angry diatribe continued.
She concentrated on the wounded man, now hunkered down by the front right tire of the box truck.
She identified herself and shouted, “You by the U-Haul truck. Sit down. Sit down now.”
The man complied, trying to keep his hands out toward Jolie despite the injured arm.
“Cross your legs. Do it now.”
He did.
“Put your good hand on top of your head. Do it now.”
He did it—painfully.
“Do not move.” She keyed the mic and got the Palm County dispatcher—Lonnie—and blurted out the code for officer needing assistance. She told Lonnie the subject inside had a weapon and asked for paramedics. Keeping her SIG trained on the man sitting by the U-Haul, Jolie also kept an eye on the office door. On the radio she heard distant chattering sounds—Palm County on another frequency. Another voice, another code. That would be the Gardenia PD. They’d be closer, even though technically it was not their jurisdiction. On her drive over, Jolie had checked to see if the Royal Court Apartments was inside or outside the Gardenia city limits. They were outside.
Which made this hers.
Lonnie said, “Palm County and Gardenia PD are on their way. What are you wearing?”
Lonnie was asking so they wouldn’t mistake Jolie for the bad guy. “Jeans, a white tee, navy windbreaker.”
“All units are responding.”
The guy sat on the asphalt Indian-style as Jolie had instructed him. In the sodium arc lights she could see his dark blood, slick and shiny, where his shoulder met his forearm. She worried he would bleed out. She wanted to instruct him to take his hand off his head and stanch the wound as hard as he could with the palm of his hand, but she couldn’t do that. The units would be here in minutes, but Jolie found herself counting down the seconds. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand.
Time stretched. Adrenaline, at first quicksilver running to her extremities, started to recede. She had to be sure her strength and resolve wouldn’t go along with it. Hoped she wouldn’t be here alone long enough for her body to let down completely and start shaking.
But her bigger problem was the guy on the ground. Jolie didn’t want him dying on her watch.
Inside the office, the shouting continued, riddled with expletives. Jolie worried that whoever had the gun might shoot someone else. But there was nothing she could do about that. All she could do was maintain the status quo.
Ten-one-thousand, eleven-one-thousand .
Jolie kept her eyes on the man by the U-Haul. It was as if he’d been preserved in amber. His hand remained on top of his head, and Jolie saw no weakness there. He’d probably be all right. He wore cargo shorts, a surfer’s shirt, and boat shoes. In the yellow light, his face was stamped with his heritage along with his pain. Pakistani or Indian. Even sitting down he was amazingly tall. A beanpole.
The yelling turned up a notch. “I can’t believe this. You sneak off with your boyfriend, and I get left behind to deal with the cops?”
The yelling man must have moved closer to the window, because now she heard whole sentences. The voice was familiar.
She heard a woman’s voice but couldn’t make out the words.
“How do you know?” the man demanded.
The female mumbled something unintelligible.
“How do you know ? They aren’t dumb. One thing’s for sure—I’m not going down for this. I didn’t do anything!”
The woman spoke, her voice barely there. If cringing was a tone of voice, this was it. “…be all right. You just… ”
“So what happened? The three of you got together and said, ‘Let’s get Royce in on this, string him along, and let him take the fall ’?”
Royce Brady. The owner of the Starliner Motel.
“…wasn’t like…”
“Screw the old guy, huh? Like you really had the hots for me. How could I be so stupid? You guys having a threesome? Is that it? Are you and your boyfriend meeting that lying bitch somewhere while I sit here waiting for a
She concentrated on the wounded man, now hunkered down by the front right tire of the box truck.
She identified herself and shouted, “You by the U-Haul truck. Sit down. Sit down now.”
The man complied, trying to keep his hands out toward Jolie despite the injured arm.
“Cross your legs. Do it now.”
He did.
“Put your good hand on top of your head. Do it now.”
He did it—painfully.
“Do not move.” She keyed the mic and got the Palm County dispatcher—Lonnie—and blurted out the code for officer needing assistance. She told Lonnie the subject inside had a weapon and asked for paramedics. Keeping her SIG trained on the man sitting by the U-Haul, Jolie also kept an eye on the office door. On the radio she heard distant chattering sounds—Palm County on another frequency. Another voice, another code. That would be the Gardenia PD. They’d be closer, even though technically it was not their jurisdiction. On her drive over, Jolie had checked to see if the Royal Court Apartments was inside or outside the Gardenia city limits. They were outside.
Which made this hers.
Lonnie said, “Palm County and Gardenia PD are on their way. What are you wearing?”
Lonnie was asking so they wouldn’t mistake Jolie for the bad guy. “Jeans, a white tee, navy windbreaker.”
“All units are responding.”
The guy sat on the asphalt Indian-style as Jolie had instructed him. In the sodium arc lights she could see his dark blood, slick and shiny, where his shoulder met his forearm. She worried he would bleed out. She wanted to instruct him to take his hand off his head and stanch the wound as hard as he could with the palm of his hand, but she couldn’t do that. The units would be here in minutes, but Jolie found herself counting down the seconds. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand.
Time stretched. Adrenaline, at first quicksilver running to her extremities, started to recede. She had to be sure her strength and resolve wouldn’t go along with it. Hoped she wouldn’t be here alone long enough for her body to let down completely and start shaking.
But her bigger problem was the guy on the ground. Jolie didn’t want him dying on her watch.
Inside the office, the shouting continued, riddled with expletives. Jolie worried that whoever had the gun might shoot someone else. But there was nothing she could do about that. All she could do was maintain the status quo.
Ten-one-thousand, eleven-one-thousand .
Jolie kept her eyes on the man by the U-Haul. It was as if he’d been preserved in amber. His hand remained on top of his head, and Jolie saw no weakness there. He’d probably be all right. He wore cargo shorts, a surfer’s shirt, and boat shoes. In the yellow light, his face was stamped with his heritage along with his pain. Pakistani or Indian. Even sitting down he was amazingly tall. A beanpole.
The yelling turned up a notch. “I can’t believe this. You sneak off with your boyfriend, and I get left behind to deal with the cops?”
The yelling man must have moved closer to the window, because now she heard whole sentences. The voice was familiar.
She heard a woman’s voice but couldn’t make out the words.
“How do you know?” the man demanded.
The female mumbled something unintelligible.
“How do you know ? They aren’t dumb. One thing’s for sure—I’m not going down for this. I didn’t do anything!”
The woman spoke, her voice barely there. If cringing was a tone of voice, this was it. “…be all right. You just… ”
“So what happened? The three of you got together and said, ‘Let’s get Royce in on this, string him along, and let him take the fall ’?”
Royce Brady. The owner of the Starliner Motel.
“…wasn’t like…”
“Screw the old guy, huh? Like you really had the hots for me. How could I be so stupid? You guys having a threesome? Is that it? Are you and your boyfriend meeting that lying bitch somewhere while I sit here waiting for a
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