"Okay, Miss Peterson, just take your time and let us know if any of these look familiar." Steve smiled encouragingly.
The heavyset young brunette with the cats-eye glasses watched nervously as the detective left the room, turning her attention to the book of colour photographs and magazine clippings on the desk in front of her.
His eyebrows raised, Steve crossed the bullpen to where Devitt was standing near the coffee station, filling a mug. "Well, let's just hope she recognizes something. It's not much but it's a start."
Cathy Peterson had been returning home very early in the morning after her overnight shift at a nearby hotel when she'd spotted a yellow sports car backing out of the alley between two buildings on California near Gough, and where John Allen Pressman's lifeless body had been found a few hours later. The up-and-coming young lawyer had been beaten to death somewhere else, his body dumped in the alley sometime the night before.
Desperate for anything that would help them in their investigation, which was so far going nowhere, Steve and Devitt had spent the previous night stopping everyone that was walking past the alley and asking if they had seen someone or something unusual on the night in question. It was a dubious gamble but one that had, pleasantly and unexpectedly, paid off when Miss Peterson told them she had indeed seen a car leaving that alley on the night in question. But other than the fact that it was yellow and fancy, the young woman had no idea what kind of car it was.
After making her promise she would show up at 850 Bryant the next morning to look at pictures in the hopes it would jog her memory, Devitt had called it a night. True to her word, she had arrived at 8 a.m., eager to help she'd said. Devitt was more than just a little convinced she was a little more eager to spend some time with the handsome young inspector.
Less than five minutes later, she was waving frantically. Both detectives entered the interview room. She pointed proudly at a picture in the book. "That's it. That's the car and the colour. I'd swear to it," she beamed, not taking her eyes off Steve.
He looked at the book then up at Devitt. "Camaro - Daytona Gold."
"Does it help?"
Steve smiled at her, piling on the charm. "It sure does. Thank you very much." He picked up the book and crossed to the door. "Captain Devitt will show you out," he said smoothly, shooting a mischievous glance in the captain's direction as he returned to his desk.
Wearing a bemused smile, Devitt saw the young woman to the door before stopping at Steve's desk. The younger man, on the phone, glanced up with a silent chuckle as Devitt, shaking his head in feigned irritation, sank into the guest chair. Steve hung up.
"I just asked for a list of all the 'Daytona Yellow' Camaro's in The City. They said it shouldn't take long."
"Good. Wouldn't it be nice if we could arrest someone today?" the captain chuckled.
Steve laughed. "When was the last time you actually arrested somebody?"
Devitt frowned comically. "Good question…" Laughing, he got up and started towards the inner office, turning back briefly at the door. "I better blow the dust off my handcuffs."
# # # # #
Mike looked up to see his new captain standing over his desk.
"How are you settling in?" Cassidy asked pleasantly as dropped into a nearby chair.
Mike bobbled his head. "Okay, I guess. Going out on my first call in a little while."
"Oh yeah? Which one is that?"
"Mrs. Ramsey? She's the one that said that Officer Patrick Dempsey deliberately ran her cat over with his motorcycle. She's been putting flyers up all over her neighborhood calling him a murderer." He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. "She says he's done it more than once, to other peoples cats, and that she has proof."
"Wow," Cassidy said straight-faced, "you got a real important one there, don't you?" His lips were twitching.
Mike swallowed a grin. "Yeah, ten weeks of this is going to be really… eye-opening…"
Beginning to chuckle, Cassidy got to his feet. "Well, consider it a vacation." He started to move away then turned back. "I'm sure something more interesting will turn up. Hang in there." With a wink, he continued on to his office.
Mike looked down and smiled to himself. He wondered what was going on in Homicide.
# # # # #
"I've got the address," Steve said, stepping to the inner office door as he started to roll his sleeves down.
Devitt's head snapped up, frowning.
"The list of Camaro owners. There's one that's very interesting. Richard Alan Palmieri, over in Noe Valley. He's got a record. Petty stuff, but still…".
Devitt had gotten to his feet and was slipping into his suitcoat. "What kinda stuff?"
Steve looked at the report on his desk as he picked his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged it on. "A couple of D'n'D's, one misdemeanor assault, a DWI, two petty thefts…"
"Doesn't sound like the resume of a murderer, does it?" Devitt asked rhetorically as they headed to the bullpen door.
"No, but maybe he's ambitious," Steve retorted as they stepped out into the busy corridor.
# # # # #
Steve and Devitt got out of the tan LTD, both of them staring at the three-storey building in front of them. They had already clocked the bright yellow Camaro parked down the block. Reflexively, and unobtrusively, both detectives unsnapped their holsters. Devitt nodded towards the narrow driveway that ran down the right side of the building.
Returning the nod, Steve started up the driveway. He knew the apartment they were looking for was on the second floor; they wanted to take no chances.
