Page 1 of Shadows of Justice

Prologue

If I had to recall the details of the day that I met Leo Barone, I’d be able to without a single issue.

Certain days are just embedded in your DNA, and as they’re passing you by, you can feel the prickle of destiny creep over your skin.

With ease, I can remember the smell of heated asphalt on that late afternoon summer day. It was 4th of July weekend, and the incessant flaps of the many American flags on the neighborhood’s front lawns were unnaturally loud. That’s because they were the only sound in my ears as I counted—counted the compressions that I pressed repeatedly into the five-year-old’s chest who was lying far too still on Seedling Street.

I’d like to think of myself as a good person.

I’ve committed my life to serving the public as a police officer despite bad pay, bad hours, and the constant possibility of getting shot or stabbed on shift. If I see a stranger drop cash, I pick it up and hand it to them. I help lone mothers load groceries into their cars as they wrangle their children in dark parking lots. I’ve never had a late fee on a bill or maxed out a credit card. I don’t think that I’ve even jaywalked before, or hopped theaters as a teenager when the R-rated movie premiered next to mine.

So, there wasn’t a second thought in my head when I smashed in the rear window of the parked car, dragged Eliana’s sweat-soaked body into the grass, and began administering CPR.

There also wasn’t a second thought in my head when Leo flagged me down from the corner to help, and then I discreetly allowed him to get away, despite him being a wanted criminal in Los Angeles County.

In some twisted way, it felt like I was doing a good deed for someone that had just done one himself. And as it seemed in the days that followed that there would be no repercussions to what I’d done, I shoved the memory down and was sure I could pretend it wasn't there.

Well, at least until now.

Now, as I’m strung up by my wrists in a concrete storeroom that stinks of blood and urine—some of which is mine—I’m starting to have second thoughts about how Leo Barone has changed my possibly very short life—forever.

Chapter One - Heat

Friday, July 3rd

It’s sweltering. Like, really fucking hot.

The Southern California heat is normally bearable, but so far this summer has felt as deadly as a junkie on the third day of detox. My Interceptor’s AC is cranked to full blast, but it doesn’t stand a chance against the steadily climbing temperature. My uniform sticks to my backside, and I’m basically glued to the front seat. It doesn’t help that my partner, Carlos Fernandez, has his window rolled down. But that’s only because he’s chain smoking from stress.

Carlos is having a rough time. He’s got four kids and his wife’s got another bun in the oven, and he didn’t get the raise he’d hoped for at his annual performance review yesterday. Our Chief of Police is an asshole, everyone knows it, and everyone also knows that Carlos fucking deserved that raise.

He can smoke. Even though sweat is dripping down my back and my eyes and nose are burning from the acrid smell, it’s all right. He needs it.

“Estefania is gonna have my huevos,” Carlos says, taking a drag on the Marlboro Red perched in between his two fingers.

“Like she doesn’t already?” I smirk, trying to make him laugh. It works.

“Ha ha, laugh it up chiquita,” he drawls. “Just wait ’til you’re poppin’ out a few mini Viv’s that have your big ol’ green eyes, and you’ll see how much you’re laughing then. Shit is so much fucking pressure.” He flicks the butt out of the window but doesn’t roll it up.

Son of a bitch.

“Fuck that,” I say. “Not happening. I love yours to death, Los, but having my own isn’t in the cards. They’re loud, and they spend most of their days suspiciously sticky. I’ll pass on that as a permanent fixture in my life.”

He smirks knowingly at me, the dimple in his round cheek deepening.

“You just haven’t met the right guy,” he says. “I can’t wait for that day—to see the sorry sap that’s gonna get pegged by you every night.” He cracks up as I smack his arm.

“That’s a stupid station rumor,” I say with a roll of my eyes, but I can’t help my smile. “I’m not into pegging. Just good ol’ fashioned missionary. Doggy style. Normal shit. Now roll up your fucking window before I broaden my horizons and peg you in the ass.”

He laughs so hard he smacks his knee, but he does what I asked as I turn the cruiser onto Harrison Avenue. Crackling static comes over the radio, and the dispatcher lists a call for the officers in our area.

“This is dispatch, I’ve got a 10-51 by Dottie’s on Third Street,” the agent says—it sounds like Rosie. “Subject is a white male, early twenties, blue T-shirt and jean shorts. Showed aggressive behavior toward a bartender. Officers in the area respond. Over.”

Lord have mercy, it’s only 5:45 PM.

Carlos squeezes the button on the radio on his shoulder to respond to the potential drunk in public call.

“This is Charlie-211 responding, 10-4, ETA four minutes, over,” he says, waiting for the confirmation on the other line. No response from the dispatcher comes, however, and he presses the button again, repeating his message. Again, he gets no response and curses in Spanish.

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