Megan
While Adriana’s protective order gave police the right to arrest Ryan if he violated it, the awful truth was that it was merely a piece of paper. It wouldn’t stop him from violence if he was intent on committing it. I could only hope he wasn’t. Maybe the order would prove to be a tipping point, make him realize he needed to back off and move on, maybe see a therapist or counselor to deal with his emotions.
He behaved himself all week. I hoped that was a good sign, that his anger had abated rather than festered and grown during those days.
Shortly after eleven on Friday night, dispatch came over the airwaves. “Officers needed on Vickery at Stage West Theater. We have reports of a female suspect causing property damage. Civilians have restrained the suspect.”
Many times, people were hesitant to get involved in stopping a crime or apprehending a criminal, and with good reason. Criminals could turn on them, sometimes with deadly consequences. But sometimes people stepped up, risking their own safety. Looked like there’d been a hero or two taking in the play tonight.
I grabbed my microphone and pushed the button. “Officers Luz and Brigit on our way.”
I took a right on Hemphill Street and hooked a left onto Vickery. A block and a half later, and we’d arrived at Stage West. The theater had been founded by Jerry Russell, an accomplished actor and father to Wendy Davis, a politician who’d served on the Fort Worth City Council and in the Texas Senate. She’d risen to national fame when she’d filibustered for eleven hours on the final day of the legislative session against a bill that imposed restrictions on women’s access to reproductive health care. Though the bill later passed, the stand Wendy took, in a pair of pink running shoes, had nonetheless made her a living legend. And when the Supreme Court later ruled the law unconstitutional, she was vindicated, even though she’d lost a bid for governor in the interim. Interestingly, the theater’s current offering was Ann, a play based on the life of Ann Richards, another brassy female Democratic politician who was also a legend in Texas. Like they say, well-behaved women rarely make history. They also rarely get a Broadway play written about them.
People were filtering out of the theater, the show having apparently just ended. As I drove up, two women waved their arms to get my attention. “Over here!” one of them called.
I quickly parked and retrieved Brigit from the back of my car, clipping her lead onto her collar.
The women who’d called to me scurried over. “When we were leaving the theater, we spotted a woman scratching up our car. Our dates ran over and tackled her.”
As they led the way, I strode over with them. “Is it someone you know?”
“No,” she said. “None of us have ever seen her before.”
I found their dates hunkered down between two cars, both of which had been scratched to pieces, the paint cut through to the metal underneath. The two men were situated at either end of a blond woman who lay facedown on the asphalt between the cars. One of the men had dropped down over her legs to try to hold them, while the other had sat on her back to hold her arms. She struggled against the men, grunting and groaning as she exerted and strained to raise herself up. Her efforts were futile. Not only did the men outweigh her by at least four times, they had gravity on their side.
I caught the men’s eyes. “Keep a hold on her until I secure the area, okay?”
They both nodded.
“Stop struggling!” I ordered the woman. “Now! Or I’ll deploy my dog!” I gave Brigit a hand signal and she let loose with her most ferocious growl and a warning bark. RUFF!
Still facedown, the woman went stock-still.
A knife lay on the asphalt, just inches from the woman’s hand. She must have dropped it when she’d been tackled. Holding Brigit close, I circled between the adjacent car to the right and bent down to take a closer look at the weapon. It appeared to be a paring knife. The blade, which was around four inches in length, bore the words WÜSTHOF CLASSIC. The black handle was contoured, with three stainless steel circles in a row and a red square with a three-tined fork logo. It was an unusually fancy tool for an act of vandalism that could have been accomplished with a set of keys or a simple pocketknife. Had the woman also planned to peel and mince a human victim, too?
Lest she somehow regain possession of the blade, I used my toe to push it back a few feet. Time to find out who this woman is and why she’d taken it upon herself to go all Etch A Sketch on these vehicles.
“Ma’am, you need to—”
Before I could speak to the woman, an outraged squeal erupted nearby and a kazoolike male voice yelled, “What the fuck?!”
Wait a second. That voice sounds familiar.
The two women who’d flagged me down stood at the rear of the vehicles. They looked to their left, where the voice had come from.
The one who had spoken with me earlier called out to the man. “She got our cars, too!”
There was a third car in the mix? Great. I hadn’t noticed the vehicle parked to the left; my focus had been on the suspect.
The male voice came again. “At least your tires weren’t slashed, too!”
Slashed tires? The damage must have been more extensive than I’d realized at first glance.
A second later, a man stepped up next to the women. Ryan. His car had been keyed, too? And his tires cut?
His head jerked back in surprise. “Officer Luz?”
A brown-haired girl in a sexy pink satin slip dress stepped up next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You know this cop, Ryan?”
Uh-oh.
Was the woman at my feet Danielle, the one I’d spoken with after the unknown blonde had shown up at Ryan’s place with the gift and balloons and tried to sweet-talk her way in? Had she lied to me about her involvement? Had she realized he’d been on a date with another girl tonight and come here seeking revenge in a Carrie Underwood “Before He Cheats” kind of way?
