Page 5 of Shadows of Justice

I bend over her small, sweaty frame and pull the stringy hair off of her face. I silently take in how thin she is, the stench of urine that's wafting from her. Her collarbones and ribs are very prominent beneath her skin, her little elbows and cheekbones far too pronounced. I can hear sirens approaching the corner down by Taco Shack, but those are just officers. They can’t help her anymore than I can.

I don’t hesitate as I position her correctly to begin CPR.

In between compressions, my eyes flick to the darkened pair that are watching me with unnerving focus. He crouches down, his scarred, muscled forearms resting on his knees to watch me at eye level. He’s tense, breathing fast, his jaw flexing.

Leo fucking Barone.

I bend to give two breaths in the girl’s mouth and then resume compressions.

One, two, three, four . . .

Leo hasn’t moved an inch. His eyes dart to the approaching cruisers, only three houses away now, and then land back on her. They’re just storming, dark clouds of emotion. I can tell that he’s completely torn between helping and fleeing. He could run right now if he wanted to, but he’s not. He seems truly concerned for the girl, enough to risk his own ass. He could do fifteen to twenty-five years with what we have on him.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . .

Something nags in my brain—something foreign. This situation is completely how he said it’d be. It wasn’t a trap. It seems he simply stopped his day of bad guy shit to get help from a police officer to save a child. That’s incredibly . . . selfless. I don’t know why that’s resonating with me so greatly, but it is.

If you asked me, I couldn’t tell you exactly why I did it. In fact, I’ve never done something like it in my life. Maybe that’s why—simply because it was so out of my comfort zone that everyone’s always making fun of me for clinging to. So against my sacred rules. All I know is, the look on his face had my actions taken over by something else entirely. Something not me.

I look at him with narrowed eyes, and then jerk my chin at the street behind him, telling him to get lost. He blinks at me, surprise passing over his features, and then it’s replaced by something indiscernible, maybe gratitude. Then, one corner of his mouth tips up and he nods once with sincerity.

“Her name is Eliana,” he says, the cadence of his accent caressing the letters of the girl’s name. I’m almost jealous.

He turns, still crouched, and heads between parked cars as the cruisers pull up behind us. He quickly disappears between the houses on the opposite side of Seedling Street as officers crowd in, asking me for information. I bend to provide more breath, but the girl’s chestnut-brown eyes open and she coughs, a whimper coming from her lips.

“Thatta girl, sweetie,” I say, supporting her back to help her sit up. “Good job. You’re okay honey. Deep, slow breaths.”

My adrenaline is pumping, my hands shaking like crazy. I rise as another female officer swoops in, wrapping the girl in a cooling blanket. I look over my shoulder to try and catch another fleeting glimpse of the criminal that just saved a stranger’s life, at a loss for words at the entire exchange.

Even more so, at my reaction.

Why did I let that fucker go? A wanted ghost in numerous cases, a threat who’s suspected to provide dangerous chemical products to the black market like amphetamines, ephedrine, and nitroglycerin—just to name a few.

Something in his eyes though . . . it was like in that moment he would take it all back if he could.

“Schaeffer,” someone says, putting a hand on my arm. It’s Carlos. His voice shakes me out of my daze, and I blink up at him. “Where’s this girl’s family? What do we know?”

I look over at 783 Seedling. The bungalow is quiet—windows dark in the fading afternoon light as if no one’s home.

“Her name is Eliana,” I manage to say. “That’s the only thing I’m certain of.”

Chapter Two - Greasing Palms

Saturday, July 4th

Thank all that is holy and precious that I’m on call tonight.

The annual Independence Day Gala for Pasadena PD has a direct line to my gag reflex. Normally, I’d be required to attend in black-tie attire, but thankfully Carlos and I are here in uniform. We get to stand on the outskirts to do our due diligence of showing support, and aren’t in the pit where the bedazzled and bow-tied vultures are circling.

I’ve been at too many of these functions to count, and each one is more of a snooze fest than the last. I understand the cause: raising funding for new equipment, larger salaries, and better technology within the precinct—all things that I can get behind. But being expected to do it in form-fitting satin is up there on my list of heinous crimes next to child pageantry. What the hell is the point?

Mostly it annoys me because my male counterparts from the station get to look clean and dashing in their rented tuxedos, whereas I—a naturally curvy female—am expected to squeeze myself into a ridiculous get-up to “look nice.” The night is filled with sneers and catcalls from my coworkers, and the days following are loaded with sexual-harassment, harping on my tits or my ass that “I’m always hiding under my uniform.”

Most men are already aggravating. Issue them a gun, hand them a “get away with anything badge,” and they’re damn near unbearable.

Carlos bumps my elbow, my arms crossed tightly across my chest as I watch the local higher-ups smile and flaunt.

“You’ve got a scowl that could wrinkle wallpaper, chiquita,” he drawls. I unclench my face, not realizing I was frowning quite so hard.

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