The First Cut (3 page)

Em had insisted on Vining’s respect for the journey, an incident that Vining dismissed as the fickle finger of fate, the cards she’d been dealt, how her cookie had crumbled, combined with a medically explainable neurological effect. For Em, it had been much more.

“I was the fifth. For two minutes and twelve seconds, I was the fifth.”

Vining stood erect and snapped her hand to her forehead in a salute. People who passed looked, but she didn’t care. Em was right about that. Vining had changed.

T. B. Mann had changed Emily, too. It was as if she and Em had been traveling down a road and someone had shoved them off. Now they were still traveling the same direction as the road, but walking in the brush and pebbles beside it. The road was right there, but damned if they knew how to get back on. But they were fine, her and Em. They were doing all right.

She entered the building into the records lobby.

The three-story Mission Revival structure was built in 1989. New, as police departments went. Nice, as police departments went. Virtually all the PPD’s operations, other than the gun range, heliport, and a couple of substations in minimalls, were based in this building.

Pasadena, California, has a resident population of 135,000 that swells to 500,000 during the workweek. With over 200 sworn officers, it has one of the largest police forces in the state but is dwarfed by that of Los Angeles, its neighbor to the west. LAPD has about 10,000 officers serving a population of 2.5 million.

The PPD is small enough to be family. The chief’s office is in the same building from which the patrol cars roll out. The jail is in the basement.

Vining had been on the force for twelve years. Five were spent in various detective desks, the past three in Homicide. She included the previous year in the total. She had bled for it. She had earned it.

A short line had already formed behind the bulletproof glass that protected the cadets who staffed the two reception windows. The department had installed the glass after 9/11. A female and three males were sitting on the two wood benches in the lobby. Vining suspected they were waiting to be escorted to the jail downstairs. The female had a brown paper shopping bag that probably held the change of underwear, book, and few toiletries prisoners were allowed.

Outside one of the windows, a woman was reporting a stolen car to a cadet whom Vining didn’t recognize. The stool next to him was empty.

Vining stood at the locked door that led to the main lobby and elevators and looked over at the cadet, waiting for him to unlock the door.

She was searching for her keys when he asked, “Ma’am, who are you here to see?”

The cadet was around nineteen years old. Vining guessed he was a student at Pasadena City College, nearly all the cadets were, but he already had acquired the unyielding, unhesitating demeanor of a cop. In a way Vining was glad he didn’t know who she was. Maybe her story wasn’t as notorious around the department as she thought.

She was about to pull her flat badge from her pocket when Rosalie, who had worked in the records department forever, spotted her from behind the windows, burst through the side door, and jogged across the fired tile floor. She enveloped Vining in a bear hug.

“Nan, you’re back! Oh my gosh. It’s so
good
to see you. They told me you were in last week; I was so sorry I missed you. How are you?” Rosalie held her at arm’s length, her eyes glittering with tears.

“I’m good.”

“You look terrific.”

“Thank you. I feel good.”

Vining had worked hard physically and mentally to prepare for this day. She wanted to obliterate the idea—the shadow of an idea—in anyone’s mind that she was not capable of returning to her job. She’d struggled to convince her superiors that she was up to working at her old desk in Homicide. She’d lost. They’d offered her Residential Burglary. She’d be dealing with crimes against property, not persons. Nothing that bled. Detective Sergeant Kendra Early would no longer be her boss. Vining was philosophical. Among other things, she’d learned patience in the year she’d been gone. She’d get her old job back in time. After having nearly lost her future, she was calm with the knowledge that time was on her side.

She loved being a cop. She’d fallen into the career, but now saw it as destiny rather than happenstance. It had taken her tragedy to reveal to her the reason for her fervor, as if it had always been there but obscured. A shape behind a screen. There were people out there who needed to be put in prison. There was one man in particular. The man who had killed her. She and Emily had named him. T. B. Mann. The Bad Man.

“Come in this way.” Rosalie pulled her inside through another door. “Say hi to Joanie and Ramon.”

