On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) Read Online Free Page B
Author: James Vachowski
“This is 714, Control. Send it.”
There was a long pause on the other end before my arch nemesis finally came back across the airwaves. I could tell from her shaking voice that she was absolutely furious at my delayed response. Yeah, deep down inside her somewhere my dispatcher was probably at least a little relieved to know that I wasn’t laying face-down in a ditch, but none of that compassion seemed to carry over into her voice. The only emotion I picked up on was the icy undertone of her thinly suppressed rage. “714. I copy, you’re 04. What is your 20, sir?”
I glanced back over the edge of the garage as I searched for the nearest street sign. “Corner of Cumberland and Church. Whattya got, Control?”
There was another long pause as she sucked in a deep, calming breath. I got the impression that the old hen might have been much more accustomed to bossing officers around than to being questioned by a lowly patrolman. “714… respond to Scarlett O’Hara’s, 98 South Market Street, in reference to a 29 that occurred within the past two hours. Complainant is Mister Duke Regan. He’ll meet you in front of that location.”
I let out a groan of disgust at the prospect of having to do some actual investigative work during my shift. I couldn’t possibly imagine what kind of crap might have been stolen from the biggest tourist trap in the entire City Market but whatever it was, there was no way a little break-in would be worth the time it took to write a report. Scarlett O’Hara’s was nothing more than a cut-rate souvenir shop, the kind of place that sells ceramic ashtrays and overpriced local-flavor cookbooks that people give as gifts but never read. To make matters worse, the thought of having to deal with Duke Regan in person was almost more than I could bear. Even though Regan was kind of a big deal around Charleston, I saw him as just another snotty rich guy who never passed up an opportunity to remind you of just how important he was. He’d made his first couple millions in the real estate game, and since then he’d gone on to become one of the biggest land speculators in the state. The way I’d heard it, most of Regan’s loot came from a bunch of shady deals that ended up displacing a lot of black people from their tribal homes in the ghetto. After he’d snatched up those dirt-cheap houses and invested in some quick renovation work using teams of illegal Mexicans, Regan would turn around and flip those same tenement houses for a huge profit. All these new money white folks coming down from up north always seem to be searching for a vacation home in the downtown peninsula, so Regan was happy to overcharge them for a hideaway with no backyard in an “up-and-coming” neighborhood. It was gentrification at its finest, made possible through the magic of American capitalism.
Before I could come up with an airtight excuse for not picking up the radio call, my dispatcher piped up once more. Her voice sounded even more impatient and grating this time, almost as if my irritatingly slow response was preventing her from focusing on the Days of Our Lives reruns. “714? You copy?”
I keyed the microphone on my handheld radio. “I copy, control. I’m en route.” My tone of subservience seemed to satisfy the evil harpy since there was no further response from her end. With a sigh, I slid the walkie-talkie back into its holder and began shuffling my way over to the stairwell. I’d tried my best to avoid it, but it’d finally come time to hit the beat and actually go to work. After a moment’s debate, I decided to head down the stairs instead of walking around to take the elevator like I normally did. Taking the stairs wasn’t too much physical exertion, at least not on the way down and besides, it was a good way for me to drag my feet a little longer. My boots made thick, shuffling noises as I lumbered along, the sounds echoing downward off the narrow concrete walls. Even though I was feeling kind of
There was a long pause on the other end before my arch nemesis finally came back across the airwaves. I could tell from her shaking voice that she was absolutely furious at my delayed response. Yeah, deep down inside her somewhere my dispatcher was probably at least a little relieved to know that I wasn’t laying face-down in a ditch, but none of that compassion seemed to carry over into her voice. The only emotion I picked up on was the icy undertone of her thinly suppressed rage. “714. I copy, you’re 04. What is your 20, sir?”
I glanced back over the edge of the garage as I searched for the nearest street sign. “Corner of Cumberland and Church. Whattya got, Control?”
There was another long pause as she sucked in a deep, calming breath. I got the impression that the old hen might have been much more accustomed to bossing officers around than to being questioned by a lowly patrolman. “714… respond to Scarlett O’Hara’s, 98 South Market Street, in reference to a 29 that occurred within the past two hours. Complainant is Mister Duke Regan. He’ll meet you in front of that location.”
I let out a groan of disgust at the prospect of having to do some actual investigative work during my shift. I couldn’t possibly imagine what kind of crap might have been stolen from the biggest tourist trap in the entire City Market but whatever it was, there was no way a little break-in would be worth the time it took to write a report. Scarlett O’Hara’s was nothing more than a cut-rate souvenir shop, the kind of place that sells ceramic ashtrays and overpriced local-flavor cookbooks that people give as gifts but never read. To make matters worse, the thought of having to deal with Duke Regan in person was almost more than I could bear. Even though Regan was kind of a big deal around Charleston, I saw him as just another snotty rich guy who never passed up an opportunity to remind you of just how important he was. He’d made his first couple millions in the real estate game, and since then he’d gone on to become one of the biggest land speculators in the state. The way I’d heard it, most of Regan’s loot came from a bunch of shady deals that ended up displacing a lot of black people from their tribal homes in the ghetto. After he’d snatched up those dirt-cheap houses and invested in some quick renovation work using teams of illegal Mexicans, Regan would turn around and flip those same tenement houses for a huge profit. All these new money white folks coming down from up north always seem to be searching for a vacation home in the downtown peninsula, so Regan was happy to overcharge them for a hideaway with no backyard in an “up-and-coming” neighborhood. It was gentrification at its finest, made possible through the magic of American capitalism.
Before I could come up with an airtight excuse for not picking up the radio call, my dispatcher piped up once more. Her voice sounded even more impatient and grating this time, almost as if my irritatingly slow response was preventing her from focusing on the Days of Our Lives reruns. “714? You copy?”
I keyed the microphone on my handheld radio. “I copy, control. I’m en route.” My tone of subservience seemed to satisfy the evil harpy since there was no further response from her end. With a sigh, I slid the walkie-talkie back into its holder and began shuffling my way over to the stairwell. I’d tried my best to avoid it, but it’d finally come time to hit the beat and actually go to work. After a moment’s debate, I decided to head down the stairs instead of walking around to take the elevator like I normally did. Taking the stairs wasn’t too much physical exertion, at least not on the way down and besides, it was a good way for me to drag my feet a little longer. My boots made thick, shuffling noises as I lumbered along, the sounds echoing downward off the narrow concrete walls. Even though I was feeling kind of
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