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“Hey!” the drunk protested. “You can’t just barge into my house!”
Caleb ignored him and flung the door wide open.
“Hey!” the man shouted again.
Caleb turned and glared at him. The rookie looked uncomfortable. “Um…” he floundered, attempting to put himself between the drunk and Caleb. “I… Let’s calm down… We…” Apparently the kid couldn’t improvise for shit. The Book was his Bible and he clearly had no idea what to do when anyone deviated from it.
Being reasonably sure that the kid could handle the drunk—for now—Caleb set his gaze on the woman. “Glass of water, ma’am?”
She started at his words, looking as shocked as the kid. Her lips formed an “O” as she stared at him. The bottom one was split but had stopped bleeding at this point. Unsure what to do or who was more dangerous, she simply nodded and turned toward the kitchen. Caleb moved farther inside.
“Tell me again what the trouble is?” the kid asked the drunk, obviously attempting to direct the man’s focus away from Caleb. The kid cast Caleb a sharp look, though, for good measure. Caleb smirked at him and turned away.
“I already told you once. How many times I got to repeat myself?” the drunk snarled.
Caleb winced. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Sheila? One time?’ He flinched as he remembered the sound that had always come after. The muffled whump of a fist hitting soft flesh, the belly usually, and the sharp grunt that always came immediately after. Two times? Another whump, but usually harder. Caleb was always able to tell by the sound of the grunts how hard the punches were. Three times? The second was usually in the belly as well, but never the third. The third was always accompanied by the sickening crunch of fist hitting cheekbone. Caleb flinched a bit as the sound of the cupboard being closed brought him back to the present. The woman had gotten a glass and was filling it at the sink. Caleb wondered if the drunk on the porch liked the counting game, or if he had made up one of his own.
He looked around for anything he could use. A bong, a pipe, a weapon that might be unregistered. Stacking up offenses was the best strategy. Assaulting a cop was bad, to be sure. Add to that a weapons charge? A possession rap? The weeks behind bars suddenly turned into months. Assaulting a cop with an unregistered weapon? Well, that was as close as you could get to winning the lottery without even having to buy a ticket. Caleb saw a glass pipe in the corner, lying on a small table. His cynical heart nearly leapt with joy, but he kept his countenance grim. He took the water glass from the woman, taking note of the bruises on her forearm.
“The TV was too loud,” the drunk replied. “Fuckin’ neighbors heard it and called the cops. I didn’t do jack fuckin’ shit!”
Caleb calmly sipped the water. “What happened to your lip?” he asked the woman, indicating it with his finger.
She paled and ran her tongue nervously over the swollen cut.
“Moira,” the drunk said, his voice full of warning.
“Officer Barnes,” the kid whined.
Caleb sipped his water. Ah, the Book. The Good Book said, ‘Never interview the victim within sight or hearing of the suspect. The suspect might become enraged.’ Caleb remembered that part, at least.
“That was from before,” Moira told Caleb in a soft voice, clearly scrambling to create a story she hadn’t had time to invent.
“Before?”
Moira winced, apparently realizing her mistake. It obviously wasn’t from before; it was a fresh cut. But ‘before’ seemed to imply that there’d been prior abuse, which was obvious. “I had an accident. At work,” Moira said quickly.
“Oh, so he didn’t take a few hits and then hit you?” Caleb asked, nodding at the pipe.
Moira gasped. The drunk growled.
“Told you that you can’t be in my house!” he shouted.
Caleb shrugged. Too late. The woman lived there, too, and she’d allowed him to come inside.
“Barnes,” said the kid reproachfully. Caleb glanced at him.
It was hard to tell who was getting more wound up—the kid or the drunk. The drunk was flitting his eyes between Caleb and Moira, anger heating his gaze. The kid was rocking on the balls of his feet, anxiety creeping into his.
The Book! the kid’s eyes said. The suspect might become enraged!
Caleb shot him a cool look of his own. Yep. The suspect might become enraged.
“I didn’t give you no kind of permission to be in my own fuckin’ house and I’m saying that you—”
A door down the hallway suddenly opened. Caleb directed his gaze at it. The kid started reaching for his holster. Moira started for the cracked door. Thankfully, before the rookie could empty a clip into the flimsy wood, a pair of stark, blue eyes appeared, at the height of the tarnished brass knob.
