“I have an FTA cornered in his house, but I’m not having any luck making an apprehension.”
“You want to be more specific about the not having any luck part.”
“He took my pocketbook and kicked me out of the house.”
Pause. “I don’t suppose you managed to keep your gun.”
“Don’t suppose I did. On the bright side, the gun wasn’t loaded.”
“You have ammo in your pocketbook?”
“I might have had a few loose bullets rolling around.”
“Where are you now?”
“In front of the house, in the Jeep.”
“And you want me to come over there and persuade your FTA to behave.”
“Yeah.”
“Good thing for you I’m into this Henry Higgins shit. What’s the address?”
I gave him the address and hung up feeling disgusted with myself. I’d virtually armed my FTA, and now I was sending Ranger in to clean up the mess I’d made of things. I was going to have to get smarter faster. I was going to learn how to load the damn gun, and I was going to learn how to shoot it. I might not ever have the guts to shoot Joe Morelli, but I was pretty sure I could shoot Lonnie Dodd.
I watched the clock on the dash, waiting for Ranger, anxious to resolve this unfinished business. Ten minutes passed before his Mercedes appeared at the end of the street, gliding through the rain, sleek and sinister, water not daring to adhere to the paint finish.
We simultaneously got out of our cars. He wore a black baseball cap, tight black jeans, and a black T-shirt. He strapped on his black nylon gun belt and holster, the gun held tight to his leg by a black Velcro strap. At first glance he’d pass for a SWAT cop. He shrugged into a Kevlar vest. “What’s the FTA’s name?”
“Lonnie Dodd.”
“You got a photo?”
I ran to the Jeep, pulled out Dodd’s picture, and gave it to Ranger.
“What’d he do?” Ranger wanted to know.
“Auto theft. First-time offender.”
“He alone?”
“As far as I know. I can’t guarantee it.”
“This house have a back door?”
“Don’t know.”
“Let’s find out.”
We took a direct route to the back, cutting through the tall grass, keeping our eyes on the front door, watching the windows for movement. I hadn’t bothered with my jacket. It seemed like an unnecessary encumbrance at this point. My energies were directed at catching Dodd. I was soaked to the skin, and it was liberating to know I couldn’t get any wetter. The backyard was similar to the front: tall grass, a rusted swing set, two garbage cans overflowing with garbage, their dented lids lying on the ground nearby. A back door opened to the yard.
Ranger pulled me close to the building, out of window sight. “You stay here and watch the back door. I’m going in the front. I don’t want you to be a hero. You see anybody run for the train tracks, you keep out of their way. Got that?”
Water dripped from the tip of my nose. “Sorry to put you through this.”
“This is partly my fault. I haven’t been taking you serious enough. If you’re really going to do this job, you’re going to need somebody to help you with the takedown. And we need to spend some time talking about apprehension techniques.”
“I need a partner.”
“Yeah. You need a partner.”
He moved off, rounding the house, his footsteps muffled by the rain. I held my breath, straining to hear, catching his knock on the door, hearing him identify himself.
There was obviously a reply from within, but it was lost to me. What followed after that was a blur of sound and action on fast forward. Warnings from Ranger that he was coming in, the door crashing open, a lot of shouting. A single report from a gun.
The back door banged open and Lonnie Dodd charged out, heading not for the tracks, but for the next house down. He was still clad only in jeans. He was running blind in the rain, clearly panicked. I was partially hidden by a shed, and he ran right by me without a sideways glance. I could see the silver glint of a gun stuck in his waistband. Wouldn’t you know it? On top of every other insult, now the creep was making off with my gun. Four hundred dollars shot to hell, and just when I’d decided to learn how to use the damn thing.
No way was I going to let this happen. I yelled for Ranger and took off after Dodd. Dodd wasn’t that far in front of me, and I had the advantage of shoes. He was sliding in the rain-slicked grass, stepping on God-knows-what. He went down to one knee, and I body-slammed into the back of him, knocking us both to the ground. He hit with an “unh!” thanks to 125 pounds of angry female landing on top of him. Well okay, maybe 127, but not an ounce more, I swear.
He was laboring to breathe, and I grabbed the gun, not from any defensive instinct, but out of shear possessiveness. It was my gun, dammit. I scrambled to my feet and pointed the .38 in Dodd’s direction, holding it
