The Watchman by Robert Crais Page A

“Two-adam-forty-four, domestic disturbance at 2721 Harell, woman reported crying for help. You up for that?”
    Pike wanted it, but said nothing. It was up to Flynn. Flynn glanced over and seemed to read the need. He picked up the mike.
    “Two-adam-forty-four inbound.”
    “Roger, stand by.”
    Domestic calls were the worst. Pike had heard it again and again at the academy, and Flynn had already mentioned it in the few hours they had been together. When you rolled on a domestic call, you were rolling into the jagged eye of an emotional hurricane. In those moments, the police were often seen as saviors or avengers, and were always the last resort.
    Flynn said, “Evening watch is prime time for domestics. We’ll probably get three or four tonight, and more on a Friday. By Friday, they’ve been working up to it all week.”
    Pike didn’t say anything. He knew about domestic violence first-hand. His father had never waited until Friday. Any night would do.
    Flynn said, “When we get there, I’ll do the talking. You watch how I handle them, and learn. But keep your eyes open. You never know what’s what when you answer one of these things. You might be watching the man, and the woman will shoot you in the back. The woman might be some scared-looking dishrag, but once we get her old man cooled out, she might turn into a monster. I saw that once. We got the cuffs on this guy, and that’s when his old lady felt safe. She chopped off his foot with a meat cleaver.”
    Pike said, “Okay.”
    Pike wasn’t worried. He figured clearing a domestic disturbance call couldn’t be much different than clearing houses in a combat zone—you watched everything, you kept your back to a wall, and you assumed everyone wanted to kill you. Then you would be fine.
    They rolled to a small apartment building south of Temple near the center of Rampart. Motionless palms towered overhead, catching the shimmer of dying light to make the building more colorful than it was. The dispatcher had filled them in: Call was placed by one Mrs. Esther Villalobos, complaining that male and female neighbors had been arguing all afternoon and had escalated into what Mrs. Villalobos described as loud crashing, whereupon the female neighbor, identified by Mrs. Villalobos as a young Caucasian female named Candace Stanik, shouted “Stop it!” several times, then screamed for help. Mrs. Villalobos had stated that an unemployed Caucasian male she knew only as Dave sometimes lived at the residence. The dispatcher reported no history of officers being dispatched to this address.
    Pike and Flynn would learn more later, but these were their only available facts when they arrived at the scene.
    They double-parked their patrol car, then stepped into the street. Pike scanned his surroundings automatically as he exited the car—vehicles, the deepening shadows between the buildings, the surrounding roofs—a gulp of space and color he sensed as much as saw. Clear. Good.
    Flynn said, “You ready?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Let’s go see what’s what.”
    Pike followed Flynn toward Candace Stanik’s apartment.
    Mrs. Villalobos lived in the rear unit on the ground floor. Candace Stanik lived in the ground unit next door. Pike and Flynn would only contact Mrs. Villalobos in the event they could not gain access to Stanik’s unit or if no one was home.
    Flynn stopped outside Stanik’s door, motioning Pike to remain silent. The windows were lit. Pike heard no voices, but hacking sobs were distinct. Flynn looked at Pike and raised his eyebrows, the look asking if Pike heard it. Pike nodded. He thought Flynn looked green in the strange evening light.
    Flynn pointed to the side of the door and whispered.
    “Stand here out of the way. When I go in, you come in right behind me, but take your cue from me. Maybe the guy’s already gone. Maybe they’ve made up and are in there all lovey-dovey. Understand?”
    Pike nodded.
    “Don’t draw your gun unless you see me draw mine. We