Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Thirty seconds after pushing his emergency button about a thousand cops flooded the alley. Most were Denver cops, but there were also Cherokee County Deputies, State Troopers, Aurora cops and of course several Gunwood officers including his FTO, Sarah Hampton. She looked out of breath and frazzled. Her hair had come undone and her cheeks were flushed. Sweat shined her forehead.

  It was then — at that exact second — that Dominic realized he was falling in love with her.

  29

  Sammy Rothstein

  * * *

  Admiration

  * * *

  Detective Rothstein stood in the same spot that Officer Elkins had stood as he shot the first suspect with two well-placed rounds through the heart.

  Without effort his mind filled in the blanks, putting together the pieces, performing the calculations. The colors were vibrant, the tones musical, the shapes captivating. He floated high in the sky looking down — below the asphalt looking up — inside the dumpster looking out — outside of everything looking in. He saw it just as it happened, his incredible brain doing its thing, putting the dead faces in their places as each moved and breathed and acted precisely as they had in the last seconds of their short lives. He saw the suspect — Lawrence Taylor known as Shorty on the streets — pull the gun free from his waistband — Sammy had glanced at the gun, his senses taking in the tiny strands of thread that matched his boxer shorts — and point the small nosed muzzle toward Officer Elkins.

  From all directions and from nowhere he watched as the rookie officer drew his weapon and shot him dead. Fast — oh so very fast — and calm. The entry holes were within a quarter inch of each other — from fifteen yards — after running and fighting — the adrenaline pumping — and low light conditions; high quality shooting indeed.

  Sammy winced as he felt the burn of the scorching metal sear the back of his neck as the thick blur of lead missed killing him by a fraction of an inch. He pivoted, ducking low, just as Elkins had, seeing the other dead boy before him, his arm stretched out straight, the big shiny revolver clutched tightly in his hand. Sammy heard the thunder claps as the gun spit lightning at him. Calm? What a blasphemous understatement. The boy must have ice running through his veins. He returns fire — five rounds — from twenty-seven yards — all hits, most of them kill shots all by themselves and two — the ones under the armpit — again, within a quarter inch of each other. Sammy remembered Wayne and Garth each bowing before Steven Tyler of Aero Smith chanting “I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy.” He could see practically every cop in the state, except himself, making the same declaration to the rookie.

  And then the pièce de résistance. After living through a gun battle at the car, chasing three gun crazy robbers down single handedly, killing two of them, nearly getting killed himself, he then sees movement to the side and turns. Now what would ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine-nine percent of seasoned cops do in that situation? They would shoot — fast and a lot, but not snot-nosed, wet behind the ears, rookie Officer Elkins. No sir, not him. What does he do? He assesses the situation, determines it isn’t a shoot scenario and takes the guy out with hand to hand — rather knee to balls and face — combat, then cuffs him up and waits for help to arrive.

  The colors were ebbing now, the shapes and notes and numbers and figures all blurring back in on each other. He felt his infinite selves merging together inside his mind until the sounds and smells and sights of the night were just those and nothing else.

  Amazing.

  He let his photographic mind call up Dominic Elkins files. Another one of his jobs was to oversee all police applicant background checks and he had done just that before Dominic was hired. Quickly he sifted through his high school transcripts, friends, acquaintances, references, employment history, military records — military records. He concentrated on those seeing the commendations, individual and unit citations, marksmanship scores, physical fitness tests, classes he had taken, courses he had finished, promotions; Private First Class, Lance Corporal, Corporal, Sergeant, Staff Sergeant. His medical records, fitness reports, medals. All outstanding—but — something wasn’t quite jiving. The colors were back, bursting into bubbles of sound and lemon scented triangles. Numbers were bisecting rainbows, arching into geometric points before dissolving into Pythagorean Identities. A score of iridescent hexahedrons imploded soundlessly filling the air with a purple smell. And it was almost there — he almost had it — the thing not quite right with Dominic Elkins’ record. The pieces were coming into alignment, the sounds harmonizing, the colors accentuating, the shapes fitting. He was close — so close — but then it was gone — evaporated into nothingness. A part of him wanted to try again, to push ahead, but he knew better. He would have to wait. He would have to look a little deeper. Try and dig up a bit more information. It might be a single missing piece that would solve the whole thing, but it would have to wait. Right now he had a job to do. The Shoot Team was already at the accident site and they would be coming his way soon.

  Captains from various police departments and sheriff’s offices throughout the state made up the Shoot Team. Their job was to investigate and render a finding on any police involved shooting within the jurisdictional boundaries of their collaborative agencies. Sammy’s job, as lead detective on the case, was to evaluate the events, break them down into an understandable diagram and or story board and fill the Shoot Team in so they would a have a strong starting point for their investigation.

  Sammy made a last scan of the area. Yellow crime tape bordered what was deemed as the crime scene for blocks around. Numbered orange cones dotted the asphalt marking shell casings. Both bodies lay where they fell, sheets covering them. The flies were already buzzing and the sun streaked the clouds to the east with pink and magenta. The breeze blew warm, not yet hot, but that wouldn’t last.

