God, I hope she calls me. The errant, anxious thought stopped her cold for a moment. I hope she calls me? What the fuck was she thinking?
After a session on the treadmill, Mel pulled her sports bra off and walked down the hallway toward the bathroom. She paused at her computer and stared at the screensaver, a barely clad actress who shot her a sultry grin, but despite the eye-candy, all she could think about was Regan. When a smile came swift and unbidden to her lips, Mel knew nothing would be the same anymore. She launched her sweaty sports bra into the laundry basket, and decided to deviate from her schedule.
How hard could it be to write a quick e-mail?
She bit her lip and thought hard. Dear Regan, she typed, then began a furious backspacing. That sounded weird, saying “dear.” Resolved, she typed Regan…then sat in silent contemplation for a couple torturous minutes. Finally, she sighed in exasperation. Was this what writer’s block felt like?
“Regan,” she rehearsed out loud. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Between the sex dream and almost falling off the treadmill because I was daydreaming, you’re honestly freaking me out.”
Mel laughed. She did feel freaked out but really great at the same time. How was that possible? She drummed her fingers on her abdomen. Maybe because she knew something had to give, and Regan was the best reason she’d ever had to change. Inspired by the thought, she typed out a few lines with confident ease before rereading the e-mail and blushing as she looked at her own words.
“What’s happening to me?” she whispered and read the short message again. “What are you doing to me, Regan O’Riley?”
She clicked the “Send” button before she lost her nerve, and headed for the shower, trying to remember what she used to think about before she thought of Regan.
Work? She watched the water sluice down her stomach. No, she was glad to have a distraction from that. Sex? She closed her eyes as Regan immediately sprang back to her mind. Her bike? She could almost feel Regan on the seat behind her. Forget it. She was doomed. She felt like a crazy person. If this was what falling for someone was like, she wasn’t sure if she was up to it. Yet, she seemed to have little choice in the matter; she was hooked.
Her stomach clenched at the thought. Goddammit, this was scary as hell!
Mel opened her eyes and looked up at the shower massager over her head. She hesitated only a moment and then, with a defeated little grin, reached up and snagged it from its cradle. “It’s either this or be distracted all day,” she said aloud, and looked around. Nobody could dispute that logic.
When she came, it was with Regan’s name on her lips.
*
Melanie Raines. That’s what the business card said. She’d been repeating that name in her head since dropping her off at her apartment the night before. She wants me to call her. Regan grinned. She gave me her number and everything!
Regan grabbed her glasses and hurried down the hall to the bathroom, ready for her whirlwind morning choreography. Bed to shower in 53 seconds. Not bad. Sleeping naked eliminated precious seconds most people would spend stripping off.
Standing beneath the hot jets, she squirted shampoo into the palm of her hand and thought about Mel and their date with a goofy smile on her face. I never expected things to go so well, she mused. She wasn’t used to feeling an instant connection with another person. It happened so rarely that she knew to take it seriously; the last time had been with Adam in college, and he had been her most loyal friend ever since. That she now seemed to have something real with such a beautiful woman, with someone who made her heart pound every time she looked at her, amazed her.
Melanie Raines. Getting dressed, after she’d towelled dry, she saw herself as she imagined Mel might see her—the way Mel made her feel when she pinned her with those smoky gray eyes. She looked good. Regan smiled at herself in the mirror, tucking her wet hair behind her ears. She suspected that Mel had a lot to do with the radiance that shone from within her, so clearly that even she could see it. I could definitely get used to feeling like this.
Intellectually, Regan was aware that she wasn’t an unattractive woman—she was short and pleasantly symmetrical, if not classically featured—but she had been self-conscious about the way she looked for as long as she could remember. She pulled on a pair of baggy jeans. Thank God for a casual office. The next choice was her T-shirt. Always an important decision. Most of hers had humorous, and usually geeky, phrases emblazoned upon them. Regan finally chose one that read “SELECT * FROM users WHERE clue > 0…0 rows returned.” It was a favorite.
E-mail was the most important step of her morning routine. Before breakfast, even before putting on her shoes, she had to check in with the world. Regan scanned the names and subjects of her unread messages, impatient to open the most interesting one.
There was an e-mail from Adam, with the subject “Official plea for a Halo rematch,” which Regan bypassed with a smirk. Another message from her father, something about financial planning, which she knew she’d never read and therefore ignored upon sight. She stopped searching when she reached her most recently received e-mail, eyes glued to the name of the sender. Mel Raines.
“No way.” Regan’s heart began a steady thumping and her cheeks grew warm. “No fucking way.” If she’s not careful, I’m going to fall head over heels for her. She clicked on the e-mail, holding her breath as it opened. E-mail! She’s the perfect woman!
The note was short and unimaginably sweet. Regan, it read, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you dropped me off last night, and I decided that you might like to know that. Regan grinned. The note went on, I also decided that I’d like to tell you so that I can imagine the amazing smile that I know is on your face right about…now.
“Clever deduction, officer,” she murmured. “You’re just full of surprises.”
