Visible Threat (25 page)

68

B
RINNA SIGHED
and tried not to get emotional again. While Hero was now officially her dog
 
—she’d written the check two days ago
 
—he was no longer an LBPD search-and-rescue dog. The city had declined to pick up his contract, and tonight was her first night back to work, cleared for full duty, with no partner. She’d already turned in her take-home car and now had an armful of uniforms, plus the kit that held all of her law enforcement forms and books to put in her locker. No more dressing at home and driving into the station with Hero panting behind her.

She had joined a civilian search-and-rescue outfit and looked forward to training with them, but their first meeting was not for a month. Hero would have to adjust to being a civilian dog.

“See you later, buddy.” She hugged the dog one more time, then grabbed her gear and lugged it out to her truck. Once at the station, it took two trips to transfer all her equipment from the car to her locker. Notes had been stuffed inside the
locker, condolences for her loss of Hero but welcoming her back to patrol. Jack sent her a text to be safe and to go easy on her new partner.

“Hey, Officer Caruso, sorry to hear about your dog,” another afternoon officer said, patting Brinna’s back as she walked past to her locker. “Know who you’re working with?”

“Nope, not yet,” Brinna answered. “I think I’m a Robert car for a couple nights at least.” She worked hard to be upbeat about the current situation. As a Robert car, she’d be stuck taking reports on low-priority calls like burglaries with no suspects, and that usually meant a boring night, certainly not what she was used to with Hero.

No use whining about something that can’t be,
she scolded herself.

Banter died down as everyone finished dressing and, one by one, headed for the squad room.

Maggie wasn’t in yet, which was normal
 
—she usually breezed in at the last minute, so why would tonight be any different? Brinna had met Maggie’s new partner the other day. His name was Mark, and he’d just transferred to the afternoon shift from days to help deal with child-care issues at home. He seemed nice enough.

Brinna dressed in a short-sleeved shirt for the night, hating the scratchy feel of the long-sleeved wool shirts. If she got cold, she had her jacket. Once dressed and ready to go, she still had ten minutes before the start of squad meeting. She grabbed her kit and flashlight and strolled out to the lot to find a car. She found a clean black-and-white unclaimed, stowed her kit, and made her way to the shift meeting.

In her mailbox were more welcome-back-to-patrol notes. She grabbed them, found a seat in the squad room, and read through them.

“Officer Caruso.”

Looking up, Brinna saw Lieutenant Harvey at the doorway to the sergeants’ office. He motioned her back to the office.

“Gosh, you haven’t even been back for a day, and you’re already in trouble,” Maggie whispered in her ear, voice laced with amusement.

Brinna jumped; she hadn’t seen Maggie come in.

“When did you get here?” Brinna asked as she stood.

“I’ll tell you later. Don’t keep the LT waiting.” She nodded in Harvey’s direction.

Janet Rodriguez sat at a desk in the office, and Harvey leaned against the file cabinet.

“I have a letter of reprimand here for you to sign,” Janet said, sliding the document from internal affairs across the desk. “It has to do with the pursuit in the rain.”

Brinna nodded, surprised she’d gotten off so light. She read the letter and signed it. There was a section at the bottom where she could protest if she thought the discipline excessive, but she had no problem with the reprimand. She slid the paper back to Rodriguez.

“Thank you, Officer Caruso,” Harvey said, moving away from the cabinet and toward the door. “I’m glad to see you can admit when you’re wrong.” He left the office.

Brinna stood to leave, but Rodriguez waved her back. “One more thing. You want to know who your new partner is?”

“I thought I was odd man out, a Robert car for a while.”

“Things change quickly around here; you know that. I can’t guarantee you’ll get along with your new partner as well as you got along with Hero, but maybe this one will speak up and keep you out of trouble.” Rodriguez smiled and handed Brinna a slip of paper with her new call sign and the name of her new partner. Her jaw dropped when she read it, and Rodriguez laughed.

“Get back to the squad room and sit. We’re late.”

Brinna found herself giggling, truly feeling upbeat, not having to fake it. She hurried back to her desk. Maggie had appropriated the seat next to her and grinned.

Sliding into her seat, Brinna whispered to Maggie, “How long have you known?”

“Just since yesterday. Afternoons weren’t working for Mark’s family, so he had to go back to days. I wanted you to be surprised.”

“I was.” She couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “We’re working beat 2.”

“Yep.”

“You don’t have any problem with looking into missing kid cases or keeping tabs on sex offenders, do you?”

Maggie shook her head, then leaned close to Brinna’s ear. “Just remember. I don’t sit and stay on command, so you better get used to sharing the driving.”

