Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

Lincoln said, “We’ve got ours, too. What constitutes nasty?”

“Suspect engages in obviously threatening behavior or a hostage situation.”

Moroni said, “Or a nuclear bomb goes off.”

Lincoln said, “Nope, a bomb, we need to clear it with the ACL-Yooo.”

Milo said, “Assuming nothing happens God forbid, we’re stuck with a frontal entry because access to the back of the property is blocked by a serious gate.”

Lincoln said, “What about the rear neighbor?”

“High wall.”

Moroni sighted Bitt’s house again. “Okay if I take a look at the gate?”

Milo thought. “Make it quick.”

Moroni sprinted up the block, tucked himself into the space where Chelsea Corvin smoked. Big, thick man in his late forties but he’d held on to some college football speed. He returned seconds later. “Someone boosts me, I’m over.”

Lincoln held up a hand. “You’re not wearing golf cleats so I volunteer. Maybe I can do it just by throwing you.”

“Big talk, Stiff Knees,” said Moroni. “If there’s a turn bolt on the inside, I might let you hobble in.”

A blond woman in sky-blue yoga clothes emerged from a Greek Revival two houses up, arms folded across her chest, cellphone in one hand. As she lifted it, Milo said, “Sean, tell her to go inside and not call anyone. Tell her world peace depends on her.”

Picking Binchy because he had the softest approach.

Binchy ran over and graced the woman with his Born Again smile. His vest and gun made the woman go stiff. He slouched and did his best to look un-cop. Same relaxed stance I’d seen in old photos of his ska-punk band: Fender bass held low over the groin as he provided bottom.

By the end of a brief chat, the woman was smiling and nodding and returning inside.

Binchy returned. “Nice lady, no prob.”

Moroni said, “Hot little ass. You get her number? You don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

Binchy blushed.

Reed said, “In terms of a bad outcome, what about Bitt’s window views?”

Milo said, “Unfortunately, Moses, there’s no way to totally avoid scrutiny. Once we’re a property away, let’s shift north, stay as close to structures as we can so the angle’s restricted. When we get to Bitt’s house, keep near the front. That way he’d need to angle any weapon over a sill and shoot straight down. And once we’re in that entry alcove over the door, he can’t get to us unless he blasts through the door with an AK.”

Silence.

“I know it’s not an optimal situation but it’s what we have.”

Moroni said, “We’re doing daytime not nighttime because...”

“Too many variables after dark. At least this way we can see what’s happening.”

“Hmm... okay.”

“Any other questions? Then, I’m calling her.”

No answer at Felice Corvin’s mobile or her landline.

Reed said, “So much for cooperation. Don’t like the feel of this.”

Milo said, “Plan B. We go anyway. Unless there are other suggestions.”

Head shakes. No one cracking wise.

“One more thing,” he said, fooling with the straps on his vest. “Try not to fall in the cactus.”

Touching his weapon, he began walking, a general leading a mini-battalion of four armed men into the unknown.

One unarmed man standing back, feeling extraneous.

When we passed the yoga-blonde’s house, a curtain ruffled. Other than that, quiet and still. Moroni and Lincoln positioned themselves at opposite corners of Bitt’s house as Milo and Reed and Binchy crowded into the covered alcove, guns in hand.

I waited near the front porch of a Cape Cod Revival. Junk mail piled up near the door, no security consciousness.

Milo knocked on Bitt’s door. It opened immediately. That threw him and he stepped back. Then, Glock in hand, he stepped in.

The young D’s followed. Nothing for a moment, then Binchy came out and gave a thumbs up.

Lincoln and Moroni came forward from the flanks. Binchy said, “You, too, Doc.”

On TV and in the movies, when the crisis fritters out, hot-dog cops express regret because they crave Rambo-action. Marlin Moroni’s and Tyrell Lincoln’s shoulders dropped as they sheathed their weapons. Both of their faces were slick with sweat and when I joined them the pulses in their thick, sturdy necks were still racing.

As I followed them in, Moroni said, “Amen, Jesus.”

Trevor Bitt sat on a tufted living room sofa, hands cuffed in front.

Milo stood over him, Reed behind. Binchy was off to the left, next to Felice Corvin. To the right stood Moroni and Lincoln.

Bitt appeared serene. Felice’s face was tight with anger, arms rigid, hands rolled into fists.

The room was just beyond a vacant entry hall, a dim space with a vaulted ceiling crossed by beams of pseudo-antique timber.

Milo eye-cued the veteran cops and they headed for the stairs at the rear of the room.

Felice said, “Where are they going? Chelsea’s up there.”

Bitt said, “In the studio.”

Milo said, “Where’s that?”

“Right above here.”

Milo said, “She’s seventeen, guys. Be nice.”

Moroni said, “Storm troopers are always nice.”

He and Lincoln took the stairs two at a time. Seconds later, Moroni’s voice from above: “Hi, there, my name is Marlin, no one’s going to hurt you, we need to go downstairs so you can be with your mom... that’s a good girl.”

Chelsea, wearing a paint-specked artist’s smock, appeared on the landing. In one hand was a sketch pad, in the other the kind of black artist’s pencil Robin used. Moroni and Lincoln bracketed her descent. When she reached the bottom, she looked at Bitt. Saw the cuffs and stumbled and made a gagging noise.

“It’s okay, honey,” said her mother. “This will all be cleared up real soon.” Looking to Milo for confirmation.

He said, “Everyone cooperates, that’s the plan.”

Chelsea screamed, “Daddy!” and went for Milo with the pencil.

He managed to feint away from her, right eye barely avoiding a sharpened point. Inertia pitched the girl forward. She landed on the floor, flat on her back, the pad and the pencil a few feet away.

Felice Corvin said, “Now look what you people have done.”

Milo touched the outer rim of his eye socket. Moroni stood over Chelsea and extended a hand. Her head flipped side-to-side and she let out a manic “No!” Moroni edged closer to her but didn’t push it.

All the other cops were looking at Milo.

He said, “Felice, you and Chelsea need to go over to your house.”

Felice turned to Trevor.

“ Now, Ms. Corvin. Or your daughter will be charged with attempted assault.”

Felice said, “Why’d you come early? This could all have been prevented.”

Milo said, “You could’ve answered your phone.”

“I had it on vibrate, didn’t hear.”

Chelsea made a pathetic bird-like sound. A chick threatened by an owl. Bitt said, “Are you hurt, Tamara?”

The girl sniffled. Lunged for the pencil.

Marlin Moroni kicked it away, caught her by one wrist, captured the other and held her fast. She struggled for a moment, then went limp.

“Cuff her?” he said.

Felice Corvin said, “She’s a child, don’t be stupid!”

Milo, still massaging the rim of his eye socket, said, “Stupid is someone gets hurt. We’re going to zip-tie her until we’re sure she’s calmed down. Anyone who doesn’t cooperate will be restrained. Officer Lincoln, take them next door and stay with them.”

Felice said,“Trevor—”

Bitt said, “I’m fine.”

Chelsea said, “Daddy.”

Bitt said, “Tamara, please listen to these guys.”

A magical incantation: The girl broke into the kind of smile you see in dreaming infants. No resistance as Lincoln zip-tied her.