Devitt took the porch stairs two at a time. The glass-paned front door was locked. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. He looked at the name plate; there was no name alongside the buzzer for 2B. He pressed the one for 1A. After a long pause, there was a low buzz and he grabbed the door and opened it.
A middle-aged balding man, his paunch barely covered by a white t-shirt, glared at him from the open door of 1A. Devitt took his badge out and held it up, putting his other index finger to his lips as he crossed the short foyer to the staircase and started up. He stopped in front of 2B and knocked.
"Yeah," came the deep voice from inside.
"Mr. Palmieri, this is Captain Devitt, San Francisco Police. I'd like to ask you a few questions, sir."
There was a brief silence then, "Just a minute!"
Devitt heard a short, sharp series of thuds, like someone was running. Rearing back, he lifted his right leg and slammed it against the door. It held. He tried again.
Out in the alley behind the apartment building, Steve heard a window above his head open and he looked up to see a pair of legs appear through the window, pinwheeling, scrambling for some kind of purchase against the building wall as Palmieri scrambled out. Waiting till the tall, muscle-bound young man dropped heavily to the ground, Steve stepped forward, his .38 pointed at Palmieri's head. "Don't move," he growled and Palmieri froze. "Get on your knees and put your hands on your head."
With a frustrated grunt, Palmieri sunk to his knees, raising his hands towards his head. Steve reached behind himself to pull his cuffs off his belt. Above him, he could hear the sound of wood splintering, and he knew that Devitt had finally broken into the apartment.
Keeping the .38 trained on the back of Palmieri's head, he reached to snag the suspect's right forearm to slap the cuff on when Palmieri suddenly reared backwards, shooting to his feet with unexpected speed and agility, his right elbow snapping back to knock Steve's right hand away. He continued to spin, his right leg coming up in a martial arts move, his body leaving the ground as his right foot connected solidly with Steve's left forearm, the .38 flying from the detective's hand.
Then, in an almost continuous blur of motion, Palmieri's left hand, balled into a fist, continued the spiral move, connecting solidly with the right side of Steve's jaw; his head snapped back. Stunned, blood suddenly pouring from his mouth, the detective staggered.
Gaining his balance, Palmieri's right fist shot out, driving into the cop's ribs. Steve stumbled back, gasping for breath, moaning in pain as he dropped slowly to his knees, wrapping his arms around his body.
"Steve!" The distraught voice came from above and Palmieri glanced up briefly to see a grey-haired older man leaning out his apartment window. The panicked face disappeared.
With one last glance at the gasping, semi-conscious detective lying in the dirt, Palmieri turned and sprinted down the driveway towards the street.
The only sound in the back alley was the short, sharp, pain-filled breaths of the fallen detective. Suddenly the increasingly loud pounding of running feet could be heard as Devitt rounded the corner and slid to a stop, dropping to his knees beside his fallen colleague. "There's an ambulance on the way… Oh god, Steve…" His own chest heaving, he stared at the bloodied and obviously badly injured young man lying before him, not sure what, if anything, he could do. "You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay…" he repeated over and over, laying a comforting hand on the young man's arm as Steve struggled to take a breath.
And all Devitt could think was, 'Oh my god, Mike is gonna kill me…'.
# # # # #
Mike got out of the dark blue Galaxie and looked up at the four-storey beige stucco apartment building that had definitely seen better days. He took the piece of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it again, not bothering to put his glasses on: 4D. Of course it was the fourth floor, he thought with frustration as he stuffed the piece of paper back in his pocket and approached the wrought-iron gate with the peeling beige paint. It opened easily, with a squeak, obviously not locked. He hoped as much for the front door; it would make his life easier.
He leaned forward slightly to read the list of surnames on the nameplate but none of them were legible even if he did have his glasses on. With a snort, he reached for the front door knob and turned, waiting for it to be locked, and again was pleasantly surprised when it turned in his hand.
"It's my lucky day," he mumbled under his breath as he stepped into the dimly lit lobby and started up the stairs. He was only slightly winded when he got to the top floor, wondering how the old woman he was about to disturb ever managed to make it up and down those steps on a daily basis. Maybe she had live-in assistance, he thought as he started down the dark hallway. There was only one overhead light, and it was a dingy, fly-specked yellow.
There were six doors on the long narrow hallway; 4D was at the end on the left. It was quiet, he thought, his footsteps muffled by the soiled carpeting. The entire building was unusually quiet for a late weekday afternoon. He stopped in front of 4D and knocked. He froze briefly, listening; when there was no response he knocked again, louder. He thought he heard a soft thud from inside. "San Francisco Police, please open up, Mrs. -!"
There was a short, sharp thwack as a small part of the door splintered and Mike was thrown back against the opposite wall, his head slamming into the hard plaster. His left shoulder exploded in pain as his arm went numb. Black spots swam before his eyes as his legs gave out and he dropped heavily. He tried desperately to cling to consciousness as he slowly slumped to the floor, his left cheek coming to rest against the dirty carpet, his unseeing eyes slowly closing.
