Abuse of Power Read online

  Cummings possessed a unique kind of charisma, one that worked equally well on both women and men. His laugh was boisterous, his smile playful, his hazel eyes elongated and sexy. His body was powerful, but not overly developed like those of some of the other officers. He seldom lost his cool, and was considered one of the most competent field officers in the department. He had never made rank because he had never desired to—something the officers he worked with respected. Grant was a proverbial headbanger. He loved being a street cop: butting heads, kicking asses, hauling people to jail. He had no desire to spend his days preparing schedules and reviewing reports.

  Rachel was immune to Grant’s charms. She was well aware he had a girlfriend, a fellow officer on their shift named Carol Hitchcock. “No, thanks, I have to catch up on my sleep.” She turned her attention back to the sheets, using her ballpoint pen to jot down some of the license plate numbers on the back of her hand.

  “Come on,” he said, nudging her with his elbow. “It’s going to be fun. We’re going to the beach. We’ll party until it gets too hot, then crash on the sand and sleep. When we wake up, we’ll have a great tan.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rachel said. She had heard disturbing stories about the parties each watch had several times per month.

  The Oak Grove PD employed 220 field officers. Sixty officers were assigned to patrol during the two-to-ten-o’clock watch, but their number dropped down to forty on the graveyard shift. If nothing major occurred, the department’s response time was outstanding and things ran smoothly. Like most police departments, Oak Grove tried to divert non-emergency calls such as thefts and stolen vehicles to either the respective detective bureaus or civilian employees trained specifically to handle such calls. The fewer reports the field officers had to write, the more coverage the people of Oak Grove had on the streets.

  Unlike most of her fellow officers, Rachel actually enjoyed working nights. Not only did it work out well with her kids, but once the bars closed and the drunks made their way home, the rest of the shift generally passed uneventfully. Oak Grove was a bedroom community, made up of mostly middle- to lower-income families, a great deal of them first-time homeowners. Located near Simi Valley, Moorpark, Thousand Oaks, and Ventura, the city had developed around one innovative housing development. Like Mission Viejo in Orange County, Oak Grove was one of the premier developments of tract homes in the United States.

  The city wasn’t affluent enough to attract criminals from outside jurisdictions, not when Beverly Hills was only an hour or so away. Other than domestic disturbances, traffic accidents, robberies, and other theft-related offenses, the most troublesome problem in Oak Grove centered around independent drug labs, most of them employed in the business of producing methamphetamine. Drug manufacturers could rent a home in an unassuming neighborhood, set up their makeshift labs, and blend into the community without notice.

  The city had a few heavy-duty street gangs, and drive-by shootings were not unheard of, but nothing compared to Los Angeles and the surrounding areas. The majority of problems they experienced in Oak Grove were basic teenage nonsense: kids congregating where they didn’t belong, tossing beer bottles on people’s property, playing their music too loud, urinating in public.

  “Where’s Townsend?” Rachel asked, not finding his face among the men.

  “He called and said he would be late,” Grant told her. “Lindsey’s not doing so good.”

  “Settle down, animals,” Sergeant Miller yelled from the front of the room. A large man, he had unruly black hair and a barrel-shaped body, with shoulders as broad as a linebacker’s. Although he was constantly harping on his officers about presenting a neat appearance, the front of his uniform was stained, and he looked as if he hadn’t visited a barber in months. Now that cigarettes had been banned from the station, he habitually chewed on toothpicks.

  After he had called roll and completed the unit assignments. Miller reviewed what had occurred on the previous watch. “We have an armed robbery working on the north side of town,” he told them. “The suspect is a Caucasian male in his late teens or early twenties, average build, reportedly driving a cobalt blue Camaro, unknown license plate. He hit the 7-Eleven at Hemphill and Wagner. The clerk said he was wearing a dark-colored ski mask and armed with what looked like a Tec 9. According to the clerk, the gun might possibly be a toy. If the guy’s a legitimate psycho, let’s try not to kill him if we can help it.” He paused and looked out over the room. “Around 2100 hours, we had a Jeep Cherokee stolen from Hudson Street. The license number and VIN are on the hot sheet.” He clapped his hands in dismissal. “That’s it, people. Hit the streets.”

