Chapter One

 

Miami Beach is twelve miles long and one mile wide, not counting the islands. It's also, if you go by the statistics, one of the most crime-ridden cities in America. It has almost eight thousand crimes a year, so with a population of about eighty thousand, your chances of being the victim of a crime are one in ten. The statistics will also tell you it is one of the most heavily policed cities in America.

You know what they say about statistics.

Miami Beach is a playground. It welcomes over ten million overnight visitors every year. That doesn't count the ones that just cross over from the city of Miami, less than a mile away across Biscayne Bay for a day trip. So those statistics aren't really an indication of the rate of crime. Or policing.

It has a strange mix of some of the priciest real estate in the country, with multi-million-dollar condos in glass towers stretching up into the clear blue sky, enormous oceanfront mansions of the billionaires, and reasonably affordable little apartments and condos within a short walk of the beaches.

Then again, everywhere in Miami Beach is a short walk to the beaches.

Miami's police department is twice as large as the MBPD. And beyond and around Miami is Miami-Dade County. Its police department is twice the size of Miami's. And both Miami and the county teemed with street gangs.

There are none, of course, in Miami Beach. There was nowhere in the small city they could afford to call home. That didn't mean they stayed on their side of the bridge. There's wealth and money here, and thousands of tourists staying at the hotels, hotels which tended to be on the pricy side.

The beaches are a particularly attractive location, both for sightseeing beautiful women in very little clothing (the city permits both thongs and topless bathing suits), and for stealing cell phones and other valuables left on the beach while the visitors tried the water.

It's the job of the City of Miami Beach Police Department to ensure the tourists have a nice stay. Not to mention the wealthy taxpayers in their glass towers.

Being a cop here is a job that requires tact and diplomacy. City Hall wants those visitors treated nicely, wants them to enjoy their stay, and wants them to go home telling all their friends about wonderful Miami Beach. Nor does it do to offend the billionaires, or even the mere multi-millionaires, all of whom seem to know the mayor on a first-name basis.

You need to be able to suck it up in this job, and not take offense easily. Because the wealthy can be arrogant, entitled assholes, at times. The visitors can be drunk-assed idiots who like to fight and break things (often themselves) or act inappropriately with the many lightly dressed ladies they encounter.

There are just under two hundred hotels in this city of eighty thousand. And if anyone has ever bothered to count the number of bars, taverns, nightclubs, and restaurants with liquor licenses they haven't told me the number. From personal experience, the number is on the high side.

This means most evening shifts and a big chunk of the overnight ones are spent going from one to the other to deal with drunken idiots. Day shifts, meanwhile, are spent trying to keep the happy visitors from being parted with their stealable merchandise by the small-time criminals who flood across the bridges in search of easy prey.

You'd be shocked at how many people seem to think that putting their thousand-dollar cell phones under their towel so no one will notice it is adequate protection while they run off to frolic in the ocean. It never seems to occur to them that someone might be watching and waiting for them to run off, together with whoever they're on the beach with, so they can wander over and score a couple of thousand dollars worth of merchandise. I'd taken so many reports of stolen cell phones I was coming to hate them.

The evening my life changed, I was with Tyler, my newish partner.

Everything here is actually pretty newish to me. I only joined the MBPD nine months ago, shortly after turning nineteen. Why? Because I needed a job. I didn't want to go to college because I'm kind of hyperactive and the thought of four years sitting in classrooms did NOT appeal to me.

I looked at the crowds along Ocean Drive as we drove slowly south. We'd get to the end of the road, then turn around and drive right back again. That's if we made it all the way. We often didn't.

We both saw the pushing and showing in front of The Pueblo at the same time. I sighed and flicked on the overhead lights and Tyler pulled the car over. Sometimes that was all that was required. Sometimes, like this time, not. This time it was a pair of women. Black women. And if there's one thing you learn as a cop, When they're out partying and drinking, Black women don't give a shit about consequences.

I got out of the car, glad I put so much time into working on my upper arm strength. Because Tyler, for all he was six feet five, was not going to be a lot of help here. He'd gladly throw himself into a crowd of half a dozen men, tossing them around like rag dolls. But he had this really weird attitude about women.

He's a reformed Mormon, now a Baptist, and had only just decided not to be a minister. He still talks about doing it one day, when he's older and wiser. He figures ministers need to be wise and learned people, and so he joined the police department to get life experience.