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

I
T SEEMS AS THOUGH
every day there is a new article about someone being arrested for human trafficking. According to
HumanTrafficking.org
, an estimated 14,500 to 17,500 people
 
—mostly women and children
 
—are trafficked to the US each year.

When I was still working in law enforcement, I saw a training video that told the story of an apartment complex turned into a virtual prison by traffickers. They brought laborers to the US illegally and then kept them in apartments, only letting them out to work, and even then they were closely monitored. They even set up a company store in the apartment complex for the captives to shop at, but they charged exorbitant prices, basically taking back the little money they paid the captives for their day labor. The apartment complex was not out in the boonies; it was right in the middle of a normal neighborhood.

Traffickers often prey upon the poor and the struggling. They promise high-paying jobs in countries like the US, Italy, France, and Germany. The victims often leave their home
countries willingly with the trafficker, but once they get to the desired country, the trafficker will confiscate the victim’s ID and papers and keep him or her confined, unable to do anything but what the trafficker wants. Traffickers tell their victims that the police can’t be trusted, that they are in the country illegally, so if they complain to anyone, they will go to jail.

I got this from the FBI website in May 2013 (
http://www.fbi.gov/news/stories/2013/january/targeting-human-traffickers-helping-victims
): “Last month, a Kentucky cardiologist and his ex-wife pled guilty to recruiting a Bolivian woman to work as their domestic servant and holding her unlawfully for nearly 15 years. The couple took her passport, threatened her with deportation, and falsely promised that her wages were being put in a bank account.”

Traffickers are not always shadowy men who look like drug dealers.

Also on the FBI website are resources if you have information or suspicions about a situation near you: “If you believe you are the victim of a trafficking situation or may have information about a potential trafficking situation, call the National Human Trafficking Resource Center (NHTRC) at 1-888-373-7888. NHTRC is a national, toll-free hotline, with specialists available to answer calls from anywhere in the country, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the year related to potential trafficking victims, suspicious behaviors, and/or locations where trafficking is suspected to occur. You can also submit a tip to the NHTRC online” at
http://www.polarisproject.org/what-we-do/national-human-trafficking-hotline/report-a-tip
.

1

“I SWEAR IT’S AS IF
my life is caught in a riptide, Joe.” Carly hated the whine in her voice, but the frustration in her life that started six months ago had lately built to a fever pitch. “I feel like there’s a current pulling me under, and every time I try to raise my head, I get buried by a wave.” Her angry strides pounded an uneven path across the damp beach.

“Don’t raise your head, then; you’ll just get water up your nose,” Joe responded. He walked alongside, dodging the sand Carly’s feet kicked up.

She shot him a glare. He laughed, and in spite of her mood she managed a half smile. “What would I do without you? You always try to cheer me up even when I bet you think I’m just whining.”

Matching her stride, Joe placed a calloused hand on her shoulder and said, “Hey, I know this isn’t you. Being wrongly accused sucks
 
—doubly so when you can’t even defend yourself. I’m not sure I’d have handled the last six months as well as you have if I were in your shoes. If you need to vent, vent.”

Carly stopped a few feet from the surf and blew out a breath as tears threatened. Emotions a jumble, she was touched by Joe’s unwavering support. He’d been her partner on the force for three years
 
—until the incident six months ago
 
—and they’d been through car chases, foot pursuits, and fights together, developing a partnership that was as comfortable as her favorite pair of sweats. She knew, no matter what, she could count on Joe. She was lucky to have him, and he deserved better than her current bad attitude.

For a minute they were both silent, standing side by side watching the waves churn the salt water. The crash of the surf
 
—a little rougher than she had expected
 
—and the smell of the sea relaxed her a bit as the tableau soothed raw nerves.

Joe broke the silence. “Anyway, nothing will happen until all the facts are in and the litigation ends. Request your transfer back to patrol then. For right now, relax and be patient.”

Carly swallowed the tears and dropped her beach bag. “I’m a horrible bench sitter. You know me; when they handed out patience, I stood in the ice cream line.”

At that, Joe laughed and Carly was glad to hear it. One of the things that made them a good pair was the divergent way they looked at problems, Carly ready to kick the door in and Joe willing to wait hours if need be. Other officers teased
them, labeling them Crash and Control. Carly would jump into things with both feet, while Joe would test the waters first with his big toe.

“I shouldn’t dump on you. I’m just frustrated.” Carly met his eyes and forced a smile.

“I don’t mind listening.” He shrugged. “That’s what partners are for. You’ve listened to me enough over the years. We’ll work together again.” Joe tossed his bag next to Carly’s.

