Page 26

26

MICHAEL

I pace the office, back and forth so many times that my partner Joe finally asks me to sit down because I’m making him anxious. How can I sit at a time like this? My entire world is imploding. My boyfriend isn’t returning my calls, thinks that I’ve been lying to him, and no one has seen him for quite a while. It isn’t like him to just up and disappear.

My mind flashes back to all the strange things he’s told me have been going on lately. His apartment being broken into, losing his work badge and keys, and even his neighbor Diamond saying there’s been a man lurking about a while back.

Is Patrick in danger?

If he’s in danger, it’s all my fault. If we’d never been interrupted by one of my past dates at dinner, he’d never have gone AWOL. If we’d continued on the way things were progressing, Patrick would be at my house in bed waiting for me to return from work.

Dammit, I’m freaking out right now. Patrick, where are you?

“Dude,” Joe says. “I know that look in your eyes.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re internalizing everything that goes wrong in the world. Twisting it up into an unfixable knot and then blaming yourself for it.” Joe rests a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”

Joe is right. He almost always knows me better than I know myself. I shake my head. “Thank you, but no.”

“It might help?”

The phone on his desk rings. The light that blinks with each ring indicates the call is coming from outside the precinct, and I reach for it to answer. I’m a fraction of a second too late as Joe snatches up the receiver.

“Hello?” he says. “Homicide.”

I watch as Joe’s eyes dart back and forth while he listens to the person on the other end. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but reading his body language, it isn’t good news. After a few acknowledgments from Joe as he jots down notes on a pad, he hangs up the phone and turns to me.

“There’s been another murder.”

My heart skips a beat. The deep creases of his furrowed brow push my stomach down, and a pit of anxiety forms.

I sit up straight in my chair. “Related to our case, I’m guessing by the look on your face.”

He nods.

“Should I be worried?” I ask. “It’s not… Patrick, is it?”

Joe quickly waves his hands, dismissing my fears. “No,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out, but there are some interesting developments.”

“What are we working with?”

“Older man at Seas the Day Country Club, found floating face down in the water trap at hole six of the golf course.”

“Seas the Day is where Patrick works. Do we know who was killed?”

“Body was identified as a,” he double-checks what’s written on the notepad, “Tom Ballard.”

“ The Tom Ballard? As in the actor from all those old spaghetti westerns?”

Joe nods. “The one and the same.”

“Damn, he must be what? Eighty years old? Maybe older?”

“There’s more.”

Oh geez, it must be a whole lot more by the look of disgust on his face. “Joe? What’s up? I haven’t seen that look on your face in a really long time.”

“There were puncture wounds across his chest, back, belly, and groin. The forensic team is still running tests back at the lab to determine what kind of weapon could have made them, but the old man suffered. None of the wounds were fatal, and they were all made while he was still alive.”

“Shit,” I say. “Is there more?”

He nods. “There was foreign DNA found in the victim’s wounds. Semen, to be specific. They’re going to run the results and cross-reference from the database, but it could take a few days.”

“Are we still at square one, then?” I ask. “Until we get the results of the DNA tests, we have nothing really to go on? This is all pissing me off, Joe.”

“Same,” he says. “We need to go down to the crime scene and start interviewing people.”

The phone rings again, and this time I’m quicker.

“Homicide,” I say.

“This is Officer Dante. I was just speaking with Joe, and after we hung up, there was a development.”

I motion for Joe to come back over to the desk. I place the call on speaker since there isn’t anyone else in the office.

“Dante, you’re on speaker. Both Joe and I are on the call now.”

“Great,” he says. “We have found fingerprints and were able to upload them straight away. Took a few minutes to run them through the database, but we got a hit. Ninety-nine point six percent chance they belong to a Richard Dickerson.”

I look at Joe, hoping the name will ring a bell to him, but he simply shrugs.

“Dante, does the name mean anything to you? I don’t remember seeing that name anywhere in our investigation.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. I can hear him typing into the computer and shuffling through some paperwork. “Here it is,” Dante says. “Dickerson’s alias is Jake Bloom.”

Jake Bloom. Now that’s a name I’m familiar with.

“Do you have an address?” I stand and grab my jacket.

“Right here.”

“Let’s roll.”

We’re out the door in a flash. Speeding through the streets of Los Angeles is dangerous, but I can’t shake the thought that time is of the essence here.

I push the accelerator to the floor with a burst of speed.

It doesn’t take long before we reach Jake Bloom’s street. I roll to a stop in front of the house, not wanting to let our presence be known yet. Joe and I look at each other and nod. It’s go time. Without a spoken word between us, I know he’s thinking all the same horrible things I am. We have to get inside that house.

Scanning the block, I spot Patrick’s car, and my stomach does flip-flops. All signs are pointing to bad news, and I can’t bear the idea of something happening to him. I fight down the rising emotions and struggle to control my breathing. I need to be on my A-game to keep me, Joe, and Patrick safe against this madman.

As we approach the house, I point around back, and Joe heads right there with nothing more than a nod. I take the steps to the front door with as much finesse as I can in case Jake has a dog—don’t want to give away I’m here just yet.

Once on the porch, I duck low and peek through the windows, trying to get an idea of who is home and where they are. Unfortunately, the blinds are down on all the windows except one. I peer through the one, trying to keep low and to the corner so I won’t be as obvious. The room is a mess, the sofa overturned, lamps on the floor, and even the television is face down on the ground.

Definitely a struggle.

I reach for my gun and hold it out in front of me with both hands, prepared to enter the home. Knowing I’ll have very little time to react to the unknown once I’m inside, my heart begins to race with the adrenaline dumping into my bloodstream.

