Cause to Run

But Avery was worried about Ramirez. Yes, he was handsome and respectful. He’d saved her life after the Edwin Peet debacle and practically remained by her side the entire time during her recovery. Still, he was her partner. They were around each other five days a week or more, from eight AM to six or seven or later depending on a case. And Avery hadn’t been in a relationship in years. The one time they kissed, it had felt like she was kissing her ex-husband, Jack, and she’d immediately pulled away.

She checked the dashboard clock.

They hadn’t been in the car for five minutes and Ramirez was already talking about dinner. You have to talk to him about this, she realized. Ugh.

As they headed toward the office, Avery listened to the police band radio, as she did every morning. Ramirez suddenly turned on a jazz station, and they drove a few blocks listening to light jazz mixed with a police operator detailing various activities around Boston.

“Seriously?” Avery asked.

“What?”

“How am I supposed to enjoy the music and listen to the calls? It’s confusing. Why do we have to listen to both at the same time?”

“All right, fine,” he said in mock disappointment, “but I’d better get to listen to my music at some point today. It makes me feel calm and smooth, you know?”

No, Avery thought, I don’t know.

She hated jazz.

Thankfully, a call came on the radio and saved her.

“We have a ten-sixteen, ten-thirty-two in progress on East Fourth Street off Broadway,” said a scratchy female voice. “No shots have been fired. Any cars in the vicinity?”

“Domestic abuse,” Ramirez said, “guy’s got a gun.”

“We’re close,” Avery replied.

“Let’s take it.”

She turned the car around, hit the lights, and picked up her transreceiver.

“This is Detective Black,” she said and offered her badge number. “We’re approximately three minutes away. We’ll take the call.”

“Thank you, Detective Black,” the woman replied before she gave out the address, apartment number, and background information.

One of the many aspects Avery loved about Boston were the houses, small homes, most of them two to three stories high with a uniform structure that gave much of the city its communal feel. She hung a left onto Fourth Street and cruised to their destination.

“This doesn’t mean we’re off the hook on paperwork,” she insisted.

“Nah, of course not.” Ramirez shrugged.

The tone of his voice, however, coupled with his attitude and the unruly piles on his own desk, made Avery wonder if an early-morning drive had been the best decision.

Not much detective work was needed to discover the house in question. One police cruiser, along with a small crowd of people that were all hidden behind something, surrounded a blue stucco house with blue shutters and a black roof.

A Latino man stood on the front lawn in his boxers and a tank top. In one hand, he held the hair of a woman who was on her knees and crying. In his other hand, he simultaneously waved a gun at the crowd, the police, and the woman.

“Get the fuck back!” he yelled. “Every one of you. I see you there.” He pointed his pistol toward a parked car. “Get the fuck away from that car! Stop crying!” he screamed at the woman. “You keep crying, I’m going to blow your head off just for pissing me off.”

Two officers were on either side of the lawn. One had his gun drawn. The other had a hand on his belt and a palm up.

“Sir, please drop your weapon.”

The man aimed at the cop with the pointed pistol.

“What? You wanna go?” he said. “Then shoot me! Shoot me, motherfucker, and see what happens. Shit, I don’t care. We’ll both die.”

“Don’t fire your weapon, Stan!” the other officer shouted. “Everybody just stay calm. Nobody is going to get killed today. Please, sir, just – ”

“Stop fucking talking to me!” the man howled. “Just leave me alone. This is my house. This is my wife. You cheating motherfucker,” he simmered and shoved the muzzle of his gun into her cheek. “I should clean out that dirty fuckin’ mouth of yours.”

Avery turned off her sirens and sidled up to the curb.

“Another fucking cop!?” the man seethed. “You guys are like cockroaches. All right,” he said in a calm, determined way. “Someone is going to die today. You’re not taking me back to prison. So you can all either go home, or someone is going to die.”

“Nobody is going to die,” said the first cop, “please. Stan! Put your gun down!”

“No way,” his partner called out.

“God damn it, Stan!”

“Stay here,” Avery said to Ramirez.

“Fuck that!” he stated. “I’m your partner, Avery.”

“All right then, but listen up,” she said. “All we need now is two more cops turning this into a bloodbath. Stay calm and follow my lead.”

“What lead?”

“Just follow me.”

Avery hopped out of the car.

“Sir,” she commanded to the drawn officer, “put your gun down.”

“Who the fuck are you?” he said.

“Yeah, who the fuck are you?” the Latino aggressor demanded.

“Both of you step away from the area,” Avery said to the two officers. “I’m Detective Avery Black from the A1. I’ll handle this. You too,” she called to Ramirez.

“You told me to follow your lead!” he yelled.

“This is my lead. Get back in the car. Everyone step away from this scene.”

The drawn officer spit and shook his head.

“Fuckin’ bureaucracy,” he said. “What? Just because you’re in a few papers you think you’re super cop now or something? Well, you know what? I’d love to see how you handle this, super cop.” With his eyes on the perpetrator, he raised his gun and walked backward until he was hidden behind a tree. “Take it away.” His partner followed suit.