For long minutes, she stared at the note, trying to remind herself that she had sworn not to let her expectations spiral out of control. But that was before the e-mail. Regan sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. Now I’m planning the wedding.
As much as she didn’t want to feel so optimistic, well…there it was. She was optimistic. Regan sighed at her own idealism. I can’t help it if I haven’t been burned enough to be scared of the fire. Such were the hidden perks of crippling shyness and adolescent unpopularity. Regan had a bold thought then, an unfamiliar craving to break free of her reservations and make a connection with another person. Tonight maybe I’ll call Mel, and ask her if she wants to go out.
The way she felt—the way Melanie Raines made her feel—Regan just might do it. She just might summon the courage to pick up the phone.
Maybe.
*
And I let her go home. Am I crazy? Mel stiffened her lower lip and concentrated on looking surly.
No way was she going to sit through an entire morning briefing grinning like a lovesick kid. Glancing around at the uniformed cops sitting around her, she was satisfied that nobody was paying any particular attention to her or her good mood.
Even when she managed to let a few minutes pass without conjuring up Regan’s face, it wasn’t long before some inconsequential thing brought those delicate features into focus. Aside from making her feel a little embarrassed and exposed, convinced that everyone could see the change in her, this distracting train of thought was not as annoying as she would have expected. In fact, it was exciting to have something beyond the monotony of her daily life to visit inside her head.
Even this miserable fucking job couldn’t bring her down today, she mused.
As soon as the briefing was over, Mel searched out the duty cop for cruiser keys and her radio, then walked out of the Detroit Police Department’s 14th Precinct building into the warm May sunshine.
For a moment she just stood there and looked around at the parking lot, surprised anew by how content she felt. Today everything seemed right. She sent a small rock skittering across the rows of parked cars with a sharp kick of her boot. Would it be totally pathetic
to call her tonight? Did she care if it was? She squinted up at the sun, surprised to realize that no, she probably didn’t.
Mel reached the patrol car and slipped on her sunglasses. Not yet wanting to leave the fresh air, she leaned back against the hood, arms folded, and allowed herself to enjoy a sweet memory of Regan’s passionate kiss from the night before. She knew her happiness was still obvious when Hansen walked toward her with a stupid grin on his face.
“Who are you, Captain Happy, and what have you done with my partner?” he called out and casually tossed a bagel in her direction.
Mel caught her breakfast and nodded her appreciation. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked. “I’m incapable of smiling?”
“Well, no, you’re surely not. But my partner, on the other hand…”
Mel raised an eyebrow at Hansen as she thumbed the keyless entry and opened the driver’s side door of the patrol car. Hansen climbed into the passenger seat and stuck his bagel in his mouth so that he could struggle with his seatbelt. Fastening her own with one hand, Mel fought back a smirk at his clumsy maneuvering. When he managed to lock the strap across his waist, he looked at her and chewed.
“Stop looking at me.” She started the car, immediately reaching out to flip on their favorite oldies station at a low volume. “It makes me nervous.”
She backed out of the narrow parking space and shifted into drive, taking a bite of her bagel before navigating their car out on to the street.
“Let’s head down to Washington first,” Hansen said.
“Sounds good.” Vandals had been targeting businesses in a three-block radius for the past two weeks; they’d learned in roll call that a bakery on Washington had been hit late last night. Another day, more pointless destruction.
Mel remembered the Spice Girls CD and numerous wrong turns and broke into another involuntary smile. After a moment, she realized that Hansen was staring at her again. “What?” she growled, eyes on the road.
“It’s the woman, right? Isn’t it always a woman?” he answered himself.
This was weird, Mel decided. She could see from his kind brown eyes his desire to have this kind of conversation with her. Maybe it had something to do with Regan, but Mel found that she wanted it, too. Ah, Christ, it was just Hansen, she thought. Three years together now, maybe she could let him see her happy. Maybe she could share a tiny part of herself for a change.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” she said.
“I’m glad. The smile looks good on you.”
Mel didn’t say anything, uncertain how to respond to his compliment and horrified when she felt her face flush. She was grateful when Hansen turned to look out the front windshield, away from her, and began to munch on his bagel again.
She glanced down at the car’s clock as she turned down a narrow side street. 9:27 a.m. Only eight and a half hours to go. It took an effort to hold her happiness in check. God, it was a beautiful day. The thought lasted at least ten minutes before the Friday jinx kicked in and they got their first domestic violence call.
The address was only four blocks away on Detroit’s east side. Run-down houses lined both sides of the block, some of which appeared to have been abandoned long ago. Their destination was a small, battered white house on the far corner of the block. An old Ford truck was parked haphazardly in the driveway and the front yard was littered with trash. One light was visible through the front window of the house, but Mel couldn’t see anyone moving inside.
“Don’t worry, we’ll make this quick,” Hansen said as they bailed out and scanned the surroundings. The only sound in the air was that of birds chirping.
They walked swiftly up to the house, casting cautious eyes around. Mel dropped her hand to rest against the butt of her Glock, the motion almost unconscious. When they reached the front porch, she and Hansen positioned themselves on either side of the door.
