Linda had been part of the Rookie Club group since before Hailey joined. She had a sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor. She was among the first of them to be promoted to captain.
“Where’s Hal?” Hailey asked Linda, scanning for her partner. She had expected to see him sitting on the sidelines, but he was nowhere in sight.
Linda frowned and pointed toward the hostage. “He’s in there.”
Hailey froze. “Hal is the hostage?”
“Practically.” She pulled a pair of binoculars off her neck and handed them over.
Hailey’s stomach tensed at the site of Hal so close to the shooter.
He sat hunched over, trying to give the impression of being smaller, less intimidating. A guy his size was a big threat to a kid already prepared to kill a cop.
The other officer breathed in shallow breaths. His face was pallid and wet despite the cold wind and the hand that held him at the neck trembled.
Hailey scanned carefully for any angles to see the perp but he was well hidden behind the officer. She listened to the chatter coming from Linda’s radio, something about a wound. “Wait. Who was hit?”
“The perp,” Linda said. “An hour ago, in the shoulder.”
“Can the roof see how he’s doing?”
“Last report has him real shaky. Kid’s dying and he has to know it.” She raised an eyebrow and took back the binoculars Hailey handed her. “Not so good for our guys.”
Hailey felt the familiar tightness in her gut. John. She’d already lost John. “You think he’ll take someone with him,” she said, barely a whisper.
Linda shrugged and raised the binoculars to her own eyes. “What’s he got to lose? We just need to get him first.”
With the officer shielding his chest, a parked car covering his backside, and Hal just feet away, there was no good shot at the kid.
Why hadn’t she come with him? She should have been there. Would it have made a difference? Could she have kept him away?
The sharpshooters might be able to put one in his leg, maybe get a bullet into his pelvis, but his gun was still at the cop’s head—an injury like that wouldn’t keep him from getting a couple of shots off.
She would not lose Hal.
Linda’s radio crackled.
“He’s getting weak,” Cameron Cruz reported from the roof.
Hailey rubbed her chest. Her breathing felt labored.
Her albuterol was in the car.
Giving herself some air, she stepped back behind the patrol cars. Bruce approached. Neither spoke but stood side-by-side like parents watching over the hospital bed of a mutual child.
And this was theirs.
The department, her guys in homicide who Bruce had heard so much about, had become facets of their relationship. “He’s going to be okay,” Bruce whispered.
Bruce had been pressing to bring their relationship into the open—even if it meant one of them had to leave the department.
Hailey wasn’t ready.
In fact, Hailey felt less ready to commit to him than she had when John was alive, and that truth wasn’t easy to explain. Recently, Bruce seemed to push the issue by acting without caution.
Her response was to feel less, not more, inclined to make the relationship known.
Hailey was about to respond when the perp broke the silence.
“Get me a fucking ambulance now!” he shouted. “Do it or I’m taking him with me.”
Cameron Cruz whispered to the shooters, “Easy now. He’s antsy. Hold tight.”
Hailey edged forward.
Down the block, Hal shifted into view.
“Where’s the damn ambulance?” the perp shouted, looking away from his hostage.
Hailey gasped as Hal lunged forward and grabbed the officer. The kid’s body bucked and twisted against the bullets that struck him until only the bullets moved.
The street became a flurry of shouting. Hailey pushed forward until she could see Hal stand from the sidewalk. He stepped forward. He was okay.
Bruce excused himself while Hailey moved towards Hal.
The paramedics parked the ambulance beside the car and quickly unloaded a gurney from the back, lifting the officer up as Hailey arrived. Tears stung in her eyes. She felt foolish and scared. She touched his back.
He was bent over, his hands on his knees like a football player in a huddle as he watched them load up the officer.
“Had a goddamn heart attack,” Hal said.
“Bad time for a heart attack,” Hailey said.
Hal raised a brow at her. “You’re probably the only one who could time it, Wyatt.”
“Of course. It’s a Wyatt thing. What the hell were you doing in there, anyway?”
“Don’t ask.” He shook his head and stood up straight. “Don’t fucking ask.”
“We get the guy selling Dennig’s guns?”
“Yeah. That guy over there with the white sweatshirt. Dropped to the ground as soon as the cops showed up.”
“Can we talk to him now?”
“Mike Neill’s bringing him in.” Neill was an inspector in Triggerlock. He and Ryaan Berry worked together. This was their sting. “He’ll call us for first crack at him when he’s ready. They’re going to let him sweat overnight.”
Perfect. It was amazing how a night in jail could get people talking. Let him sweat a while. “You ready for that beer?” she asked. After two gun incidents in one night, they deserved it.
“I’m ready for a whole damn case of ‘em.”
“Well, I’ll buy the first one.”
“That’s the least you can do. I should’ve sent you down here to deal with that crazy ass motherfucker. Least you might’ve been smart enough to stay in the van.”
Linda James stopped beside them. “Just got the call about the senator. He okay?”
Hal stared at her as Hailey nodded. “He’ll be fine.”
