To Love a Cop (30 page)

He could hear Jake Vennetti’s question.

So...if you were, like, staking out a house and they showed up and started, you know, painting the swastika and throwing rocks and maybe setting a fire, you wouldn’t pull your gun?

He already had. The Glock was heavy and reassuring in Ethan’s hand. Damn, this was the biggest swastika yet, the sharp turns jagged. Austin didn’t seem to mind the drips that Ethan had no doubt would look like blood in a better light. The can made a faint hissing sound that wouldn’t be heard any farther away than Ethan stood, in the deeper shadows beside a huge lilac bush on the property line. It was no longer in bloom, but something nearby was, the fragrance light but intoxicating. Tonight it seemed wrong.

Ethan was able to hold off because Tyler, too, only stood by watching, the gas cans at his feet. Once the gas was first splashed onto the house walls, there’d be no choice but to step out of cover.

Where the hell were Pomeroy and Clayton? He didn’t see any indication either of the boys was armed, but he couldn’t be sure they weren’t, either.

Yes, he’d explained to Jake, he would pull his weapon, because he could use it as a threat to achieve an outcome that didn’t include violence.

Now, though, he felt a prickle down his spine. These weren’t vandals; they were killers in the making. If he told them to freeze and put their hands up, would they really do it?

His gut said no.

I’d be prepared to defend myself, but otherwise I wouldn’t shoot anyone
, he had told Jake.

Feeling cocky, were you?
he mocked himself.

The hissing stopped. Austin March threw the can aside and bent over, unscrewing the lid on one of the much larger red cans. His friend did the same to the other. The unmistakable smell of gasoline mixed with the innocent scent of flowers in bloom.

Both boys headed toward the corner of the house, each with a can in hand.

Wouldn’t want to spoil the artwork.

Ethan followed.

Tyler was using some muscle to splash gas as high on the wall as he could get it. Austin was out of sight, likely on the other side of the house.

Ethan ran, circling around to the back. Instinct told him Austin was the bigger danger. When he reached the backyard, sure enough, the kid was flinging gasoline on the walls with abandon.

Ethan braced his feet and steadied the Glock. “Police! Put that can down and your hands in the air!”

Austin threw the can aside, flicked something—a lighter, goddammit—and fire leaped into the air. Then he tore around the house, yelling, “Run!”

He heard himself say,
No, I wouldn’t shoot someone in the back to keep him from getting away.
And, yeah, something about how vandalism wasn’t a death penalty crime, and neither was arson.

Unless it’s done to commit murder.

He peered cautiously around the corner of the house to make sure they
were
running.

Crack.
A bullet nicked the wood inches from where his head had been.

Son of a bitch.
The kid had a gun. One of the kids had a gun.

He heard distant feet slapping on the sidewalk. So Tyler
was
running. Probably imagined if he got away, no one but Austin could identify him.

“Police!” Ethan yelled again. “Put down the gun. Don’t be an idiot. You shoot a cop, and you’re facing the death penalty.”

Austin’s reply was laced with obscenities. At last, a light came on upstairs. A muffled voice called something. And a vehicle he recognized was approaching fast, although without siren. It would pull to the curb not twenty feet from where the teenage gunman hid in the shrubbery. Damn. No time to call or text and warn Pomeroy off. One shot through the windshield...

Ethan threw himself on his belly around the corner. Austin March’s gun barked. Splinters stung his cheek, but this time he could see the kid.

Coldly, just the way he did at the range, he pulled the trigger. Once. Twice.

The boy went down, and Ethan raced across the yard to him just as headlights swept over the yard and the car screeched to a halt at the curb.

A handgun lay inches from Austin’s hand. Ethan kicked it away, holstered his Glock and crouched, praying he hadn’t just killed a seventeen-year-old boy.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

W
EEKENDS,
L
AURA ALWAYS
aimed for something more inspiring for breakfast than cereal. She’d heard Jake stirring when she got out of the shower, so she felt safe in starting breakfast.

