Jake’s Story
A CHRISTMAS KEY NOVELLA
STEPHANIE TAYLOR
Copyright © 2016 by Stephanie Taylor
Ebook formatting by Jesse Gordon
Chapter One
Jake Zavaroni’s life was no different than most of the people whose lives had been touched by the drug trade in South Florida: two of his uncles did time for their hand in spreading Colombia’s white powder across the state in the 80s, and his high school girlfriend had fallen victim to a heroin habit that left her broken and roaming their old neighborhood, looking for a fix. The last time Jake saw her, she was walking around a Chevron station without her shoes, her eyes glazed over and ringed with smudged black liner.
Becoming a Miami-Dade police officer was something Jake had always wanted to do, but when his best friend Adam was killed right before their high school graduation by a man who’d spent two days and two nights getting drunk and high on South Beach, Jake had promised Adam’s mom that he would join the police academy and do what he could to clean up the city and make the streets safer.
But then life got in the way. Jake was offered a basketball scholarship to Florida State, and he put his police dreams on hold to study and play ball. Four years in Tallahassee led to a series of unfulfilling jobs in the state capitol, and he spent several more years away from home, putting the battered and drug-wasted streets of his hometown out of his mind.
It wasn’t until his break-up with Natalie that Jake was ready to make good on his promise to Adam’s mother. When Natalie had walked out of their apartment in Tallahassee, he’d sat on the couch, empty and numb, wondering what he was doing with his life. The wondering turned into real soul-searching, and so, at twenty-nine, Jake had packed up his belongings, taken a one-bedroom apartment ten miles from his parents’ house, and finally signed up for the police academy.
Jake’s Miami beat was Liberty City, site of the deadly 1980 race riots. Things hadn’t improved much in the twenty-five years since four white cops were acquitted of murdering an African-American man following a high-speed chase. The tension between cops and residents—particularly white cops and non-white residents—was still thick, and every day on the job felt to Jake like a balancing act of epic proportions: earn the trust of the citizens he’d been charged with protecting, and learn to trust them in return. Jake’s dark Italian coloring and his passable Spanish came in handy more times than he could count in those first months as an officer, but it was his physical presence—lean, muscular, strong-jawed and intense-looking—that was his best asset on the job.
Until the day when none of those things could help him.
It started out like any other shift: Jake radioed in at three o’clock in the afternoon from the parking lot of a convenience store in the heart of Liberty City. The hot summer sun melted the tar of the pavement and cast the whole dry, run-down landscape of the neighborhood in a dusty haze. His partner, Ariella Rodriguez, had run in to buy two bottles of Gatorade and a bag of pretzels for them to share. The duo had also made it a habit of picking up six bottles of water, several bags of trail mix, and a handful of cheese-and-cracker packages to give out to the hungry and homeless people they encountered and interacted with during the course of any given shift.
Officer Rodriguez was exiting the store, a plastic bag full of drinks and snacks in one hand, her icy blue Gatorade in the other, when a lowered convertible Caprice Classic with hydraulics and twenty-inch wheels came barreling into the parking lot. It jumped the curb and plowed into a parked motorcycle, sending the bike skidding across the asphalt like a toy. A woman, pushing a stroller and holding the hand of a toddler, yanked and pushed her babies to the safety of the empty gravel lot just beyond the convenience store. She fell to the ground and shoved her children beneath her own body to shield them from whatever would happen next.
Ariella Rodriguez dropped her bag and her drink at the first crush of metal on metal, her hand flying to the gun on her hip as a matter of instinct. Jake was out of his car in seconds, his first thoughts for the safety of everyone in the parking lot—his partner included. For the rest of his life, he would never forget the fear in Ariella’s eyes and the sheen of perspiration on her light brown skin in that instant, her hand frantically unlatching her gun so that she could serve and protect the way she’d sworn to do.
