CRISTINA AND ROBINSON SAT AT THE LEAD OF four vehicles, all parked against the curb: two cars and two SUVs. They’d been in place since noon, counting off the hours as the sun canted westward and grew shadows on the street. The houses nearby were still; no one had so much as moved a curtain in the whole time they were there. From time to time a car approached and there was tension until it passed.
Empty snack bags of chips were between Cristina and Robinson. Neither of them had anything to drink because there was nowhere to use the restroom if the urge struck. If it came to that, they had to leave the line or come up with improvised solutions that weren’t great.
Both Cristina and Robinson wore their vests, the word POLICE printed out in block letters front and back. Cristina was sweating under hers, the temperature outside the car climbing into the mid-eighties and inside the car ten degrees hotter. Today she wore her gun in a hip holster and it pressed against the emergency brake handle.
The radio tucked into the door pocket squelched and Matt Guillemette from Narcotics spoke up: “Hey, you said it was a blue Civic?”
Cristina picked up the radio. “Yeah, a blue Civic, tag number BMV1738.”
“I can’t see the plate yet, but it looks like a blue Civic’s coming up from behind.”
“Hang on.” Cristina looked into the side mirror. She saw the car approaching, but the reflection and the sun conspired to make identification difficult. “Okay, I see it. This could be her. Stand by.”
The car drew closer and Cristina could make out the H-logo on the nose of the car. Then it was moving by and she saw it was a Civic. The license plate matched. She hit Robinson on the arm.
“Let her go inside first,” Cristina said over the radio. “Then we move.”
She watched as the car pulled into the short driveway outside one of the still houses. The girl, Alicia Gonzalez, got out with her purse and went to the front door. She dropped her keys, picked them up, went inside.
“Okay,” Cristina said to Robinson.
They got out of the car and behind them more officers stepped out of their vehicles. All were openly armed and wearing light vests. One carried a stubby, handheld battering ram.
Guillemette approached. “I still think we should take the lead on this. A drug bust makes it ours.”
“Our informant,” Cristina said.
“There’s plenty to go around,” added Robinson. “The drug collar is all yours.”
“All right, let’s do this,” Guillemette said.
There were ten of them altogether and they crossed the street in a ragged line. Somewhere nearby a piece of heavy machinery started backing up, making high-pitched beeps.
Cristina opened the gate and entered the yard with everyone behind her. She was first to the house and tested the barred door. It was unlocked. She swung it wide and rapped hard on the front door itself. “Police,” she announced loudly.
To her right Robinson drifted to the front window and tried to see through the drawn curtains. Some of Guillemette’s men watched the sides of the house, and one climbed the fence into the back yard.
“Anything?” Cristina asked Robinson. He shook his head.
Guillemette stepped forward and pounded on the door with his fist. “Police,” he said. “Open the door.”
“Somebody’s moving in the front room,” Robinson said, and then the curtains parted right in front of him. Cristina was able to catch only a glimpse of a face before they were drawn again.
“Police! Open the door!”
“I don’t see her anymore,” Robinson said.
Guillemette spat into the flowers by the front door. “Fuck this,” he said. “Carns, bring the ram.”
Cristina tried one more time: “Open the door or we’re going to break it down!”
Carns hefted the ram and stepped in front of Cristina. “Watch out,” he said.
It took two sharp blows to splinter the frame and knock the door wide open. Carns stepped back and Cristina went through with her weapon out, Guillemette right behind. “Police, executing a search warrant,” Cristina called out.
She was in a modest living room with a couch and a couple wingbacked chairs. The TV wasn’t large. A throw rug on the wooden floor was pink and white and the walls were painted coral.
The girl appeared in the adjoining hallway. Cristina put her weapon on her. “Police! Put your hands in the air!”
The rest of the team spilled into the room. The girl stretched her arms up over her head and Guillemette stepped forward to put her in cuffs. Within a matter of seconds the others were headed through down the hall, deeper into the house.
“Search warrant,” Cristina told the girl. She presented the paperwork, but the girl’s hands were behind her back. “We have permission to search the house for illegal drugs and drug paraphernalia.”
“This is my mother’s house,” the girl said. Her face was taut with panic. “There’s nothing here.”
“That’s not what we heard,” Guillemette said. “Come on and sit on the couch where you’re out of everyone’s way.”
Guillemette sat the girl down. He turned to Cristina: “I’m going to knock some things over, see what I find. You can babysit.”
“Thanks,” Cristina said.
When Cristina looked at the girl, she saw the girl was crying. She had a round face and wore too much makeup. Tears cut grooves on her cheeks. “I didn’t do anything,” the girl said.
“You’re Alicia Gonzalez, right?” Cristina asked.
“Yes, but—”
“We have reason to believe there are narcotics on the premises. You can save us all a lot of time and trouble if you tell us where they are right now. We don’t even have to mess the place up.”
“There aren’t any drugs here!”
“Okay,” Cristina said. “If that’s how you want to be, we’ll turn the house upside down.”
A voice came from farther back in the house: “Here!”
Cristina looked to Robinson. “Watch her a minute?”
“Sure.”
She went down the hallway and followed Guillemette to a small bedroom at the rear of the house. It was a girly room, complete with a frilled bedspread. The furniture was all white and there was an open jewelry box on the top of a chest of drawers, a tiny ballerina balanced inside.
“Here,” said one Guillemette’s men. He knelt by the bed.
They dragged out a half of a cardboard box, cut down so it could slide easily beneath the bed. Inside was a bag of weed and a bag of white powder and a collection of smaller bags, each loaded with a small amount. A few dozen empty baggies were tossed on top of an electronic scale.
“Under the bed?” Guillemette said. “That’s original.”
“Looks like meth here.”
“There could be more,” Cristina said.
“Right. Keep looking. But this is distribution weight right here. Looks like your informant has good ears, Salas.”
“I want to talk to the girl when we bring her in.”
“Be my guest. She doesn’t have to say a word for me to make my case.”
Cristina left them and went back to the front room. The girl was still crying. Robinson stood over her impassively. Cristina nodded to him.
“We found the dope,” Robinson told the girl. “You have anything to say?”
“It’s not mine!” the girl exclaimed.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Cristina said. “Just think about this right now: there’s enough weed and meth back there to send you away for years.”
The girl collapsed into tears as Guillemette’s men took the house apart.