Standing tall, I lean my back against the side of the house, my right shoulder along the front doorframe. The law requires I announce my entry into the home, and I’m prepared to do so when I hear Joe yell out, “Los Angeles Police, put your hands up!”

A crash of splintered wood and broken glass signals he’s made entry. I kick in the front door. A gunshot rings out, and I hit the floor, unsure of where it came from. The sound of a body hitting the ground makes me flinch. Is that Joe? I can’t call out and give away my position in case Jake has the upper hand. I’m behind the sofa in the living room when I stand and rush to the wall to protect my back. The corner is within arm's length, and I creep closer, gun in both hands.

I have to make my move.

Stepping around the corner, in the direction the gunshot came from, I hold my gun in front of me, prepared to shoot. Joe’s body lies spread out on the floor, blood oozing from his shoulder. Just as I take a step forward, something heavy comes down on both my arms and rips the gun from my hands.

My service weapon skitters across the floor into the kitchen. I make my move to rush for it when Jake seemingly comes out of nowhere, colliding with my side, sending me sprawling across the floor.

He jumps on top of me, his forearm across my neck and his gun pointed directly at my face. “Don’t move, motherfucker,” he says. “Or you’re dead.”

I nod and do my best to take in my surroundings. Joe lies still in a pool of blood to my right, my gun to my left, but where is Patrick? A moan sounds in front of me, and I crane my neck to see.

Patrick. He’s still alive. He’s tied up and gagged against the far wall in the living room.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jake says.

I nod.

“I never wanted any of this to happen,” Jake continues. “But you all just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Who gives a shit if these old, rich, assholes die? They’re abusive and cruel. They don’t even look at poor people like me as human. Fuck that.” The venomous words spray out like an attacking snake. Jake is sick, mentally ill, and doesn’t care who gets hurt along the way.

“But what about the young guy you killed? Why did he have to die?” My voice comes out raspy and tears fill my eyes.

Jake sneers at me, his gaze absolutely wicked. “He’s part of the problem. Plus, I couldn’t have any witnesses. No loose ends.” He moves closer to me. “You understand?”

What the hell am I going to do now?

My best bet is to comply until he tries to move me. I relax and take deep calming breaths. Playing along is never my forte, but I don’t have any other options.

Jake looks around the room and sighs. He must realize he needs to get up and off me at some point. Unless he plans on killing me right away, he needs to tie me up somewhere. He keeps the gun trained on my face but gets off my chest. He stands without so much as looking away from me for a fraction of a second.

“Get up,” he says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

I sit up, then push myself into a standing position. I tower over him, and I feel great pleasure at the unease our size difference causes in his expression. He points the gun at my chest and says, “Go into the living room and sit on the floor. Keep your hands behind your back where I can see them.”

Doing as I’m told, I take a few steps forward and steal a glance behind me. That’s when he looks back at Joe. I turn, reach for his outstretched arm, and angle the gun away just in time to avoid the bullet.

The shot rings in my ears, but I’m used to the sound. With my other hand, I clock him right across the jaw and send him sliding across the floor. He comes to rest on his back a few feet away. He’s out cold. My first instinct is to run to Joe and check for his vitals.

As soon as I get to him, his eyes flutter open. I take his other hand and push it onto his gunshot wound. “Put pressure on this.” He winces but does as he’s told.

I hurry over to Patrick and begin untying his hands. As soon as he’s freed, he yanks off his gag. “Thank you,” he sighs.

A floorboard creaks behind me, and my entire body stiffens. Patrick’s eyes go wide, and he scrambles to his feet. Something heavy hits me in the back, and I fall onto the floor. Looking up, Patrick stands over me facing Jake, bow in hand, arrow pulled back ready to fire.

Fear takes hold of me. I push myself up and turn back, barely in time to see Jake standing over me with a baseball bat. Without time to move, I hear Patrick cry out and release the arrow. A thump to the back of my head sends my world into darkness, but the sound of the arrow impacting Jake’s chest is the last thing I hear.

I regain consciousness to the sound of sirens and the faint murmur of voices. My head throbs, and every movement sends a jolt of pain through my body. Blinking against the bright lights, I see Patrick kneeling beside me, his face etched with concern.

“Michael,” he says, relief flooding his voice. “You’re awake.”

“Patrick,” I croak, my throat dry. “Are you okay?”

He nods, tears welling in his eyes. “Thanks to you and Joe. Jake is... he’s dead.”

I turn my head slightly, seeing Jake’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor, an arrow protruding from his chest. Joe is being tended to by paramedics, his wound bandaged but still serious.

“Joe?” I ask, struggling to sit up.

“He’s going to be okay,” Patrick reassures me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder to keep me from moving too much. “The paramedics said he’ll recover.”

Relief washes over me, mingled with the lingering fear and adrenaline from the confrontation. “We need to get you to a hospital,” Patrick says, helping me to my feet as gently as possible. “You took a pretty hard hit.”

“I’m okay,” I insist, though my body protests every step. “Let’s get Joe to the hospital first.”

Patrick nods, supporting me as we make our way out of the house. The flashing lights of police cars and ambulances illuminate the night, a stark contrast to the violence and chaos we’ve just endured. Within a few moments, paramedics rush into the house and get Joe on a stretcher and wheels him out to the waiting ambulance.

As we reach the emergency vehicle together, Joe manages a weak smile. “Told you we’d get through this,” he murmurs, his voice strained.

I squeeze his hand, grateful beyond words for his resilience and partnership. “Yeah, we did,” I reply, my voice thick with emotion.

The paramedics load us into the ambulances, and as the doors close, I glance at Patrick, who’s holding my hand tightly. We’re safe, for now. But the journey ahead is uncertain, filled with healing and the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

And as the ambulance speeds toward the hospital, I silently vow to protect those I love, no matter what it takes.