Page 58 of Best Friends
“He used a hammer and emptied two whole display cases of phones and tablets,” Pete tells us, gesturing at his shop. “Probably three thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise. I saw him run that way.” He points east down Third Street.
“We’ll find him,” Cheyenne assures him. “Can you give us a more detailed description?”
While she takes Pete’s statement, I scan the street, looking for any sign of our suspect. The morning foot traffic is picking up, business people heading to work, tourists starting their day. Then I spot him—red hoodie, walking just a little too fast to be casual.
“There,” I tell Cheyenne, pointing. “I think I see him. Two blocks down, trying to blend in with the coffee shop crowd.”
She follows my gaze and nods. “Good eye. Let’s go.”
We follow on foot, keeping our distance until we’re close enough to be sure it’s our guy. The red hoodie and his furtive behavior make it clear he’s our perp. The suspect is maybe early twenties, with the jittery movements of someone runningon adrenaline. He keeps checking over his shoulder, a dead giveaway he’s not just a person out for a casual stroll.
“Sir,” Cheyenne calls out when we’re about twenty feet away. “Whispering Pines PD. We’d like to speak with you.”
The kid glances over his shoulder, startled. He’s wearing a bulky backpack that’s probably stuffed full of the phones and tablets he stole. His mouth hardens and I see the exact moment he decides to run. He flips us off and then bolts down the street as fast as he can run.
“Shit,” I mutter, taking off after him.
He’s young and fast, but the backpack is heavy and probably slowing him down some. We chase him through the morning crowd, dodging pedestrians and street vendors. My radio bounces against my hip with each step, and I can feel my heart pounding.
“Police. Stop,”Cheyenne shouts from behind me.
The suspect veers left into an alley between two buildings, probably hoping to lose us in the maze of service roads behind the shops. Bad choice. I know these alleys like the back of my hand.
“I think he’s heading for the parking garage on Elm,” I yell to Cheyenne over my shoulder. “If we cut through Lyrical Book’s back alley, we can head him off.”
She nods, trusting my knowledge of the area. We duck through the narrow passage I indicated and emerge just in time to see our suspect skid around the corner. When he spots us in front of him, his eyes go wild. Instead of turning back, he speeds up, coming straight at us.
“Fuck,” I mutter, bracing myself for a fight. I wouldn’t think twice about brawling with a suspect usually. But being pregnant does give an extra layer of stress. For all I know the kid has knife or a gun. Regardless, I have to try and stop him.
“Careful, Carrick.” Cheyenne shouts a warning.
“Move,” the kid screams, barreling toward us. He looks back and forth between Cheyenne and me, clearly calculating his odds. He slows ever so slightly, and for one second, I think maybe he’s going to surrender. But then he clenches his teeth and launches himself straight for me.
Bracing for impact, I grab him with both arms and wrench him to the side to throw him off balance. He kicks wildly, slamming his heel into my shin. I grunt, but hold on tight and he stumbles.
“Settle down,” I growl. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“That’s what you think,” he screeches, elbowing me hard in the stomach.
Cussing, I instinctively let go of him, fearing for the safety of my baby. But I’m not about to let the asshole escape entirely. He thinks because I released him he’s home free, but he’s wrong. When he tries to run, I grab hold of his backpack and yank. He flies off his feet and lands on his back with a loud grunt. The wind is knocked out of him and he’s dazed as he stares up at me.
“You okay, Carrick?” Cheyenne asks me as she catches up to us, breathing hard. She kneels down and slips the cuffs on the kid, eyeing me with concern. “He hit your stomach. You good?”
“I’m good,” I rasp, not giving into the urge to rub my stomach. I bend over, hands resting on my thighs, trying to catch my breath.
“Let me go. I didn’t do nothing,” the kid yells, struggling in Cheyenne’s grip.
“Shut up,” she growls, still eyeing me with worry. She pulls the perp to his feet, and drags him back in the direction of our patrol car.
I follow more slowly, and since she has her back to me, I give into the need to rub my stomach. I’m pretty sure everything is okay. I’m really early in the pregnancy and there’s tons of padding around the fetus. The baby is only about the size of a kidney bean, so it’s undoubtably just fine. Still, I can’t deny an instinctive fear for the safety of my child. Thank God I’m not partnered with Malcolm, he might have ripped the kid’s head off if he’d seen him elbow me in the stomach.
The rest of the day is way less eventful. We deal with a few minor fender benders, and traffic stops with expired tags. Once our shift is over, we head over to Frankie’s. Malcolm is there ahead of us and when I walk in, he pushes a chilled glass of orange juice toward me.
I sit down, frowning at the juice. “Maybe we should meet somewhere else after work while I’m pregnant. It sucks that I can’t drink but everyone else can.”
Malcolm lifts one brow. “And by everyone else, you mean me?”
I laugh guiltily. “Yes.”
