“By the power vested… lift your right hands, both of you.” They do, both sober as two judges, puke-covered ones. “By the power vested in me, an official of the Portland Police Bureau and an official of this city, I’m ordering you to go upstairs and do what you’re supposed to be doing on your friggin’ honeymoon.”
Tommy looks at me incredulously.
“Partner?” I prompt, nodding my head toward the couple.
“What? Oh, uh, yes.” He turns to Bruce. “He’s right,” Tommy says. “It’s official now.”
“But maybe you and I could—”
“Hildie, stop,” I say, putting my index finger to my lips. “I have just given you and Bruce an official—official—police order to go upstairs and go to bed. Now go!”
“Okay, okay,” Bruce giggles. He looks at Tommy, who gestures that he’s free to go. The groom walks over to his bride.
“Take his hand, Hildie,” I say. She does. “Now go upstairs. And don’t trip over that dinette on the steps. By the way, how did the dinette get… never mind. Just go upstairs.”
“Yes, sir,” Bruce says seriously.
“Yes, sir,” Hildie says, slipping her arm around her husband’s waist. They kiss, and for the third time in ten minutes, my breakfast muffin creeps up the back of my throat. They manage to maneuver around the dinette before stopping to look down at us.
“Go on, you’re doing fine,” I say with a wave of my hand. “We’ll just let ourselves out.” They smile and Hildie gives me a little wave. They stumble about, interlace their arms and head up the stairs.
“Ready?” I say to Tommy, heading toward the door.
“Incredible,” he says, following me. “You ordered them to—”
“You beat them mother fuckers?” the white-haired woman calls out from her porch.
“Within an inch of their life, ma’am,” Tommy says with a salute.
Three minutes later, I skid to a stop at a Shell service station restroom. Tommy bails out before I can and dashes into the restroom to wash every inch of exposed skin. I go in when he returns, though I’d prefer to take a complete shower or, better yet, go to a furniture stripping place and let them hose me down with scalding steam. I spent four years in college so I can communicate with puke-covered newlyweds?
Tommy is talking into the mic as I get back behind the wheel. “Don’t tell me we got a call back to the lovers’ house?” I ask.
He’s scrawling an address down in his notebook. “No, it’s an intruder call, about ten blocks over in that new Argay Park area. Twenty-three seventy-five on Oak.”
“Cars responding. Complainant’s hysterical. We think she’s saying that her son is still inside the house. Intruder kicked through a backdoor, struck the complainant… Okay, we just got this in: Another caller can hear a man yelling on the second floor. Units responding to twenty-three seventy-five southeast Oak, give me your numbers again.”
“Six-Forty, we’re stuck behind a disabled truck on the HawthorneB ridge.”
“Six-Fifty, I’m at least eight minutes away.”
“Six-Five-Five I’m there now.”
“Let’s do it,” I say, guiding our car back out onto the street.
“Four-Forty is close,” Tommy says into the mic.
“We ought to just put on uniforms and start taking calls,” I say over the roar of the accelerating engine.
“This is Six-Five-Five. I’ve got the complainant. A blind woman. Really out of it. What I’m getting is that the suspect, her sense is that he’s white and tall, smashed through her backdoor, kicked her in the stomach and charged up the stairs. Says her seven-year-old son is up there. Don’t know if the man is armed. Don’t know if he’s got the boy. How close is my cover?”
“Betcha it’s another family fight,” Tommy says. “If so, it’s yours. I bow to the master.”
Yup, that’s me. The guy who settles other people’s relationship problems all the while mine is nutso. “There’s Six-Five-Five. Flashing lights up there, mid block,” I say, pressing the throttle even harder. “And that must be the complainant standing by the marked unit.”
“Four-Forty’s arrived,” Tommy tells dispatch. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Sam, and Six-Five-Five. Wow, look at these houses. I haven’t been here since they’ve finished the area. At least a million five smackers each.”
“Where’s the officer, ma’am?” I ask, climbing out of the car.
She turns part way toward me, hugging herself, her eyes looking slightly off to the side, not focused.
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Reeves. Where’s the police officer?”
“House,” she sobs. “The man… he screamed. The officer… said he couldn’t wait.. Please, get my baby. He’s upstairs.”
“Is the man your husband,” Tommy asks.
“What? No no no. My husband is in California… on business. He—”
A horrific scream rips from a second-story open window, human, but beast-like. It’s like the scream of a bobcat my grandfather and I once found in the woods, its leg caught in a steel-toothed trap. Grandfather shot it to put it out of its misery. I was thirteen.
“That’s not… Jimmy,” the mother wheezes.
I take off at a sprint toward the house. “Come on, Tommy,” I call over my shoulder. “Dispatch,” I say into my portable radio. “Six-Five-Five is in the house and my partner and I are going in. Have the next unit secure the back and another secure the front.” We stop on the porch, each of us taking a side of the door.
“Be advised that the last we heard from Six-Five-Five was that he was standing on the stairs waiting for backup.”
“Copy that,” I whisper into the radio; I shut it off. “You got your radio off, Tommy?”
“Yup. Look, the door’s ajar. Probably from when mom came out or maybe when Six-Five-Five went in.”
I nudge it open another three or four inches and quick-peek around the frame: expanse of burgundy rug, edge of a black leather sofa, lit lamp. My heart is thumping hard but I’m in control. I thought I’d be a little rusty after two months away but I feel good. I’m on it.
I’ll go right, you go left,” I whisper, removing my nine from under my sports coat. Tommy already has his out.
“Now,” I whisper, gripping my weapon with both hands and angling it toward the floor. I push the door the rest of the way open and step quickly to the right. Tommy steps in behind me, moving left.
It’s a beautiful living room filled with rich leathers, marble, and expensive-looking art pieces. There’s an archway at the far side, through which I can see the bottom steps of a spiral stairway. As we move closer, I see black shoes and blue pant legs farther up the stairs. I nod toward them.
Tommy whispers, “Uniform pants, I think. Let me move over for a better see… Yes, it’s Six-Five-Five.”
We inch slowly across the plush carpet toward the archway, each step exposing more and more of the officer. Not until we’re all the way through the arch can we see all of him near the top of the carpeted stairs, his overweight body leaning for support against a richly varnished banister, his .45 semi-auto gripped in both hands. Name’s Mitchell Heiberg, mid forties. He looks down at us, the relief obvious in his face. He gestures with his head toward the hallway at the top of the stairs.
“One man,” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth. “First