Blood Red Rings (Dangerous Women & Desperate Men) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Blood Red Rings

  Author’s Note

  Author’s Note on Vengeance Road

  VENGEANCE ROAD (Excerpt)

  Author’s Note on The Panic Zone

  The Panic Zone [Excerpt]

  Headlong Into the Panic Zone

  The Story Behind The Panic Zone

  About the Author

  Praise for Rick Mofina’s books

  For more information please visit

  BLOOD RED RINGS

  RICK MOFINA

  Blood Red Rings

  Rick Mofina

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2011 Rick Mofina

  ISBN: 978-0-9877080-6-9

  This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  e-Formatting provided by Carrick Publishing

  Copyright © 2011 by Rick Mofina

  Copyright © 2005 by Rick Mofina

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the creation of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Rick Mofina

  IN DESPERATION

  THE PANIC ZONE

  VENGEANCE ROAD

  SIX SECONDS

  Other books by Rick Mofina

  A PERFECT GRAVE

  EVERY FEAR

  THE DYING HOUR

  BE MINE

  NO WAY BACK

  BLOOD OF OTHERS

  COLD FEAR

  IF ANGELS FALL

  Blood Red Rings

  By

  Rick Mofina

  Frank Harper slid behind the wheel of his unmarked Crown Victoria, adjusted his nightstick, lifted the lid on his takeout coffee and blew gently on the surface.

  He was half way through his watch.

  So far, so good.

  He’d responded to a couple of car prowlings, a noisy party and a 9-1-1 hang up. Not much action in the zone tonight. Just as well, his partner had booked off sick. Harper was alone and could use the quiet to chew on his problems. Like the beauty Colleen had dropped on him before he left the house.

  “You don’t know me anymore,” she says. “You don’t know us. You’re like a ghost who haunts our home.”

  Why the hell would she say a thing like that?

  Harper blinked then searched for the answer in the buildings he passed as he rolled through the Heights. He searched in vain. It wasn’t behind the security bars of the used appliance stores, the shut up taco stands, locked down pawn shops, liquor stores, street ministries, skid row dives or whorehouses. Stopping at a light, he glimpsed his reflection in the side of gleaming black 1975 Cadillac hearse at Peppy’s Quality Used Car Sales.

  There’s your answer, pal. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Sooner or later everyone takes that final ride. It’s guaranteed, pal.

  Harper chuckled, shook his head and took a hit of coffee. Of course, Colleen had a point. But he was tired. Tired of dealing with the mess at home. Ever since Wade dropped out of college and moved back, he slept all day and stayed out all night. A shining example to his sister, Angie, who never made it to college. Lived at home, worked at Del Verdies selling suits to lawyers. Attorneys at law. Don’t get him started on lawyers. At least Angie worked. But Frank suspected her money went to drugs. Angie barely spoke to him anymore. “My life’s under control, dad. Why don’t you get off my back and tell Wade to get a job.” As for Colleen, well, she drank more wine at dinner and often spilled it. Her place at the table was now marked with blood red rings.

  “All units in three-four -- report of a silent alarm at 3222 Clovis. Chrono-Lazer-Tel Components --”

  “Sixteen twenty. Ten-four.”

  “Roger sixteen twenty. Security company called it in. Standby by for the history.”

  Unit sixteen twenty; that was Shea and Farraday. Chrono-Lazer-Tel was a computer warehouse. Alarm went off every night. And every night it was false. Harper let his dispatcher know he was clear to back up sixteen twenty and then resumed ruminating about his life.

  “Roger sixteen forty-five.”

  But what the hell did Colleen expect him to do about the kids, huh? They were adults. Over twenty-one living under his roof. His solution was simple. Kick them the hell out. But she wouldn’t go for that. She acted like they were still in diapers. Maybe that was her problem. She couldn’t face reality. Always hauling out the albums, getting all misty-eyed. Aching for things to be like they were a lifetime ago. Forget it he told her.

  You can’t go back.

  But God, it was good then. Some nights, like when he was sitting on the point of a perimeter, a memory would just pull him back to the times he used to take the kids fishing. Wade was maybe eight, Angie was six. They’d get up before the sun. At dawn it felt like the whole world belonged to them. They’d spend the whole day together at the lake. Eat the lunch Colleen had packed. He loved her chicken salad sandwiches and the chocolate cup cakes she’d bake. Those summers at the lake meant everything to him. The way the sun made Wade and Angie resplendent against the diamond waves. The way Wade called him dad and Angie called him daddy. With respect, with affection. With love. Not anymore. You can’t go back. Those days are gone. Dead and buried. So how did he get here? Harper took a long hit of coffee. Cripes, he didn’t know.

