A woman of valor, p.3
A Woman of Valor, page 3
After a moment, his lips eased into another smile. “Fathers can be that way, can’t they? So, did you ever tell him?”
“Tell who, what?” Her face grew warm.
“Your dad. Whatever he was asking about. Did you ever tell him?”
“Hell, no.” She grimaced. “We, uh, didn’t have the closest relationship. Still don’t.”
“Closer to your mom, then?” His tone seemed innocent enough, but his eyes bore into her with savage intensity. Nothing innocent or casual about this conversation.
She shook her head again. “Mom left when I was fourteen. Haven’t seen her since. Things...weren’t good at home.”
“Ah. Well.” His expression softened. Whatever he’d been looking for from her, he’d found it. “I’m sorry to hear that. Well, let’s get going. We’ll never catch any bad guys in here.” He stood and gestured toward the door with his cap.
With a sigh of relief, Val stood and followed him out. That conversation had veered close to troubled waters—dangerously close. She’d trusted him right away, more than any man since Uncle Val. He had a way of putting her at ease while challenging her protective shell. Depending on the type of guy Gil was, that could spell trouble. She made a mental note of it.
***
“Where do you live, Val?” Gil guided their cruiser east on Albany Avenue. He had taken her out on patrol immediately after her new-employee orientation session ended—forty minutes of pep talks and PowerPoint presentations by desk jockeys. Probably the same people that made the coffee.
“Not far from here.” She pointed out her passenger-side window. “Three blocks from that coffee shop, toward the cemetery. About a fifteen-minute walk from the precinct.”
“Me too.” He nodded. “We’re practically neighbors.”
“No kidding?” She turned toward him. “I thought you lived in South End.”
He scoffed. “Hell no. On a cop’s salary? I wish.” He peered through the windshield at the group of African-American youths loitering outside a boarded-up pawn shop. “This spot’s usually trouble,” he said. “These kids have no jobs, nothing to do, no parents—or none paying attention, anyway. We have to keep an eye on them.”
“What are their names?”
He gave her a quizzical, sideways stare. “Names?”
“Yeah. Like Gil, Valorie, John Doe. You know. Names.”
“Don’t be such a smartass.” He almost suppressed a grin. “I don’t know their real names. Just their nicknames. Well, for most of ’em.” They passed the gang at low speed. “The tall one, he’s called Pope. No idea where the nickname came from, but it fits. He’s the leader. Whatever he says is Gospel to The Disciples.”
“Disciples?”
“That’s what they call themselves. The gang.” He pointed to another member of the gang. “That one there, the little guy? Seems to be one of Pope’s favorites. They call him Dog.”
She laughed. “I don’t recall any of the original twelve disciples being called ‘Dog’.”
“Historical accuracy ain’t their thing. Ruling the streets, on the other hand...”
Val craned her neck to watch the group stare back at her as they passed. “Let’s swing back around and talk to them.”
“Later,” Gil said. “If we go back now, they’ll scatter, thinking we’re gonna bust their asses for something. Not that we shouldn’t. They’re always up to something.”
“You have quite the outlook on life.” She turned back toward him. “So, did you move to Liberty Heights when you transferred, or have you always lived here?”
“When I transferred. I lived in the Barry Square area before, east of Maple. Another lovely spot.” He wagged his head and snorted. “Hell, I got robbed twice down there myself. Those bastards are nervy.” He stopped at a light and checked something in the rear-view mirror.
“I’ll say. Robbing a cop? Off-duty, I take it.”
“Well, burgled, to be more precise. Ripped off my TV, stereo, and a couple hundred in cash. Even a gun, the first time.”
“Service revolver?” Her eyes widened.
“No. Little .22 pistol I kept around. I’ve always had my own guns.” The light changed. He put the car back in motion. “In this line of work, it pays to be familiar with a variety of weapons.” He turned onto a side street and drove through the neighborhood.
“What do you mean?” She frowned. “The .38s they give us pack plenty of pop, they’re reliable, and accurate as pistols go. Why do you need a .22?”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, then shrugged. “I see Uncle Val didn’t teach you all the inside dope on policing.”