Scrambled eggs, she decided. Maybe waffles tomorrow morning. She turned on the small TV on the counter to the news and took out eggs, milk, margarine and ricotta, tuning out the all-too-familiar commercial for home owners’ insurance that was playing.

While the pan heated, she started cracking eggs, thinking about the fact that Wednesday was Jake’s last day of school. She’d signed him up for a baseball camp that started a week from Monday, but she hadn’t yet made any other decisions. It was time she decided how much else she could afford. He was bound to get bored if he spent most of the summer hanging out with his younger cousins.

The news came back on. “A violent scene in a quiet Portland neighborhood last night,” one of the commentators said, shaking his head gravely. “Police caught the swastika arsonists in the act last night, arresting one while gunning down the second. Jeff, you were at the home where the shooting took place. Tell us more.”

Gunning down? Oh, dear God.
Please not Ethan.

Laura quit so much as breathing, her gaze riveted to the TV. She’d just broken an egg, but hardly felt the cold yolk and white slithering over her fingers.

The reporter stood across the street from a scene much like the previous ones. A fire engine partially blocked the swastika lavishly painted on a two-story wood-frame house. Police cars were parked askew on the street.

“Don, this home reportedly belongs to a family named Gelfman. As you can see, the Gelfmans were targeted by the two young men who have come to be known as the swastika arsonists. The police have not yet released their names, but have said one is eighteen years old and the other seventeen. The eighteen-year-old is now under arrest. The seventeen-year-old is at the hospital in critical condition, currently undergoing surgery.”

He talked about a police stakeout and how the officer watching the Gelfman home had confronted the boys.

“As viewers likely know, Detective Ethan Winter of the Portland Police Bureau unit dedicated to cases involving bias crimes has been the lead on this investigation. He was also the officer who staked out this home last night.” The reporter turned to gesture grandly. This time the camera scanned another side of the house, charred and obviously wet. “One of the two young men was armed with more than spray paint, gasoline and a lighter. He shot at Detective Winter, who returned fire before backup could arrive.” The TV now showed an aid car with lights flashing pulling away from the house. “We’re told that this is not Detective Winter’s first shooting as an officer of the law. Five years ago, he shot and killed a man during a convenience store holdup. His actions at the time were of course investigated...”

As the reporter kept talking, the camera turned on a huddle of police and fire officials. Enveloped by shock, Laura didn’t hear the rest. She was aware only of Ethan, the tallest man present. He glanced toward the camera, his expression grim, the black eye and bruising giving him a disreputable look.

The news returned to the studio.

“We’ll keep you updated as we learn more,” the anchor said, just as Jake entered the kitchen. Laura all but lunged for the TV to turn it off. Heart drumming, all she could think was,
Thank heavens Jake didn’t see that.

Except...unless she sequestered him, he would later, wouldn’t he? There’d be another report this evening. And what if the boy died? Even his friends might be talking about this. The one who’d been shot—the boy
Ethan
shot—might attend high school locally.

He’d killed someone before? Why hadn’t he said?

Because he knew how she’d feel about it.

“I’m making scrambled eggs,” she heard herself say. “Why don’t you get some toast going?”

“Sure.”

Halfway through the meal, Jake said, “I wish Ethan was coming over today. Can I call him?”

“No!”

He stared at her. “But...why not?”

I can’t protect him from everything.

“Ethan was involved in something last night,” she said carefully. “I’m sure he’ll be tied up all day.”

“How do you know? Did he already call? Or text or something?”

Laura took a deep breath and set down her fork. Her appetite was nonexistent anyway.

“He was on the news. You know about his investigation into whoever has been spray-painting the swastikas and starting fires?”

Her son’s head bobbed.

She told him about the stakeout Ethan had been conducting, and how according to the news he’d caught two teenagers in the act last night.

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

A flash of memory hit Laura broadside: him asking Ethan the same thing, then saying,
That’s why people want guns, isn’t it?

Don’t overreact.

“It’s good that he stopped them before anyone died in a fire they set,” she said carefully. “But according to the news, he shot one of the two, a seventeen-year-old boy. Now
he
may die.”