  Cinnamon’s apartment building stood a few blocks away to the south. Sammy made out a portion of the west side and all the top floors as the building towered over its neighbors. His brain did the calculations and he picked out her window, staring right out at him. He wondered if she had seen anything. Not likely, what with the dark and the distance. Still, it would give him an excuse to speak with her again.

  When she called him she’d sounded genuinely worried, afraid that he might have been caught up in the gunfight below her window. He remembered how close she sat next to him on the couch in her apartment the day before. The way she’d cried into his shoulder, the smooth feel of her skin as he tried to comfort her, the hot touch of her breath.

  Where was that stupid Shoot Team? The quicker he got done with them the sooner he could finish interviewing the witnesses, coordinate with the Crime Lab, designate what evidence went where, make his report to the chief and go to her. He looked at his watch; 5:47. She’d be leaving for work around three pm — still a ways off — but he had hours of work ahead.

  The purple of the sky had waned, replaced with a light blue that quickly banished the shadows from the alleyway. The unmistakable shapes of the corpses bulged beneath their sheets bringing his mind back to the rookie.

  A smooth operator, that one. Very smooth — maybe too smooth.

  30

  Sergeant Chuck Creed

  * * *

  Directional Aggression

  * * *

  Chuck Creed read the report. He felt tired this morning, having stayed up past twelve-thirty last night. Of course being tired was pretty much a steady state for cops who were constantly changing shifts. The body could never really catch up and as such there was a price to be paid. His wife had been asleep by the time he got home. He’d shucked the black BDU pants, bullet proof vest and black sweat shirt, taken a quick shower, then quietly snuck down to the little nook in the kitchen that housed the family computer. He signed onto the Cigar DoJo website and grabbed up a shot glass, a bottle of Bulleit Bourbon and a 601 La Bomba Napalm cigar. The DoJo was reported to have started here in Colorado and was designed as a smartphone app, but Chuck thought computer
phones were for youngsters and couldn’t make hide nor hair out of figuring them out. He had a hard enough time with computers as it was. But he’d heard of the site from a buddy last year and tried it out. He was instantly hooked. He’d even managed to make it for a couple of the smoke nights, which wasn’t easy on a cop’s schedule. He snipped the end of the cigar and lit up, letting the flame play about as is proper. He poured a shot of the Bulleit and downed it fast then poured another, but this one he sipped. He took a long pull on the La Bomba, tasting the cinnamon, hazelnut and pepper. It went nicely with the bourbon.

  Chuck went to the herf section on the website, wondering how cigar chat rooms became so popular. It was a crazy world. He chatted for a half hour, even at this time of night there were smokers awake and eager to discuss cigars and booze, letting the stress of the night’s events dribble away with the smoke from the flavorful Napalm. After the DoJo, Chuck signed onto his favorite poker site. Gambling was his one true vise; it was what had started all his problems. Horses, slots, cards, sports, anything and everything, if money could be put on it Chuck was game.

  When he was done with the cigar and bourbon he signed off and made his way back upstairs. He opened the bedroom door and gently closed it behind him. He snuggled up next to Lori under the covers, draped an arm over her shoulder, stroked a finger along her neck. He loved her — loved her so much. Her, the girls and his son were his rock. They were what got him through. They were his constant, his shield against all the junk, the garbage, the evil he witnessed nearly every day at work. He would do anything for them.

  The bourbon worked its magic and he fell asleep almost instantly, but the alarm sounded way too soon and now here he sat, fighting to keep his eyes open.

  The report was pretty well written over all. It could use a little tightening up, but that came with experience.

  He shook his head when he read the account of the two gun battles, and let out his breath in a low whistle. The kid had guts, no doubt about that, guts, stamina, speed and smarts. Running down three armed punks on their own turf was no easy feat; and then to take all three out with little more than a scratch — whew! Just the thought of it made him a little scared.

  Chuck wondered how Sarah was handling it. He still worried about her psyche; about just how fully she’d recovered from her breakdown. And something like this — her trainee going it alone — battling alone — not to mention the gunfight at the actual crash site, which she was involved in. Again — whew!

  His right shoulder ached; he rotated it slowly, trying to loosen the joint. He heard an internal crunchy-grindy sound. Getting old sucked. He felt like the 56 Ford sitting in his garage on cinder blocks with no tires; the spirit was there, but the mechanics were wearing out. Back in the day, when he hit a man, the man stayed down, but not last night. He’d hit that punk with everything he had. The punk did go down — fast — but he got back up — and he got back up mad. Chuck had to use the sap on him. In the old days they used the sap all the time. Nothing quieted the unruly like a good rap on the noggin with leather encased lead powder. No marks, no fuss. Just wap! and instant compliance — that is if you considered unconsciousness compliance — and he did. The problem with a sap was that sometimes maybe you hit the dude a little too hard, or his melon was a little too soft, and he went into a coma, or maybe a little more than a coma, maybe he didn’t wake up at all — ever. That’s why Colorado courts had banned them from police use — well that was the official reason — the real truth was that the ACLU had sued the state nearly dry over a few cases and bullied police agencies and courts alike into banning the little, but effective, weapons. Chuck however, was an expert and last night he hit the guy just right and this time the bad boy did stay down. Unfortunately Chuck pulled a muscle or loosened an old scrub of cartilage so it could gum up the works like a sliver of steel falling into a delicate network of gears.