Nodding, she bent to pull a towel out of her bag, biting down on her bottom lip, trying to swallow the frustration she felt and embrace the encouragement her partner gave.

“You sure you need to celebrate your birthday with a swim in this kind of weather?” Joe asked, hugging his arms to his chest. “Can’t I just buy you a milk shake?”

Glad for the subject change, she followed his gaze to the water. The Pacific was a stormy deep-green color, pinched by small but choppy swells, melding to a gray and overcast horizon. Far to the left, several surfers bobbed on their boards, riding the swells while waiting for a good wave. Though late February, Southern California’s mild water temperature made surfing and swimming possible. Dark, cloudy weather didn’t bother Carly; it simply mirrored her mood. And for her, water normally made things better
 
—even when it was forbidding and cold.

“It’s good training.” She looked down her nose at Joe. “You’re not going to chicken out, are you? And you can also buy me a milk shake.”

“No chicken here. Just giving you a chance to back out
gracefully.” He peeled off his sweatshirt and rolled his shoulders. “I mean, it could be embarrassing for you, the ocean star, to get an old-fashioned thrashing on your turf by a pool swimmer.”

“Ha. I plan to
give
an old-fashioned thrashing. You haven’t been training.” She pointed to his slightly paunchy stomach before she pulled off her own sweats. The cold air brought on a shiver.

Joe proudly patted his bit of paunch. “This will only make me more buoyant.”

Casting Joe an upraised eyebrow, a cop glance reserved for obviously guilty crooks who protested innocence, Carly laid down the swim’s ground rules. “Okay, it’s a mile and a half to the buoy. Last one back to the beach buys lunch, milk shakes included.”

Joe nodded, and they both pulled on their goggles and shook out their arms. She counted, and on three they ran together into the surf and dove into a wave. The cold winter water took her breath away, but Carly wasn’t worried, even when Joe pulled ahead. Joe was taller
 
—five-ten to Carly’s five-seven
 
—and took longer strokes, but he also carried a good sixty pounds more than she did. In spite of her teasing, it was mostly muscle, which made him denser in the water, not more buoyant. All she needed to do was settle into her stroke. This race would go to the one with stamina.

Carly warmed up fast and swam hard, determined to leave her frustration on the beach. Joe was right; this wasn’t her. She rarely indulged in pity parties. But today, as she woke up
to her thirty-third birthday, everything in her life seemed to converge in a perfect storm of failure.

The divorce had started her funk; the final papers had arrived two days ago, and reading them abraded Carly’s still-raw heart. Now was the time she always imagined she would be starting a family, not filing away the proof that one had disintegrated. Nick had taken so much of her with him that she felt hollow. As good a partner and friend as Joe was, he didn’t understand.

And Carly felt like a failure when she faced her mother. No one in the family had ever divorced, until now. Mom’s solution was church, as though that would somehow fix a busted marriage. Her roommate Andrea’s response was more realistic but even less doable: “Forget about him and find a new man.”

Work used to be her respite, a place of security, support, and camaraderie, but lately her assignment in juvenile was more a black hole of boredom, sucking her life away. Compared to LA, a neighbor to the north, Las Playas was a small city, but it had its share of big crime. Carly wanted to be back on patrol, crushing her portion of it. Joe hadn’t talked about it, but she knew the entire force was on edge over Mayor Teresa Burke. The popular and high-profile mayor had been missing for four days. Carly wanted to be out in a black-and-white, chasing clues and leads, not stuck inside babysitting juvenile delinquents. She kicked the water with a vengeance.

Carly caught and passed Joe just before the buoy. Ignoring his presence, she made the turn and sliced through the swells with her best training stroke. Her shoulders heavy with
fatigue, she pushed harder. She conjured up an image of Joe as a shark bearing down on her heels, his fin parting the water in hot pursuit, a mind game to keep her from slowing.

A local celebrity in rough-water swims, Carly laid claim to a perfect record: undefeated in eighteen races. “Whenever life closes in, retreat to your strength” was an adage she lived by. Lately the ocean was a second home.

The shoreline loomed before she was ready to stop punishing the water. But the ache in her shoulders and lungs forced surrender, and as she eased up in the waves, pushing her goggles off to look back for Joe, she realized she did feel better. The ocean was magic. She’d beaten an imaginary shark in Joe, and even though there were still real ones on land threatening to drag her down, she felt energized by the swim.

Carly glided to where she could float and relished a peace she hadn’t felt in a while. She willed it to last. Joe was right on his second point as well
 
—there was no reason to be impatient. Between the buffeting swells and the pounding of her heart, she wondered if she should just take a few days off, get away from her current assignment in juvenile, with all the reminders of what she couldn’t be doing, and relax somewhere far away. She breathed ocean air and tasted salt while floating, the water a rolling cocoon, protecting her from life’s demands and drains.

