Dressed in White

by Diana Stone

  I’m looking for someone to get a ride with. No one is opening their doors. That’s fine—I just want the police. I’m staying on the busy main street until they arrive. All I have to do is stay ahead of the goon. The light turns green, but they can’t go fast. They have to inch ahead. He is on the opposite side of a green car.

  “Ok, you win. Let’s talk,” he shouts over the hood.

  I shake my head without saying a word. I’m saving my breath and reaction time.

  I hear a siren in the distance! He hears it as well. He loses his concentration—I’m no longer his main objective. He steps back from the car and hurries out of traffic.

  I need to keep the cars around me. It almost feels like he’s pulling me away from safety. I daren’t follow him until the police are closer. Otherwise he’ll grab me and probably drag me somewhere. Without his large bulk at the car, it moves on—glad to escape from what looks like a boyfriend/girlfriend dispute.

  One of the ranchers motors by in his pickup. “Do you want to get in?” he offers.

  “Can’t. Thanks. I have to follow him.”

  Letting safety pass by, I’m hoping to catch the goon, to save myself problems later.

  He’s walking fast, back the way we came. I lag behind and pull out my phone. It’s deep in my jean’s pocket. I get hold of dispatch to direct the responding units to my location. Oh… no one called the police?! Thank goodness for that ambulance or whatever, because we thought they were coming.

  “I need help. I was nearly kidnapped. It’s Jessica Wilcox, code enforcement officer on foot. South bound 1St from Mission. Suspect is a white male, big like a wrestler. I have to stop talking for a moment to catch my breath. He’s now in a run.

  He ducks into the bakery we came from. Damn it, there’s a back door. He must already know that. I direct the units to respond to the alley behind. Dare I run inside? Is he waiting? I look in the window, but don’t see the owner. Has he been taken hostage?

  I’m in contact with the dispatcher, so I step through the glass door, and take a look behind the counter—not there.

  He could be in the storage room, or he could have run out the back. His car may be there. I hurry out, being careful to give the room a wide berth. A limo-looking sedan is peeling away from the parking space.

  “The suspect is in a black Cadillac sedan the numbers are 375. Going west bound in the alley toward 1st.”

  I take off after it. It may be stopped in traffic, or hit a car and get stuck. I won’t let him get away if I can help it.

  A police unit speeds past me. I hear the engine whine that comes from the driver pressing the pedal to the floor. He’s on the hunt. It makes a left, and I lose sight of it. I stop, and bend over, panting for breath. It sounds like they’re driving in circles. Squealing brakes and the loud crunch of metal into metal tells me one car has met another.

  I get going in that direction. The dispatcher comes on the line to advise me the suspect has a hostage! They are setting up a perimeter and requesting SWAT. It will take a while for them to arrive. So for now, it’s up to the officer who on the scene to diffuse the situation.

  There’s the crash; his sedan T-boned the side of a delivery van, knocking it on its side. There is the goon, with his bicep tight around a small woman’s neck. He’s almost lifting her and carrying her backward. She’s pulling at his arm and flailing her feet. I don’t see a weapon, but he doesn’t need one; he can choke her out, or worse.

  Ken is the only deputy here. He must have been the one pursuing the suspect. I hear the engines of other patrol cars, and the smell of brakes. That’s Deputy Mitch who pulled up close to where I am hiding, behind the truck of a car. He sees me but he doesn’t stop to ask how I’m involved.

  Ken gets on the loud speaker and commands. “Let the woman go. Do you want to add kidnapping to it?”

  The big man doesn’t answer. He keeps looking in car windows and feeling door handles. How is he planning to start one? It’s not as if he has a screwdriver in his pocket. He’s getting closer to Ken. It occurs to me that’s what he wants. Mitch sees the same thing and jumps into his cruiser, leaving the door open with his foot braced against it as he drives.

  He pulls up to Ken, making a V formation with the two police cars. He turns off the car and hurries around the back, to the inside of the V, next to Ken. More units are arriving.

