Mobile Eight One to Central.”
“Go ahead, Eight One.”
“I’m 10-23 at Frederickson and Sycamore. Suspect’s 150’s off the road. He missed a turn. He crashed.”
“Roger. Injury?”
“Don’t know yet. Looks bad. Send a bus.”
“Roger, Eight One. Be advised. Subject is armed. Wanted in connection with assault with a deadly just now and a homicide.”
“Roger.”
Jesus, thought the slim, shaved-headed young officer, whosename was Peter Nagle. Jon Merritt had killed somebody? He hadn’t seen that on the wire. Nagle was uneasy. The dog had caught the school bus and wasn’t sure what to do with it. The white pickup was sitting in a ditch, axle deep. It wasn’t going anywhere.
He couldn’t see Merritt clearly. The man was keeping low in the cab and seemed to be looking around, considering options. There was only one, if he wanted to keep running: climbing out the passenger door and shooting his way past Nagle.
Lord...
“Any other units?”
There was a pause. “Not in the vicinity. Nearest is answering a call on Chesterton. Can be there in ten, twelve.”
Welcome to Ferrington PD.
Nagle eyed the cab again. Yes, the former detective was the Hero of Beacon Hill. This Jon Merritt, though, was somebody very different.
“Eight One to Dispatch. Further to that homicide?”
“His ex-wife’s lawyer.”
Jesus.
Nagle was new to the force—eighteen months—but he’d run a dozen domestics. Sanity went out the window when love, or its corpse, was involved.
“Eight One, you there?”
“Roger that. Proceeding to subject now. I am.”
Wondering what the last sentence meant.
“And weapon is confirmed?” he asked uneasily.
“Affirmative, Eight One.”
“Roger.”
Well, he knew his job. He had to clear the cab and disarm Merritt.
Not only for his and everyone else’s safety, but for his own reputation. He could hear: What were you doing, kid, just standing there with your thumb up your ass? You didn’t eventryto collar him?
He crouched behind his open door and drew his Glock. Nagle peered through the window. Glare. Not much to see other than the former cop’s silhouette. No sign of his hands.
He thought of the fiancée he’d proposed to just one week ago at their favorite Outback. He’d rested the black Zales ring box on a napkin in the center of the restaurant’s signature Bloomin’ Onion.
Oh, Kelli...
Well, muscle up some balls. Crouching, Nagle pointed the weapon at the outline of the cop’s head. When the window didn’t come down he felt more confident. Aiming, two-handed, keeping low, he stepped from cover and slowly approached.