But he was uncomfortable touching women. Especially without their permission and in any sort of aggressive way. He was one of those men raised with the stern 'You NEVER hit a woman' lectures from Daddy. Now, don't get me wrong, I wholeheartedly approve of that. But it can get in the way sometimes when you're a cop.

Then again, if he ever lost his temper and actually did hit a woman, well, if that big fist of his impacted my face I'd be in the hospital with fractures. I'm pretty good and fast in a fight, but that's because I have to be. My mixed martial arts teachers have all been very clear on that.

Testosterone provides men with a physical advantage women just can't match. Our bodies are smaller and more lightweight. We have less muscle mass so can't hit as hard. And our bones are thinner and can be damaged more easily. A punch to the face from Tyler that would knock a man down would knock me out. The same power of punch hitting Tyler would just rock him back on his heels a bit.

It's good to have a partner like Tyler since most of the troublemakers are men. It's not quite so good when dealing with women.

When I got out of the car the women were rolling around on the road, ignoring the headlights of the and flashing lights of the patrol car ten yards away as they kicked and punched and cursed at each other.

"We should carry a bucket of water in the car," I said as I put on my gloves.

Tyler nodded sagely as he put on his own gloves.

"Enough!" I shouted as I reached them.

I grabbed the nearest flailing arm and yanked back, bracing my legs and leaning back because she was definitely no lightweight.

"If you two enjoy rolling around on the pavement I've got a nice cell back at the police station with a concrete floor you can spend the night on," I shouted.

I got her mostly away from the other one while Tyler stepped in between them. But she was hanging onto the other one's long dreadlocks and wouldn't let go.

I was reminded about why I pulled my hair back and kept it tightly braided behind my head as I pulled out my taser and pressed it against her bare arm.

"Let go or I taze you," I shouted.

Shouting is important with drunks.

She looked at the taser, looked at my angry face, and let go.

I started practicing that angry face in the mirror after an instructor at the police academy said I looked cute when I was trying to order people around.

He hadn't said it as a compliment.

Now I tried to look like I was not only ready to kill you but was eager to do so.

Luckily, my voice was a low mezzo-soprano. If it had been high pitched I'd have had to do something about that, too. Cute is not a description you want appended to you when you were a police officer. Nor, to be honest, is it a description I'd welcomed since I'd been about fourteen.

Give me attractive, beautiful, gorgeous. I'll take them, depending on the circumstances. Hot and sexy are okay at times, depending on who's throwing the words at me. Cute? Cute is a little girl. I'm not a little girl. I'm five foot ten. Call me a woman, please, or I will become irritable.

The way that Tyler and I usually play these things is that I do most of the talking while he looms menacingly behind me. That helps to defuse the poisonous combination of testosterone and alcohol-soaked instincts of males who might not like to be told what to do by another youngish male.

Then with women - I still wind up doing the talking. Young women, especially ones who were drunk or high, often seemed to think they could flirt or play coy or put on a pouty face with a male officer to get sympathy and forgiveness. Needless to say, that doesn't work when the cop is female.

With an angry face.

The thing is, it's a practiced face. I'm not an angry person, usually. I'm just very intolerant of stupidity. Which I see so much of at work. Not to mention the indignity of people willing to act in a way I would personally term humiliating.

Like these two morons.

Yes, I am, in fact, very judgmental.

"Get up unless you want to be handcuffed and taken in," I said in a loud voice.

You had to speak loudly to be heard sometimes, especially when you're outside a club or bar with loud music. Because few of them close their doors at night until Two AM.

The woman I had pulled away was about eight inches shorter and a foot wider than me. Or maybe 'thicker' would be a better term. She was wearing a yellow skirt that was far too short and far too tight for what she'd stuffed into it. Her belly hung over the edge because her top was similarly too short and too tight for enormous breasts.

I'm speaking of breasts two to three times bigger than mine, and I'm not exactly small on top.

"Now what is this all about?" I demanded.

What it was all about was apparently the woman with the dreadlocks was criticizing the other woman's hair extensions, which we eventually sorted out in front of two dozen or so onlookers, many pointing phones at us.

I hate cell phones.

We sent the girl with dreads and her friends north and the girl in yellow and her friends south and got back into the car.

"I feel like a schoolteacher attending to toddlers," I complained.

"That is an unfortunate part of this job due to the overuse of alcohol."