“N—no,” she said. “Hey, take a right here.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Okay. Why?” He slowed for the turn.
“I want to get back to Albany Avenue and walk around a little. Maybe meet the Pope and his Disciples.”
“Ay caramba, you are persistent,” he said. “In due time, and I’ll warn you. They’re gonna have fun with you.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“A woman with a gun. I can smell their pheromones from here.”
Val sighed. “And you’re one of the progressive men on the force?”
Gil grinned as he took another right, heading north toward Albany Avenue. “You wait. You’re going to meet some guys that make me look like Hillary Clinton.”
“Ew,” she said.
Gil laughed. “I rest my case.” He pulled the squad car over and parked. “Okay, Officer Dawes. Time to meet and greet. Your first hour of community policing has begun.”
Chapter Four
The good old boys at the station rewarded Val for showing up early on her second day with donut duty. Rather than protesting, she took requests for special varieties and filed away the memory for her own first opportunity to haze new recruits. Juggling the donuts and a tray of coffees in one hand, she reached to lift the door handle of her cruiser with the other. A mocking male voice greeted her from behind.
“So this is the famous new police officer, the one and only Valorie Dawes.”
Val’s hand froze on the handle. She took a deep, calming breath and turned to face the sneering figure one car away in the parking lot. “Have we met?”
The man’s tall, lanky body seemed a mismatch to the mocking baritone emanating from within. His dress shirt hung loose about his slender torso, and amber transition lenses shaded his dark eyes. Thick, brown waves of hair framed his long, angular head. “Val Dawes. Everyone knows that name. Clayton’s hero. Do you hope to be a hero, too, Miss Dawes?” The final few words echoed off the buildings framing three sides of the urban parking lot.
Her face flushed, and color rose from her neck to her cheeks. Less than two full days on the force, and already it had started. “I just want to be the best cop I can be, Mister...?”
Tall Boy extended his hand across his bright blue Subaru WRX. “Paul Peterson, Clayton Copwatch. I believe you’ve met my cousin Benjamin.”
She shivered. Ben Peterson had once mentioned his cousin. Ben had described Paul as smart, tenacious, and arrogant—quite the combination, given Ben’s own penchant for looking down his nose at the rest of humanity.
“Of course,” she said. “Now I notice the resemblance.” And she had to admit, his serpentine smile aside, Paul was far more handsome than Ben. She gave his hand a quick, polite shake. “Well, my partner’s waiting for me. Better go.”
“He lets you drive?” Peterson’s tone grew even more derisive. “This department’s going soft. First women cops. Now the rookies drive. What’s next? Weekend retreats? Strategic planning meetings? ‘Kumbaya, my lord! Kumbaya!’” Peterson’s laughter drowned out the echoes of his booming singing voice.
“Don’t give up the day job.” Val hopped inside her cruiser before Peterson could respond. That idiot! She couldn’t get away from him fast enough. She turned the key, shifted into reverse and, a moment before looking over her shoulder, jammed her foot on the gas.
Crunch! She heard her error before she felt it: the crumpling of metal and smashing of glass, universal sounds of the low-speed fender-bender. A quick glance behind her confirmed it. She’d hit another car passing in back of hers. And not just any car: a Clayton Police cruiser.
“Heroic move, Dawes!” Peterson grinned. “Take out two patrol cars in one blow, without even leaving your parking space. Did you learn that at the academy, or was this something your uncle taught you?”
She scrambled out of the vehicle. “Don’t you have someplace to be? There must be a politician who needs investigating somewhere.”
“Oh, I’m right where I’m supposed to be.” He leaned on the other cruiser’s hood. “After all, a witness should never leave the scene, now should he, Officer Dawes?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Val said, about ready to spit. “Go ahead and quit the day job.”
“Strikes me,” he said, his grin widening, “that’s more your problem than mine.”
The officer driving the impacted cruiser, a tall, overweight, middle-aged man with a thin crown of short brown hair, got out and inspected the damage: a dented and scratched passenger door on his car, a crumpled rear fender and smashed tail light on hers. “What the hell, Dawes?” he said. “Don’t they teach kids to drive these days?”