  The goon comes to a stop. The lady is quiet. Now she’s complying.

  “Give me a cop car, and I’ll let her go.”

  No one immediately answers.

  “We can’t do that,” Ken shouts back.

  “You may want to reconsider. I’ll give you the count of three, then I’ll break her arm.” He puts his hand across her wrist in a lock, the precursor to a break.

  The lady starts screaming.

  I’d give him a car, to get her safe—as long as they guarantee she isn’t inside with him.

  “Stand by.” The deputies form a huddle.

  The lady screams again. He’s applying pressure on her joint to get the guys to comply.

  Mitch hurries to his car and takes the shotgun out of the rack. I’d say they’re going to give him a car. The exchange will be tricky.

  “We’ll give you a car in exchange for the woman.”

  “Good idea,” he bellows.

  “First, you need to let her go.”

  “No. You get back and leave the car with the engine running.”

  “We can’t take the chance,” Ken replies.

  “This is a good-old standoff. I’ll show you I mean business.”

  The lady screams loud and long. Oh hell, that sounds bad.

  “There, that’s done. Now, are you willing to listen? I want your car.”

  “I’m not letting you have it. I know if you take her, she’s as good as dead.”

  Ken isn’t mincing words. He’s letting the man know the car exchange won’t be happening with a chance the woman will be taken.

  “I won’t kill her. That’s not my style,” he shouts back.

  “You haven’t demonstrated your humanity in the past few moments.”

  “Figure something out. I’ll give you two minutes.”

  One option is put a deputy in the passenger’s seat. If the suspect gets too close with the victim, he could turn off the engine and jump out. Of course, if the suspect lets her go, the deputy could also turn off the engine and jump out. I don’t see that as being a good deal for the suspect.

  “You can have the car. Let her go half way to it. If you don’t, my sharpshooter will take you out.” Ken states with deadly calm.

  Mitch is standing there with an AR-15. I’ve seen him at other incidents with a rifle. I guess he’s their guy for that.

  The suspect agrees. He knows the deputy won’t kill him without cause. If he lets the lady go, there won’t be a cause.

  It has me wondering if Mitch will do something unexpected, like shoot him somewhere else. I was never trained that way, but it’s a thought, rather than letting the suspect escape. He already broke her wrist. In a police car he can do a lot more damage. He can use the vehicle as a weapon.

  Will Mitch shoot him?

  The answer isn’t immediately clear. The suspect carries the crying lady until they’re at the drop point. He does indeed drop her. She falls into a sobbing heap. He hurries the last few yards to Mitch’s car. Boy, it would be good if they had an engine kill-switch. But who’d think of that for everyday use?

  Almost as soon as he’s seated, he throws the car into drive, mashes his foot on the gas, and fishtails forward—almost running over the lady.

  Ken and Mitch jump into Ken’s car and take off after him.

  I can help. I run toward the woman in the street. They will need every deputy on the pursuit. I know they’ll be requesting an air unit, the California Highway Patrol, and all the local jurisdictions.

  I wave off another deputy. He knows I’m the code enforcement officer. “I’ll take care of her. GO!”

  I pull her to her fee
t and wrap my arm around her waist to help her to the curb. “It’s OK now. You’re safe.”

  The fire department is only a block away. They were standing by, and now they can help. The engine thunders up. I back up and let them work. They will stabilize her wrist, then transport her to the local hospital.

  All this happens within about fifteen minutes. The guys are wrapping her arm with a cool pack.

  “It’s a hell of a mess on the highway. They’re reaching speeds of 110 MPH.” The captain is listening to the police radio, so I lean closer.

  “The CHP is taking over the pursuit.” The Solvang deputies are told to discontinue the high speed for fear of injuring someone. The airship is up. The suspect can’t outrun a helicopter.

