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"You won't sell them. They're dried out. See the cracks in that chocolate?"
"The last time I gave you something for free--that Eskimo Pie, remember?--I got in serious trouble with the boss."
"Come on, Doris," Dodge wheedled. "He's not here." He winked at her. "I'm not gonna tell on you."
"He's an A-rab, you know," she said in an undertone. "He'll call it stealing and cut off my hand or something."
"Pretty please? With sugar on it?"
"Oh, shoot." She glanced at the security camera. "At least pretend to pay me for them."
"You're the best, Doris."
"And you're full of shit. I haven't forgotten that you promised to take me dancing."
Grinning, he said, "I'm taking lessons."
"My ass."
Out the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of headlights on the patrol car parked in front. "Gotta go. Don't bother sacking the doughnuts. Just set them on top of the coffees."
She did as he asked, and, as he backed out the door, balancing the cups and doughnuts, she said, "I'm holding you to that date."
Dodge's partner had kept the engine running. He reached across the front seat and pushed the passenger door open. "We're on."
Dodge tipped the doughnuts off the cups and onto the console. "You get the sprinkles, I get the chocolate."
"You got the chocolate last time."
"Sue me." Placing his coffee cup in the holder, he buckled his seat belt. "I'm the one stealing from the A-rab, and one of these days I may have to make good my promise to take Doris dancing. What've we got?" he asked as he fixed the plastic lid on the coffee cup so his partner could drink while he drove. He'd already sped from the 7-Eleven parking lot and turned on the emergency lights.
"Domestic."
"Damn!" Dodge, like most cops, hated responding to domestic disturbances because the offenders often turned their rage onto them. Cops got killed that way. He bit off half the stale chocolate doughnut. "Who called it in?"
"The alleged victim."
"That's good. Means he hasn't killed her."
"Not yet," Jimmy Gonzales returned grimly.
Gonzales looked more Anglo than Dodge did. When they'd become partners, Dodge had asked where the Hispanic name had come from. Gonzales had shrugged and said, "Dunno. Must've been a Spanish or Mexican gene in the deep end of the pool."
"Did the caller say her name?" Dodge asked him now.
"Nope. Disconnected after giving the address. No answer when the dispatcher called back. The house is a rental."
Gonzales was a good partner, reliable, always enjoyed a joke, but knew when it was time to shut up and focus on the job. As now, while they covered the short distance from the convenience store to a tidy house on a quiet street in a middle-class neighborhood.
He pulled the squad car into the driveway and left the lights on. He and Dodge alerted the dispatcher of their arrival and got out. They were watchful and wary as they approached the house. Dodge was particularly skittish about the windows overlooking the front yard and the exterior lighting, which seemed to him as bright as spotlights on him and Gonzales.
They made it to the porch without being shot at or threatened, and he counted that a good sign. When they reached the door, Gonzales stood aside, his hand on his holster. Dodge raised the brass knocker and tapped it loudly several times. "Police. Is there a problem in there?"
The door was pulled open immediately by a man who, Dodge would guess, was in his late twenties. His shirttail was hanging out, but his clothes looked expensive. He was good-looking and clean-shaven, although his black hair looked like it had been recently groomed with a gardening tool. His whole aspect was one of agitation.
He divided a look of disgust between the two officers. "I can't believe she called the police."
"Where is she?" Dodge growled.