  Rubbing his eyes he finished the report. The Shoot Team hadn’t listed its findings yet, but the Chief had already clued him that the kid was golden. The lab found every round fired and all the trajectories squared with the rook’s story. That plus the wizard, Detective Sammy Rothstein, had stopped by and over a cup of coffee told him about the kid’s composure both during and after the shootout. Chuck had seen how impressed Sammy was, and it took a lot to impress Sammy.

  One problem though; the kid had barely started working for the city of Gunwood and already he’d been involved in two brawls and a gunfight. Chuck recognized the high rate of action for what it was; a gung-ho kid with a go-getter FTO riding a wave of criminal activity like a surfer hanging ten on the mother of all waves.

  Chuck had been a cop for over forty years and he knew exactly how things went down. Crime, like most functions in life came and went in waves. Of course there were crimes being committed all the time, but waves were different. Waves were just that. Sweeping walls that came — rolled through — and then broke, leaving a lull in their wake. Gunwood was weathering a wave front; how big he wouldn’t know until after it broke, an action that would shoot the populace of the city across the waters, riding the face and either dropping in or wiping out. Elkins rode the forefront of that wave, surfing like a big dog. Chuck thought the kid would come out fine. He’d shoot the curl, ride the barrel, tame the tube. Chuck saw in Dominic something most men lacked; a thing Chuck called directional aggression. Many men are wired for aggression, unfocused, often destructive to both themselves and others, but a few are different. They’re the ones that are hard-wired with a focused mindset. They don’t go into a rage, they don’t flip out. They don’t beat their wives or kill carloads of kids over road rage incidents; no, the exact opposite. They’re cool, quick to act and when they act it’s with force, usually sudden and explosive, but always focused, always with an end result in mind. Chuck knew the kind — intimately — because he was one of them. Age had helped temper him — but only a little, as the drug dealing punk last night could attest.

  He wondered if maybe the kid might not be too much for Sarah to handle. She could be pretty aggressive herself, but it wasn’t the same. The rookie played on another level, like going from college ball to pro. Chuck didn’t want Sarah to get hurt, mentally or physically. It wouldn’t be on purpose, but guys like the rook drew trouble to themselves. He was a crap magnet, and crap has a nasty tendency to get its stink on anyone close.

  Sarah could have been killed last night. Two of the bullets went straight through her windshield inches from her face and plenty more had impacted her car from the front bumper to the back side panels.

  Briefly he considered reassigning the rook. But who would he put him with, and how would he explain it to Sarah?

  No, best to leave things the way they were for now. He would pull a graveyard shift next week and keep an eye on them. It was the best he could do. If only he’d been on duty last night. Maybe he could have arranged the felony car stop better, or kept everyone back until more Denver cars were in the area, or PITed the car himself. But who knew? Probably he would have just gotten in the way. Two total aggressive personalities aiming at the same target might cancel each other out. Anyway, what happened, happened. Dreaming of what might have been or could have been was just foolishness and a waste of time. You could never go back. That was the surest fact of life he had ever learned. Done was done. The only option was to move ahead — forward. Maybe you could make things better — maybe you couldn’t — either way you had to keep going.

  So he would leave Sarah and Dominic together, for better or worse, and hope for the best.

  Who knows, he thought, maybe something good will come out of it.

  31

  Cinnamon Twist

  * * *

  Freak Show

  * * *

  It had been three days since the excitement outside her apartment with all the sirens and shooting. Sammy didn’t make it over that day, and their schedules hadn’t meshed since; more her doing than real appointments. He called numerous times, but she thought it better to make h
im wait and so had given him excuse after excuse until today.

  They met at a little bakery-coffee shop in Greenwood Village. It was called Needed Dough and was run by a middle aged woman and her twenty something daughter. Cinnamon found it by accident and loved the homemade cinnamon rolls slathered in sweet butter icing. She had a tall glass of ice-cold milk and a cup of scalding black coffee with it. They sat outside under the shade of an umbrella. The bright sun blazed high overhead. A typical beautiful day in Colorado.

  The detective ordered a cinnamon roll as well, at Cinnamon’s insistence, but minus the milk, he was mildly lactose intolerant he explained. At first he hadn’t wanted anything, telling her it was a bit late in the day for sweets, but she cajoled him gently, teasingly and finally won him over by asking if he didn’t like the taste of cinnamon. She said it with a pouty look on her lips and a seductive glint in her eyes. He didn’t eat all of it, but that was okay, it only took one bite to damn Eve and put her under Lucifer’s power. Not that she wanted to harm Sammy. Of course not, but she needed a job done — she needed to find things out — to be protected, and who better than a police detective with all the assets of law enforcement behind him?