  I walk back to the bakery to find the owner. The front door is closed and locked. It looks like he doesn’t want business. Poor guy, there he is, in the back. I knock to get his attention. He comes to open up. The table and chairs are back in their upright positions as though nothing terrible happened.

  “I wanted to let you know, that man held a woman hostage, broke her wrist, and is now on a high-speed chase.”

  “I didn’t like him the minute he came in. I could smell he was up to something.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I don’t tell him the man has been following me. It may translate into being my fault for leading him here.

  My guilt has me digging into my pocket for another $5 for the coffee and pastry.

  “What’s this for?” he asks, confused.

  “To cover his tab.” I lay it down on the counter. “I’m on my way to work now. Take care.”

  31

  Not Just a Drink of Coffee

  They’re surprised to see me at the city office, but it won’t be a problem to work today. I phone the police station to let them know I’ll be available for a deputy to interview me for the crime report. Then I settle down to my pile of papers.

  “You seem jumpy today,” remarks my boss.

  “I’m afraid so. If you want to listen in, here comes the detective.” Det. Kay walks in the double glass doors. He comes through to my desk, nonchalantly passing the administrative assistant who is supposed to screen people.

  “You got yourself in another fix, didn’t ya?”

  “Yes,” I snort. “This is my boss, she’d like to sit in.”

  “Fine,” he nods to her. His eyes linger a bit longer than usual on her sweet face. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  He pulls up a rolling chair and sits. “Begin with this morning.”

  I explain the morning’s events, including the belief I’m being watched, and I will be in trouble unless I can fix this.

  “Is the pursuit still going on?” I ask.

  “It was as of twenty minutes ago. It’s gone down to Santa Barbara. If he gets there, he can hide in the crowd.”

  “I hope not.” I change the subject. “How is it going with Quinn? Is he in the clear?”

  His expression changes to a strong resolve. “Yes. I’ve spoken with the district attorney, we’ve found he acted in defense of your lives.”

  “Good. I thought so, but you never know what they may come up with.”

  “How well do you know him?” He gives me a strange look.

  I hesitate. “Not too well,” I almost cringe at his look. “Why?”

  “I haven’t run into anyone as well trained. He checks out completely—and he has friends in high places,” he looks impressed.

  “Oh,” that’s a relief. And he impressed the detective. I know that’s unusual.

  “I suggest you keep him around if you want to stay alive. These men aren’t going away.”

  I’m shocked to hear him say it so clearly. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  He looks down, then directly at me. “No. You’ve pissed off a group of bad-asses who want revenge. They need to maintain their reputation. It will take something out of my sphere of knowledge to beat them.”

  “Like more fire power?”

  “It could turn into a war. It’s already gone this far. Maybe if the missing man is found and pays his bill it would end.”

  “I should go looking for him. Or maybe I should contact the boss and let him know I have nothing to do with the guy. I was only there to see if he was cheating on his wife.”

  “Do whatever you can. I’ll be here to mop-up the mess.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur. “I need a CCW permit.” I want to carry both my guns at all times.

  “I’d start the ball rolling—fast.”

  “Alright.”

  “Where is the suspect now?”

  He turns up his radio. We listen for a few moments. It’s quiet. Then an officer comes on. He’s in custody! The K-9 unit caught him in a warehouse. They’re on their way to the hospital to have him stitched up before booking him at the Santa Barbara jail.

  He stands up to leave. Glances at my boss and holds his hand out to her. “It’s a pleasure meeting you Miss.”

  I’ve never seen him look that way. He’s usually gruff.

  “I’ll be heading out to check on a few cases.” I leave them alone.

  I get in my little white work truck and drive over to a rental house with too many weeds. I post a notice on the door and move on to the next heinous violation. This is so mild compared with what’s going on with me. I’m on constant alert. I’d like to get back to my vigilance for the city, rather than my life.