Linda left them and Hal waited for an explanation.
“Jim got shot tonight. I don’t think the shooter entered the house. Bullet caught his earlobe, barely grazed him.”
“Another break-in? Like John?”
Hailey turned away as though distracted by the scene. She didn’t want to talk about John. “I don’t know. This guy left a package.”
“Package?”
“A white button, Hal. Wage peace, not war.”
“Another anti-NRA pin? Like Dennig’s?”
“Exactly the same. That and a weird note. I didn’t have time to try to make sense of it.”
Hal leaned back against a car, rubbed his face with both palms. “No shit.”
Jim and the Dennigs. Abby’s father, Tom, and Jim were friends, but that wasn’t enough. There had to be another way in which Jim and the Dennigs tied together. It would naturally lead to questions about John. “It’s all hushed up now. No media, no official police report. Just diplomatic services.”
“What did Jim say?”
“That he’s got no idea.”
“And you believe him,” Hal said, an edge in his voice.
Yes. She said nothing. Why did she believe him? Because she knew him.
How could she explain that to Hal? That her relationship with Jim had changed, that she’d come to rely on him… trust him.
Gunfire cracked from inside the building.
Without hesitating, Hal sprinted for the door, gun drawn. Hailey followed already several paces behind his long stride. He cleared the foyer as she took his back.
They made their way slowly up the stairs.
As they rounded the corner on the landing, a patrol officer spun toward them, gun aimed. His eyes narrowed at Hal, the gun clenched in both fists, the finger edging toward the trigger.
Rookie.
“Whoa,” Hal said, raising his hands. “We’re cops.”
> “Homicide. Lower your weapon,” Hailey shouted and when the rookie’s gaze shifted to her, he dropped the weapon to his side. They all breathed a moment.
“What happened?” Hailey asked.
The officer’s face was pale and moist, his eyes wide and darting in a way that exaggerated the small, mousy features of his face. He jumped up and down in tiny motions like someone trying to thaw out frozen feet, then licked his lips twice.
“I don’t know. I heard shots when I was coming back down.” He cast a shaky look over one shoulder. “My first live fire,” he confessed in a stuttered flurry.
Hailey nodded. “Who else is up here?”
“Lopez, Shakley, I think. I don’t really know. It was supposed to be empty. We were just clearing it to make sure we didn’t miss anything. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone inside.”
“Slow down,” Hailey told him.
The rookie seemed to shudder an inhale.
“Where did the shots come from?” Hal asked.
“End of the hall, I think.” He shook his head, licked his lips again, half trotting in place. “I don’t know for sure.”
“Head back down to the street,” Hal directed, placing a palm on the rookie’s shoulder. It looked the size of a watermelon and the rookie finally stopped bouncing—maybe from the weight of Hal’s hand. “Send more officers up and tell them to watch their fire, that we’re up here.”
When the rookie rounded the stairwell, Hailey turned to Hal. “You okay?”
“Twice in one damn day,” he said. “At least the last time was a perp. I swear if I end up dead, it’ll be ‘cause I’m shot by some damn rookie.”
“You’re huge and black. That’s what they see first,” she reminded him. They’d had this discussion a dozen times. Life was exponentially more dangerous for a black man than for a white one. When would they all figure out a way to stop being afraid of someone for their color? “You want me to lead?”
“Sure. At least then I’m safe from the waist down.” The joke fell flat and Hailey knew he was genuinely scared.
Hailey took the front and called out as they rounded the corner. “Inspector Wyatt here. Hold your fire.”
No answer. Hailey wondered if there were really other officers in the building or if the shots they’d heard had taken them out. A moment later two officers appeared on the stairs behind them—a heavyset black man about her age whose name badge read C. Carlton and a Latina woman who looked to be in her late twenties, A. Mendoza.
“We heard the shots.”
Hailey nodded. “No idea who’s up here so be ready for hostile fire.”
“Just make sure it’s hostile,” Hal added.
“He almost got shot by the rookie we sent down,” Hailey explained.
“That’s Wainwright,” Carlton said. “He’s a little green.”
“Just a little,” Hal agreed in a flat voice.
They split the hallway. Hal and Hailey headed toward the end where the shots had come from and sent Carlton and Mendoza to clear the other direction.
As they turned the corner, the full length of the hallway came into view. Unpeopled. Down the right side, wind blew through a series of windows, some opened from the bottom, some closed and a handful broken, their cracked glass reminding her of Jim.
Clear window glass along with faded brown beer bottles, cardboard boxes and newspapers lay strewn across a splintered avocado-green linoleum floor. On their left were three doors, the first closed completely and the second two partially open.
They paused at the first one.
Hal rapped his gun on the jamb. “Police!”
When no one responded, he kicked the door open. The wood cracked as the door slammed open against the far wall.
No one behind it.
Hailey watched the familiar bob of Hal’s head in the count of three before he stooped into the doorway, she at his back.
The room was empty except for two folding chairs that had been overturned and an old, partially burned brown couch, which stood in the center of the room. Around it, the linoleum was scorched and a black circle of ash marred the ceiling, too.
