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Brady
I’m halfway to the station when the call comes in. It must be the new guy running dispatch because, as usual, I have to double-check every damn thing he says.
“Dispatch, this is Brady. That’s four-nine-five. Anything else you want to add to that?”
“Uh…A? No. S?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” The kid acted like he was on a gameshow half the time. Everybody swears this guy doesn’t have connections, but I can’t think of any other reason why he’d be sitting where he is otherwise.
“Wait,” he says. “Can it be both?”
“Nevermind,” I sigh into the radio. “I’m about two blocks away. I’ll go check it out.”
A 495 in police code is a burglary, which is pretty straightforward. But that’s only a starting point. You could have a 495 In Progress, for instance. Or, like this brat is apparently trying to tell me, there are separate codes for just an alarm call. A 495A means the alarm is going off. A 495S means it’s a silent alarm. Not exactly rocket science but pretty crucial information for the guy who’s about to roll up on the scene.
His voice comes over the radio again and I can almost swear I hear it crack. “Hey, uh, you want back-up or anything?”
For a second I think about just ignoring him, but then it’ll be my ass. Clear communication is supposed to be the thing, and if I’m gonna gripe about it I oughtta at least not be hypocritical as well.
“Nah, Dispatch. I’m not gonna know till I get there anyway, am I?”
“Oh, good point,” he says. “Okay.”
Okay. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find out his last radio experience was of the cups-and-string type.
Truth be told, I oughtta be thanking the guy. If he hadn’t called out when he did I’d have to be at the office by now and desk jockey was never really my thing. Patrol isn’t exactly a pleasure cruise either. Lots of domestic abuse. Lots of showing up at doors where you can hear the screaming before you knock, but as soon as they see the uniform, everything is just pleasant as pie. Then thirty minutes later, there you are again. You can’t blame the neighbors, who are usually the ones to call it in, but it gets tiring being the nuisance utilized to shut folks up.
I figured this would all change once I made detective and I suppose to some extent it did. Now I at least get to pick and choose a little more. And I’m out of the blues, though even in jeans and a leather jacket something about me still seems to shout “cop.”
I pull up to the address dispatch called out and park on the far side of the street. It’s a jewelry store on Park Avenue. In some towns, I suppose that would mean something. Here it just means someone went to New York once and nicked the name. Arden isn’t a tiny place, but it’s not huge either. Mid-sized, I guess. The point is, in this town, in this neighborhood especially, nobody’d be stupid enough to try and rob a jewelry store. Sure, the staff is supposed to let you walk out free and clear. The stuff’s all insured anyway. The problem comes up when you’re sitting at home with a backpack full of scratch and no way to sell it. Arden doesn’t have a black market. Nobody knows how to launder money, let alone fence stolen goods. Nine times out of ten, alarm calls we get are set off by the owners. The tenth time it’s some kid throwing rocks.
Either way, like I said, it’s a good enough excuse to keep me out of the office for a little longer, so I stick the radio on my belt and cross the street.
Inside,things look just about exactly like I’d expected. Three people, clearly all employees, are waiting to greet me. The matronly battle-ax-looking lady is clearly the manager. Not the owner, they never show up. But she’s got that attitude of undeserved respect in most middle-level management projects. The gal on my left is maybe my age, maybe a little younger, not a day under thirty-five anyway. Then, behind the counter, damn near close to hyperventilating, stands a girl who I’d be tempted to card in a liquor store and who without a doubt is the one who tripped the alarm.
I glance at the older lady and wave a hand. “I got it from here.”
She looks personally offended, which is exactly what I was hoping for. I’m not the kind of cop who likes to abuse his power, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes it’s fun to use it on folks who need to be taken down a notch. Besides, what was she gonna tell me I couldn’t figure out on my own?
The other lady, a saleswoman, I’m assuming, suppresses a small grin and inches a little closer. I’ve seen her type before too. This one just wants the gossip, so I give her a quick look and ask straight away, “Did you set it off?”
“Oh,” she grins a little, looking down. Probably a move someone told her was ‘demure’ back when she was in high school. “No, officer. I just wanted to be of assistance if you needed me.”
“Nope.” I turn my back and walk up to the glass counter. The walls of the entire place are mirrored, some old trick to make the space look bigger. I just like it because I can keep an eye on folks, and here, for example, it tells me neither one of the other ladies has moved. I look up into the mirrors and say to the women, “I’m gonna need to talk to this individual alone, thanks.”
After another huff from the manager and a confused, flustered look from the sales lady, they both wander off to the back of the shop somewhere, no doubt to try and watch everything over security cams. Ah well. Let ‘em watch.
I look back at the girl in front of me. Her hands are jittering on the glass and she folds them to hold in the shakes, then unfolds, clasps, starts for her pockets, then, thinking better of it, keeps her hands in plain view.
“So,” I say, “you’re the culprit?”
I meant it to be light-hearted, but the quick intake of breath lets me know she thinks I’m serious as a heart attack.
In my experience, there are two types of people. Not good guys and bad guys, though. You’ve got the folks who’d just as soon spit on a cop as look at one and the folks who immediately think they’re about to be arrested for wearing the wrong jacket for the season. Judging by the alternating red and pale colors on this young lady’s cheeks, I’d say she’s the latter.
“Hey,” I lean forward a little, lowering my tone. “I’m just giving you a hard time. You don’t really strike me as the burglaring type, so what’s up?”
