I sat on the curb for several minutes, hacking, spitting, and gulping air, my lungs burning, my chest aching. Easing into my car, my knees bruised and sore, my back aching, I drove a few blocks to a mini-mart, passing a convoy of fire trucks, sirens blazing.
When I paid for a bottle of water, the teenage clerk stared at me and said, “Dude, looks like you been toasted like a marshmallow.”
I checked my reflection in the glass: my face was soot stained and my eyebrows were singed. I bought a package of wipes and, in the parking lot, cleaned my face and hands and then gulped down the water. For a few minutes I leaned against my car, staring into the middle distance, brushing ashes and soot off my suit.
I bought another water for the road and headed back to PAB. I had an idea of who might have gone after me, but I wanted to do a little research, including a DMV check, first. I wanted to be sure.
When I returned to the squad room, I noticed that someone had scattered the items on my desk and jimmied open the bottom drawer, busting the lock. The murder book was still there. Why would someone want to break into my desk and riffle through my murder book? I could see the picture of Latisha Patton under the plastic sheeting on my blotter,
“NO!” I shouted. I won’t lose another witness. My chest was so tight it felt like my lungs were exploding. I tried to stand up, but my legs started to buckle. Gripping the edges of my desk, I pushed myself to my feet, and ran down the stairs, across the street, and into the parking lot.
I careened down the city streets, screeching around corners, until I hit the onramp for the Harbor Freeway, already doing sixty. I flicked on my dashboard light, punched my siren, and slammed down the gas pedal until I hit a hundred. I shimmied off the freeway at a San Pedro exit and slammed on my brakes in front of Theresa Martinez’s apartment complex.
I sprinted past the pool and took the stairs three at a time. Sweat dribbling from my hair into my eyes, coughing and trying to catch my breath, I pounded on her door. A moment later I heard a muffled cry.
After ripping my Beretta out of my shoulder holster, I leaned back and kicked out her front window.
As I jumped inside, slicing my thigh on the jagged glass, I saw a shadow dart to my left. Gripping the Beretta with two hands, elbows flush to my sides, I swiveled around.
“Drop the gun real slow and kick it over here,” said Conrad Patowski, Wegland’s adjutant. He stood behind Theresa Martinez, gripping her neck, pointing his Glock at her temple.
“Drop it!” Patowski shouted. “Or I’ll blow her head off.”
Tears streamed down Martinez’s face and her chest heaved with convulsive sobs.
I knew if I gave up the gun, she’d be dead. And so would I.
“I said drop it!” Patowski said.
I slowly lowered the gun a few inches. I could feel the blood sluicing down my thigh and soaking my sock.
“That’s a good boy,” Patowski said.
I won’t lose another witness. I took a step forward, raised the barrel an inch, and fired.
The boom echoed in the small room.
Martinez fell to the ground with a thud.