light on next to the bed. He took down the address and told Billy he’d meet him there. Mickey checked his watch—it was barely ten o’clock—awfully early for him to be sleeping, and awfully early for an emergency too. In Nickelback, most residents didn’t readily invite the police into their homes and they usually called 911 only when someone was dying or already dead. The early hour made him sure it had to be a medical problem. He debated calling Paul Kramer right then, but decided to wait.
Mickey hurried and dressed and rushed from the house. It was a standing mandate that he always be called when a 911 came in, but they were generally later at night, after the shift change. With his three deputies working nine hour stretches, staggered around the clock, there were only three hours a day when they overlapped for an hour—eleven to midnight, seven to eight in the morning, and three to four in the afternoon—that covered the beginning and end of the workday and one hour each night when the drunks and crazies were in the thick of it. Other than that, each man was on his own, with Mickey working days and playing clean up.
But at ten, it was Billy who was alone on duty, and sending Billy out to a 911 on his own made Mickey nervous. If something serious went down, the kid didn’t have what it took. Mickey knew it. Everyone else probably knew it too. But the town was small and dying and desperate for cheap help. Who else was Mickey going to get in a town like that? And after all, that same desperation was how Mickey had gotten hired in the first place.
Except for the lounge at the Golden Dragon, the town was already dead quiet. The sun was long down and, although the concrete and asphalt were still radiating their tremendous daytime heat, the air was beginning to cool itself into a fine desert evening. Mickey went through the back streets quickly, without referring to the address he’d written down and stuck in his pocket. The town was too small to get confused.
He saw the flashing lights up ahead and pulled the Suburban in behind the police cruiser. Billy was at the front door. Mickey could see Ron Grimaldi illuminated in the doorway. They stopped talking and both watched Mickey as he came across the yard and stepped up on the small porch.
“Chief,” Billy began, confused, “he says he never called.”
“I don’t know what this is about,” Ron began, his voice resonant with a confidence surely gained through his verbal berating of the young officer. “I never made any 911 call. You guys must have the wrong place. Hell, I’m the only one who lives here.”
“That may be, Mr. Grimaldi,” Mickey spoke as he continued forward, coming right up to the doorway, “but we still have to check it out.”
“Hey, what is this anyway? Some kind of shake down? I didn’t make no goddamned 911 call.” Ron stood firm in the doorway, but Mickey stuck his shoulder through and began to slide past Ron and into the house. Ron dropped a hand onto Mickey’s shoulder and took a step back. “Whoa there, Sheriff. Hold on a second. I don’t think you understand what I’m saying.”
Mickey glanced down at the hand on his shoulder and felt a pulse of rage flow through him. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Mickey grabbed Ron’s wrist and lowered it off his shoulder. “Mr. Grimaldi,” he began, slowly, keeping his anger and surprise controlled. “I’m sure you can appreciate that Billy and I have a job to do. When an emergency call comes in, we respond. If you think there’s been some kind of mistake, we can check into that after we have a look through the house.”
Ron’s eyes darted back and forth between Mickey and Billy, who stood on the porch like he was lost. A moment of silence passed. Mickey could see that Ron recognized his misstep. It was evident in his eyes. After another second, Ron put his palms up in front of him and backed away. “Hey man, do what you gotta do. I’m just saying, I didn’t make no call, that’s all. But hey,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I got nothing to hide. Be my guest.” He motioned toward the living room with his hand.
Mickey stood in the center of the room with his hands on his hips, just above his gun.