Innocent as Sin

52

Chandler Mall

Sunday

Lane walked eagerly next to his dad as they strolled toward the gang of squad cars blocking the parking lane in the crowded mall lot.

“This is a classic example of a felony takedown,” Faroe said. “Watch and learn.”

“Beats hell out of the Krebs cycle,” Lane said, peering at the milling officers.

“Gotta watch that adrenaline. It’s witchy stuff. Just remember, your mother as a judge has done more to leave the world a better place than she found it than I have hanging with St. Kilda.”

“Then why isn’t she still a judge?”

“Ask her.”

“I did.”

“What’d she say?”

“To ask you,” Lane said.

“Sometimes good doesn’t get the job done. Then St. Kilda does. We’re the guys in the gray hats.”

“Look at that gun! What kind is that?”

“Ease back,” Faroe said quietly. “The cops have things under control, but they’re still full of adrenaline and their guns are full of bullets. Give them plenty of room and don’t do anything sudden.”

One of the cops who was leaning out over the hood of his squad car with a shotgun at the ready glanced up at them and said flatly, “Stay back. This is a crime scene.”

Faroe stood with his hands out at his sides, palms open.

Lane imitated him.

The cop nodded.

“I’m just worried about my car, Officer,” Faroe said. “I don’t want any buckshot holes in it.”

“Your car’s fine, sir. Just stay back out of the way.”

“Yessir,” Faroe said.

He drew Lane back behind a red Ford pickup, where they could watch without making anyone nervous.

“The nice thing about Arizona cops,” Faroe said, “is they’re used to dealing with armed suspects and felony takedowns.”

“You mean that open-carry law that Mom is always rolling her eyes over?”

“Yeah. Note how the cops all pulled in from separate directions, but left firing lanes open in case the mopes in the van tried anything. Good technique.”

Lane watched the officers unload two heavy-caliber automatic weapons and a half-dozen magazines of ammunition from the van.

“Why didn’t the dudes fight back?” he asked. “Look at the firepower they had. Those things are more than a match for shotguns, aren’t they?”

“The mopes on the ground are pros, just like the cops,” Faroe said.

“How can you tell?”

“They survived a felony takedown.”

“Huh?”

Faroe put his hand on Lane’s shoulder and continued teaching his son the things that someday might help him to survive when others died.

“Note the jailhouse tattoos and the iron-pile physiques on those cuffed arms,” Faroe said. “Pros know when to fight and when to fold. It was folding time. If there are six cops here now, there are eighteen more on the way, and the clowns on the ground want to live to fight another day.”

“How did you get them to send six cops in the first place?” Lane asked. “Mom wasn’t sure the desk sergeant would respond at all.”

“I made sure that the police got two different calls, both with pretty much the same level of detail,” Faroe said. “A single call about a Mexican in a van brandishing a long gun might have gotten the dispatcher to send a car or two. That would have tempted the bad guys to try something, which would have been messy but would have kept Gabriel off Kayla.”

“Messy was what Mom was afraid of.”

Faroe shrugged. He hadn’t been thrilled with the odds, but he hadn’t had a lot of time for finesse. “I made the first call and she made the second. Both of us specified the vehicle and the kinds of weapons, which brought the threat level way up. Then we had Javier Smith-the tall guy pretending to be a gardener-call the cops and give them a heavily accented tip about a gang hit going down in Chandler Mall.”

“Awesome.” Lane’s eyes were bright with excitement.

“It got the job done. Cops usually do the right thing if they have enough information at the beginning. It’s only when they start fumbling around in the dark, hunting rattlesnakes with their bare hands, that things go to hell real quick. Today was one of the good days.”

Lane watched as the cuffed men were levered to their feet.

“C’mon,” Faroe said. “Recess is over. Time to go back to the Krebs cycle.”