Joe soon joined her, and together they treaded water, facing one another.

“Boy,” Joe gasped, “you swam possessed. Bet that would have been a record.”

Carly splashed her friend, the smile now not forced. “Thanks for the swim. I feel better.”

He splashed her back. “My pleasure. Just call me Doctor Joe.”

She laughed and it felt good. “Anytime you want a swimming lesson . . .” Carly turned with another splash and kicked for the shore.

“Ha,” Joe called after her. “You missed your calling. Instead of a cop, you should be a sadistic swim coach somewhere, yelling, ‘One more lap, one more lap.’”

Carly headed straight for her towel as the cool air turned her skin to gooseflesh. Joe followed.

“You need to get back into competition again,” Joe said as he reached for his towel. “Admit it, you’re half fish.”

“I’d like to, but working an afternoon shift makes it difficult.” She quickly slid into the comfort of dry sweats and wrapped her thick auburn hair in the towel. “But you’re right; the water helps my mood as much as good ole Doctor Joe does.”

The shrill chirp of a work BlackBerry cut off Joe’s rejoinder. He looked toward his bag. “Yours or mine?”

“Mine.” Carly dug the offending device out of her pocket, eyebrows knit in annoyance. The BlackBerry, or “TrackerBerry” as most officers who were issued the phones called them, rarely brought good news. The text message flashing across the small screen read,
C
ALL THE WATCH COMMANDER
ASAP, 911, 911.
Her pulse quickened with a jolt.
What kind of emergency?

“Look at this.” She showed Joe the message.

“Whoa, I wonder what’s up.”

Carly shrugged and hit the speed dial for the watch commander’s phone.

“Tucker.”

The name took her by surprise. Sergeant Tucker was the head of homicide. Why was he answering the watch commander line?

“Uh, Sergeant Tucker, it’s Edwards. Did you page me by accident?”

“Nope, you’re the one I wanted. We found the mayor and . . . uh, hang on.”

Carly could hear muffled voices in the background. Shock brought on by the sergeant’s comment about the mayor left her slack jawed.
We found the mayor
coming from the
homicide
sergeant was not a good thing. She’d just been thinking about the woman! Speculation about Mayor Burke’s fate had run the gamut among department personnel during the past four days. Now Carly’s stomach turned as she guessed at the reality. She repeated the sergeant’s words to Joe, who whistled low in surprise.

“You still there?” Sergeant Tucker came back on the line.

“Yes, sir.” More questions clouded her mind.
Why is Sergeant Tucker calling me about the mayor’s case?

“I can’t tell you much right now. The area is crawling with press. The mayor was murdered. We need you at the command post ASAP.”

“What?” Carly’s hand went numb with the confirmation
of her suspicions. “Uh, sure, where?”
Mayor Teresa Burke was murdered.
This news would devastate the city she worked for. Carly listened as the sergeant told her where to report and broke the connection.

“Earth to Carly, you still with me?” Joe tapped the phone. “What happened?”

“Mayor Burke was murdered, and they want me at the crime scene now.”

“Wow.” His face registered the shock Carly felt. “What do they want you to handle?”

“Tucker didn’t say.” She held Joe’s gaze. “Why me? I work juvenile invest, not homicide.”

“My guess would be there’s a minor involved somewhere. But why ask why? Go for it; this will be an important investigation. The fact that they want you says something.”

“After six months of telling me to pound sand, suddenly they need me?”

Joe laughed. “You know what they say about gift horses? If you look them in the mouth, they bite! Just go and be the outstanding investigator I know you are.” He gripped her arm. “Stop thinking less of yourself because they’ve stuck you in juvie. You’re a good cop.”

“Thanks. You’re right, I guess, about doing my best with whatever they’ve got for me.” She shrugged. “At least I’ve got nothing to lose. Thanks for the swim.”

He applauded as she left him at the water’s edge and jogged across the mostly empty beach toward home, a block and a half away.

After a quick shower to wash away the salt, Carly took a minute to shuffle through her wardrobe. Juvenile was a nonuniform assignment, the dress code business casual, which for her afternoon shift usually meant jeans and a department polo shirt. But this was a big case. Deciding that she wanted her appearance to scream competent and prepared, she chose a pair of black slacks, a dark-green sweater, and hard-soled shoes rather than the running shoes she normally wore.

A quick glance in the mirror left her satisfied. She double-checked the gun and badge in her backpack on the way to the car, the familiar ritual helping to calm her jumping nerves. But the adrenaline rush was intense.