First encounter

Two weeks of boredom later and still without a date, Stone was finally relieved his assignment had commenced. He'd taken the time to shake down his street contacts, but no one knew anything that could point him in the direction of the assassins who had slaughtered the police officers. All he could hope for was that someone would contact him with information and to provide him with suspects.

The downside to starting at the station was that he'd been scheduled for the night shift. The briefing room was buzzing with activity when he'd arrived. Officers were huddled together in groups, with the noise of chatter echoing around the room. Stone ambled around feeling out of place. He listened in on some of the conversations and joined in a few others. The duty sergeant walked in and on over to his podium on a raised area. He tapped the microphone to the screech and howling of feedback over the speakers. He put his lips close to the microphone.

"One,—one, one, one," bounced around the room, together with more squeals from the speakers. He twiddled with the controls on the P.A. system to adjust the settings. Snickers erupted.

"That's not funny. If I catch anyone messing with the P.A. system again, there'll be trouble. C'mon you shower. Take your seats and make less noise. The sooner you get your instructions, the sooner that I get to see the back of your ugly heads."

With everyone settled down on their seats, the sergeant rattled off a list of instructions and felons to look out for, then picked up his stick pointer and aimed it at Stone.

"We have a new crew member, Officer Stone. Plenty of experience as a patrolman, so let's make him welcome."

All eyes turned to him.

"Come on then, do a twirl," the sergeant said.

Stone rose awkwardly from his chair, did a few embarrassed head nods in different directions, and then dropped his butt on the seat again.

"Where have you worked before?" asked the officer sat to his right.

He glanced at his nametag. E. A. Granger.

"Central, on highway patrol. Then I made detective, before deciding to move back to traffic."

Granger rolled his eyes, and then patted the shoulders of two officers in the next row.

"Be careful what you say, we have an ex-detective in our midst. Pass it on," he said, then laughed like a braying donkey.

"Okay, that's all," said the sergeant. "Stone, I'll have a word before you leave."

Stone joined him at the podium. Sergeant Baily pointed to the map on the wall.

"I don't have to tell you about the cop killers still at large. See that area on the map outlined in red over at Southside? Two cars at a time in that area and always two up. You're working up to the border of that area. I don't have a partner for you just yet. No heroics if you pursue anyone alone as a code four. Stop at the red line and call for back up."

"Understood."

Stone peeled away, headed to the john. He walked past Granger who was exchanging banter with a group of black officers. In fairness to them, the black officers were giving back as much as they took. He hadn't been in the john for more than a few seconds, when one of the black officers walked inside and stood at the urinal next to him.

"How do you cope with the banter from that Granger guy and his crew?" Stone asked.

"No problem. You get used to it. We all piss in the same pot in uniform. I puts on my white skin when I walks through the station door and takes it off again when I gets back home. I just smile at the insults, and join in with them, knowing I probably have a bigger dick than all of them." He looked over into the trough. "Same with you, I guess," he said, then laughed.

Stone ambled out of the john and on through into the parking lot, climbed into his car and set off on patrol duty. After an uneventful few hours of routine traffic stops, he pulled over. The area where he parked was badly lit. Stone turned on the internal light and grabbed his clipboard off the passenger seat. Pulling the top off his pen with his teeth, he began to write up a draft report from his last traffic stop. As he glanced around for inspiration, he realized that it wasn't the sort of neighborhood where you'd park up alone at two in the morning. Not without body armor for protection, a gun, a couple of magazines, and eyes in the back of your head. Having reds and blues on his roof, and POLICE stamped on the side of his vehicle would be of little use if someone wanted to jump him. With three cops having already lost their lives while parked up this month, he knew he was vulnerable. The rogue cop who shot the unarmed black guy on a routine traffic stop had more than just his victim's blood on his hands. There was widespread anxiety among the cops in the city now— they were spooked.

Stone was only too aware of walking on the wild side and stepping outside protocol. It's what had earned him what he considered a demotion. He thought it ironic now that he had the green light to step outside the rules—within reason. Stone chewed on his pen top, recalling his boss saying, "Consider it training. Stick your neck out on the streets of Southside, and there's bound to be someone who wants to part your head from your shoulders. Once you've learned to stick to procedure, maybe I'll have you back."

He tossed his paperwork onto the passenger seat and sighed.

The radio crackled, followed by the metallic voice of the dispatcher scratching out over his speakers.

"Cars in the vicinity of West Alondra Boulevard. BF, age twenty-nine. White Ford pickup. Flat tire. She's the victim of a code two-eleven and roadside assistance is refusing to attend without a police presence."

Stone spat the pen top over on to the passenger seat, then pressed the button on his microphone.

"A-eighteen, officer forty-two. Copy that. Responding to West Alondra."

Stone activated his reds and blues, crunched his transmission into first, and set off. It didn't take long to travel the four blocks. The door to the pickup was open, the woman sat sideways, legs splayed, and with her head in her hands. He pulled over and parked, his dash cam covering the scene at a respectful distance.

"You okay, lady?" he hollered, taking out his gun, then scanned the area as he approached her. She raised her eyes and looked directly at him. He was immediately struck by how attractive she looked, with those dark eyes of hers holding his attention.

"Not really, bastards took my purse. Luckily, I had my cell phone under my seat and a sticker on my windshield for recovery services."

Stone had to avert his gaze to get back to business. He glanced up and down the street.

"Lucky! I'd say you were lucky they didn't shoot you, change the tire, then take your truck. This isn't the best of areas for a flat tire. What are you doing around here at this time of night?"

She ignored the question. Her lip was swollen, but otherwise she looked okay. Stone holstered his gun.

"D'ya need an ambulance?"

"No, I'm fine. I just want to get home."

"How many were there? Can you describe them?"

"Sorry. It all happened so quickly when I bent down to look at the tire. Three or four of them, I think."

"Black, white, Hispanic?"

She shook her head.

"What? Oh, look, I didn't see."

"What about clothing? Jeans, T-shirts?"

The woman smacked her lips then jutted her jaw.

"You deaf? Like I said, it all happened so quickly—and I had my back to them."

She folded her arms, hands trapped under her armpits and with her lips tight as a duck's ass. Judging by the expression on her face, she was either pissed at his questions, or still shook up. Either way, the questions had to be asked.

"Did they say anything, like talk between themselves? Call someone by a street name?"

She stared blankly at him, a sort of defiant look.

"No, nothing."

"You must have seen or heard the direction they headed. What color was your purse?"

"Black. It had my driver's license and insurance card inside, with thirty dollars, and some makeup." She pointed down the street. "They headed that way."

"You can phone back for roadside assistance. Tell them there's a police presence."

Stone took down her details, then walked back to his car. He punched in the tag number. The name of the owner, one Candice Jacobs, matched her details. The criminal record check and outstanding warrants came back clean. He was sure the dispatcher had said it was a code two-eleven for an armed robbery. She hadn't volunteered that she'd seen anything, never mind a weapon.

He picked up his microphone.

"Car A-eighteen. I'm at the scene at West Alondra. The victim can't give a description. Did you say that she mentioned a weapon?"

"Yes. She reported three BMs, one of them a code four-seventeen."

"Check that. I'll wait for roadside assistance and see her on her way."

Stone slapped his thigh, a code four-seventeen meant one of her assailants was armed with a gun. For some reason, she had lied to him. It was time for more questions and answers to get to the truth.