Julie Miller - One Good Man

“This has to be a wild-goose chase,” he muttered to himself, ready to climb back into his Jeep Grand Cherokee and phone Reed on his private line to report no one at home. This was probably some test of his loyalty before the new assistant commissioner was named in January.

Well, Mitch Taylor didn’t play games. If he got the job because he was the best qualified, then fine, he deserved it. But if the selection would be based on politics, he didn’t have a prayer.

Schmooze or you lose, the commissioner had once advised him. If that was the case, Mitch was bound to lose.

His annoying second-guessing was cut short by the crackle of static from a hidden intercom panel. “Yes?”

Mitch looked up toward the source of the raspy voice and located the speaker and camera recessed behind the carved walnut paneling lining the front door. He stepped back, reached inside his coat and pulled his badge from his belt. Holding the identification beside his face, he looked up at the camera.

“I’m Captain Mitch Taylor, KCPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions, ma’am, and, if possible, check the premises for you. We got an anonymous call that there was some trouble here.”

Following orders, he left out the commissioner’s name and treated this like a routine investigation of a reported disturbance. Then, confident that the ID and his authoritative voice would reassure the woman this visit was simply standard procedure, he clipped the badge onto the breast pocket of his coat and waited to be let in.

“There’s no trouble here.” The woman responded too quickly and too breathlessly for him to believe her.

Ah, hell, if Reed had sent him out on a domestic-violence call without any backup…

Mitch reached inside his coat and unsnapped the holster beneath his blazer. His guard-dog hackles went up at the possibility of facing a cop’s most dreaded call, but he forced his voice to remain calm and even pitched.

“Ma’am, if you could just come to the door, I’d like to speak to you face-to-face.”

Before the intercom went silent, he heard a flurry of activity. Mitch’s initial suspicions flared a notch. He adjusted his tie, never blinking his gaze from the doorknob. Then, through the double blockade of the front door and storm door, he heard the distinctive sound of a solid object crashing to the floor, followed by a stifled yelp.

His hand stilled on the knot of his tie.

“Ma’am?” he called. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

Nothing but dead silence answered him. Rusty warning signals that had kept him alive when he worked on the streets labored into overdrive. A spot at the nape of his neck tingled with awareness whenever he sensed something was wrong. Right now, the skin above his collar tickled like crazy.

He unholstered his Glock 9 mm pistol from beneath his suit jacket.

“Ma’am?”

Nothing.

Damn. This was supposed to be routine. A polite introduction, sorry to disturb you and good-night. Some routine. More like a shot in the dark. He’d wake the commissioner tonight and find out exactly what kind of wild ride he’d been sent on.

But first, he had to protect that woman.

“I’m coming in,” he announced.

Mitch flipped his gun around, clutched the barrel and hammered at the glass in the locked storm door. When it shattered, he reached inside and opened it. The wooden door inside was locked, as well. Taking two steps back, he released the safety, aimed his weapon and fired two rounds into the locking mechanism.

The wood splintered around the knob, and the door loosened from its frame. Leaning his shoulder against it, he braced his legs and pushed. The door swung open and he stumbled inside.

The lights in the house immediately flashed on, and a loud, repetitive alarm blared to life. The woman screamed from the back of the house, yelling a warning over the din.

“Routine, hell!” he muttered under his breath.

He rolled to the wall and straightened himself against the ceiling-high paneling. The security lights he’d tripped had a strobe effect on his vision, blinding him more than the utter darkness of the place had.

Mitch relied on his sense of touch to get his bearings. He slid along the paneling until he found a set of double French doors. Locked. He peered in through the glass and saw shrouded objects each time the lights blinked on. A closed-off wing of the house.

A few steps farther his foot hit an abutment. He lifted his foot and found another level. Stairs. With narrowed eyes, he made out a grand staircase leading up to a second-floor landing.

But the cry had come from the main floor.

Moving around the stairs to the opposite side, Mitch trailed his right hand along the paneling. His fingers curled into a recess in the wall and touched something hard, cold and smooth. When the lights flashed on, he jumped back from the face staring at him.

He slammed his gun between both hands and stepped out to defend himself. The lights flashed on again and he swore.

He’d bumped into some sort of damn shrine filled with trophies, framed medals and photos. With one slow, steadying breath, he regained his equilibrium. The woman’s face staring back at him belonged to a framed, glossy photograph. He’d been spooked by a picture of a coltish young redhead waving a bouquet of flowers in one hand and gripping a medal in the other.

Pushing aside his curiosity, Mitch closed his eyes to listen for any telltale movements in the house. Except for the deafening blare of the alarm, the place was quiet. Too quiet.

Holding his gun up in his left hand, he crept farther into the interior of the house.

The next recess he came to was an open doorway. Catching his breath and thinking a prayer for no more false alarms to increase his blood pressure, he cautiously stepped around and peered inside.

The lights flashed on long enough for him to see an object hurtling through the air toward him. He was plunged into darkness a split second before it whacked him across the face.

His string of curses was brief and to the point. The blow hadn’t been hard enough to do serious damage, but his nose and skull throbbed with the impact.

“Police! Put down your weapon!” He recited the line by rote, feeling the rising rush of adrenaline crowding out his more rational thoughts.

Mitch reached out blindly and was rewarded with another blow to his wrist, this time solid enough to knock the gun from his grasp.

“Son of a…”

When the lights flashed off again, Mitch was ready. He glimpsed the grayish afterimage of his attacker and lunged in that direction.

With all the finesse of a linebacker sacking the quarterback, he rammed his assailant, pinned his arms and took him down, landing the perp flat on his back with Mitch on top. A strangled “oof” grunted between them made him hope he’d knocked the wind out of the guy.

But in seconds, his enemy recovered. One leg coiled beneath him. He guessed the intended direction and rolled, flipping the smaller, wiry man onto his stomach. Mitch snatched a flailing elbow and pinned the twisting body to the floor with his knee.

The other elbow connected with his chin, and Mitch’s temper kicked in. “There are laws against assaulting a cop.”

He clamped down on the dangerous arm and pulled it behind the attacker’s back, shifting his knee to the base of his adversary’s spine.

The perp screamed, a husky, high-pitched sound of pain.

“Oh, God! Don’t hurt me,” wheezed the voice.

No.

Mitch froze above his pinned opponent.

The lights flashed on, and he caught a glimpse of a long braid the color of golden cider sprinkled with cinnamon.

The image vanished with the lights.

But the memory didn’t.

Mitch moved his knee, suspecting the truth, but needing to see it with his own eyes. He tugged on one of the arms to roll the body over and look at the face. When he reached for the opposite shoulder to anchor his attacker in place in case he was mistaken, Mitch’s hand brushed against something pillowy and soft.