Page 12 of No Cap

“Unit one-nine-three,” the dispatcher came on the mic. “Eighty-six the previous call. Child was found.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

That was one thing I wouldn’t have to worry about today. I hated missing children cases.

“Well, I mean…” the rookie started, but I was already shaking my head.

“She’s allowed to flip me off. I did cut her off.”

I’d needed to cut her off, or I would’ve hit the person in front of me when they slammed on their brakes for a fucking paper bag flying in the air.

The woman was definitely driving defensively, too.

In her little ’99 brown Toyota Corolla with ski racks, she had more dings and dents in it than a discarded soda can.

It also looked vaguely familiar.

She switched lanes, and that’s when I saw the large scrape down the side, indicating an accident that had happened only today.

The car from the hospital.

After issuing the Corolla a citation, and a few hours of desperately needed sleep, I’d picked up the new recruit, Hans Tador—what a name that was—and had started driving him around the city to get him integrated into the life of a beat cop. Now we were getting the one-finger salute from the same car.

I wasn’t normally a beat cop, or a person who dealt with new recruits, but my brother, Quaid, was. He was the person in charge of the entire street division, and the man was stressed to the gills.

Therefore, I was doing him a favor.

The favor was going to kill me, though, because Hans Tador—Jesus, that name sucked—was driving me up the freakin’ wall with his endless questions and what if scenarios.

The brown Corolla turned off at the exit for the stadium, and I wondered if the two women in the car were heading to the comedy show that was taking place there.

It took me all of three seconds to forget about her, though, because the dispatcher came back onto the mic with another call. Jesus, I hated running the beat. That was why I was a detective. Detectives didn’t have to make all these bullshit calls, dealing with the public at large.

“Unit one-nine-three,” the dispatcher called over the mic. “We have a possible three-five-alpha at the Citgo on Second and Young.”

“Fuck,” I grumbled.

“Oh, that’s a robbery, isn’t it?” Hans asked excitedly.

Jesus, new kids.

They just had no clue.

Six hours later, we’d run four total calls, and I had paperwork out the ass to finish, and still two more hours in my shift.

“Wow, this is exciting,” Hans said.

I looked over at him as we pulled up to the front of a nicer apartment building.

It was a lot like mine. In fact, my own building was just seven blocks to the north of this one.

“This is a suicide call,” I said to Hans. “This is not exciting. This is terrible, and you need to control your words the moment we step out of this cruiser.”

Hans blinked. “But you’re not sure it’s a suicide. It could be a murder.”

I was already shaking my head. “The mother found her. She’s been home all day with her. Trust me when I say that is likely exactly what it is.”

Hans’s lip curled. “Let’s go.”