At her nod, Hansen raised his fist and pounded hard on the door. “This is the police!” he shouted. “Open up!”
There was no answer. Quietly, Mel spoke into her shoulder mic, appraising the dispatcher of their situation. “Frank Calleja,” she relayed the responses to Hansen in a low voice, “35-year-old Hispanic male, priors for assault with a deadly weapon and domestic violence. Cops have been called to this address twice before.” She tossed him a meaningful look. “Let’s be careful in there.”
Hansen pounded on the door again. “This is the police, Mr. Calleja!”
Mel took a step back and angled her body slightly toward the door, the palm of her hand resting on the handle of her gun. Listening for any sound, she flexed her fingers, tense. When none came, she took another step back and glanced sideways toward the windows. Tattered curtains prevented her from looking inside. Hansen’s large fist paused in mid-air as soft footfalls approached from the home’s interior. The sound of various locks being disengaged made Mel stiffen with tension. Prepared for the worst, she relaxed slightly when the door swung slowly open to reveal a little blond girl no more than six years old.
She looked like any of the dozens of little blond girls Mel had encountered during her three years as a cop. Nose running, hair long and tangled, she looked up at Mel and Hansen with big blue eyes. Tear tracks were visible on her dirty cheeks.
Mel softened her face into a patient smile and spoke quietly to the girl, aware that Hansen was still alert, watching the hallway beyond for signs of her parents. “Hi there,” she said. “We’re police officers. We’re here because we heard that people were fighting and that they need our help. Are your mommy and daddy fighting, honey?”
“Mommy and Frank are having a fight,” the girl answered.
Mel made brief eye contact with Hansen, then asked, “Do you think your mommy can come to the door, sweetheart?”
The girl shook her head and fat tears began to roll down her cheeks. “No,” she whispered.
From somewhere in the house came a loud slapping sound, and then a muffled male shout. “Fucking bitch! If you don’t shut the hell up, I’ll kick the shit out of you!” Another scream, and then silence.
“Take the kid to the cruiser,” Hansen said. “I’ll call for backup.”
Mel held out her hand, giving the girl a warm smile when she reached out and took it with sticky fingers. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Molly.”
“Come on, Molly. You can wait in my car while we talk to Frank, okay?”
Mel walked the trembling child to their cruiser as quickly as she could, tossing frequent glances back over her shoulder at Hansen. Her partner talked into his shoulder mic in a quiet voice, relaying the situation to dispatch, his eyes pinned to the front door.
Mel helped Molly into the backseat, and asked, “Where are Frank and your mommy, honey? What room are they in?”
“The bedroom.”
Mel reached out and stroked tangled hair. “That’s down the front hallway?”Molly nodded. “At the end.”
“I’ll be right back, Molly.” She shut the little girl in the car and jogged back up to the porch.
“There’s definitely an assault in progress,” Hansen said as she climbed the stairs. “A lot of shouting and punching.”
“The girl says they’re in the bedroom, last room down the hallway.”
One hand on his Glock, Hansen stepped inside the house. “Backup’s coming. Five minutes, maybe. Let’s go.”
They walked down the hall, Mel trailing after Hansen, until they reached the last door on the left. Inside, she could hear muffled sobbing and angry whispers.
Hansen knocked hard on the bedroom door. “Sir, ma’am, this is the police. Would you please come out, hands where we can see them?”
The harsh whispering stopped; for a moment they could hear continued sobbing, but then even that was silenced with a choked cry. Nobody came to the door.
Hansen knocked again. “We’ve received a complaint about a domestic disturbance,” he yelled. “Why don’t you two come out here and we can talk about this, sort it out?”
He paused a moment, his head tilted toward the door. “How about that?”
There was still no response.
Mel flicked her eyes down the hallway, back toward the open front door. Their backup had yet to arrive.
Hansen knocked again, harder this time. “Listen, you’re either going to come out here and talk to us, or we’re coming in there and then we can all talk back at the precinct. How do you want to handle this situation?”
For a moment there was silence, and then a woman called out, “Please—” before being cut off with a sharp slap.
Mel exhaled through her nostrils, tensing her jaw. She kept her hand firmly on the handle of her gun, looking up at Hansen.
He gave her a nod and put his hand on the doorknob. “We’re opening the door,” he warned. “We want your hands where we can see them.”
Mel stepped to the side of the door and Hansen pushed it open and immediately moved to the side, craning his head to try and see inside the bedroom. From her vantage point, Mel couldn’t see if anyone was there.
“Come on, man,” Hansen called out. “All you’ve got to do is come out here and talk to us. It doesn’t have to be this way.”
He had barely finished his sentence when a large dark-haired man burst out of the bedroom door, slammed into Hansen and took a few running steps down the hallway before turning to face them. A woman screamed from the bedroom and at the same time Mel saw the gun in the man’s hand. She was already pulling her Glock from her holster when he surged forward, his weapon raised.
Loud gunfire filled the air and Mel felt a stinging pain on her face. She hit the floor, rolled, and came up on her knee. Vaguely aware of Hansen on the floor near her, she raised her weapon and took a single shot at their assailant.
Infinite Loop Page 6
