Beneath a Weeping Sky rcc-3

by Frank Zafiro

  “Almost done,” the artist said quietly, lifting her sketch slightly in Tower’s direction.

  He gave her a grateful smile, then turned to Toni. “Almost done,” he repeated.

  Toni snorted derisively. “That’s what she said half an hour ago.”

  Tower glanced down at the nearly complete portrait. “It won’t be long now. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Coke,” Toni snapped sharply. “Two of them.”

  Tower pressed his lips together, but didn’t reply. “How about you?” he asked the artist.

  “No, thanks,” she said, returning to her drawing pad.

  Tower headed for the refrigerator between the Sex Crimes Unit and Major Crimes. Inside, he discovered there wasn’t any Coke, so he grabbed two Pepsis instead. Then he fished a dollar out of his pocket and dropped it into the coffee can inside the fridge.

  Back in the interview room, Toni curled her lip at the sign of the Pepsi cans.

  “I said Coke.”

  Tower set the cans on the table. “There is no Coke. We’re out.”

  Toni cursed. “Pepsi isn’t as sweet as Coke.”

  “They’re cold,” Tower told her. “And they’re free.”

  Toni sighed, but took both cans. She slipped one into her purse. Then she opened the other can and took a long drink. When she’d finished, she smothered a burp with the back of her hand. “See?” she complained. “Not as sweet.”

  Before Tower could reply, the artist announced that she was done. She handed the pencil sketch to Tower, who examined it first. The man’s appearance was nondescript. The thought that immediately leapt to his mind was ‘white bread.’

  Hopefully, Tower turned the sketch around for Toni to see.

  The prostitute wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “It’s close, I suppose.”

  “Close?”

  Toni took another long drink of her Pepsi. “Yeah. I mean, I guess it is.”

  Tower looked back and forth between the two women. “You helped her with this, right?” he asked Toni.

  “Yeah.”

  “So, you told her how he looks.”

  She shrugged and sipped again. “Sure.”

  Tower looked back at the artist. The woman’s warm features didn’t completely hide her discomfort. “She wasn’t terribly… descriptive,” she told Tower.

  “Bitch, I told you exactly how he looked,” Toni snapped at her.

  Tower raised his hand up and held his palm in front of Toni. “Easy.”

  “Well,” Toni protested, “she ought to draw it how I say it. That’s what she’s getting paid for.”

  “I’m a volunteer,” the artist said quietly.

  Toni snorted. “Figures.”

  Tower pushed the drawing toward her face. “How is it not right, Toni?”

  “It just isn’t.”

  “How?” Tower asked again, raising his voice slightly.

  “I don’t know,” Toni answered, matching his intensity. “It…just…isn’t.”

  Tower resisted the urge to sigh. “But it’s close?”

  She shrugged. “Close enough. I mean, it could be him.”

  Tower looked down at the drawing again. If it were an art piece, he imagined the title would be ‘Ordinary, Average, White Guy.’ Then he turned his attention back to the artist. “Thank you,” he told her. “I can walk you out, if you want.”

  The artist nodded gratefully and stood up.

  “Wait here,” Tower said to Toni.

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “But I’ve got an appointment,” she complained.

  “I’ll write you a note,” Tower said. As he exited the room, he closed it behind him and turned the lock. He glanced around and spotted Detective Finch pouring himself some coffee across the room.

  “Finch? Can you watch this Wit for a minute?”

  Finch cast him a languid look, then nodded.

  “Thanks.” Tower led the artist down the hallway and toward the public entrance to the police department. Along the way, he thanked her again. “I really appreciate you coming in to do this,” he said.

  “I don’t mind,” she said. “I like to volunteer. But the victims are usually…nicer.”

  “Yes, they are,” he agreed.

  After he showed her out, he took the drawing back to Major Crimes. Katie MacLeod stood by the coffee pot, examining the comics that Major Crimes found hilarious enough to post on the wall above the coffee maker.

  “Take a look at this, MacLeod,” he said, holding it out.