  When Rachel walked up to the board where the unit keys were kept, the sergeant grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. “How’s it going, Simmons?” he said, spitting out a chewed-up toothpick. “Are you having any problems working alone?”

  “I’m doing fine, sir,” she answered, snatching the appropriate keys off the board and clipping them to her key ring so she wouldn’t lose them. Miller made her nervous. He didn’t believe women made good field officers, and he had recently given her a bad performance review.

  “Good girl,” the sergeant said, giving her a stiff smile. Rachel headed to the parking lot behind the station to locate her unit in the pool of police cars. She went through the customary checklist, making certain everything on the car was in working order and all the required equipment was on board. When she pulled out of the parking lot and headed to her assigned beat, she let out a sigh of relief.

  Until three months ago, Rachel had worked a two-person unit. Because of recent cutbacks in the budget, the officers on the graveyard watch now had to go out alone so the department could cover the city with a smaller deployment of manpower.

  Sergeant Miller might have thought that she wanted to work with a partner, but he was mistaken. She hated having to shoot the bull with someone all night. After a few hours you ran out of small talk. The worst, however, was finding herself on a dark side street fighting off a homy cop. Male officers working graveyards had a problem getting laid. Having a woman sitting next to them on a slow night was sometimes a temptation too strong to resist.

  Reaching the perimeter of her assigned beat, Rachel turned down a side street and slowed her unit to a crawl. It was a strange feeling being out and about when the rest of the world was sleeping. She glanced at the houses lining the streets, noting that most of the windows were dark. Her eyes searched between the houses looking for prowlers, branches moving in the shrubbery, anything that might indicate trouble. When an officer worked days, there was some sense of normalcy. The streets were filled with people going about their daily business. There were no shifting shadows, no dark alleyways, no spooky empty buildings. On graveyards, it was cops and criminals, dopers and drinkers, juveniles out for a night of pranks or street gangs looking for revenge.

  A high-pitched tone signal came out over the radio. Rachel snapped to attention, reaching over and turning the volume up so she could hear better. Whenever a hot call came in, the dispatcher used an emergency signal to get the officers’ attention. The piercing tone never failed to make the hairs stand up on her arms.

  “Station one, 2A2,” the female voice said, calling Rachel’s unit number. “We have a 211 that just occurred at the Stop N Go market on Baker and Elm. Suspect’s a white male driving a cobalt blue Camaro, license plate Frank—Victor—Charley—345. Code three, 2A2.” She let up on the microphone for a few moments to give the officers listening time to jot down the license plate. “3A3 respond for backup, code two.”

  “You got anyone closer?” Grant Cummings shouted into his radio. “I’m at least ten minutes away. I just cleared the station.”

  The dispatcher shopped for other available units, but found none closer. Rachel suspected Grant had lingered at the station trying to organize the watch party. Shift change was a hazardous time to have an armed robbery go down. The evening watch had a habit of sneaking into the station early, and i
t took time for the new watch to take position, so for at least twenty minutes much of the city was wide open. Crooks were smart these days. Many of Oak Grove’s robberies occurred during shift change.

  “All other units be on the lookout for the suspect’s vehicle,” the dispatcher continued. “Use extreme caution. Suspect is armed and dangerous. He’s believed to be the same person who robbed the 7-Eleven on Wagner earlier this evening.”

  Rachel’s heart was doing a tap dance inside her chest. If you believed what you saw on television, police officers responded to hot calls all the time. In fact, though, an individual officer’s beat could remain quiet for days at a time, even in a city like L.A. Rachel had drawn her weapon only on one previous occasion, and she had never fired it other than at the pistol range.

