Chapter 2

"You sure you want this heap, sir? We have plenty of nicer vehicles, Captain."

Ross scrawled his signature across the motor pool form. "It'll do just fine."

Officer Simmons handed over the keys with a shrug. Who could figure out captains anyway? "It's all gassed up. Shotgun and Kevlar in the trunk, standard radio gear, emergency supplies. There was a note about the wipers not working too well, and I'm not sure anyone had a chance to look at them yet."

"Everyone's short-handed, son. Hold down the fort." Ross ambled toward his vehicle of choice, an early nineties Camry, probably rescued from the impound lot years ago. He checked his service revolver and backup piece, trying to remember the last time he'd been on street patrol in plain clothes. The three-piece suit hung neatly in his office, replaced by jeans and a heavy sweater from his locker. The formal top coat looked a bit silly, but necessary. It was going to be a rainy, cold night, and if Goren and Eames got a little bit of rest, it would be worth it.

His stomach fluttered. Oh yeah, nerves. Who would have thought? After all these years, from the beat to detective to captain, the nerves were still there. Would it be routine? Would the next traffic stop be a drunk or a shoot-out? Time to find out.

He settled into the vehicle, adjusted the mirror, and studied his own reflection. He looked like shit. His own days had been long, right along with his detectives. This little burst of adrenaline would wear off. He could stop off at Starbucks and go for a double espresso or something. He pulled into traffic and started his solo patrol on the street, feeling confident and relaxed despite himself. What could happen in a couple of hours, anyway?

Ross signed off with dispatch. Three plus hours felt like three damn days. What a reality check. Next administrative meeting with the Chief of D's, he'd be raising hell. Every one of his fellow commanders should have to live this firsthand. It was so easy to forget, or block out those long ago patrol shifts.

It was one thing to see the shortage on paper, from his backside, comfortably ensconced behind a desk. His night was busy enough, but curiosity had moved him to monitor the radio traffic. Patrols were racing from one crisis to the next. Procedures were a fleeting memory. Crime scenes inadequately secured. The vast majority of detectives either on the task force or diverted to street patrol, Goren and Eames merely one case on point. Without timely investigative follow-up, evidence collection was a joke. The pitifully few arrests they might make would yield fewer convictions. The cases would be full of holes.

Calls were stacked up and response time wasn't worth shit. Most of the patrols were running solo. No one was free for backup. Only guardian angels and sheer dumb luck were keeping them safe. Both the cops and the city.

To top it off, the motor pool had been right. The damn wipers didn't work! He'd spent the night peering through blurry sheets of water. How many other vehicles were out there without proper maintenance, putting the officers and the public in danger? His head ached from eyestrain and frustration. He was going in, but damn if he wasn't coming back out. His butt could be out here on the line, just like everyone else.

His last call had been a breaking and entering called in by an elderly woman. The job was just too smooth, too practiced to be kids on a romp. A five-minute conversation with Mrs. Longmont had him fuming. Neighbors up and down the adjacent streets had been hit over the last few weeks. This was a gang on a roll, no doubt hitting homes they thought vulnerable. The department should have been all over these guys.

Ross gritted his teeth. The operative word was "should". He "should" have been able to get a forensics team. He "should" have gotten extra patrol in the area immediately. The department "should" have noted a pattern weeks ago and acted accordingly. No one had the time. Instead, the public got a desk jockey taking an extra look while heading back to the barn.

He crisscrossed the darkened neighborhood slowly. It was a long shot, but it wasn't unusual for operations like this to hit more than one house on a given night. The conditions definitely weren't in his favor. Mrs. Longmont was a relic leftover from an earlier time, still living in the home she'd shared with her husband for fifty some years. Gentrification hadn't made it this far. Homes, many of them rentals, were ill kept and poorly lit. A fair share of the streetlights had been broken while the remainder was burnt out. The rain had picked up, blurring his vision, behind the barely working wipers.

Then, there it was, a movement in a side yard. He continued down the block, turned the corner and cut the lights. It was a long shot, but he was too damn angry and frustrated not to try. It was also lousy recon, but so what? He'd never get backup here in time to do it right.

The alley would be his best bet. Flipping up the collar of his coat, Ross ducked into the driving rain and blended into the night.