  You blink and twenty-four years go by.

  Twenty-four years of putting your life on the line for your family, for this city. In the early days, the crap he saw made him sick. The domestics, the child abuse. Murders. God the murders. Every kind you could imagine. The worst were the baby murders. He took it all personally. Couldn’t stop worrying about Colleen and the kids.

  As time went by, Harper learned from the other guys how to distance himself to survive. He refused to bring his crap home. Refused to talk about the job. Kept his emotions locked up with his gun, a safe distance from Colleen, the kids, the neighborhood. He isolated himself from everyone around him. Every time he put on his uniform, he put on his street mask. Yeah, his game face. The one that told you Frank Harper was a stone cold, cynical bastard. And woe to the asshole who faced him. Problem was, as years went by, it got harder to remove that mask when he came through the door.

  “Dispatch, sixteen twenty. We’re ten seven at the alarm call. Night watchman’s coming out. We’ll talk to him.”

  “Roger sixteen twenty.”

  All right. Harper admitted he could be a sonofabitch to live with but sometimes he wondered if Colleen truly grasped the depth of the cesspool he struggled in every day for the last twenty-four years. Did she understand how it had reduced him to being a tooth in a gear within a thousand gears of a giant ass-covering machine that grinded on you; that demanded you follow the process; that judged you, second-guessed you, wiped itself with you, then crumpled you up and flushed you away?

  Did she appreciate the toll of the shifts, the rectum-contracting fear of knowing that around any dark corner down any dark alley there’s a crack-jacked asshole with his finger twitching on a trigger and he’s drooling because you’re heading his way? And that maybe the asshole’s dickhead partner is holding something as lethal as a Glock. He’s armed with a video camera and a cell phone with Channel 5 and a civil liberties lawyer who wears Del Verdies suits on speed dial, should you dare try to save your life.

  Ho
w could anyone understand what goes through your head when you walk into a domestic and the wife’s lip is so horribly swollen she slurs her words, and her four-year-old boy is wedged wide-eyed in the corner convulsing with fear while his mother begs, pleads and finally screams that she doesn’t know why her freakin neighbors called when all she did was drop a plate. Because her old man’s a sweet father. She swears to Jesus he never laid a hand on them. And she’s trembling and sobbing, “No doctor, no social services, I’ll lose my boy, I’ll lose my check.” And the world’s sweetest dad sits statue still with his eyes burning at the T and A on the tube, nursing a beer, as you see his knuckles are raw.

  And all you can think of is how bad you want to kick the living shit out of this waste of skin because he deserves it. Oh man, does he deserve it. But you’re in control. You’ve got to hold back. Things have calmed down.

  For now.

  And two days later your Sergeant is telling you to haul it up to the tenth floor where a couple of sharp-dressed all stars from homicide are eyeballing the hell out of you and your unit history to the domestic because as we speak Officer Harper, at this very freakin moment, Frank, that little boy and his mother are side-by-side on autopsy tables.

  And you do all you can not to blow your breakfast on their suits which they likely got at Del Verdies.

  But your rep and association hit all the cherries for you. The review absolves you. The department absolves you. The commission absolves you. Even the press - “neighbors said, she brought it on herself” - absolves you. But you don’t absolve yourself. You can’t. Because you know the machine was not absolving Frank Harper, the machine was absolving the machine.

  And later you pay a secret visit to a cemetery where you leave flowers and ask forgiveness for the mistakes you’ve made and the things you’ve lost because as long as you live you’ll never forget the face of that little boy, his wide eyes staring at you. And you think of Wade and Angie, radiant in the sun. And you’re alone on one knee before a headstone vowing that never again will you let an asshole escape justice.

  Then you shut down. You put on your mask. You do your job.

  And it was all so long ago, everyone had forgotten it. Everyone except Harper. Now here he was, six months from early retirement, thinking that maybe he should try talking to Wade and Angie; that maybe he should try helping Colleen reduce those blood red rings at her place at the table.

  Maybe, Harper thought, crumpling his styro cup as his radio crackled.

  “Dispatch sixteen twenty! Shots fired! Officer down!”

  “All units --”

  Harper hit his lights and siren. Every available unit in the sector was being marshaled to the shooting. His Crown Victoria’s eight cylinders thundered as he sailed down the empty streets. Harper was less than two minutes from the computer warehouse when Rob Shea’s breathless voice spilled from the radio.

  “Pursuing the suspect,” Shea was shouting into his shoulder mike as he ran, “northbound on Clovis,” he panted, “in the alley behind the warehouse. -- six feet dark clothing ski mask hand gun.”