  Katie hesitated. “You sure you want me to look?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I just don’t want to screw things up for a photo lineup later. If I see this drawing now, then — ”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Tower said, even though he knew it did. She’d never be able to identify him in a lineup if this drawing looked anything like the rapist. A good defense attorney would get that identification suppressed. But right now, all he wanted to know was if this drawing was worth a damn.

  Katie gave him a doubtful look, but took the drawing from his hands. She turned it over and stared at it for several long moments. Finally, she shrugged and looked up at Tower. “I don’t know. This could be anyone. It looks like Mr. WASP.”

  “I know,” Tower said. Then he urged, “But try.”

  Katie returned her gaze to the sketch. “Like I said, I couldn’t see much. The shape of the head looks right, I suppose. I got a glimpse of his silhouette. But other than that?” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  Tower took the picture. “It’s okay. Thanks for looking.”

  “You know, there’s probably a thousand guys in River City who look like that,” Katie observed.

  “At least,” Tower agreed.

  Katie nodded. After a moment, she stood to go. “Okay, well, good luck.”

  “Are you working tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “First night back?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Tower reached out and touched her on the shoulder. “Be careful, MacLeod. That’s all.”

  He turned away before she could answer, heading back to the interview room. He caught Finch’s eye as he neared the door and nodded his thanks. The other detective returned his nod without a word and strolled away.

  Inside, he found Toni picking at a small scab on her inner elbow. She looked up when he entered.

  “What the hell?” she asked. “Why’d I have to stay?”

  Tower withdrew his business card and held it out for her. She stared at it without reaching to take it for several seconds. Then she asked, “What’s that?”

  “What’s it look like? It’s my card.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Take it. And if you see this guy in the drawing again, you call me with everything you know. If he stops somewhere, you call 911 and tell them I told you to call. Understand?”

  She continued to stare at the proffered card, shaking her head. “You know what happens to snitches out on the street?” she asked him.

  Tower resisted frowning. In his experience, almost everyone on the street was a snitch. They all just had different breaking points. Instead of telling her that, he said, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Even in prison, no one likes a rapist, Toni. Take the card.”

  She glanced from his face to the card and back again.

  “Take it,” he instructed her again.

  She sighed, reached out and snatched the card from his hand. As she tucked it into her purse, she suddenly paused. Then she looked up at him, her face brightening. “Hey, do you think there might be a reward for that? Like, some cash or something?”

  Tower smiled indulgently. “I’m sure there will be.”

  2112 hours

  Katie sat at the roll call table, focusing on Sergeant Shen as he listed several drug houses in the sector that needed attention. She felt the eyes of her platoon mates drifting to her still-bruised face. The attention made her f
eel warm and uncomfortable.

  When he’d finished with his list, Shen looked up at the assembled group. If he sensed the discomfort among the group, he chose to ignore it. “Last thing. Sully and Battaglia, you two are doubled up tonight.”

  “Big surprise,” muttered Kahn.

  “MacLeod, you team up with Westboard,” Shen added.

  There was a moment of silence at the table. Even though she rode partners with Westboard once in a while, it was always at her or Westboard’s request. Shen had never assigned them together.

  Katie’s discomfort at being the center of attention was overshadowed by a hot, dull anger that settled into her gut. Did Shen think she wasn’t ready to work yet? Or was he putting her with a partner just because she was female?

  Before anyone could respond to the car assignments, Shen said, “All right, let’s hit the street.” Then he rose and left the table without another word.

  After a short pause, the platoon members stood up and made their way out of the roll call room in ones and pairs. Katie rose along with them, not wanting to give any appearance of surprise at Shen’s decision. She thought about going into the sergeant’s office and asking him about it, but decided not to. The truth was, a partner didn’t sound too bad. Just for one night.

  Down in the basement, Sully and Battaglia were in rare form. While waiting for the cars to come in from Swing Shift, they fired ethnic barbs back and forth.

  “What do you call an Italian with his hands in his pockets?” Sully asked.