  I’m sure I’m safe for a while, before the next one arrives looking for revenge. I’ve been watching my mirrors and listening to my gut feelings for anything out of the ordinary—for anyone who looks out of place, who looks like a dangerous man, rather than a tourist.

  I pull out my phone and text Quinn. “Just spoke with Det. Kay. You’re in the clear. He seemed impressed with your credentials. I had a situation with another enforcer. He followed me to morning coffee. I escaped by running into traffic. He got a hostage and broke her wrist. He was caught by the K-9. Hopefully he has some nasty wounds.”

  There isn’t an immediate reply—darn it. I’m feeling particularly weak.

  The day drags by. I’m getting more tired, but I’m certain no one is following me at the moment.

  I just finished my last investigation, and my phone rings. It’s Quinn!

  “Hi!” I’m sure I sound needy. I hope it isn’t too soon in the relationship for this.

  “Hi Jess. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I was wrapping up the investigation by phone.”

  “Thanks for calling. I’ve had a hell of a day.”

  “I’ll be in town in under an hour. I have a safe place you can rest. I’m sure you need it.”

  “Oh my goodness, yes. I’ve had several cups of coffee and feel jittery, and strangely, almost ill.”

  “You’re overdosing on it.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I have another call. How about if I swing by your office in an hour?”

  “Sounds good. Remember I have a huge truck that doesn’t hide well.”

  “We’ll talk about it when I get there. You Ok with it?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  One hour left. I feel better already.

  I take a last pass through town. There’s a business with a banner out front. Darn it. I hate to tell him to remove it. He’s trying to earn a living. But, when one person begins, everyone else follows. I’ll park and go tell the owner he has to move his sign.

  I enter the knick-knack shop and head for the man seated behind the counter.

  “Hi, I’m Officer Wilcox with code enforcement.” I have a pleasant expression, but I don’t offer my hand.

  “So you’re here to hassle me about the sign?”

  See, he knew it was a violation, but did it anyway.

  “Yes. It needs to be moved. I’m sorry, those are the rules.”

  “You aren’t sorry. You don’t care about people trying to make a living. You’re all working for the government.”

  “Yes, I am working for the city gover
nment. I’m not here to argue. Please take it down by close of business today.”

  “And what if I don’t?” He stands up.

  I’m a bit stunned. Most people grumble, but never fight. Is he nuts—literally?

  “Sir, it’s my job to advise you of the rules. If you fail to comply, I will be forced to ticket you for the violation.”

  “You’ll be forced, eh?” He looks hostile.

  I take out the police radio I carry. “If you don’t sit down, I’ll call the police.”

  “Yeah, you’re proof; the government is everywhere. Always stepping on the middle class worker, taxing us to death. Soon, there won’t be any of us left.” He sits.

  “I’m sorry,” I quietly tell him. Then I walk out the door

  I get to the office and document my exchange with the shop owner. Then I’m done for the day. I could sit here, or go wait in the sun. That sounds nice, as I’ll be able to watch the Belgian’s go home for the night.

  I pull out my California version of an Australian stock hat from the truck. Then drop down the tailgate and hop on to wait.

  Here comes the horse trolley, clip-clopping to their trailer. I met Tom, the owner, a few weeks ago. He waves and smiles but doesn’t stop. He wants to go home as much as the horses do. He pulls into the vacant lot and starts the unhitching process with his wife and a helper.

  A throaty engine pulls into the space next to mine. It’s Quinn in his BMW.

  32

  Quinn’s place

  He looks scruffy, he has a week’s worth of growth, and his expression is fatigued. When he sees me waiting, he puts on a dazzling smile—which reminds me I need to use a whitener again.

  “You’re a hot one!” I march right up to him and throw my arms around his neck.

  He grabs me like a hungry man, but his lips are inviting.

  After what feels like an infusion of energy into my exhausted soul, we separate. “I’m glad you’re back!”

  He’s smiling, then leans in for another kiss. “So am I.” He quickly looks me over, from head to toe. “You’re in one piece.”