“That’s us,” she said, snapping up the mike.
Brazil got interested.
“Unit 700,” West said over the air.
The dispatcher wasn’t expecting a deputy chief to respond, and sounded somewhat
startled and confused.
“What unit?” the dispatcher inquired.
‘700,” replied West.
“In the nine hundred block. I’ll take the BE in progress.”
Ten-four, 700! ”
The radio broadcast the call. Other cars responded as West cut in and out of traffic.
Brazil was staring at her with new interest. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after
all.
“Since when do deputy chiefs answer calls?” he said to her.
“Since I got stuck with you.”
The projects on East Trade were cement barracks subsidized by the government and
exploited by criminals who did deals in the dark and got their women to lie when the
cops showed up. Breaking and entering around here, it had been West’s experience,
usually meant someone was pissed off. Most of the time, this was a girlfriend calling in a
complaint on an apartment where her man was hiding and had enough outstanding
warrants to be locked up twenty times.
“You stay in the car,” West ordered her ride-along as she parked behind two cruisers.
“No way.” Brazil grabbed the door handle.
“I didn’t go to all this trouble to sit in the car everywhere we go. Besides, it isn’t safe to be out here alone.”
West didn’t comment as she scanned buildings with windows lighted and dark. She
studied parking lots filled with drug dealer cars, and didn’t see a soul.
“Then stay behind me, keep your mouth shut, and do what you’re told,” she told him as
she got out.
The plan was pretty simple. Two officers would take the front of the apartment, on the
first floor, and West and Brazil would go around back to make sure no one tried to flee
through that door. Brazil’s heart was pounding and he was sweating beneath his leather
jacket as they walked in the thick darkness beneath sagging clotheslines in one of the
city’s war zones. West scanned windows and unsnapped her holster as she quietly got on
the radio.
“No lights on,” she said over the air.
“Closing in.”
She drew her pistol. Brazil was inches behind her and wished he were in front, as furtive
officers they could not see closed in on a unit scarred by graffiti. Trash was everywhere,
caught on rusting fences and in the trees, and the cops drew their guns as they reached the
door.
One of them spoke into his radio, giving West, their leader, an update, “We got the
front.”
“Police!” his partner threatened.
Brazil was concerned about the uneven terrain, and clotheslines hanging low enough to
choke someone, and broken glass everywhere in the tar-black night. He was afraid West
might hurt herself and turned on his Mag- Lite, illuminating her in a huge circle of light.
Her sneaking silhouette with drawn pistol was bigger than God.
“Turn that fucking thing off!” she whipped around and hissed at him.
Charlotte police caught no one on that call. West and Brazil were in a bad mood as they
rode and the radio chattered. She could have gotten shot. Thank God her officers hadn’t
seen what this idiot reporter had done. She couldn’t wait to give Hammer a piece of her
mind, and was halfway tempted to call her boss at home. West needed something to give
her a boost and pulled into the Starvin Marvin on South Tryon Street. Before she had
shifted the car into park, Brazil was pulling up his door handle.
“You ever heard of looking before you leap?” she asked, like a severe schoolteacher.
Brazil gave her an indignant, disgusted look as he undid his seatbelt.
“I can’t wait to write about you,” he threatened.
“Look.” West nodded at the store, at the plate glass in front, at customers prowling inside and making purchases.
“Pretend you’re a cop. That should be easy for you. So you get out of your cop car?
Don’t check? Walk in on a robbery in progress? And guess what? ” She climbed out and
stared inside at him.
“You’re dead.” She slammed the door shut.