Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Ridgeway didn’t seem impressed. “Major Crimes can pound sand for all I care.”

Winter didn’t join the conversation. Ridgeway had become increasingly irritable over the past few weeks. More and more people knew about his wife’s affair, thanks to her openness and the couple’s common friends. Ridgeway might have been unhappy about losing her, but he was even unhappier about everyone knowing his business.

“You know what Kahn said to me?” Ridgeway asked.

“What?”

“That IA poster boy said that if I would have shot that copycat instead of smacking him, then Major Crimes would’ve never got an admission from him that he wasn’t the real Scarface.” Ridgeway shook his head ruefully. “Without the admission, Hart could then claim to the press that all these new robberies were copycats. He’d be so happy that he’d let me take Poole’s place as day shift lap dog.”

“That’s cold,” Winter observed. He felt sorry for Ridgeway and Gio. Nabbing the copycat at Silver Lanes was still a good pinch. The guy committed a first-degree robbery and they arrested him. But just like no one calls the loser of the Super Bowl the second best team in the NFL, almost getting Scarface didn’t quite cut it among the other officers. Everything on the police department was high-speed, low drag. This was particularly true in the patrol division.

“You know that arrest went to Internal Affairs?” Ridgeway asked.

Winter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why?”

“Use of force. Per Hart the El-tee Prick himself.” Ridgeway took a hard slug of his beer and signaled to Johnny that he wanted a shot. Then he turned to face Winter and Reiser. “You know what their main beef is?”

Both men shook their heads. Discussing Internal Affairs investigations, ongoing or otherwise, was strictly forbidden. Rarely did anyone observe that rule.

Ridgeway ticked off the facts on his fingers. “That radio didn’t broadcast anything specific about a gun. That I saw no weapon before I cracked him. That the fake gun was under the seat. And that using my gun as a striking instrument is forbidden in department policy and procedures.” He smiled bitterly.

Winter shook his head in disgust.

“I can’t believe that,” Reiser said. “ He just committed an armed robbery and he was reaching inside his jacket!”

Johnny set Ridgeway’s shot in front of him. Ridgeway threw it back and grimaced. “Imagine that. They said I could have justified shooting him but not pistol-whipping him. How ass-backward is that?”

No one spoke as Ridgeway continued.

“So let’s recap. My wife throws me over for a pansy fireman. Which everyone is now aware of because she is out there running her mouth. Then, instead of killing some dumb sonofabitch, I give him a headache. IA comes to talk to me and of course they have to send the Brass Bitch to do the interview. Four goddamn investigators in IA, one of them is a woman, and I get her. I just know she is going to recommend a finding of improper conduct.” Ridgeway’s voice rose as he spoke. “This shithead copycat robber will probably sue, in which case the department can step aside and lay all the responsibility on me. ‘Look, we gave him proper training. We never said he could hit somebody with his gun. He was operating outside the scope of his employment.’ So now Shithead Copycat gets to fight over my stuff with Alice and her little fireman. Now isn’t that all just absolutely, fucking wonderful !”

At the last word, Ridgeway slammed his palm against the table, rattling the glasses. Conversation in the bar stopped abruptly and all eyes turned to their table, including a disapproving look from Johnny. Winter held up his hand slightly and waved him off. Ridgeway stared at the table, oblivious to it all.

Winter and Reiser sat silently. In a few seconds, conversation again picked up throughout the bar. It took another few minutes for the dark cloud over the table to dissipate. Ridgeway brooded, feeding it.

Winter broke the silence, telling them about his encounter with Poole in the locker room.

“No kidding?” Reiser asked.

“No kidding. It was strange.”

“What do you expect?” Ridgeway asked. “His wife pulled the same thing on him that Alice did on me. If you throw in being Hart’s lackey, he’s got to feel like shit about life right now. I’m surprised he hasn’t eaten his gun yet.”

“Don’t say things like that, Mark,” Winter said, more sharply than he intended.

Ridgeway didn’t react to Winter’s rebuke. “I’m telling you,” he said darkly, “sometimes a guy thinks about things like that.”

Winter eyed Ridgeway closely. “But not you, right?”

Ridgeway grunted and took a slug from his glass.

“Mark?”

“What?”

“Not you, right?”

Ridgeway stared at him, expressionless. “No, Mother Winter. Not me.”

“Good.”

A short silence followed, then Winter waved for another round. “I volunteered for Hart’s task force,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“No lie?” Reiser asked, joining in the conspiracy.

“Yeah. I drew the rover position, tomorrow night. I think I’ll put my theory to the test.”

“Theory?” asked Reiser.

Before Winter could answer, Ridgeway broke in. “Just make sure you shoot him, Karl. Don’t be merciful. Mercy is for the weak.”

Reiser half-nodded. “Mark’s right, in a way. Not for the IA reason, but this guy is either really smart or really crazy. Either way, don’t fool around.”

“It’s drugs,” Ridgeway said. “He’s doing this to support a habit. Has to be.”

Winter had already come to that conclusion. He relayed his theory about the woman accomplice in a car to the two men. Both nodded.

“Sounds reasonable. Either that or he is an Olympic-class runner,” Reiser joked.

“Those druggies have no strength. They can’t run,” Ridgeway said. “You do have one thing on your side, though, Karl.”

“What’s that?”

Ridgeway grinned but there was no humor in it. “If his getaway driver is a woman, she will eventually screw him over.”

Winter and Reiser chuckled, but it did little to relieve Ridgeway’s black mood.

Winter rose, dropping a ten on the table. “Have a couple on me, gents. I’m going home before I start to believe all these evil lies about the fairer sex.”

Ridgeway and Reiser raised their bottles in salute as he left Duke’s.

Outside, the air remained comfortably warm but he could feel the cool promise of night. He was glad that Reiser would stay with Ridgeway a little longer. A man needed his friends at a time like this.

His Corsica started up without hesitation, and he let it idle for a minute before leaving the parking lot and driving toward home. He and Mary had planned for a late night dinner after choir practice and he was looking forward to it. Already, he could see Mary’s bright eyes dancing. He could feel her smallness as she pressed against him for a hug. He could smell her delicious cooking, a skill hard-won over the years. The woman couldn’t brew tea to save her life, but she could cook like nobody’s business. He could see her apron, perhaps splashed with flour or sauce and the small wine glass on the counter that she sipped on for hours before it was empty. And he knew he would soon taste the wine that would be on her lips.

2316 hours

T-Dog reached for the phone. When Morris said now, he meant right now , motherfucker.

He dialed the number from memory.

Jimmy answered. “Hello?”

T-Dog smiled at Jimmy’s nervous tone. That was good. It would make things easier. He waited a few moments before answering. He could almost smell Jimmy’s sweat on the other end of the line.