed their shirts, leaning back against their cars as they soaked up the morning sun. It was the second week of May, and the temperature had gone from the mid-fifties of the night before to the high sixties. By noon it would probably be in the high seventies.
Rachel followed Grant and Ratso as they lugged the heavy cooler across the parking lot onto the sand, then continued down the beach to the secluded spot Grant had selected. “Do we have anything to eat?” she asked, her stomach growling as she trailed behind them. “I didn’t have time to take a break last night.”
“Want a Twinkie?” Jimmy Townsend said, stepping up behind her.
Rachel bristled, refusing to answer him. With the problems he was having at home, she had not expected Townsend to show up at the watch party.
“Hey,” he continued, “you’re not still mad at me, are you? You know, because I yelled at you the other day.”
“You did more than yell at me,” Rachel said in anger. “You shoved me. All I did was tell the truth. You acted as if I purposely sabotaged the case.”
“I was just pissed that asshole got off on the weapons charge,” Townsend told her. “Why don’t we call a truce? I was out of line, Rachel. I’m trying to apologize.”
Rachel turned around. She had never been one to stay angry. “Fine,” she said, flashing him a quick smile. “You don’t have anything more nourishing than a Twinkie, do you? My stomach feels like it’s stuck to my backbone.”
“Nick promised to bring hot dogs,” he told her. “He isn’t here yet, though. He probably stopped off at the store on the way over.”
Rachel was surprised. She didn’t know the sergeant attended the watch parties. She knew he was close with the troops, though, and not high enough o
n the ladder to be considered an outsider. Like all police departments. Oak Grove had its share of cliques. She wasn’t familiar with the interior workings of the other watches, but Grant, Ratso, Hitchcock, Townsend, and Sergeant Miller hung together like glue. Even though Miller was a sergeant. Grant was clearly the leader.
“Who’s watching the kids?” Rachel asked. “I thought you couldn’t leave Lindsey alone during the daytime.”
“I hired a nanny yesterday,” Townsend told her. “The other night when I jumped on you, everything was caving in on me. Now that I’ve got someone to help with the kids, I don’t have to worry about them so much.”
By the time fifteen minutes had passed, twenty men had arrived and were laughing and chugging down beer as they trudged through the deep sand, forming a caravan behind Grant, Ratso, and Rachel.
The spot Grant had selected was lovely. Rachel found herself in an isolated cove with a small, sandy stretch of beach surrounded by tall cliffs. She walked over to the water’s edge, noticing how shallow and clear the water was. Other than a few spots of tar, there was very little seaweed or other debris along the shoreline. In recent years, many of the California beaches had become so badly polluted that they were now closed to the public. Offshore drilling rigs were usually targeted as the culprits.
When she returned to where the men were gathered, Grant handed her an icy beer from the cooler. Even though she seldom consumed alcohol, she found the cold beverage refreshing. Her throat had been parched all night. Generally she stopped several times for sodas, but last night had been too hectic. She dropped down onto the blanket Grant had laid out and basked in the sun.
Jimmy Townsend spread out on a beach towel next to Rachel and lay down, his hairy belly spilling over the waistband of his shorts. “Do you remember that train accident last month?” he said, his hands behind his neck. “You know, where that fool decided to take a nap on the tracks.”
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