She noticed his three chevrons, read his nameplate. “A. Papadopoulos.” She held up her hands in surrender. “Sorry, sir. My fault.”
“No kidding,” he said. “Holy cannoli, look at this mess.” He walked around the vehicle to inspect more of the damage.
“Well, Ms. Dawes,” Peterson said, “this all works out nicely for my next blog entry. Supports my theory, you know?”
“What theory? What story?” Val spun back to glare at him. “Are you kidding me? Is news so slow that you report on fender-benders in parking lots?”
“It appears to this reporter,” he said, shaking his head in disdain, “that the rumors are true. You got hired because of your uncle’s reputation, rather than any ability you might have. The great Val Dawes. What a tragic next chapter to his fine legacy.”
“Did I do something to offend you?” Val said between clenched teeth. “Or does hatred of me run in your family?”
“Just keep in mind, Officer Dawes,” Peterson said with contempt dripping in his voice, “that I’ll be watching you. Like a hawk, Dawes. Like a hawk.” With that, Peterson jumped in his Subaru and sped off, laughing.
***
Filing the accident report took nearly an hour, making Val late for her scheduled shift. She hitched a ride with another officer heading out on patrol and found Gil in a city-owned parking lot on Woodland Avenue. He sipped coffee from a paper cup and leaned against their replacement cruiser, the sun setting behind him.
“I heard about your driving skill demonstration,” he said with a grin. “So, have we discovered your one weak spot—your skill behind the wheel?”
“One weak spot?” she said. “If you’re making a list, you’d better have a lot of paper and pencils handy.”
He laughed. “Ah, such modesty. Now, where are those donuts you promised?”
She slapped her forehead. “What an idiot! I left them at the precinct, along with two ice-cold cups of coffee.” She buried her face in her hands. “What kind of cop can I be if I can’t even do donuts right!”
“Yeah, you’re doomed,” Gil said in mock seriousness. “Bad driving and no donuts. That’s two flaws discovered in one day. Not a good trend, Dawes.”
They walked in silence along Woodland for a few blocks. Gil pointed to an apartment building looming ahead. “That’s Clayton Heights. Public low-income housing. The few men that live there spend most of their days in jail and their nights running from us. We’ll knock on a lot of doors in there.”
She nodded. “Mmm.” She examined the sorry-looking tower of brick and glass covered in graffiti, grime, and hopelessness. A series of fire escapes rusted in the moonlight. Maybe she could get Peterson to do a story on housing conditions. Anything to get him off her case.
“And over there, that convenience store?” Gil pointed to a brightly lit, squat square of concrete on the corner. “Guy named Taufiq runs it. He’s a good guy. From Bangladesh, I think. Free coffee to men and women in blue, and he keeps his eyes and ears open.”
“Taufiq. Okay, good to know.” She rubbed her arms against the night chill, wondering if the department would dock her pay for the accident.
Gil eyed her with a curious stare. “Come on, Dawes. Shake it off. It’s just donuts...oh, yeah, and a patrol car. We’ll all have a good laugh over it in a week.”
“It’s not only that.” She stopped walking, fighting for words, not sure how much she should tell Gil.
Hell, he was her partner. She had to trust him.
“I smashed that car—make that cars—right in front of that jerk who writes that awful cop-watch blog, Paul Peterson.”
“Peterson?” Gil shook his head. “He’s a nobody. Don’t worry about him.”
“I don’t want to start out with some big exposé hanging over me and sullying my family’s legacy,” she said. “My uncle would roll over in his grave.”
“Forget the press scum, and especially bloggers like Paul Peterson,” Gil said. “Don’t sink to his level.”
“I don’t think there’s a chasm deep enough for me to get to his level,” Val said, but she grinned. Gil’s upbeat dismissal of Peterson was infectious.
“Don’t let him get to you. He’s a schmuck.” Gill pulled her down the sidewalk by the arm. “Besides, we’ve got a big night planned. You’re going to meet Pope.”
