Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

He turned to Oleg. “Mind your temper.”

Then he turned his eyes to Ridgeway. “I don’t like jamming up another cop,” he said, “but I figure you’ve got two choices. Sit down and be quiet for the rest of your shift, or I’ll call your boss and have him send someone who can.”

Ridgeway paused. He was almost tempted to let the little peckerwood carry through. It would get him out of this shit detail, and what was the worst that would happen? He might get a letter of reprimand for his demeanor. But at the same time, Ridgeway knew that this detail, shit or not, was part of the job. And he was a traditionalist when it came to doing your job. He returned to his chair by the door, sat down, crossed his arms, and sealed his mouth.

2056 hours

Thomas Chisolm was the last to arrive at the roll call table. He sat down, snapping the last of his belt keepers into place. He returned several hellos from his platoon mates and reached for a copy of the daily intelligence flyer. He glanced at his watch-three minutes to roll call. He skimmed through the intelligence information for anything specific to his sector, and listened to the customary banter around the table. Everyone seemed more subdued than usual.

When he finished with the flyer he took stock of the officers at the table. Kahn seemed just as abrasive and self-absorbed as usual. O’Sullivan made several attempts to draw Battaglia into a mock argument, but the dark-haired man didn’t bite. Instead he seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to Carson, who sat kitty-corner from him.

They exchanged several surreptitious glances that were glaringly obvious to Chisolm. He sighed inwardly. He would’ve figured that if anyone had started sleeping with Carson, it would’ve been Kahn. The man was notorious for such things. But Battaglia had never chipped around on his wife before this, at least not openly enough that Chisolm was aware of it. Now here he was fishing off the company pier.

Chisolm shook his head and pushed the intelligence flyer back into the center of the table. If this was true, it was going to be a problem. But before he could think about it any further, the roll call doors opened and Lieutenant Bill Saylor strode in. Behind him, shuffling along on crutches, came Officer Katie MacLeod. Chisolm smiled at the sight of her. She smiled back at him and the rest of the officers at the table.

Chisolm pulled out the chair next to him and Katie plopped into it.

“Hey, gimp,” O’Sullivan said. “Still nursing that little owie?”

“Still using your academy grades to get into the Special Olympics?” Katie retorted.

O’Sullivan smiled and nodded.

“How bad is it?” Chisolm asked.

Saylor called the room to order before she could answer. “Listen up,” he said. “There’s not a lot to go over tonight, but let’s get to it.”

He read off a pair of recent stolen vehicles, then turned to a memo. “As some of you probably know, the FBI is working the case against our local Russian criminal element. They’re currently in a surveillance mode, so the chief’s office wants you to be aware of that. Should they need our assistance on any operational need, we will respond. Also, we’re going to continue to help babysit their prisoner. Sergeant Shen’s sector has that duty tonight.”

Lieutenant Saylor turned the page and read off some more administrative matters before turning the roll call over to the sector tables.

Sergeant Shen looked around the table. “I believe it’s your turn, Officer Kahn,” he said.

Kahn groaned. “Don’t we go on seniority or something?”

Shen turned his attention to Katie. “We have our prodigal daughter back. At least for a moment. How’s the ankle?”

Katie shrugged. “Busted in a few places,” she said. “Once the swelling goes down a little bit more, they’re probably going to have to put in a pin or two.”

“Ouch,” Sully said. “You’ll never get out of Wal-Mart without showing your receipt again.”

“At least I won’t get busted for going through their garbage,” Katie said with a playful grin.

Sully’s eyebrows went up. “Whoa. That’s two in one night. Girl’s on fire.”

“How long before you’re back?” Sergeant Shen asked.

“Six to eight weeks,” Katie said, her grin fading. “Unless they have to operate. Then more like twelve.”

“What are they going to do with you until then?”

“It was on-duty injury,” she said. “So I have to work light duty. I’ll be down in Crime Analysis helping out Renee on all this Russian stuff.”

“So you’re some kind of expert now, huh?” Kahn said with a hint of a sneer.

“No,” Katie said. “But she wanted a cop’s perspective.”

Kahn grunted, but Katie ignored him. “After that,” she continued, “my guess is I’ll be out in dispatch.”

“That’ll be fun,” Sully said sarcastically.

“It’ll be fun for me,” she said, “when you and Batts end up going on every natural DOA or rape of a horse that comes in.”

Sully shook his head and mimicked a drum snare. “And there’s the hat trick,” he announced. Chisolm grinned. MacLeod still had it.

“All right,” said Shen. “Let’s hit the streets.”

2213 hours

Anthony Battaglia stared out the window of the patrol car. Houses jammed together like big city row houses flit by.

“This block always makes me think of Boston,” Sully said from the driver’s seat.

Battaglia knew it was an opening for him to say how the closest Sully ever got to Boston was watching a Red Sox game on TV. Instead he let the moment pass.

The two rode in silence for another several minutes. The radio squawked with the occasional service run, but the dispatcher didn’t call their number and none of the incidents were close enough to divert, so they just cruised through West Central on routine patrol. Battaglia was glad to have Sully back from his bout with food poisoning, but he didn’t feel much like talking.

“What’s the matter, goombah?” Sully finally asked. “You don’t like this district? Because we can switch with Kahn and work Hillyard tonight if you want.”

“I don’t care one way or the other,” Battaglia answered. His chest burned with indigestion. He wanted to blame it on the taco he’d eaten after they left the station, but he knew the truth. It was Carson.

He didn’t know what to do. He felt excited and alive with her. He felt like he was smart. It was different than with Rebecca; his wife made him feel dumb. In high school and for a long time after, it didn’t matter. He was the jock and she was the brain. It worked. But his physical prowess was slowly declining while her brain just seemed to keep getting sharper. Now she was writing fucking poetry, which he couldn’t make heads or tails out of, while he played recreational league softball.

It seemed to him that she was going places he couldn’t follow.

He avoided looking at Sully. If the Irishman got a good enough look at his face, he’d know something was up. That might be a relief. Battaglia wanted to talk to him about it. Sully was his partner. Hell, he was his best friend. But he knew what Sully would say and he wasn’t ready to hear it just yet.

“Your turn to be sick, lad?” Sully asked.

“Maybe.”

Maybe he should tell Sully. Maybe Sully wouldn’t jump his shit about it. Maybe he’d just be his friend and understand what Battaglia was going through, or at least try to. Maybe-

“You want me to run you home?” Sully asked. “Maybe you need some of Rebecca’s homemade chicken soup.”

Battaglia swallowed and shook his head.

“No?” Sully shrugged. “Okay. But if I were you, I wouldn’t miss a single opportunity to eat some of that woman’s soup.”