Tyler didn't drink and didn't approve of drinking and felt it should be banned. Sometimes I agree with him. It would certainly make our jobs easier. Of course, it would cause economic chaos, but you can't have everything.

Tyler is very straight-laced, and so am I, minus the religious aspect. And to be frank, I don't drink, either, nor smoke, nor do any sort of drugs. Not even pot. I'm a firm believer in rules and laws and regulations and all of these things are illegal. And even if they became legal (which alcohol will in about 15 months), I doubt I'd have any interest. I believe in maintaining my poise and dignity at all times - which is hard when you're drunk or high.

I don't need my brain addled, thank you very much.

I also don't believe in showing off my body. I want to be respected for my mind. Or my abilities. That's especially important being a cop. I don't wear makeup at work. I don't do my hair to make it look attractive. And with an athletic bra and a Velcro vest under my uniform blouse, I'm able to prevent people from staring at my chest instead of my face.

Usually.

I don't wear short skirts or tight pants. I can dress up smartly when I go out somewhere, clubbing or dancing, say. I don't wear tight or low-cut tops either. That sort of thing is beneath my dignity. People accuse me of being prudish but I'm not, really. I mean, I just believe people ought to act and dress with a sense of dignity and proper decorum when out in public.

So the idea of Tyler and I getting together isn't so crazy it hasn't occurred to me. But not seriously. He's too straight-laced even for me. And while he's tall and good-looking, with broad shoulders and a powerful chest, the thought of Tyler even having sex strikes me as... unlikely. I just can't picture it. It's hard to even picture him making out with a girl.

Not that I'm a big fan of sex myself. I kind of like the kissing and caressing and the closeness of our bodies. The rest, well, I'm one of those people blessed with not having a gag instinct, so oral sex isn't difficult for me to perform. That doesn't mean the act itself isn't inherently undignified, not to mention demeaning to the one on their knees. But I do like being good at something.

Intercourse itself is just a big meh to me. And being on the receiving end of oral sex has yet to really excite me much. I do fake orgasms to please my partners, though. I'm good at that too.

Anyway, Tyler is eight years older than me. And I was, up until today, going with a guy. Noah and I had been going together for over six months. I was actually starting to flirt with the idea of us moving in together.

And then, basically out of the blue, he dumped me this morning. Surprise! I was still trying to sort it through in my head. He'd been nice enough about it. He'd even done the whole 'we can be friends' thing.

Why had he dumped me? Because, he said, I'm boring. I'm not spontaneous. There's no passion in me. I'm too predictable and strait-laced. Why? Because I won't get drunk with him? Because I won't do infantile things that are just likely to get us in trouble? Because I won't wear slutty clothes to be a bauble on his arm when we go out? Because I won't do a threesome?

Why does every guy want to do a threesome!? Honestly, is it the porn videos you all apparently spend your teenage years staring at on the internet? What is so exciting about lesbianism!? What is so exciting about watching the woman you allegedly love and care for with another man? Even if you're taking part. I just don't get it.

He thinks I'm boring? He plays video games! He's twenty-two and still plays video games!

Yes, yes, I know he's far from alone, but to me, video games are for children and teenagers. He's a grown man. He should have other hobbies. Show a little maturity, for God's sake!

I am NOT boring! I'm an intelligent woman and can hold intelligent discussions on any number of issues, from politics to social justice. I don't need to watch Survivor! I'm not interested in reality television! It's for morons!

We turned around and headed north again.

I wouldn't have really noticed the car pulling up and trying to pass us if he wasn't doing it on my side. Passing on the right is illegal in Florida, and difficult on Ocean Drive because with the parked cars alongside the road on both sides, there was usually only one lane in either direction.

But it was clear he was going to try it in an area where no parking was allowed. True, Tyler was going slow. But the speed limit is only twenty-five on Ocean Drive, and he was doing about that. Certainly not more. Tyler, like me, believes in laws, rules, and regulations, after all. Nor would it look good for a marked police car to speed.

But it's not a good look to try to pass a marked police car that's doing the speed limit, either. Few motorists would try, and fewer still on the right. That's just asking for a ticket. Which is why, when he finally succeeded in coming up even with us to pass I was looking at him.

And saw him raise a shiny handgun up and extend it out the window pointing right at my face. I think I must have stared at it for about an hour or so while my life passed before my eyes - or at least it seemed like an hour! Then I yelled "Gun!" and threw myself sideways toward Tyler.