  “Dispatch, sixteen forty-five I’m southbound on Clovis. Visual on the warehouse. Hang on Robbie, I’m coming!”

  “That you, Frank?”

  “Ten four.”

  Harper swung the Ford into the alley in time to see a shadowy figure blur by him down a small, dark side corridor between two tall buildings. He called in his location and requested Air Support. Heaving himself from the car, he adjusted his night stick and checked his shoulder mike before running into the alley.

  Adrenaline pumped through him as he came upon the suspect clawing a chain link fence. He was getting hung up in the razor wire at the top. Harper drew his weapon, aimed it.

  “Police! Get your ass down on the ground now!”

  Fire flashed from the fence with a firecracker pop as a bullet ripped by Harper’s head and ricocheted off a dumpster. He returned three shots. The suspect’s gun fell to the pavement. But not the suspect. Did he miss? It was so goddammed dark and Harper made a grave mistake. When he bent to retrieve the weapon the suspect jumped him taking him to the ground.

  He fought Harper for his gun, grabbing and pulling at it. The man felt the same size as Harper but younger, more agile. Harper’s heart hammered as the guy seized Harper’s nightstick with frightening speed delivering rapid fire blows to his head, hand, and neck. Harper growled, feeling his grip on his weapon loosening as the blows came faster, like a jackhammer.

  Where the hell was Shea?

  God he was losing this one. This animal was too fast. Too strong.

  It all happened within seconds but Harper felt his world slowing down, felt his thoughts coming clearly as he realized this is how his life would end. Face down in a back alley near a stinking dumpster. He thought of his family and his twenty-four years on the job. He could hear sirens, could hear help coming. It gave him a weak measure of hope then somehow he found a remaining ounce of strength, enough to turn his gun and fire three more shots.

  Deafening blasts bored through clothing, skin tissue, and organs.

  The blows stopped. The nightstick rattled to the pavement. The suspect fell to his knees. Harper got to his feet just as the suspect clamped his arms around Harper’s legs. Not to fight but to hang on for his final moments. The guy raised his head to stare at Harper. As he drilled his muzzle into the asshole’s skull, he felt the younger man’s hold weakening.

  As life drained from him as he spoke one final word.

  “Dad.”

  Harper yanked off the ski mask and looked into his son’s face.

  The world stopped turning.

  Harper did not see or hear the officers arriving at the scene. He did not see or hear the helicopter whooping overhead, its powerful search light turning the world upside down as night became day. Harper was with Wade now. Wade was a boy again and they were fishing on the lake and he was resplendent against the diamond waves.

  The End

  Author’s Note

  Of all my works, Blood Red Rings stands as one of my favorites. I think it’s because as hard as I try every time I write to achieve on the page what I conceive in my imagination, this piece came closest to the mark.

  For this story, I went back to my times as a crime reporter and the countless ride-alongs I’d had with police officers in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Toronto, Calgary, Jamaica and Kuwait. Wherever I went I listened and learned about the job, about the cop, about life. I drew upon those times and employed my imagination for this work of fiction. I wanted to partner you for one night with seasoned cop Frank Harper, when he takes the ride of his life.

  Blood Red Rings first appeared in Crimespree Magazine where Jon, Ruth and Jennifer Jordan have opened the door of their revered publication to short crime fiction. I am honored that my work has appeared there.

  Blood Red Rings is also included in Dangerous Women & Desperate Men, my small four-story anthology available only as an E-book. The three other stories in the collection are: “Lightning Rider,” “Three Bullets To Queensland,” and, “As Long As We Both Shall Live.” I hope you will consider adding Dangerous Women & Desperate Men to your E-library. You can also obtain each story individually online. Each story has its own spectacular cover and additional content about my work.

  If this is your introduction to my writing, you might want to consider longer works of mine that are available in E-format. Some samples are presented in the following pages.

  Thank you,

  Rick Mofina

  -Click to Buy Dangerous Women & Desperate Men at Amazon Kindle-

  Author’s Note on Vengeance Road

  The International Thriller Writers (ITW) named Vengeance Road a finalist for a 2010 THRILLER AWARD in the category of Best Paperback Original and The Private Eye Writers of America named it a finalist for a 2010 SHAMUS Award for Best Paperback Original.

  Vengeance Road introduces readers to crime reporter Jack Gannon in the first book of my Jack Gannon series. The murder of
a broken-hearted woman and the chilling disappearance of her friend raise questions about their ties to a beloved cop regarded as a hero by his community. Privately, detectives are uneasy with the answers the cop gives to protect the life — and the lie — he’s lived. The case haunts Gannon, a gritty blue-collar reporter, and drives his obsession to find the truth.

  Copyright © 2009 by Rick Mofina

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the creation of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.