Tony was on the phone with his most trusted sergeant, McKenzie.
“It’s a good 459 on Shearling,” the sergeant said. “Can you rattle the cage of the print car and send him up here next? I’ve tried to get him on the air, and on the computer. He’s ghosting me.”
He heard the frustration in the sergeant’s voice and knew Blaze wouldn’t come to him unless he was out of resources. He glanced at the Daily Work Sheet, and saw that Dolby Sinclair was the fingerprint officer for the day. He was one of the most burnt-out officers on the watch. He was considered a ROAD warrior—retired on active duty—an officer who did the minimum until he retired.
He sighed. “Yeah, I’ll try to raise him on the radio. If he doesn’t respond, communications can Code 1 him. That’ll usually get him to surface.”
Tony wished Dolby wouldn’t put him in the position of having to track him down. But he understood why his former partner had turned into a slug who hated being at work and did the minimal. And with that insight, he tried to go easy on his friend.
“Honestly, why is he still working?” McKenzie said. “He’s eligible to retire.” Then he chuckled. “He probably isn’t retiring because his wife doesn’t want his ass hanging around the house all day.”
“Occasionally, even when a cop’s burnt out, he puts on the badge and tries to make a difference,” Tony said.
“Well, see if you can get Sinclair to make a difference in my day. I’m with 17A1. We’ll stand by until he gets here to take prints.”
He sighed into the phone. “Hey, if Cruz gets on his soapbox about women being the scourge of men’s existence, and you want to clear, go ahead. He can be Romanelli’s problem.”
“No kiddin’. Will do. Just try to light a fire under Sinclair,” the sergeant laughed, then disconnected.
With a sigh, Tony got on the radio and requested 17XL5 to call the station.
He couldn’t come down too hard on Dolby. At one time he was a first-rate street cop, but after some suspensions, several for making valid, but politically incorrect arrests, he turned cynical and bitter. Then there was that other incident—the one that had stalled his career for good.
With personnel stretched to the max, the department found jobs that the burnt out, lame, and lazy, could do while keeping them out of trouble. Their work still helped further the police mission…just at a slower pace.
Although Sinclair wore his LAPD uniform, he drove around town in a detective plain-wrap sedan. His function was to respond to burglaries where the suspects were long gone and dust for fingerprints. If he found any good impressions, hopefully they belonged to the crooks.
Print techs at Scientific Investigation Division—or SID—didn’t have the resources to print property crimes. They worked non-stop responding to homicide scenes and other major offenses.
The inside line to the watch commander’s office rang. Tony grabbed the phone.
“This is Sinclair. What’s up?”
“McKenzie’s been trying to get ahold of you on the air.”
“Oh. Sorry about that. I was out in A1’s area on a 459 in a condo behind Stony Point. Those boulders in Chatsworth sometimes bounce the radio signals.”
He knew the excuse was BS, but let it slide. He’d probably been up in Porter Ranch at the Promenade.
Dolby was infamous for going to the mall for coffee, while getting out of the heat. He spent his time flirting with young housewives and store clerks.
Tony told him to respond to the burglary on Shearling Drive and that McKenzie and 17A1 were standing by for him.
Sinclair sighed into the phone. “On my way.”
“And, Dolby, don’t make any stops en route up there. They’ve been waiting on you for forty-five minutes.”
“Hey, Tony, you wanna know something? You were a lot more fun as a P-2.”