  “What?” Battaglia asked with a scowl.

  “A mute,” Sully answered, laughing.

  Westboard and Katie chuckled along.

  “Yeah?” Battaglia said. “Well, you know that God invented whiskey strictly so that the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.”

  Sully snorted. “Like the Italians ever ruled anything.”

  Battaglia snorted back. “Ever hear of Rome, Paddy?”

  “Yeah, in a book about ancient history.”

  “At least we had an empire.”

  Sully affected his best Irish brogue. “And a grand empire ‘twas, lad.”

  “You know what you call an Irishman underneath a wheelbarrow, Sully? Huh? A mechanic, that’s what.”

  “Yeah? Well, you know what’s black and blue and floating in the Irish Sea?” Sully grinned. “A guy who told one too many Irish jokes.”

  Battaglia grinned back and fired him a middle finger. “Like I’m afraid of you ovah heah,” he said in Brooklyn-ese. “You get outta line, I’ll just call Vinnie the Moose and — ”

  “Would you shut the fuck up?” Kahn snapped from nearby.

  Everyone fell silent. The barrel-chested veteran stood holding his patrol bag, scowling at Battaglia.

  “Huh?” Battaglia asked, obviously surprised.

  “You heard me. I said you should shut the fuck up.” Kahn’s low, gravelly voice rumbled and echoed throughout the sally port. “Really, give it a try. I’m sick of your Robert DeNiro, Godfather bullshit. So you’ve got an Italian last name and dark hair. So what?”

  “Jimmy — ”

  “Don’t ‘Jimmy’ me, you goofball prick. Drop the act. This is River City. It isn’t Brooklyn.”

  Battaglia stared at Kahn in shocked surprise. Sully chuckled uneasily. Kahn turned on him next.

  “This isn’t Boston, either. You’re about as Irish as my goddamn boots. And I’m sick of listening to you two ass monkeys jibber-jabber like this isn’t serious work we do here. It isn’t a fucking joke. If the two of you realized that, if you didn’t treat this job like one long goddamn stand up routine, then maybe MacLeod wouldn’t be standing here looking like Rocky Balboa warmed over.”

  Kahn gave each of them a hard stare. Then he muttered, “assholes,” and strode off to the far end of the sally port to wait for the first car to roll in. He didn’t look back.

  “What was that all about?” Battaglia whispered.

  Sully didn’t reply. He glanced sheepishly at Katie, then down at the ground.

  “Jesus,” Battaglia continued. “If the guy isn’t chasing tail, he’s a giant grouch. What’s his problem, anyway?” He looked from Sully to Westboard to Katie.

  No one answered.

  SEVENTEEN

  Saturday, April 27th

  0726 hours

  He spotted her as soon as she walked through the glass doors of the police department. With so little traffic on the street this early on a Saturday morning, he opted to park a half-block away to surveil the exit. He worried that he might not recognize her at that distance, but as soon as she pushed open the door, he knew.

  There was still a vestige of a limp in her stride. And maybe just a trace of the shuffle he’d seen when she was playing the role of prey. As she turned and walked in the opposite direction, he stared after her. He watched her ponytail bob and bounce with each step. He thought about making it into a handle.

  His eyes drifted down her body. He admired the tight curve of her hip, the upward turn of her ass. Dark, angry lust seethed in his loins.

  He gripped the steering wheel and watched her.

  Almost a block away, she stopped next to a Jeep, opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.

  He smiled. Now he knew what she drove.

  A puff of clear exhaust spurted out of the tailpipe of the Jeep. He sat and watched while Katie the Bitch Cop warmed up the engine. His palms were cool and sweaty. He wiped them on his slacks. He waited.

  After a few minutes, her Jeep’s brake lights flashed, then the vehicle nudged forward into the street. He watched her go, then started his own car and eased onto the street. The sparse traffic forced him to follow her at a distance of several blocks as she headed up Monroe. He watched carefully, prepared for any turn signal from the Jeep.