  After activating her lights and sirens, she stepped on the button on the floorboard and spoke into the microphone mounted near the visor. “Station one,” she yelled over the roar of the siren, “do you have a direction of travel on the suspect’s vehicle?” She was flying now, the needle on the speedometer hitting seventy, then eighty, inching its way up to ninety. The side streets were coming up in what seemed like seconds as she barreled down the divided parkway, praying that she didn’t hit a pothole and end up rolling the car. She saw the stained-glass windows of St. Anthony’s Episcopal Church at the end of the block, then the depressing gray structure that housed the Curtis Funeral Home. She turned her head to the right, then to the left, checking for cars about to pull into the intersections.

  “No direction of travel, 2A2,” the dispatcher advised. “The clerk copied down the plate while the vehicle was parked in front of the market. He didn’t see which way the vehicle went when it left the parking lot following the robbery. The suspect vehicle was reported stolen in Moorpark earlier today.”

  Not only did Rachel have to keep an eagle eye out for cars pulling into the intersections, she had to keep her eyes peeled for a cobalt blue Camaro. At night, blue could resemble black. “Shit,” she said, suddenly realizing that the black Firebird she had flown past a few moments before might very well be the suspect’s vehicle. Her palms were perspiring on the steering wheel. The suspect was armed. If she tried to stop him without backup, she would be putting her life on the line. Should she turn around and go back on the chance that her suspicions were accurate, or should she continue to the store to protect the crime scene and see what other information the witnesses could provide?

  Rather than take the time to make a U-turn, Rachel threw the gearshift in reverse and began speeding down the street. Spotting the Firebird turning down a side street, she shifted back to drive and punched the gas pedal, fishtailing around the comer. For five miles, the vehicle didn’t stop. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel.

  This was it.

  It had to be the robbery suspect. If not, why didn’t the man stop? “Station one, 2A2,” she shouted into the microphone. The license plate was not the same, but it was close enough that the reporting party could have made a mistake. “I’m in pursuit of a black Firebird, license Union—Victor—Henry 239, southbound on…” Rachel didn’t know where she was. Elm Street was a major thoroughfare, but she was not familiar with all the side streets. Where was the street sign? The markers were all obscured by tree branches.

  “Unit in pursuit, advise your location ASAP,” the police radio squawked.

  Finally she saw it. “Campbell Road,” she yelled. “We’re in the 300 block now.”

  She managed to overtake the speeding car. Slowing her speed, she pulled up alongside the Firebird and pointed toward the curb.

  Once the Firebird stopped, Rachel checked in with the radio, reporting her exact location and requesting a backup. The driver was male, but she had not been able to get a good look at his face. Getting out of her patrol car, she adjusted her nightstick on her hip and unfastened the strap holding her gun in place. Her mouth was dry. Her pulse was racing. If the man was the robbery suspect, he might begin firing the moment she stepped up to the window. She unholstered her gun, creeping along the side of the vehicle.

  “Get out of the car,” she demanded, flattening herself against the car door. “Put your hands over your head where I can see them. If you move, I’ll blow your head off.”

  She saw the man’s hands moving inside the car.

  “Now,” Rachel yelled, terrified he was going for a gun. “Get out of the damn car.”

  The door slowly opened and an older man stepped out. He had white hair and Rachel could see a hearing aid in his left ear. “Was I speeding, Officer?” he said. “This is my son’s car. It sometimes gets away from me.”

  Rachel dropped her hands to her side. “We’re looking for a robbery suspect driving a similar vehicle,” she said. “I’m sorry I frightened you, sir.”

  “You’re not going to give me a ticket?”

  “No,” she said, rushing back to her unit. “Just watch your speed in the future. I clocked you at almost seventy.”

  Rachel sped off, making a right turn onto Baker Street and flooring the Caprice. Six minutes later, she saw the red awning of the Stop N Go.

  Skidding to a stop in front of the market, she jumped out of the car, leaving her lights flashing and her siren yelping. Several young people were loitering in front of the store. Fearful they might decide to swipe her unit for a joyride, she locked the doors and raced inside. “Can you give me a better description of the suspect?” she asked the clerk behind the counter.

