Page 4 of Shadows of Justice

“I’m not going to hurt you, entiendes?” His eyes flick to my hand on my unclipped gun again. “Just help her! I don’t have anything to break the glass, and I saw your cruiser down the street and now here we are.”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, sir,” I say firmly. “I’m just getting the facts straight. What’s your name?”

He swallows, eyeing me strangely for a moment. His caramel complexion is beaded with sweat, his T-shirt clinging to his chest. I realize that he’s actually very good looking, his clothing pulling over his body in all of the right places. The darkness of his eyes complements the rich tones of his skin and unruly, wavy hair, a ruggedness to him that just screams exotic.

Again, warning bells go off in my mind that I’ve seen this man before, but the tension of the situation is making it difficult to organize my thoughts.

I raise my eyebrows expectantly and repeat my question slower, “What’s your name?”

“Leo, Officer,” he begins, and with a slight glower at my name tag, adds, “Schaeffer.”

Chills erupt over my skin at the thick pronunciation of my surname on his tongue, but it quickly turns to a shiver of dread as my thoughts click into place, and I realize just exactly who this man is.

“Can you step back please, sir?” I ask, and he obeys, immediately.

I don’t take my hand off of my gun, and lean closer to the tinted glass. The heat is ebbing in waves off of the car’s surface; the temperature in my Interceptor had read 99 degrees. Sure enough, the small frame of a girl lays awkwardly across the cluttered back seat. There’s no visible rise and fall to her chest, and I feel my heart jump into my throat.

“Shit,” I say under my breath.

My radio crackles, a few decipherable words coming through the static. It sounds like Carlos, no doubt trying to catch up as to why I’m not at the Interceptor. I can make out the faint sound of sirens in the distance, along with the flapping of small staked American flags lining everyone’s front yards.

No time like the present.

I remove my flashlight and smash the window of the Volkswagen with the handle. It takes me two hits, but the glass shatters on the second strike. I reach in and pop open the lock and suddenly Leo is there, his hand on the door and entirely too close to me.

“Stand back!”

I pull my gun and point it at him, my heart in my throat. His wary eyes are on me, one hand on the door, one raised to show his caution.

“Easy, chica,” he says, “just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” I say through gritted teeth.

He slowly opens the back door and then backs up two large steps, giving me space. The girl’s matted hair and outstretched arm fall out of the opening of the door, her fingernails filthy. I can see the waves of heat shimmering off the top of the car, the air released from inside stifling.

“Don’t fucking move,” I order him, and he nods once, a ghost of a smile on his face—I’m assuming at my sternness.

I’ll teach you to laugh, cabrón.

I put my gun in its holster and hoist under the girl’s arms to pull her out of the back seat and set her in the grass. Checking for a pulse, I grimace at the weak pang against my fingers and grab for my radio.

“Dispatch, this is Schaeffer,” I say, and wait for the prompt. “I have a hispanic female, about six years of age, black hair, pink dress. Locked in a hot car for an unknown amount of time. She’s unresponsive, not breathing, faint pulse. EMTs needed immediately to,” I squint at the bungalow, “two-eight-three Seedling Street. Over.”

I hear a throat clear.

“Seven-eight-three.”

“What?”

Leo cocks his head at the bungalow, his hands still slightly raised. “I know you don’t need my help, but it’s seven-eight-three Seedling.”

I narrow my eyes at the numbers again.

Good one, Viv.

“Dispatch, that’s seven-eight-three Seedling Street, please confirm. Over.”

I wait as the officer on the other end confirms the correction. EMTs are four minutes out. The girl could be dead by then.

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