She stepped ahead of Gil and spun around to face him, walking sideways down the street. “How do you know he’ll be out tonight?”
“I just do. Trust me.”
She made a sour face. “Gil, remember our talk yesterday, about being really open and honest with each other? If I’m going to be effective, you need to fill me in on how to reach these guys. If I don’t—”
“Just trust me, okay?” Gil soft-punched her arm. “After you meet him, you can think about how to stay in touch. Or if. And it’s not entirely up to you. He has a say in this too. In the meantime, watch and learn.”
Val blew out a loud breath, turned forward, and fell into step next to Gil. They circled the block, back to where Gil had parked the patrol car. “Okay,” she said. “Flip you for who’s driving?”
“Flip me?” He grinned. "I’d never take a bet like that with someone who knows jiu jitsu.” He handed her the keys. “When we see The Disciples, drop me off and circle the block, then look for my signal. If I wave, pick me up. If not, park and come join me.”
“So mysterious.” She clicked the remote to unlock the cruiser. “Why aren’t we using our secret watch radios?”
“They’re in the shop, with your car.” Gil smirked and climbed into the cruiser.
She started the engine. “Is this standard protocol, you meeting with gang members alone?”
“Who writes protocols, Dawes?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “Bureaucrats?”
“And what do bureaucrats know about interacting with gangs?” he asked. “Nothing, that’s what. Now drive.”
He remained silent for the next few minutes. Maybe her driving made him nervous, after all. Then again, he never held back when he had something to say, particularly if it gave him an opportunity to tease her. She turned onto Albany Street and drove until they reached the spot where the gang usually congregated.
“They’re not here.” She slowed the car to a near-stop.
“Keep going,” Gil said. “This isn’t where we’re meeting them.”
“The mystery deepens.” They passed another closed-up shop, then a second-run movie house.
“Pull up here,” Gil said.
She shot him a quizzical glance, but did as she was told.
“Now, remember the plan. Circle once and look for me.”
“Where?”
“Just keep your eyes open.” He got out and walked to the corner of the building, a dimly lit area populated by trash dumpsters and the remains of a few locked-up bicycles. She drove off, shaking her head. While she shared his disdain for bureaucracy and ill-informed rules, leaving him alone there made her nervous.
It took several minutes to make the circuit. When she returned to the front of the theater, Gil stood in the center of a ring of black youths. He faced away from the street, but he turned and nodded when she passed.
She parked the cruiser in a convenience store lot around the block and jogged back to Gil and the gang. She paused when they came into view, waiting for a signal. Gil stood a few feet from the man he’d called Pope, a hulk of a man in his late twenties with a broad, expressionless face. Easily six-four, two-fifty, probably bigger, with a series of gold rings adorning each earlobe. Two shorter, bulkier giants stood on each side of him, the positions of rank in the gang, each with a smaller set of gold earrings. Several younger boys, none over the age of eighteen, spread out in either direction.
“Your girlfriend’s here,” one of the smaller boys on the fringe of the group said to Gil. With his skinny frame and girlish voice, he couldn’t have been older than fourteen.
“Who’s talking to you?” Gil spat, his back still to Val.
“Yeah. Keep your dumbass trap shut, Dog,” one of the bigger guys next to Pope said, spitting at Dog’s feet. Dog dodged the spit and pounded one fist on his chest, but said nothing.
“You got new pussy?” Pope grinned at Gil. Gil still hadn’t turned to look at her.
Val’s cheeks burned in the cool night air. There were no women in this group, not even the hookers and meth queens she’d expected to find. She slowed her pace.
“She’s my partner. You should meet her.” Gil waved one hand over his shoulder. “Come on, Dawes. Show the Disciples your pretty weapon.”
“Woo!” the guys yelped. “Forget the gun,” one of them added. “Show us your pretty little titties.” Another Disciple slapped him a high-five and several of them laughed.
Warm-faced, Val strode into the circle, bumping Gil on purpose as she passed. She didn’t turn to see his almost-certain glare. Two could play this game.