Others came to greet her. She felt eyes on the long scar on her neck and the smaller one on the back of her right hand. The scars had faded to pink. After much deliberation, Vining decided she wasn’t going to cover them. They defined who she was now. But the attention made her uncomfortable in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“It was so horrible. We prayed for you every day, Nan. Every day. All of us.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t believe in prayers, but neither did she feel they did any harm. It was nice that people had taken time out of their day to think of her. Many throughout Pasadena, across the country, and even around the world had done so. The department had received scads of cards and notes from well-wishers. Kind, heartfelt sentiments. One stood out. One was not nice. Camouflaged inside a cheery Hallmark card with a cartoon doctor and patient on the front, was this note: “You should have died, bitch.”

She dismissed it as probably sent by someone still ticked off about the man she had shot and killed five years ago. The shooting was determined to have been in policy. A good shooting. Still, she’d received lots of hate mail. It eventually tapered off. Vining figured her appearance in the news this past year had fanned the last sparks of resentment about that incident. It was disturbing to think T. B. Mann might have sent the nasty greeting card, knowing he had fully intended for her to die.

“Nan, I can’t believe he’s still out there. That he got away with it.”

“He hasn’t gotten away with it. Not for long. Not for long.” She repeated it, as if T. B. Mann could hear her.

“Look, thanks, everyone, for your kind calls and letters. They really cheered me up and kept me going, but I’ve got to get to work.” She couldn’t help but grin. Today was the day. She was back.

Vining took the elevator with two uniformed officers who were late for roll call. They nodded at her but didn’t speak. The elevator opened on the second floor and the uniforms got off to head for the briefing room. Nan stepped out and turned in the other direction. She walked down the hallway past a display case with a collection of antique police badges donated by a retired officer. Framed newspaper pages showing the World Trade Center towers just after the attacks and patriotic posters lined the walls.

At the end of the hall was the Detectives Section. She punched in the access code and entered a large, open room filled with cubicles upholstered in pearl gray fabric, looking like cubes in an office anywhere. Affixed to the outside of each were computer-made signs printed on white paper in bold type: Missing Persons, Assaults, Residential Burglary, Commercial Burglary, Auto Theft, Financial Crimes, Robbery, Sex Assaults/Runaways, Domestic Violence, Homicide.

“Poison Ivy!” A nickname she hated boomed from a man who was not her ally.

“Hey, Pickachu.” It was the first time she’d ever called Tony Ruiz by his moniker. It was apt as he resembled the squat, rotund cartoon character, but she had found it mean, even if the department nicknames were presumably uttered with familial affection. Today she was trying to be game. The style didn’t come naturally to her. Most things about cop work did, but not the jiving, joking, buddy-making part. Ruiz wouldn’t warm to her no matter what she did. His enmity wasn’t caused by anything she had actively done. She was a victim of association. There was no love lost between Ruiz and Lieutenant Bill Gavigan, who had taken Vining under his wing from the time she was a rookie and he was a patrol sergeant. Sometimes Vining thought Ruiz disliked her simply because she was taller. He was having the last laugh. After years of trying, he finally had her job.

Ruiz had made the obligatory visit to her hospital room but hadn’t contacted her after that. That was fine with her. She didn’t find his presence particularly healing.

Heads began popping up like prairie dogs over the tops of cubicles.

“Look who’s back.”

“Ivy’s here.”

“Hey, Quick Draw. Howyadoin’?”

Vining cringed at that nickname, too, but took it in stride, slapping palms and accepting hugs.

“Heard they transferred you to Community Services, Vining.”

“I couldn’t get the stench of the second floor off me. I’m ruined for any other job.”

“I hear that running the Citizen’s Police Academy is very rewarding.”

“So is teaching Sunday school. I haven’t heard about you doing that.”

Vining peeked into Jim Kissick’s cubicle. He wasn’t there.

“Kissick’s probably in the can,” Ruiz offered.

“Whoa. You’ve got a story to tell the grandkids, huh?” A young man who looked vaguely familiar to Vining was pointing at her scar. Everyone else had the good manners to look without really looking.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Vining extended her hand over the cubicle, her gaze cool. She guessed he was in his twenties. She detected a callow cockiness that sometimes got young cops into trouble.

His eyes dropped from her scar to her bust.

Only the top button of her blouse was undone. The fabric was medium blue and not transparent. She was wearing a jacket and was lean anyway, so there was nothing to see. Vining pitied the women who stumbled across this scumbag.