But neither of them could have stopped what happened next, no matter how laser sharp their reflexes or instincts, and the memory of that moment would haunt Jake. The driver of the convertible came to a screeching halt just feet from Ariella Rodriguez, the front end of the car skidding to a stop in the gravel of the empty lot, its tires not far from the woman crouching over her children. A cloud of dust filled the air, and everything went silent. Jake crossed the lot in four giant steps. He was within a foot of his partner when the driver jumped out of his car, an assault rifle pointed at Ariella.
Without a word, the man—Hispanic, medium-height, and with overworked, taut biceps—trained his gun on Ariella, his movements steady. He paused, his eyes glinting like hard black diamonds as he watched her trying to free her revolver. For years to come, Jake would remember those cold eyes and feel that moment of hesitation as the shooter toyed with his prey, letting her believe that she actually had a chance. Finally, the man unloaded a clip. The force of the bullets sent Ariella’s body into a spin, her ankles twisting as she fell to the ground.
The wheels of Jake’s analytical mind spun as he imagined the potential carnage. He didn’t know where to turn first, didn’t know who to throw himself in front of in order to save as many lives as possible. By the time his service revolver was out and the safety was off, the driver had tossed his weapon onto the passenger seat, fallen back into the car, and thrown it into gear. He peeled out of the lot with burning tires and a haste that made it clear he didn’t care who he left dead in his wake.
Ariella lay sprawled in the center of the lot, her arms and legs turned at impossible angles. Two drivers who’d been fueling up at the gas pumps had abandoned their cars altogether at the first signs of danger, and the pumps had long since clicked to a stop, the nozzles still resting in the gaping holes of the gas tanks. Crackers and pretzels were scattered all over the pavement, and all but one water bottle had rolled away from Ariella when she’d dropped the bag. The last bottle had been punctured by bullet spray, its holes still leaking water in a puddle near Jake’s partner’s body. The woman with the children was whimpering audibly in the gravel next to the parking lot, her terrified sobs and prayers muttered in Spanish the only sound in the vacuum left by the seconds of violence that had just occurred.
Jake scanned the area with his gun drawn. The road next to the convenience store was still. The wail of approaching sirens let him know that someone had already reported shots fired and called for back-up, so he crept over to Ariella, knowing in his gut that there was nothing he could do to help her. Her coffee-colored eyes stared up at him lifelessly, the holes left in her body by the gunman leaking onto the pavement like the bottle of water next to her. Blood and water mixed on the asphalt in a dark pool.
Jake fell to his knees, his heart breaking before he even touched the hot ground beneath him.
“I’m sorry, Rodriguez,” he rasped, touching the quiet pulse-point on her smooth neck. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He stayed with her until well after dark, answering questions from investigators in front of the convenience store and watching until the scene was cleared and his partner’s body had been taken away. As the ambulance disappeared into the night, sirens off and lights spinning in the thick, humid darkness, Jake sat on the edge of the curb and cried.
Chapter Two
“He won’t
come out, not even for ziti,” Mrs. Zavaroni said quietly. Jake could hear her talking in the living room of the tiny house where he’d grown up. The other voices beyond the closed bedroom door belonged to his brother and sister-in-law. He’d heard the voices of his two sisters and countless neighbors over the past couple of days as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
The doctor provided to him through Internal Affairs had quickly written him a prescription for Xanax and put him on paid leave from the force while she further assessed the damage. Jake had heard his mother whispering confidentially about his mental state to visitors, assuring them all that the doctor was working to fix him so that he’d come out of the bedroom. He rolled over on the twin bed in the room he’d slept in as a kid and faced the wall.
If it really bothered Jake to hear her talk about him then he could have easily gone back to his own apartment, but the nightmares that started the night of Ariella’s murder had sent him home to the safe refuge of his parents’ house almost instantly. The first couple of nights had been filled with visions of Ariella Rodriguez and her blank stare. In his dreams, sometimes the gunman turned his steady metallic glare on Jake, the barrel of his gun trained at Jake’s forehead. He’d woken up twice drenched in sweat and fearful about what would happen next. He still had his partner’s funeral to get through, the investigation that automatically came with the death of an on-duty officer, and the future itself to contend with. For the time being, all he wanted was to feel safe and to hide from the world just a little bit longer.