I glanced down at the woman, whose face was still hidden under the curtain of blond hair. I couldn’t tell if it was Danielle. But there was one way to find out.
I crouched down near her head. “Ma’am, in just a moment I’m going to ask these men to release you. When they do, you need to roll over onto your back and keep your hands over your head. Understand me? Any funny business and you’ll get bit.”
Brigit barked again. RRUF!
The woman didn’t speak, but her head moved up and down as she nodded in agreement.
I motioned for the men to release the woman. When they did, she continued to lie facedown for a moment or two, but finally, and slowly, rolled over onto her back.
Adriana.
Ryan’s mouth gaped. “You bitch!”
When he stormed forward, I held up a hand. “Touch her and you’re in trouble, too.”
He threw his hands in the air. “When will you get it, Officer Luz? She’s the problem! She’s always been the problem! All I’ve done is try to protect myself!”
His date gave him a confused, sideways glance. “What’s going on?”
He cast her an annoyed glance. “I’ll fill you in later. There’s too much to tell.”
I wondered what had happened with Ryan and Danielle. Had she called things off? It seemed likely. She hadn’t seemed that into him.
Turning my attention back to Adriana, I instructed her to sit up and put her hands behind her. “Wrists together. Now.”
Her shoulders shook with sobs, but she did as she was told. I slid the cuffs onto her wrists and told her to remain sitting. Pushing the button on my shoulder-mounted radio, I said, “Transport needed at Stage West Theater. Single suspect.”
Ryan ranted, raved, and paced until Summer and Derek arrived a few minutes later. I gave them the scoop.
“Oh, honey,” Summer said to Adriana, shaking her head. “No man is worth all this trouble.”
Derek yanked Adriana to her feet and stowed her in the back of their cruiser. Considering his work done, he slid back into the passenger seat, grabbed an enormous fountain drink from the cup holder, and sucked on the straw. Slurrrrp!
While Adriana hung her head in the back of Summer’s squad car, Summer and I took a few minutes to interview the witnesses and victims, assess the damage, and take photos. Ryan’s Camaro bore the brunt of Adriana’s knife assault. It looked as if it had been attacked by a pride of angry lions. Numerous deep gouges ran the length of the side, with dozens of shorter, shallower vertical scratches along the way. All four tires had been cut and rested in deflated rubber puddles under his car. While the two adjacent cars on the right had also been damaged, it seemed clear to me that Ryan’s car was the real target and Adriana had only scratched the other cars to make the attack seem random and keep suspicion off herself. She obviously hadn’t expected to be caught in the act. So much for that, huh?
When we finished, I told the group of victims that I’d input my police report immediately so that they could have it available for insurance purposes as soon as possible.
The two couples thanked me, shook my hand, and drove away.
Ryan, however, looked as if he was ready to explode. “That bitch is going to kill me one day! I told you as much! But nooo! You didn’t think she was dangerous.” He scoffed before leaning into my face and giving me a pointed look. “What do you think now?”
What did I think now? I thought that it was damn hard to read some people. I thought that Adriana had been immensely stupid to do what she did. But most of all, I thought that I needed a damn vacation.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Detective Bustamente and I were seated in a conference room across from Adriana, who was still shackled but with her hands in front of her now.
“I want you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth, Adriana,” I said. “Who was behind each of the events? Was it you?”
“No!” she cried. “You have to believe me!”
Bustamente, who was always the epitome of calm, raised his hands from the table. “Why? Why should we believe you? You just did something very impetuous tonight and violated the law. Give us a reason to think you’re telling us the truth.”
Her voice was shrill and shaky. “Because I am!”
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” he said. “Help us understand. What were you thinking tonight?”
She paused for a few beats, her chest heaving, before she took a couple of deep breaths and spoke. “I know I shouldn’t have done what I did,” she said. “But I just couldn’t take it anymore. The pressure, the constant worry. It was too much. I guess I … snapped.”
“You got the protective order against him,” I said. “I took away his gun. You had the advantage now.”
“What advantage?” she cried. “After you took away his gun that first time he just went out and bought another. He’s probably bought another one by now!”
Bustamente and I exchanged glances. She could very well be right. The protective order against Ryan was in the system and a gun seller required to run a background check should find it and refuse the sale. Unfortunately, there were myriad ways to work around the regulations. No background checks were required on gun sales between private citizens, for instance. Ryan could have attended any of the dozen or so gun shows being constantly held in the state. Heck, the Will Rogers Center hosted gun shows on a regular basis, some big, some small. One of the oddest sights I’d ever seen was when the center was simultaneously hosting a gun show and a ballet recital. Little girls in pink tutus were dancing and leaping their way through the parking lot while hunters and gun enthusiasts dressed in camouflage pulled rifles and pistols and shotguns out of their trunks.
Adriana released a shuddering breath. “That car means more to Ryan than anything else. I wanted to hit him where it hurts. Just once. Before the inevitable happens.”
“What’s ‘the inevitable’?” I asked.
She looked up and fully met my gaze for the first time ever. “Ryan killing me.”