He finished his once-over before grasping her palm. “Alex Caspers. Like the friendly ghost with an
s.
”

“You can ignore him,” one of the guys said. “He’s rotating out of Residential Burglary at the end of this week. He can’t wait. He doesn’t like it up here with us.”

The department had four rotational spots in detectives for patrol officers. The positions lasted one year and were generally in property crimes.

“You detectives have too much paperwork,” Caspers said. “I need to get back on the street where the action is, homes.”

“She’s ba-ack.” Detective Sergeant Kendra Early rounded the corner and enveloped Vining in a bear hug. She was forty, African American, shorter than Vining, and more filled out. Vining had never seen her wearing makeup, and the persistent dark circles under her eyes made her always look tired. A habit of frequently rubbing her eyes added to her world-weary aura. Vining’s nose brushed against her short, curly hair. She had liked working for Early and was going to miss it. Vining had been the sole female in Early’s crew. Their relationship was not particularly friendly or warm, and neither of them felt a pressure to move beyond the professional. However, they understood each other, which made their working rapport the most uncomplicated that Vining had experienced.

“I
am
back.”

“You look good, girl.”

“Thanks. Feel good.”

“Vining!” Ron Cho’s voice bellowed.

A tiny waver of Early’s eyebrow conveyed that she didn’t think much of Cho’s greeting.

Vining followed Early to the glassed-in room that she shared with the two other detective sergeants. Ernie Taylor’s and Ron Cho’s desks were side by side and held impressive piles of disorganized clutter. Early’s desk was opposite Taylor’s and looked like a place where one could work. Silver-framed photos of her extensive family spilled from a corner of her desk onto the empty desk beside her.

The windows faced Garfield Street and the courthouse, an unadorned concrete rectangle lined with soulless windows. Across the street to the south was City Hall, empty and encircled by temporary fencing while it underwent refurbishing and earthquake retrofitting. PPD shields bore a replica of its Spanish Baroque dome.

Vining shook the other two sergeants’ hands and pulled a chair in front of Cho’s desk. He wasn’t a tall man but he had a massive upper body from daily workouts at the station gym. His mother was Latina and his father was Korean.

“What are you doing yellin’ at the woman, Cho? First day back after IOD leave.”

“The criminals weren’t Injured on Duty. Judging from the pile of reports that came up last night, they’re in fine shape. Vining is, too. Look at her. Bright-eyed, fit…Ready to go.” Cho leered at Early. “You’re just ticked off because your girl got blown out at Wimbledon.”

“You go there and I’m going to have to talk about your Lakers.”

“Just squeeze ’em till they hurt, Early.”

Taylor snickered as he went through a stack of reports. He had piercing blue eyes and a crew cut that disguised thinning hair. He was wearing a holster over a dark gray dress shirt.

“What are you laughing at?” Early walked to him and brushed dandruff from his shoulders.

“The way you treat me, Kendra. It’s hurtful.”

“Making sure you’re keeping up your appearance. That’s all.” Early sat at her desk.

“Seriously, Vining,” Cho said. “How do you feel?”

“Great. Ready to get back to work.”

This was not Vining’s first official meeting discussing her injury. She’d met with Early and George Beltran, the lieutenant in charge of Detectives, before. She’d worked hard to make her case that she was ready to return to a desk in Crimes Against Persons. Wanting to look robust, strong, like a force to be reckoned with, she’d spent many hours at the gym, believing being fit and disciplined physically was a prelude to mental strength. Bit by bit, she built herself up. Each chest press and bicep curl brought her closer. Closer to catching him.

She also had to recertify with her firearms. That was no problem. During her leave, she’d gone back to the gun range as soon as she was able, honing her skills with her service Glock .40 and the 9mm that most PPD officers carried. She renewed her familiarity with the Remington 12 gauge that was standard in PPD patrol cars. She’d also built up her personal arsenal during her leave, adding a Winchester Model 70 Featherweight .30-06 high-powered rifle to the .223 she already owned, giving her additional range that could come in handy. She chose the Mossberg 500 as a good up-close-and-personal weapon that would stop anyone within twenty feet and would be easy for Emily to use under duress. She coaxed her ex-husband into buying that one.