Dad’s Policeman Friend by Lena Little
1
Caden
“Hook a left up here on Lincoln and Seventh,” I tell my patrol partner, Sergeant Harris. “My buddy is out of town. Asked me to swing by his house.”
“You got it, Captain.”
Harris rolls the wheel of the Dodge Charger away from my position in the passenger seat. “Slowly,” I say, scoping out the entire block.
“Which house we looking at?” Harris asks.
My eyes narrow and I pivot in my seat, my chest squaring up with the window. “Stop the car.”
Harris stops abruptly and I slide my big body out of the passenger door. “Watch my six.”
Taking my gun from the holster I move quickly from the curb to the driveway of the cookie cutter suburban house, where my best friend Chris grew up and still lives. I’ve been shooting hoops with him in this exact same driveway for over thirty years. I know this place like the back of my hand. And I know that flashlight moving through the upstairs bedroom right now does not belong to the fellow who I served as the best man at his wedding.
Placing my back on the garage door, I motion for Harris to stay put outside. I move toward the front door and lift up the rock next to the flower pot, removing the small plastic hide-a-key contraption and slide the top off.
Taking the key I slowly insert it in the door and gently turn the handle. I’ve been on the force for seventeen years. Been to numerous arrests, domestic disturbances, and even found myself in a couple of shootouts.
But when it’s your best friend’s home you’re entering, it’s different.
My heart kicks in my chest and I eye the steps right inside the front door that lead to the upstairs bedrooms. I could call out my presence, but the friend inside me says no. If I announce myself the burglar will probably slide out the back window and be gone with whatever possessions he’s managed to get his hands on.
Chris has been working his butt off for years since the separation from his wife after she ran out on him with some French guy and left him in financial ruin in the process. I’m not letting this would-be thief get away with the few scarce possessions my best friend has, some of them I might have even gifted to him over the years.
I move up the stairs of the house, careful not to let the heels of my boots touch, nor to step on the edge of the steps, which might cause them to creak, which is no small feat when your boots come in at a size twelve.
Once I’m at the top I see the light shining from the bathroom and hear water being drawn.
Is this guy trying to create noise in anticipation of something, or is he going to stop up the drains and flood the house? Why in the heck is water running?
Moving swiftly toward the door I place my back to the wall just outside, taking in a big breath just before I whip around, gun drawn.
“Freeze! Police!” I yell.
The hands of a young woman dart into the air, a bar of soap making a splash in the water as she puts her entire torso on display. My gun doesn’t fire but the weapon in my pants damn near does. I freeze and she quickly grabs the curtain and yanks it clean off the bar, covering herself in the cheap plastic in her half-filled bathtub.
“Caden? What the hell are you doing here?” she huffs.
My brows furrow as I try to recognize the voice. It’s strangely familiar but somehow different. Then I place it.
“Camila?”
“Duh! Who else would it be?”
It’s Chris’s daughter, who I haven’t seen since she was just a kid.
And seconds ago, I just saw all of her. And she’s most certainly not a kid anymore. What she is…is mine.
