A slew of black-and-whites arrived with sirens blaring. Then crime-scene techs, the coroners.
The usual, but this felt different to Petra. This was hers.
And Eric’s. He hadn’t blinked during the shooting or since.
Someone you could depend upon.
Still, it threw her off.
In charge was a Valley lieutenant, soon supplanted by a captain. Both started off treating Petra and Eric like criminals but eventually eased up.
Last to show up was the officer-involved shooting team. Two Internal Affairs detectives with all the emotional resonance of statuary. Questioning Eric and Petra separately, Eric first.
Petra watched from ten feet away, knew the story he was telling, the one they’d prepared. It had been his idea to go looking for Selden; he’d had to overcome Petra’s reluctance. Once the meet had been set up, she’d made multiple attempts to call for backup, finally decided there was no choice but to go ahead.
The fact that Eric had done all the shooting backed that up.
Clear and present danger, protecting a sister officer.
In the best of circumstances, he’d be suspended with pay, for as long as it took to sort out the paperwork. If the media got hold of it- some P.C. moron at the Times or one of the throwaway weeklies trying to manufacture a racial thing or a police brutality thing- it could get ugly and go on longer. That would mean lawyers, the police union, maybe suspension without pay.
Petra had tried to talk him out of being the scapegoat.
He said, “That’s the way I’m telling it. Back me up.” Gave her arm a short, hard squeeze and left to face the turmoil.
She stood by as the shooting investigators double-teamed him. Watched as they came up against his stoicism and started passing glances between them.
She knew what they were thinking. This is weird.
Cops, even hardened vets, usually reacted to blowing out the back of someone’s head with a modicum of emotion. For all the feeling he was displaying, Eric might’ve just filed his nails.
Because he had to. Because he was protecting her. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had protected her.
At three-forty P.M., with the scene still cordoned and active, the head Downtown hotshot showed up, wearing a freshly pressed suit and tie. Meaning he’d been out by the pool or playing golf or whatever, had finally been reached, rushed home to dress for the occasion.
Before he stepped into the mess, he looked around. At the media vans congregated outside the yellow tape.
Hoping to be noticed. When it didn’t happen, he frowned, spotted Petra, came toward her.
She told him the story. He said, “Messy,” left, conferred with the techies.
Sandra Leon had been on the scene for hours, mostly stashed in a rear storage room of the gallery under guard. Petra ached to interview her, knew it would never happen.
Now, two uniforms escorted Sandra to a cruiser and put her in the back. Downtown strode over, opened the door, said something, stepped back with a stunned, angry expression. The girl had dissed him, probably with the foulest language possible.
He told the driver to leave, and the black-and-white rolled away. Glided past Petra. Through the side window, Sandra Leon glared at her, twisting her body so she could maintain eye contact through the rear glass.
Petra stared back. Received a clearly enunciated “Fuck you” as the girl diminished. Disappeared.