Despite the nuttiness of what they’d learned, Brian’s voice remained steady as he lifted the radio to his lips and called out to all open channels with the latest.
Hard glare focused on the busy highway filled with morning traffic, Cory wished they’d rolled into the parking lot right as the crazy bitch hauled ass. He’d give anything to be part of the fucking chase. Involvement in a pit maneuver would highlight his day—a proud back slapping retelling over dinner with Pops tonight his ultimate goal.
Another unit arriving with full sirens and flashing lights caught Cory’s attention. He recognized their faces from roll call but couldn’t remember the names. An ambulance and a firetruck weren’t far behind. Both held back until Brian motioned them toward the stiff, wide-eyed crowd.
Maneuvered to the side of the sliding glass doors, Cory trembled in readiness for Brian to hurry his ass over before someone else got the pleasure of clearing the crime scene. His partner gave the approaching duo the skinny, directed them to start interviewing the group, and ordered camo-guy to stay put. The detectives would salivate to learn what he had to say, that was for sure.
Cory tried to keep his face passive, hiding the jubilation upon seeing Brian line up on the other side and take a quick peek inside. It was time to go in. He got the nod to take the right quadrant as Brian’s shoe pressed the black runner. The doors parted, and Cory shot forward.
No matter the extensive number of hours spent on the academy’s video study, simulated breaches, or shootouts in a controlled environment he conducted, Cory came ill prepared for a slippery slide through a puddle of dark liquid and bringing him down to one knee. A furtive glance to the right, and he found himself staring into dull, fixed eyes of the first dead person ever encountered. The dude looked right at him. More like through him.
Time seemed to crawl to a stop. His mind screamed nonsensical crap as he gapped at the bullet-riddled chest. It was nothing but a wet stain of bright red blood from stem to stern.
What the fuck?
No amount of reasoning could explain why the guy’s hair hung off his ear.
A pungent blast of copper and acrid stench of loose bowels struck Cory’s nostrils as he ripped his eyes away, just so they could collide with one body after the other scattered around the registers and along the front aisle, their own individual growing puddles adding to the nauseous smell and horrid images burning into his retinas. His gag reflex kicked in with a vengeance.
Gut erupting like a pissed off volcano, Cory’s teeth clacked together upon a tight yank on his collar, instantly cutting off the oxygen supply and trapping the burning cesspool at the hollow of his throat. Arms flapping, he stared at a length of blood-spattered tiles strewn with shell casings and then the pristine whitewashed sidewalk as Brian hustled him to the opposite end of the building and away from the grownups.
Hands and knees smashing against the green grass still covered in silky dew, Cory hurled everything he remembered eating this morning, and probably some from last night, until all he could do was live through the dry heaves and inwardly curse from watching half of the gross shit splashing across the weapon he failed to re-holster. Fuuuck me.
Through a veil of liquid leaking from his eyes, he saw Brian retrieve several bottles of water and a rag out of the patrol car while motioning for the other two officers to enter the store. Determined not to keep looking like a rank puss of the highest order, Cory two-fingered the butt of his gun, jumped to his feet, and shoulder rolled around the building’s edge. Back smacking against the hot brick to keep from ass planting, he held the weapon out as far as his arm could reach and observed a calm hand pouring water from trigger to barrel before draping it with the cloth.
“You need to clean it good tonight. Lots of oil. Lift your right shoe.”
On autopilot, Cory obeyed, thankful he had nothing left to offer the grass as Bryan splashed the sole to rid it of the blood he carried from the scene. He chugged half the offered bottle to chase away the rank taste of his failure. Somewhat recovered, he nodded and managed to find his words. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Attempts to explain his insanity were futile, so he focused on dabbing up the water clinging to the gun. There was nothing to say. He choked in a career defining moment. Plain and simple. Cory’s massive pride backed up into a far corner of his brain, and he figured it might never come out again from pure shame.
“He’s here.”
Cory caught Brian staring at a dull-gray, Ford Crown Vic making an unhurried jaunt across the parking lot. He knew it had to be police by the black ramming bar attached to the front grill and an alley light fixed over the driver side mirror. The heavily tinted windows and no insignia perked his interest.
“Is it a detective’s car?” he managed to croak out.
“Yep.”
The vehicle performed a perfect half-circle and came to a halt two slots over from the store’s cart receptacle. “Old piece of shit,” he said under his breath. Brian caught it anyway.
“It may look ancient but outruns whatever you throw at it. Max won’t drive anything else.”
“Max?”
“Detective Maxwell Browning. It’s Senior Detective, but you’ll never hear him say it. Good cop. Tough. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Still holds the record. He came in at twenty-two right out of the Marine Corps. By twenty-six he made vice. Moved to homicide seventeen years ago. Knows his stuff.”
Cory knew Brian wasn’t full of shit as Detective Browning exited the vehicle. There wasn’t an ounce of newness anywhere on the man. He caught sight of calm features some might even call handsome, strong jawline, thick slashing brows, and a nose experiencing a break at one time. Browning appeared to be in his early fifties since only the sides of his short black hair were doing a little of the salt-n-pepper thing. He reckoned the guy close to six-two, if not already there.
“Damn, he’s big,” Cory whispered.
“For sure. Keeps in shape too. If he’s not pulling a long case, you can catch him at the precinct gym at five every morning. I think he’s ran a groove into the track.”
The athletic build became clear when he removed the dark suitcoat matching the pants and hung it up in the back. A time worn leather gun holster cinched over thick shoulders conformed to his wide back. The black dress shoes were clean, but not too shiny. He couldn’t imagine a brute like this wearing anything but combat boots. He nudged Brian on the arm.
“Don’t they usually roll in pairs? I don’t see anyone else inside.”
“Just Max. Lost his partner, Fergus McLellan. Died on the job eight years ago. Won’t take on another one. Tried. Doesn’t work.”
“Ah.”
Browning rolled the sleeves on the white dress shirt, revealing thick forearms. He stuffed a small notepad and a couple of blue surgical gloves into his back pants pocket. After a quick adjustment to a thin black and grey tie, he glanced up. Piercing blue eyes zeroed in on the two of them. His chin raised in time to Brian’s respectful nod. The man’s walk was slow and purposeful, as if strolling up to a bowling alley for a relaxing game and a bucket of beers with his homies. If anything, the dude was comfortable in his own skin.
“Hey, Max,” Brian called out.
“Brian. Long time. You first on scene?”
The deep, rugged voice didn’t surprise Cory in the least. It fit him.
“Yeah, but Martinez and Higgins are inside clearing the premises. Butch just arrived. He’s keeping the witnesses on the other side of the building by the ice machines. It’s beyond fucked in there. You’ll want to talk to the guy in camo leaning against my unit. You catch the call out?”
“Yep. One perp. Female.