“I don’t think he’ll go back to work,” Jake’s mother said matter-of-factly. He could hear her talking to Mrs. Ochoa, their long-time neighbor, as the ladies shared strong Cuban coffees on the other side of the paper-thin wall that separated Jake’s room and the living room. “I’m not sure I want my son to be a police officer after this.”
“He has to go back,” Mrs. Ochoa countered. “Jake makes me feel safe. There have to be some good cops in this city, or I won’t sleep at night.”
“I don’t know…” Jake could picture his mother shaking her head slowly, her eyes lowered with disappointment. And her fears weren’t unfounded: every time he woke up from another nightmare, he alternately considered turning in his gun and badge the very next day, or getting back out there to track down Ariella’s killer and avenge her death. Even he didn’t know whether he’d be able to drive the streets again in his black and white cruiser. It would take an enormous leap of faith to believe that he could do some measure of good in the community after the things that he’d seen.
He closed his eyes against the bright sunlight streaming into the bedroom and slept without dreaming.
*
After a week of leave, Jake was cleared for a month of desk duty. He was still assigned to see the doctor once a week for the foreseeable future, but he gave up the Xanax in favor of actually feeling the anger and the fear. Even though it hurt more than a root canal without Novocaine, Jake wanted to know what it really felt like to lose his partner on the job. It was important to him not to just coast through it and forget.
“Zavaroni,” came a harsh voice from behind him. It was his fourth night back on the job, and he was sitting at a desk in the dim and mostly-empty cube farm of Miami-Dade headquarters at two a.m. The lead investigator on Ariella’s case, Lieutenant England, approached. His large belly protruded over the waistband of his pants. In one hand he held an apple fritter, in the other, a manila file. “I’ve got news.”
Jake took his fingers off the keyboard of the computer.
“Rodriguez wasn’t killed by an unknown assailant,” England said. He took a bite of his fritter, chewing exaggeratedly. A small chunk of pastry fell onto the collar of his shirt. “Hispanic male; twenty-seven; multiple priors.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, a frown on his handsome face. He clenched his jaw. “Okay,” he said.
“Arturo Rodriguez,” England said, swallowing his bite of fritter. “Ariella’s cousin.”
Jake opened his mouth, a question forming. He closed it again.
“You’re gonna ask me why,” Lieutenant England said knowingly. He looked down at the pastry in his hand. “My god, this is disgusting.” England threw his fritter into the wastebasket under Jake’s desk. “I have no idea why I eat this stuff,” he said, brushing the crumbs off his hands as he cleared his throat. “Anyhow, ‘why’ would be the obvious next question, and I have a pretty good answer for you that will put this to bed in your mind. You’re young, you’re new, and you need to move on from this if you’re going to cut it in the force.”
“So then why?” Jake croaked, finding his voice.
England’s face was lined with nearly forty years of murders, night shifts, processed food, and unanswered questions about the dark side of human nature. “Seems that Arturo had warned his younger cousin—fresh out of the academy, just like yourself—against getting on the right side of the law. Afraid she might tattle on him for slinging everything from weed to rock all over Dade County. Bit of a drug king, as it turns out.” England shrugged, dropping the file onto the corner of Jake’s desk.
“Her cousin? But I saw this guy,” Jake said. “He acted like he didn’t know her—no emotion at all.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. It was almost as if the shooter had been assessing her, weighing his options one final time, and unfortunately for Ariella, the verdict hadn’t been good.
“Kid,” England said, rubbing both hands over his shirted stomach. “The streets are full of drugs. Drugs mean money. And when it comes to money, even family don’t mean much. Get that tattooed backwards across your ass so you see it in the mirror every time you get out of the shower,” England said gruffly. “Money rules the streets.”