The stench of smoldered synthetic was heavy in the air, but when Hailey leaned down to touch the floor it was cool, the fire not recent.
Nothing else in the room: no closets, no hiding places and no people.
They backed into the hallway and turned to the next room, but it, too, was empty except for a handful of newspaper sheets that fluttered in slow circles across muddy brown carpet like moths circling light.
Something rattled in the next room. Hal nodded toward the wall.
“I guess I’ll take door number three, Bob.” His voice lacked humor and Hailey knew he was feeling the same way she was. Unsettled, scared.
Homicide usually meant showing up when the victims were already dead. It had been a long time since either of them had dealt with a live scene.
Even as a patrol officer, she had only twice had two separate shootings in a single day.
Never as inspector.
Never before today.
That on top of the circumstances of Jim’s shooting made her feel shaky, off balance. Hailey radioed for backup—careful to mention that there were multiple officers in the building.
The next room was empty like the others, except for a closet in the far corner. The door was closed.
Hal nodded and Hailey moved towards it.
Guns aimed, they crept toward the door.
She crouched low—ready to fire. Hal swung the door open.
Propped up against the wall was a cop in uniform. The policeman’s eyes were open, his lips parted as though struggling for breath. Beside him was a black kid wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Seated shoulder to shoulder, they might have been friends. Someone had put them there.
Hailey dropped to her knees by the cop while Hal dealt with the kid.
“Dead,” Hal said as he touched the kid’s neck.
Bleeding from the neck, the cop was alive, his pulse thready but discernible, his uniform saturated down the left side. “He’s got a pulse.”
Hal radioed for an ambulance.
Hailey worked quickly to peel off her windbreaker then twisted it into a long, thin strip to tie around his neck. The slick material didn’t stop the bleeding. There was nothing in the room to help. Hal was wearing a wool sweater.
Moving quickly, Hailey stripped off the white cotton blouse she had over her bulletproof vest and used it as a tourniquet on the wound.
The cop’s eyes rolled open and seemed to settle on her momentarily.
“Can you hear me?” she asked as his eyes shifted slightly, glassy and yellow, then shut again.
Hal handed her his sweater, motioning to her to put it on the way an older brother would, without looking at the bare skin around her vest as he turned to stare out the window.
She pulled the sweater over her head and folded the sleeves up until they were giant bulges at her forearms.
Outside the window something rattled in the wind and Hal leaned forward to stare out.
She listened for the whir of ambulances break the silence.
The pulse in the officer’s neck felt slower and weaker with every passing minute. His blood leached through the white cotton, but the slow pace suggested the bleeding was staunching. How quickly John’s blood had poured out of him. She couldn’t believe how much there had been. It had never slowed.
Hailey stood to adjust her hold on the wound when something clanked against the exterior of the building. She glanced out the window.
One floor down, a figure in black jumped across the fire escape onto the next roof.
“Who the hell is that?” Hal snapped the radio off his belt. “This is five-Henry-one-seven.”
“Five-Henry-one-seven, go ahead,” came Linda’s voice.
&nb
sp; “Suspect is on the roof of the building to the—” He glanced around. He had always been hopeless with direction.
“East,” Hailey said.
He repeated it then, without hesitation, slid the window open and climbed over the sill and onto the fire escape, descending each rung of the ladder with a thunderous clatter, something their suspect had accomplished in near silence.
Hal shouted, but the suspect fled across the length of the next roof without turning back.
Hailey stared after him, waiting to get a glimpse of his face. How did this all fit in with their cold case? And Jim’s shooting? Hal was almost shot by another cop. She hoped to hell that they weren’t chasing this down for nothing.
About the time Hal was halfway down the ladder, the suspect reached a short dividing wall between the two buildings and deftly scrambled over.
“Five-Henry-zero-eight here,” Hailey called into her radio. “Suspect is moving east across the roofs. Head him off at Polk.”
Hal reached the bottom of the ladder and climbed across the small gap to the next building, way behind the suspect.
Heavy footfall in the hallway accompanied the shouts of paramedics. When they entered, Carlton was with them, as were Mendoza and the rookie Wainwright.
“Rest of the building is clear,” Carlton said then spotted the cop. “Damn it. Shakley, man.”
Carlton took a short step toward the officer. Hailey put her hand out and shook her head. “Let them work.”
Wainwright turned to the wall and threw up.
“You can head on down, Wainwright,” Hailey told him.
He nodded, eyes darting, his mouth and nose covered by the arm he pressed to his face as he turned to leave.
Out the window, the suspect had already reached the edge of the third building and stopped to peer down. From his hesitation, Hailey guessed there was some sort of gap between the buildings, and for a moment, she thought they had him.
He glanced back and she saw him in the glow of the streetlight. He was a white man with a reddish-brown beard. She waited, hoping for another look, but he turned away again, clambered over the wall and disappeared. These gangs were never mixed race. Where did the white man come from?
One Clean Shot Page 5