And as my head was aimed at his lap I suddenly felt a weird, instinctive thought about how embarrassing that would be - which I know is insane given the circumstances - and my hands grabbed at the nearest thing I could find to stop me, which was the steering wheel. That abruptly turned the Ford Explorer into the smaller car and rammed it sideways into the back of a parked Tesla.

Tyler jumped out of the car while I stayed down and clawed at my holster. I heard him shout and then gunfire as I popped up, pulled my gun up, and swung it out. A Hispanic man with an angry look on his face I doubted he had to practice swung his gun toward me and fired just as I did.

I remember thinking 'So that's what angry really looks like' before I was hit in the chest with a baseball bat - or so it felt. But I saw my bullet hit him right between the eyes and throw him backward even as his hit me and knocked me back across the center console.

Tyler was yelling into his radio as he approached the other car while I focused on trying to breathe. That hurts! Was I shot?! I had been shot! Those are what were going through my head! I reached up and felt my chest, hoping the Velcro vest had stopped it, and then realized that perhaps I did like cell phones after all.

Because as I sat up I realized he'd hit me in my cell phone. I'd slipped it into my chest pocket after checking for texts or emails from Noah.

Just in case he'd changed his mind.

Not logical, I know. I groaned as I sat up and pulled the cell phone out of my pocket, then dropped it on the seat. I opened the door, not easily. It stuck and I had to shove hard, and then came out of the car to get grabbed by Tyler's huge hands.

"Corie! Are you all right!? Were you hit!? Were you shot!?

"He... He shot my phone!" I gasped.

"He what!?"

"Hit my cell phone!"

I holstered my SIG Sauer and unbuttoned the front of my uniform shirt. Just to look inside and see the unbroken white surface of the Kevlar vest. Reassured, I quickly buttoned it again.

Another car arrived with siren and flashing lights and I rubbed my chest, wincing.

"You're sure you're all right!?"

"He hit my cell phone. I had it in my pocket!"

I started babbling like an idiot, the adrenaline rush not yet subsided as I put my hand over my pocket and winced. It still hurt! There's what you might gently call 'soft tissue' under there and it's not used to being treated that roughly!

Then as he turned aside I glanced past him to see the Hispanic guy lying back in all his total and absolute deadness, with blood and brain matter spattered across the other seat and both passenger windows, and felt momentarily light-headed.

Fortunately, the onrush of other cops and Tyler's booming voice gave me a few moments to recover and breathe - painfully - and clear my head. Okay, so I killed a man. That was clear. It was also completely self-defense and nobody could say otherwise. It was justifiable. It had been absolutely necessary.

And by the way, I was still alive!

That gave me another strange, heady sense of altered reality. Because I could have been looking like that if I hadn't reacted as fast as I had. Maybe Tyler would have survived but I sure wouldn't. My life could have ended right here, right now.

And I'd barely even started living!

Well, f... fuck!

The world was erupting in flashing lights and loud, mostly male voices. Several more asked me if I was all right. Then someone grabbed my right arm and pulled me sideways and out from the crowd and led me around to the other side of the car.

It was Sofia Garcia.

"Are you okay?" she demanded.

"I - it hit my fucking cell phone!" I said, as I had a half dozen times already.

"No, are you okay."

Garcia was on my shift, and five or six years older than me. She'd been a cop for about four years and was a very lithe, fit woman who was far more of a 'guy' girl than I'd had much interest in chumming around with. She could be loud, swaggering, and frankly, outrageous. That included a selection of filthy jokes she had delighted in using around me in hopes of making me blush.

She was also a very out lesbian. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

She put her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes.

"Feeling a little shaky?" she asked.

She didn't wait for a reply but led me over to her car and had me sit down in the rear seat, my feet on the edge of the door frame. Then she reached in, checked my camera, and flipped it off. I hadn't even been aware it was on. I certainly hadn't had time to turn it on before everything had happened so I must have forgotten to turn it off after dealing with the two women.

"I must have forgotten to turn it off earlier," I said uncertainly.

"Don't talk to anyone, including the shooting team, until you have a union rep with you."

"He shot me in the chest! It's not like they can say shooting him wasn't justified!"

"Yeah. Sure looks like it. But these guys can be total dicks. They try to rattle you. They try to get you to reconsider why you shot, how you responded, and whether you could have done anything else. From what I've seen you're one hundred percent fine. But it doesn't do to take chances."

Well, better not to take chances was kind of my own motto, so I couldn't really argue.