“He said police officers only shoot when they’re being attacked or...or they have to—to save someone else. Remember?”

She did. But...a
boy
? Wouldn’t there have been another way?

“Yes. But there’s no point in our speculating about it. He won’t be free to tell us about it—there’s always some kind of investigation when a police officer fires his weapon.”

“Did Dad ever?”

“Somebody shot at him during a traffic stop once and he returned fire. Even though he only shot out the tires, he was still placed on administrative leave while it was determined whether he was justified in firing his gun.”

“Oh. You never said.” Jake’s forehead crinkled. “But if somebody was shooting at him...”

“He wasn’t in any trouble. It’s routine.”

He looked down at his half-finished breakfast. “I hope Ethan comes over
soon
.”

Laura didn’t. She wanted not to hear from him until she knew more. Why he’d shot someone. Whether the boy survived. Why, when most police officers never shot to kill, he’d done so twice already in his career.

As she pretended to eat, all she could see was Marco and Matt, both dead from bullets to the head.

I can’t deal with this.

She loved him.

She quite desperately did not want to see him until she’d had time to calm down, to think.

The doorbell rang.

* * *

H
E COULD TELL
Laura had heard, and wasn’t taking it well. Ethan didn’t even know why he’d come over. No, of course he did—he’d been fool enough to hope.

“Ethan.” Even her voice was stiff. “I didn’t expect you.”

“You saw the news,” he said resignedly.

She didn’t step back to invite him in. “I thought you’d be stuck in interviews forever.”

He glanced at his watch. “The shooting happened eight hours ago. I have been interviewed. Repeatedly. I’m on my way home to sack out. I wanted to talk to you before—” He shrugged. “Too late.”

“Before what?” she asked, looking wary. Then her mouth formed a horrified O. “He died? Is that boy dead?”

He should be tired enough to be numb, but wasn’t. Instead—damn. This felt a lot like he’d taken a bullet to the chest.

“No, Laura, he’s not dead. I’m not either, but thanks for noticing.”

“What?” Her shock showed. “I saw you on the news, so I knew—”

His temper exploded and he leaned in. From her expression, he thought his teeth must be bared. “Yeah? What did you know, Laura? Tell me. In case I missed something.”

“Why are you talking to me like this?”

Did she think he’d
buy
this bewildered act?

“What did you know?”

“That...you shot a seventeen-year-old boy.” Her chin came up. “That you shot and killed someone else a few years ago. Why didn’t you tell me, Ethan?”

“Because of course that defines who I am.” He half laughed, shook his head and backed away. “Why would I, when you’re so damn sure that pulling the trigger is never justified. You know what? I’m done,” he said flatly, turned and walked away.

She called after him, but he didn’t care. Didn’t even slow down. He jumped in his Yukon and sped away from the curb, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard it creaked. He was a block away from her house when he made himself pull over. He wasn’t in any shape to drive.

Ethan closed his eyes, rested his head back and willed his muscles to relax.

Breathe.

He just needed to get back to his place.

Right. Because his apartment was so homey.

No, he realized, he’d go to the one place he knew he’d be received with open arms and no prejudgment.

Home.

* * *

H
E THOUGHT ABOUT KNOCKING
, but his mother looked so astonished every time he did that, he used his key to let himself in the house.

“Ethan?” he heard immediately. “Is that you?” His mother appeared from the kitchen, her eyes worried. “Oh, honey! I’m so sorry.” She rushed to him and pulled him into a tight embrace.

This was what he’d needed from Laura.
What I’ll never get from her
, he realized bleakly.

His father was close behind his mother. He put his arms around both of them. For maybe a minute, the three stood there, Ethan soaking up comfort and hoping he could hold on to it later, when he was on his own.

Then they broke apart, but his mom grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the kitchen. “We hoped you’d stop by. Thank God you’re all right. Except for your face.”

“Tough one,” his father said. “And just a kid.”

“Unfortunately, also a sociopath.”