Rookie Mistake (California Dreamers #4) (6 page)

He has a point. I’ve never seen Tom act the way he’s acting with Cody. He’s usually overly friendly and charming to all of his customers.

“Do you like the sandwich?” I ask.

Cody nods. I guess he’s back to being Mr. Strong and Silent. Not great for lunchtime conversation.

“Why did you decide to join a small town department?” I ask. Our quiet beach community isn’t exactly a bustle of activity. A lot of young officers prefer larger city units over small town police agencies. There’s generally a lot more excitement.

“I had to get out of LA,” he says then bites off half of his pickle.

Had to get out of LA
? I wonder what that means. His face has turned to stone so I know better than to ask.

When he wipes his mouth then crumples his napkin into the now empty sandwich basket I get the hint that he’s ready to leave.

I quickly finish the last few bites of my egg salad and grab my drink to go.

Cody grabs both of our baskets and takes them over to the trash where there’s a small stack of used baskets. He dumps out the refuse and adds our baskets to the stack.

“Thank you. You didn’t really have to deal with my garbage.”

“I know,” he replies then opens the door for me.

Once we’re both back in the car Cody’s eyes are planted firmly in front of him. He won’t even look in my direction.

“Is something wrong?”

“So much for being the
perfect policing professional
you’ve been preaching about all morning,” he spits. 

“Alliteration much?” I tease.

He glares at me. I guess he didn’t find my attempt at humor funny. People generally don’t. Maybe I’m not as witty as I think I am.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell him.

“You were practically throwing yourself at the manager of the place.”

“I was not.”

“You were totally flirting with that guy.”

“Tom and I have been friends for years. We went to high school together.”

“Is that how long he’s wanted to get in your pants?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I have eyes. I’m not blind. And I’m not stupid.”

His insistence gives me pause.
Do I flirt with Tom
? I have to admit that I’ve always gotten the feeling that he likes me. Did I throw myself at him?

I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.

“Why do you care anyway?” I ask.

“Because you told me we’re supposed to be
representatives of the community when we wear the uniform
.”

“Are you jealous?” When I narrow my gaze at him he squirms in his seat a little.

“Of sandwich guy? Not at all.”

“His name is Tom Delforio.”

“Still not jealous.”

We could probably argue about this all day, but we get another call from dispatch. This one is suspicious noises behind a clothing store.

“Did the dispatcher say it sounded like a
baby wailing
?”

“Apparently that’s what the citizen who phoned it in said the noise sounded like.”

We’re both quiet for several moments.

“Would someone actually abandon a baby behind a clothing store?”

I’m not sure if his question is rhetorical, but I answer it anyway. “It’s not unusual for people to abandon their children. One thing you learn on the job is to be prepared for anything.”

He nods.

We both unbuckle our seatbelts as I park the cruiser. I have a feeling Cody may be thinking the same thing I’m thinking: if there is a baby we need to find him or her while the child is still able to wail.

The store is closed. The place is dark, and quiet. No suspicious noises yet.

“We need to go around back,” I tell Cody.

He nods and we both head towards the back of the building. In the distance I hear a faint sound that could be interpreted as a baby crying.

“I hear something,” Cody says. “I’m not sure it’s a baby.”

When we’re behind the store the noise is significantly louder. “Where is it coming from?”

Cody shakes his head. “I can’t tell.”

We both search the area behind the store. I point to a dumpster. “In there?”

“I don’t think so.”

As we get closer to the back corner of the building the noise gets a lot louder. It’s a high pitched screeching sound.

Just as Cody points to a bird’s nest hidden in the far corner of the building, mama bird rockets from the nest and swoops down on us barely skimming the top of Cody’s head as it zips away.

The baby birds still in the nest begin to screech even louder.

“Obviously more than one baby,” Cody observes. “But not human.”

“And not abandoned. I’m sure mama bird will be back as soon as we’ve cleared out.”

That’s when I notice the bird left a gift for Cody. “You have bird poop on your cap.” A pretty large load of it.

“Great.” He removes his cap to inspect the damage.

“I have handi-wipes in the car.”

He marches so fast back to the cruiser I have to almost run to keep up with him.

I can’t wait to see what he writes in this report.

“Sorry about the bird…” I’m not sure what else to say. The incident is embarrassing to say the least.

When he starts singing
I Will Survive
, the song made famous by Gloria Gayner, it lightens the mood completely.

Luckily Cody has enough time to get cleaned up before we get our next call.

It’s a domestic disturbance. When I tell Cody to respond to dispatch his eyes widen like I just suggested he kill someone. 

“You heard me respond to four calls today,” I remind him. “Do what I did.”

After several long moments he says something completely unintelligible into the radio.

“What was that?” the dispatcher replies.

I take over and respond to the call instead.

“So far your first day hasn’t been stellar,” I tell him as I take off towards the domestic disturbance.

He doesn’t say anything. He just stares straight ahead.

“Something you’re really good at is being unresponsive.”

After several moments of awkward silence he finally speaks. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. What are you thinking? How are you feeling?”

My question is met with more silence.

