My Kind of Town
>> 2002 Wilder Taking it personal
The instant she stepped from the elevator to the lobby, Dr. Laurie Tang hit her cell's dial button to call the direct line to HPD dispatch Sherlock had given her. She identified herself, said she was calling for Detective Sherlock Gomes, gave his badge number, said that he asked her to ask for a back-up. He was in her condo, 2002 Wilder, unit 1527, possibly confronting a burglar. No, she said, this was not some kind of joke. Yes, she would be waiting for the officers in the lobby.
Then she dialed the Queen's ER, asked night chief Jacki Gleason what all the sirens were about, for the first time heard about the terrorist suicide bomber attack in Waikiki, knew that her skills were needed in the ER.
"Jacki, I'm sorry, but I can't come in right now. I think a burglar is in my condo, and ..." Not knowing how to refer to Sherlock -- it was too early for "boyfriend" wasn't it? -- she decided not to mention that part of the story. "... and the police are on the way. Good luck to everybody."
Waiting for the police, all Laurie could do was worry and hope that what was happening upstairs would not send Sherlock to the ER. Yes, boyfriend was the right word. And what he was doing -- confronting a possible intruder instead of just leaving with her and calling HPD -- was so macho, so sure of himself. And so stupid!
If the intruder, Salvatore Innuendo, the disgraced former agent of the Vatican Security Office, hadn't been using such a good noise suppressor on his pistol and Laurie had heard the two shots he'd already fired, she really would've had something to worry about.
>> Gomes dived and rolled a heartbeat before the pistol quietly spat a third bullet. It shattered a kitchen cabinet.
"Where are you?!" Innuendo called, blindly waving the pistol with one hand, trying to wipe tears away from his left eye with the other, as he stumbled away from Gomes toward the kitchen.
His right eye had been ripped open by the rat-tail towel attack from around the corner. Gomes was aiming low, at the you-know-wheres, but the guy was in a shooting crouch. Gomes recognized the guy -- the same one he'd held the elevator for earlier -- except that now his hair was salt-and-pepper. Gone were a fake black mustache and black wig. But good fakes, so good that Gomes hadn't noticed. Nor had it seemed odd that they'd both gotten off on the 15th floor.
"Dammit, Gomes, I said where are you?!"
So he was taking this personal. That was two of them. From his knees, Gomes flicked the tightly rolled rat-tail again.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
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