Any other time Amanda would rejoice in being the Watch Commander and running the patrol operations. But an officer was killed, so there’d be lots of brass at the scene…and she was stuck at the station.
While no one actually said the words out loud, everyone knew if you were young, pretty, and could catch the eye of someone who was a commander or above, you had a good chance of getting a coveted assignment…if you played the game right.
If you wanted to speed things up, you slept with the mentor. The higher in rank the benefactor was, the better the job you’d receive.
The problem was she was almost thirty-five, and she was aging out. Every month, the academy turned out a new class with at least one or two pretty females.
Like everyone else on the job, she’d heard the stories of female officers who were barely off probation being assigned to the chief’s office or the mayor’s protection detail.
Being stuck at the station wasn’t going to get her face time with someone who’d help her career. Shining in the task she’d been assigned, was the best she could do. That meant handling the barrage of citizen and media phone calls—all wanting information that she couldn’t disclose. In between times, she communicated with the command post and assisted them in any way needed.
The station felt deserted because the whole watch was at the crime scene. After the initial response to the “help” call, most of the detectives had returned to the squad room.
The front desk officer came and stood next to her. “I’m sorry to do this to you, Sarge, but there’s a guy out in the lobby who wants to make a complaint.”
She rolled her eyes. “Did you explain one of our officers was seriously injured, and we’re extremely busy?”
He nodded. “Said it wasn’t his problem.”
“Do you know what his beef is about?”
The officer shook his head. “He wouldn’t say a thing. Insisted on talking to the Watch Commander.”
“Advise him I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Older guy in a Hawaiian shirt,” he called to her as he walked back to the station lobby.
She nodded and went to her cubby in the sergeant’s office and grabbed a bottle of water. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re put out because you can’t be at a crime scene. Poor Dolby Sinclair is dead. Dead. She took a healthy drink and then responded to the front desk.
Mister Hawaiian shirt was the only citizen in the lobby. The man looked to be in his mid-to-late sixties with a healthy head of hair. Heavy bags under his eyes, and deep furrows between his brows gave him a permanent expression of annoyance. He stood six feet from the desk with his arms crossed at his chest. His head was bowed, looking at his cell phone.
“Good afternoon. I’m Sergeant Fox. I understand you want to talk to me?”
“No. I told that other guy I wanted to talk to the Watch Commander.”
“Sir, I am the Watch Commander.”
He looked away from her and blew out a breath. “Unbelievable,” he mumbled. “They’re letting a broad run things. No wonder LAPD is fucked up.”
She smiled at him. “How can I help you?”
“I want to make a complaint against a couple of your cops.”
“Okay. Tell me what happened.”
“Yeah, I stopped by my girlfriend’s house because I saw a strange pickup parked in the driveway. She’s been actin’ all different and secretive for the past few weeks, and I think some other guy might be tryin’ to move in on my action.”
“Go on.”
“Well, if the truck belongs to a co-worker or one of her friends or somethin’, I don’t want to make an ass out of myself—”
Too late, asshat.
“So I thought I’d take a look through the window.”
“Uh huh.” Suspecting she knew what he’d say, she asked anyway. “Then what happened?”
“The next thing I know, I got these two cops on the sidewalk yelling at me to walk over and talk to them.”
“My girl hears the commotion and comes out and they talk to her. They tell her what I was doing. She gets ticked off at me and says to take off and never come back.”
“And your complaint is?”
“They wouldn’t let me know who was in the house with my girlfriend.”
“Do you know the names of the officers?”
He bobbed his head. “They gave me a business card.” He held it up for her to see.
She looked and inwardly groaned. 17A1, Romanelli and Cruz. “Give me a minute.”
In the watch commander’s office, she checked the ACC, and determined 17A1 was at Northridge Hospital. She got on the radio. “17L90, have 17A1 phone the station.”
A few minutes later, Cruz called.
She asked what happened on the incident with a possible peeping Tom.
“Shit, Sarge, that was a nothing. We were driving by, saw a guy peeking in the window and checked it out.”
“I know, and diddly-squat is going to come of it. But just to be sure, do you know who owned the truck in the driveway?”
“Hang on.”
She listened to him ask his partner the question. Through the phone she heard Romanelli replying but couldn’t understand what he was saying.
Cruz came back on the line. “I guess the pickup belongs to the girlfriend now. She bought it as a surprise birthday present for her boyfriend.”