The home we stop in front of is a small cottage pretty far from the beach. There’s no screaming or other loud noises coming from inside. I take that as a good sign.

They’ve either calmed down or they’re dead. In either case it significantly lessens the chances of us getting hurt.

I allow Cody to knock on the front door. “This is the police.”

“No one’s home,” a deep voice calls from the other side of the door.

“Someone phoned the police,” I state. “Please open the door.”

“Go away,” the voice mutters.

“You need to open the door,” I repeat. “We received a call about a domestic disturbance. We want to make sure no one is hurt.”

A bolt on the door is released. As the door slowly opens Cody and I place hands on our guns just in case.

It’s a person of small stature. The man is only about three feet tall. He looks like he’s in his 40s, although the overalls he’s wearing make him appear younger at first glance.

The guy’s hair is completely disheveled. He’s shaking like a leaf in a storm.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

He stares at me blankly.

“Who’s that?” A woman’s voice calls from inside the house.

Before we realize what’s happening a frying pan whizzes a few feet above the small man’s head and continues moving straight for Cody. Luckily he’s got fast reflexes and he ducks right before the cookware knocks him out.

“Who’s in the house?” I ask the small man.

“My wife,” he replies reluctantly.

“What’s your name, sir,” I ask.

“Ricky Ramirez.”

“And your wife’s name?” I ask.

“Candy Ramirez.”

“We’re going to have to speak with Mrs. Ramirez,” I tell him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he tells us.

“Why is that, sir?” I ask.

“She’s a toad.”

“A what?” I want to make sure I heard him correctly.

“A toad,” he repeats. “A big old toad on a stool.”

“May we enter your home?” I ask.

He sticks his tongue out as if he’s giving it some thought then acquiesces. He backs up so we can enter.

“Grab the frying pan,” I remind Cody.

The house is so filled with stuff that there’s not a lot of room to navigate around the place. They give new definition to the word
hoarder
.  

I follow the man as he makes his way through a maze of magazine piles and stacks of books.

I’m not sure which is worse: the amount of clutter everywhere, or the stench of the place.

When we finally make it to the kitchen an enormous woman is perched next to the stove on a stool.

She has to weigh at least three hundred pounds. She’s the largest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. When I stand in front of her I feel like I’m standing in front of a wall of flesh.

I have to admit Mr. Ramirez is right. Her squished face and the way she’s rested on the stool does make Mrs. Ramirez resemble a toad.

“You got my pan,” she says in a thick southern accent.

“You threw it at me,” Cody reminds her.

The woman points to her husband. “I threw it at him.”

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

Her beady eyes narrow. “He beat my tummy with a hammer.”

“I’m sorry. Did you just say that he beat you with a hammer?”

“My tummy,” she repeats. “He beat my tummy with a hammer.”

When I glance at Cody he’s biting his bottom lip trying his best not to laugh.

Domestic violence is no laughing matter, but I see no evidence of any injury. The housedress she’s wearing doesn’t appear to have any blood on it and it’s not torn.

“Do you require medical assistance?” I ask. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not going to see any doctor. He’ll tell me I need to lose weight. I may be big boned, but I’m still beautiful.”

“Where is the hammer?” I ask.

“I threw it in the trash,” she states.

“Can we see it?”

“I threw it in the trash,” she repeats.

“Would you please retrieve it from the trash?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not putting my fingers in that trash can. It’s dirty.”

The kitchen is a disaster. There’s old food and empty containers strewn everywhere. The sink is piled so high with dirty dishes and debris it looks like the mountain could collapse at any moment. She’s basically living in a dump and she’s worried about picking a hammer out of the trash can?

“Officer Jackson,” I look in Cody’s direction. “Would you mind retrieving the hammer from the trash?”

If looks could kill I’d be dead meat. Cody isn’t thrilled with my command, but he does open the trash and removes a tiny hammer, like the ones jewelers use.

“Is that the hammer?” I ask the woman when Cody holds it up.

“That’s it. That’s the hammer.” She glares at her husband.

I guess it’s only logical that a small person would use a small hammer.

“These two are a match made in heaven,” Cody whispers to me.

Mr. Ramirez’s eyes are filled with angst. “Please take me away. Take me to jail. Anything to get away from that horny toad. It’s the only way I’ll get any rest.”

“I may be horny, but I’m no toad,” the woman fires back.

His scrunched up face looks pained. “Please,” he begs. “Take me to jail.”

“Cuff him,” I tell Cody. “Ricky Ramirez, you’re under arrest for domestic violence.”

As Cody places handcuffs on him, I read Mr. Ramirez his rights.

“Mrs. Ramirez. You’re coming with us too. For the flying frying pan.”

“Call me Candy,” she says. “Cause I’m sweet all over.”

***

By the time we process both Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez and take their statements it’s well past the end of our shift.

“So? I ask Cody. “What did you think of your first day?”

“A bird shit on me and I was nearly knocked out by a flying frying pan.”

“Not a great way to start your professional career.”

“Would you like to get a drink with me?” he asks. “I think I need one.”

As much as I’d like to go out with Cody and grab a drink I have a feeling that one thing would quickly lead to another and I’d end up back in his bed.