Lynnette Kent - Expecting the Best

As the daughter and sister of cops, Carol would know she didn’t want detention. He heard her tortured sigh as he shut the door, but she’d be here tomorrow. Zach knew he could trust her that far.

His mother caught up with him in the kitchen as he took an apple out of the refrigerator. “Have you settled that girl, Zachary?” She’d been to the basement for a pan full of potatoes. Her face was flushed from climbing the steep stairs.

“Yes, Mom.” Like he’d been settling things since he was twelve years old. “I’m gonna bring her to baseball practice, see if I can get more information out on this club nonsense.”

“Good. I hardly know what to do with her anymore.” She set to washing the potatoes. “We’re having pot roast for dinner. You’ll stay, won’t you?”

His parents had eaten pot roast for dinner on Sunday every week for the forty years of their marriage. Now that his dad wasn’t here to demand the same meal, maybe they could change the ritual. “How about we go out to dinner, instead? I’ll take you to a decent Italian place I know.”

Mary Harmon shook her head. “That is nice, Zachary, but Sunday is pot roast. Maybe another time?”

“Sure, Mom.” He thought about staying, because he loved her. But he couldn’t face pot roast. “I’m gonna catch up on paperwork before I go on duty, so I’ll eat later. See you tomorrow.” He gave her a kiss and a hug, then made his escape out the back door.

The ball game had ended. Most of the players sprawled in the backyard shade, drinking sodas and arguing points.

“That pitch was wide by a mile!” Grant—the tallest of the Harmon clan—took a swallow of beer. “Never thought a brother of mine would be so blind.”

“Not blind. Accurate.” Stefan lay on the grass, a sweating can against his forehead. “That pitch was a strike.”

“Yeah, right. And Jess didn’t drop the ball on the last out, either.”

“I wouldn’t have dropped it,” Jessica said calmly, “if Michael hadn’t knocked into me. Of all the dumb moves—”

Michael sat up. “If you had called the ball, I wouldn’t have been there!”

Zach stood listening for a minute as the noise escalated. He’d been part of this scene his whole life—Sunday-morning Mass, lunch, sports and fights all afternoon, pot roast for dinner. But tonight the circle felt too tight.

“See you guys later,” he called. “I’ve got work to do.”

“See ya’!” “Be careful out there.” “Call me!” The goodbyes followed him out to the Trans Am. Zach got into the car, punched up a jazz CD and increased the volume. He waved to all the neighbors as he drove down the street, but kept his windows up and didn’t stop to talk.

He resolutely didn’t think about spending the afternoon with Shelley, either. The case had closed on that situation, too.

AT THE PRECINCT station, he changed into his uniform and headed out on patrol. Life as a street coop wasn’t as exciting as, say, vice or criminal investigations. but Zach figured there were people out here with problems—traffic accidents, temporarily misplaced kids, vandalism and harassment—who needed a cop’s help. He liked providing that kind of assistance.

As he circled the park, a young couple playing on the swings caught his attention, just because they looked so happy together. With his window down, he could hear them laughing. They would make a great advertisement—“Denver is for lovers.”

An hour later, he saw them again, this time on the street near some of the bars. Good times had given way to an argument. The young woman stood, arms crossed, back toward her boyfriend, with her chin tilted in defiance as he yelled at her from behind. Before Zach turned the corner, the guy threw his hands in the air and stalked into the nearest joint. The lady appeared not to care.

Zach circled the block and came back to the scene in less than ten minutes. There was no sign of the couple. Following his instinct, he parked on the opposite side of the street, crossed over to the dive he’d seen the man enter, and found himself in a cave filed with smoke and the fumes of beer.

“We don’t need the cops,” the bartender said, without preamble. “Ain’t no trouble here.”

“I can see that, Joey. I’m just checking things out.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I thought there might have been an argument in here, the last hour or so. A cute lady, giving her man a hard time?”

“Do I keep track of the whole frigging world?”

Zach stared, and the bartender gave in. “Yeah, they were here.”

“Did they buy drinks?”

“They came in a couple times. The guy bought maybe five beers all together. Drank ’em down like water. And then they left and I ain’t seen them since. Happy?”

“Delirious. Have a good night.” Zach returned to the almost empty street. Which way would she have gone to make her point?

He turned right and started walking, quietly. No one passed him, and the twilight came down without a sound. He’d almost decided to turn back when he heard a small, agonized sob.

She was huddled in the next alley, between upended garbage cans and plastic bags stuffed with trash. Zach crouched down in front of her. “Officer Harmon, Denver police, ma’am. Let me help you.”

But she flinched and shrank back, putting a hand out to ward him off. “No,” she whispered. “No more, please. No...”

Zach took her hand, seeing broken nails and a bruised wrist. “He’s gone. I promise. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Can you stand up?”

She didn’t seem to hear. Zach pulled his radio off his belt and called for EMTs and backup. Then he tried again. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. Do you hear me?”

Her head came up, and she focused on his face. For the first time, Zach realized how young she was. Too young for bars, barely old enough for high school. Her dark hair and eyes reminded him of Carol, and his stomach started to chum.

“He’s gone?” she whispered.

“Yeah. You’re safe. Can you stand up?”

The girl sighed. “I think so.” When he helped her to her feet, Zach got another blow beneath the belt. She was pregnant. Not much, but enough for him to be sure.

He moved her away from the garbage as the ambulance stopped beside them. In seconds the EMTs had her on a stretcher, where they could treat the split lip, the swelling along her jaw and above her eyes.

Once they had her stabilized, Zach stepped close. “Who hit you?” he asked quietly.

The girl only stared at him, her swollen lips pressed together.

“Do you know the person who did this?” She closed her eyes. “Please. We need his name so we can punish him for hurting you.”

But she shook her head, and kept her eyes closed. Zach got a signal from the EMTs, who were ready to move, and he backed away. The ambulance pulled out in a flare of red and white light, leaving him standing in the street feeling sick.

“You see anybody?” Rafe Delgado, a cop who often shared shifts with Zach, came up beside him.

“Yeah, I saw the bastard. Six feet tall, dark hair in a ponytail. T-shirt and jeans, silver-toed boots. Urban cowboy type.”

Rafe wrote the description down. “The boots should help. Her cooperation would be even better.”

“Maybe her family will know.” He wiped his face with a shaking hand.

“Maybe.” Rafe clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll finish up here. If you see the guy again call me.”

“If he’s still alive.”

His friend laughed. “If he’s still alive.”

Zach got back into his car, but the memory of that girl’s battered face kept him motionless. Pregnant, no wedding ring, hanging out with a guy who beat her up when she made him mad. What kind of life was that? How did she get herself into such a lousy situation?