Before Jake could reply, England was across the room and punching the button for the elevator. “This wasn’t your fault, Zavaroni,” Lt. England called out from the elevator bay, his loud voice ringing out in the quiet offices. “You couldn’t have stopped this from happening.”
But the truth was cold comfort to Jake. He spent the rest of his time at the desk that month typing information into the system mindlessly. Jake had been on the force three short months, and already he’d let down not only his own mother, Mrs. Ochoa, and the memory of his best friend Adam, but—most importantly—he’d let down his own partner.
Chapter Three
“It’s called Christmas Key,” Jake said, passing a serving tray full of meatballs down the table in his parents’ wallpapered dining room. It was Sunday dinner at the Zavaroni house, and Jake’s whole family had turned out in full-force, as they did nearly every week.
“So, did you apply?” his sister Karen asked, ladling marinara sauce onto the pile of spaghetti noodles Jake’s niece was clamoring for. The air-conditioning in the old house worked overtime to combat the heat and humidity of a July evening, but even with the air on, the adults at the table were wiping away the perspiration on their brows as they ate a hot meal.
“Karen,” Jake’s mother admonished. “Bite your tongue. We don’t want him off on some island. He needs to be here. With us,” she added for emphasis.
At the head of the table, Jake’s father grunted, elbows pushed out as he bent forward over his pasta. As usual, this would be his only input.
“Mrs. Ochoa only feels safe because of Jake,” Mrs. Zavaroni went on. “And we don’t know what could happen to him if he goes somewhere else.” They all fell silent, thinking about the things that could—and almost did—happen to him right there in Miami.
“Could be a good move, buddy,” Karen’s husband Gino said, his arm around the back of his young daughter’s chair as he helped her cut up a giant meatball.
“I applied,” Jake said. “But I’m not sure I even have a chance.”
“Do you know how many other cops are applying for the position?” asked Theo, Jake’s younger brother.
“No idea.” Jake reached for the basket of garlic bread. “But most people join the force hoping to see real action and m
ake a difference. This job is basically helping old people cross unpaved streets on some island in the middle of nowhere. The most action I might see there would be an alligator in someone’s front yard.”
Jake’s mother reached over and swatted the back of his head lightly.
“Ow, Mom,” he said, ducking.
“Show some respect; your grandmother is old.” She went right back to passing dishes around the table.
“Do they have cars, Uncle Jake?” Jake’s nephew looked at him from across the table, smiling his gap-toothed, eight-year-old grin.
“I think they drive golf carts instead of cars,” he said. When Lieutenant England had set the application for the Christmas Key job on his desk, Jake had scoffed at it and pushed it under a pile of paperwork. Was England trying to tell him that he didn’t have the chops to be a Miami-Dade cop anymore? Because he did; he knew he had it in him. His appointments with the doctor had been going well, and she was ready to clear him to go back on street patrol. He’d been sleeping better and having fewer nightmares. It seemed inevitable that he’d be assigned to a new partner and would be cruising the streets again soon.
But when Jake had confronted Lieutenant England about the application, he’d merely shrugged. “You’re a good cop, Zavaroni,” England had said. He shifted the toothpick in his mouth around with his lips. “But the streets of this city are going to break you—mark my words. You need to get out there and do some good where you can.”
So Jake had taken the application home and set it on the counter of his boxy 500-square-foot apartment, working around it as he made himself sandwiches or frozen pizzas to eat for dinner on the tiny balcony that overlooked a noisy highway. He’d shaken water off the application when he spilled a glass all over the counter, and he’d finally sat down on his loveseat—the only piece of furniture he could comfortably fit into the tiny living room space—and read over the job description. Christmas Key seeks officer to patrol and secure the streets of our small community. The island is made up of mostly retirees. Applicant must have a sense of humor and be prepared for the slower pace.
Jake's Story: A Christmas Key Novella Page 1
