Restoration
Chapter 16
"Hey, what's going on over there?" John wonders, spotting a confrontation in front of the improvement store.
Harper pulls up in front of two arguing men, just as one of them throws a punch, knocking his adversary to the ground. "Move in there, Boot," Harper orders.
Nolan blocks the attacker as he charges the downed man. "That's enough! You've already committed assault, don't make it worse."
The furious assailant struggles to get around Nolan. That sonofabitch is interfering with my livelihood. Urban renewal, my ass! My company should be knocking the city's precious buildings down."
"You can make your objections at the City Council meeting, the would-be victim protests. Officer, Nolan, is it? I'm not interested in pressing charges, just keep him away from me."
"I witnessed a crime, Sir, and this man may present a continuing threat," Nolan explains, snapping cuffs on his prisoner while Harper stands ready to grab her weapon. " I have to take him in, and I'll need your statement. What's your name?"
"George Abbot, I'm Councilman George Abbot."
"Hey, you're my councilman," Nolan realizes. "If you're interested in renewal, there's something I'd like to talk to you about."
"My door is always open to my constituents, Officer Nolan. You can call my office to make an appointment."
"Nolan, I know that look," Nyla asserts after John finishes processing their suspect. "You're playing white knight again."
"What I'm doing is planning to talk to my duly elected representative," Nolan insists. "It was a lot easier back in Foxburg. I put in a kitchen island for the mayor, and we could just go out for a beer. But an opportunity practically landed in my lap here, and I'm not about to waste it."
Lucy huddles in the corner of the couch in her apartment. She didn't get much sleep the night before, afraid that the minute she closed her eyes, even without calypso music, she'd be back in Caleb's drum. Before Jackson left for roll call, she assured him she'd be fine. She lied. She considers calling her mother for the list of PTSD specialists she'd so blithely suggested Lopez get for Wesley. But sh*t, can she go back to work if she's seeing a therapist? Can she make it back to work if she doesn't see a therapist? She doesn't know.
Reaching for the remote, she turns on the TV as a distraction. That won't solve her problem, but right now, she wants to think about something besides her abduction — anything else. She scans through the listings on the cable guide. A Hallmark movie could be what she needs. She's always been a sucker for happy endings, and she can use one more than ever.
"Found a suspect," Bradford informs Armstrong, rapping his knuckles against a file. "This guard is the perfect prey for Rosalind."
"Why's that?" Armstrong asks.
"He worked his way through a criminal justice degree selling Bamway products."
"Right," Armstrong picks up. "Multilevel marketing under the control of a charismatic leader. It's almost a cult. He'd have to be completely devoted to the pitch to make it work. If one Svengali can manipulate him, he can be manipulated by another. What's his name?"
"Stephen Samuelson."
"Figures. New Testament martyr with implied Old Testament ancestry. What's his connection to Rosalind?"
"He works the night shift in the wing where she's in solitary. He'd have been with her when Hernandez was gone. The other cons would have been down for the night. Perfect opportunity for her to pull his strings."
"Yes, it would have been," Armstrong considers. "I believe that tonight we'll pay a call on Officer Samuelson. You might want to catch some sleep before then."
Bradford shrugs. "Maybe. I thought I'd go check on Chen."
"Go easy," Armstrong advises.
"That's what everyone is probably doing," Bradford assumes. "I saw West wrapping up the best doughnuts from the break room to bring to her, and I heard Nolan ordering flowers for her. Maybe she could use a dose of normal. I know that after I was shot, that's what I wanted. Cops aren't made out of tissue paper."
"But we're made out of flesh and blood, Bradford," Armstrong reminds him. "We need time to heal, and after what happened to her, she may need a lot of time."
"Chen is tough," Bradford insists, remembering how Lucy stood up to him about Isabel. "If anyone can fight their way through this, she can."
Stomach lurching, Lucy looks through the peephole before opening the door for Bradford. "Boot, have you been crying?" he asks brusquely, noticing the dampness of her lower lashes. "You're not sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, are you? Haven't I taught you anything? A cop's got to be able to take it."
"It was just a stupid movie," Lucy insists. "The girl marries the prince of some imaginary country, and they live happily ever after."
"Cinderella, huh? The only movie like that that made sense to me was "Pretty Woman," and Gere was still an asshole. But if you've got time to waste watching fairytales, you've got time to help me study for my sergeant exam," Tim declares, pulling a paperback out of his back pocket. The chief just decided to throw another old reference at me, and there aren't any recordings. You do a passable job of reading out loud."
"Passable, huh?" Lucy throws back. "Give me the damn thing! You're going to get a higher grade on your sergeant exam than Nolan did on his rookie test."
Tim gives her the book. "If you think you can handle it."
"Just listen," Lucy commands.
By the time Nolan calls George Abbot's office on his dinner break, it's closed. Sure. Cops work 24/7, but city offices keep regular hours. John leaves a voicemail but doesn't have much hope that anything will come of it. But he'll try tomorrow on his lunch break and keep trying. He's not about to give up on his idea because he has to make a few phone calls. He can remember having to make 20 or 30 of them to nail down some of his construction contracts.
At least he should be able to call Grace. She usually grabs dinner around this time too. He owes her, big time. He thought about sending her flowers when he sent some to Lucy, but he prefers something more up close and personal. With as little time as Grace has with her son, maybe he can include Oliver in the plan. Other than sugary cereal, he has little idea what the boy likes. The easiest thing to do is ask Grace, but he wants to have a few options in mind before he does.
John glances across the table at Nyla, who just picked up the special order sub she'd been waiting for. He's never seen one with that many hot peppers on it before, but after the time she spent undercover at the border, he shouldn't be surprised. "Harper, you grew up in L.A. What did you and your friends like to do when you were kids, like about eight years old?"
Nyla gazes over the top of her sandwich. "Which, I'm guessing, is how old Grace's son is."
"Score one for the detective. Yeah, Oliver is eight," John admits. "So, aside from the obvious theme parks, what do you think?"
"I think you're asking the wrong person, Boot. I didn't grow up in the same neighborhood as a doctor's son. Ask Grace, or ask the kid."
"Or maybe I'll ask West."
Nyla shakes her head and takes another bite of her sandwich.