  The Jeep continued due north, not turning, not slowing. He hung back, hoping she wasn’t suspicious of him. Hoping she wasn’t vigilant at this time in the morning, after working all night.

  Was she going home? He was counting on it, but you never knew with cops. Or whores. Maybe she was going to a bar. Or over to some guy’s house.

  Maybe there was a man waiting at home for her.

  He curled his lip. If that were the case, he would take care of that problem, too.

  Finally, when she hit Rowan, almost five miles from the police station, she turned right.

  He waited until she was out of sight, then sped up to almost fifty miles an hour to close the distance between them. At Rowan, he braked and turned. As soon as he turned onto Rowan, he saw her Jeep a block and a half to the east.

  He followed.

  At Calispel, she slowed and turned to the left. He slowed as well, watching her. She stopped in front of a small brick house three houses north of the intersection. He stopped, too, pulling up against the curb on Rowan. He was in the bicycle lane, but with so little traffic, he didn’t worry.

  She stepped out of her Jeep and headed up the walkway to the small brick house. He stared after her until after she’d unlocked the door and gone inside.

  It was a small house, but not too small for two people. She could be shacking up. He had to be careful and remain aware of that possibility. But there were no other cars parked right in front of the house, only hers. The houses on each side of hers had driveways. One led to a carport, the other to a garage. Poor Katie the Bitch Cop had to park on the street.

  Unless there was a garage in back.

  He put the car in gear and cruised forward, past the intersection. Mid-block, he spotted the alley that ran north/south behind the house. The alley was evenly paved with asphalt, not very common in River City. Most of the alleys he’d seen were still made up of hard-packed dirt or gravel and were bumpy as hell. As he turned into the alley, he enjoyed the smooth progression northward. He counted houses, slowing as he reached the third one.

  A small chain link fence. That was all. No garage. No second car.

  Probably no man in the house.

  He glanced down at the towel on th
e seat beside him. Wrapped inside of it was a knife that would put Rambo to shame. More than anything, he wanted to put on the brakes. He wanted to stop in the alley, take that knife and jump the fence. Go inside. Find that fucking cunt. Grab onto that handle of hair and give her the banging of her life. Then slit her throat. Watch her life flow out onto the floor.

  His hands trembled. His hardness strained against his slacks. He realized he was smiling.

  No.

  He couldn’t take any chances. He had to plan it out better. Look what happened the last time he went on impulse. They almost caught him in their little trap.

  No, this time he’d watch. He’d plan.

  This one was worth waiting for.

  He rolled northbound through the alley. His hands continued to quiver, even as he turned out of the alley and back onto the street.

  She’s going to get what she’s got coming, he told himself. What they all have coming.

  Soon.

  Not soon enough by half, but soon.

  As he drifted back toward Division Street, he tried to sort out the beginnings of a plan, but the details eluded him. All he could see was that bouncing pony tail. All he could hear was her defiant voice. All he could feel was the satisfying smack of his knuckles against her cheek. All he could smell was her fear.

  He rolled his head around, stretching the tight muscles in his neck. His breath came in and out in small quivering gasps. His erection ached.

  He had to do something. This was too much.

  At the first convenience store he saw, he pulled into the parking lot.

  0805 hours

  Katie peeled off the last of her clothing. She rubbed her sleepy eyes, causing a twinge of pain in her bruised face. Ignoring that, she found her flannel pajamas and slipped them over her head.

  Bed was going to feel good. Her entire shift had been one stupid call after another. Westboard was overly protective, asking her about a dozen times how she was doing. On a fight call outside an apartment complex, Kahn had all but ignored everyone, his eyes still full of cold fire. His words seemed to have spurred Sully and Battaglia into a guilt-ridden state, which she was fairly certain they compounded while talking about it as they drove around during the shift. As a result, both of them apologized to her several times whenever their paths crossed on calls. When it came time for a lunch break, Katie talked Westboard into going somewhere with just the two of them so she could avoid more apologies.