  “What do you mean?” said the clerk, a reed-thin man in his early twenties with crooked teeth, his hair styled in a crew cut. “This is my first night, lady. Can you believe it? My first night on the job and I get robbed.”

  “Was he wearing a ski mask?” Rachel asked. “Did you get a look at his face?” She looked around the store, hoping it had security cameras, but she saw none.

  “Wasn’t wearing no ski mask,” the clerk said, popping a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “Looked Mexican to me, but hey, what do I know? His skin was light, but I still think he was Mexican. Dude was wearing a hair net like the gangbangers wear. Had this pretty cool-looking shooter, though. Oh, he also had what looked like a tattoo under his eye, one of those teardrop jobs.”

  “Which eye?”

  “Right eye, I think,” the clerk said, scratching his chin. “I’m not really sure, you know. Once the dude pointed his gun at me, I kind of put everything else out of my mind.”

  “Were the kids out front present when the robbery occurred?” Rachel asked. After hearing the clerk describe the tattoo, she knew the suspect was extremely dangerous. The teardrop tattoo was known to signify how many people a gangster had killed, or to designate how many years he had spent in prison. Some gangsters had teardrops running down both sides of their faces.

  “Nah,” the clerk said. “Them kids just showed up a few minutes ago. Wanted to buy beer without an ID, but I wouldn’t let the little farts get away with it. They’ve been hanging around out there trying to snag someone to buy a six-pack for them.”

  Rachel realized that in all the excitement she had failed to advise the dispatcher that she had arrived on the scene. This was important for several reasons. If the station attempted to raise her on the radio and she failed to answer, they might assume she was in trouble and roll more units to assist her. The second reason was so the dispatcher could clock her response time. On priority calls, the department had only so many minutes to respond. She reached for her portable radio, but it wasn’t in the carrying case attached to her Sam Brown.

  Rushing back out to her car, she grabbed the door handle and then remembered that she had locked her unit. Not only were the red lights and sirens still activated, but the engine was running as well. When she peered inside and saw the keys dangling in the ignition, she wanted to pound her head against the glass. She saw her portable radio resting on the passenger seat. She had forgotten to put it in the carrying case when she had left the station.

  “You’re an idiot,” she said, cursing
herself as she kicked at the tires. What was she supposed to do now? She looked through the window into the market, and spotted the pay phone on the rear wall. The three boys standing in front began laughing and jeering at her. “I’d wipe that smile off my face,” she hissed as she stomped past them. “If you don’t, I’ll haul all three of you to jail.”

  “You can’t do that,” one obnoxious-looking youth said, five earrings stuck through the skin in his upper lip. “You’re just pissed ‘cause you locked your keys in the car. We ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “Don’t push me,” Rachel said, yanking open the door to the market. “I’m having a bad night, okay? If you’re not careful, I’ll make certain you have a rotten night too.”

  When Rachel picked up the phone at the Stop N Go, she dialed 911 and was patched through to the dispatcher. After advising the woman she was safe and had arrived at the market, she gave her the updated description of the suspect to broadcast to the other units.

  “Hold on,” the dispatcher said, “Sergeant Miller wants to talk to you. He’s in the radio room.”

  “No, wait,” Rachel said frantically, wanting to avoid speaking to the sergeant until she figured out how to break into her unit. The siren was so loud, she was afraid Miller would hear it over the phone and want to know what was going on. “Grant isn’t here yet…I mean, 3A3. Didn’t you dispatch him for backup?”

  “Yes,” the dispatcher said. “He should be there any minute. I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

  She heard the sergeant wheezing when he came on the line. After twenty years of smoking. Miller had developed asthma. “Okay, Simmons,” he said brusquely, “this is your chance to prove yourself. This creep hit two markets tonight. I think at this point we can rule out the gun being a toy. What I want you to do is secure the crime scene for the robbery detail. Did he touch anything while he was in the store?”