Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Thirty-two

In the parking garage Lizzie's car sputtered and died and refused to start again. John looked at the gas gauge: E.

"Jesus."

"Grab one of our units," said Mike. "I can't leave, I've still got paperwork to finish."

John made sure he got one with a gas can.

On his way out the radio buzzed with a major incident going on in Gilpin Court. A fistfight had turned into shots fired and then a mob scene with most of the residents on the street egging it on. Every patrol unit in the sector got pulled over there.

John continued on toward home. He was a detective, he wasn't on duty, he was completely wrung out.

The radio crackled to life again. "Unit seven-eight-one."

John sighed and cursed and thumbed the mike. "This is seven-eight-one."

"Detective, I've got a courtesy call for you, 8 West Clay Street. Woman says she's diabetic and has lost both legs. She's in bed and says her grandson has left the residence and it's too hot inside. Requests police assistance to turn up the AC."

"How am I supposed to get inside?"

"Woman says the door is unlocked."

John thought a minute. Officers took these kinds of calls when they could. The call was only about seven blocks from Mike's. He thumbed the talk button. At least he could do some good tonight.

"Proceeding to the residence."

Not all of the old residential areas near downtown had gentrified. John pulled up in front of a crumbling brick house with a "for sale" sign out front. The wooden stairs sagged and a shutter or two was missing from the upstairs windows, but the porch light was on. John knocked, then opened the door.

"Police officer, Ma'am! I'm here to adjust your AC."

A short narrow foyer stretched ahead of him with a staircase on the right. John walked in. The living room was dark except for the porch light filtering in from the outside. Light shone from a hallway to the right.

"I'm okay!" came a chirpy, singsongy old lady's voice from the hallway. John smiled; it sounded just like a funny radio ad that was on that summer, that had a senile old lady putting foil in the microwave.

John walked into the room, squinting around for a light switch. "Ma'am? Where is your thermostat?"

He stepped on something as he emerged into the living room. One of those white candy lollipop sticks.

He sensed motion on his left and heard a grunt. Something whooshed through the air and brushed against his neck. He felt a soft plop as it landed on his left shoulder. He turned, putting his hand up. A rope.

"Got him!" a man yelled. "Go!"

He turned toward the voice, and that was when he felt the loop hit the other side of his neck, sliding up his right shoulder to meet itself on his left. He turned in panic and took a deep breath.

He was being strangled mob-style, in a noose in the middle of a long rope with a man on each end. He managed to get his left hand up and under the rope before it pulled tight. He grabbed his Glock 21 off his hip with his right hand.

The rope bit into the back and sides of his neck. He used his hand to protect his throat and gulped in precious air. The man on his right had retreated under the stairs with his end of the rope. John couldn't turn all the way around. He aimed behind him and to the right.