The Man Behind the Cop. Janice Kay Johnson
was coming alive in their faces. They looked at one another, exchanged more nods.
He had them, from the frail Hispanic woman in the corner, to the overweight teenage girl with acne, to the iron-haired woman who could have been his mother had Mom ever had the courage to seek the means to defend herself.
And, he saw, he had pleased Karin Jorgensen, who at last abandoned her military stance by the door and took a seat, prepared to listen and learn, herself.
He didn’t let her sit for long, asking her to help him demonstrate. As he showed how an attacker opened himself up the minute he reached out to fumble with clothing or lift a hand to strike, Bruce was pleased by tiny signs that Karin was as aware of him physically as he was of her. Nothing that would catch anyone else’s attention—just a quiver of her hand, a touch of warmth in her cheeks, a shyness in her gaze—all were a contrast to the confident woman who’d opened the door to him, prepared to face him down if he’d been anyone but the cop she expected.
She smelled good, he noticed when he grabbed her, although the scent was subtle. Tangy, like lemon. Maybe just a shampoo. Lemon seemed right for her sunstreaked hair.
He wanted to keep her with him, but finally thanked her and said, “Okay, everyone pair up.” Unfortunately, the numbers were odd and she paired herself with an overweight teenager, which left him partnerless.
A fair amount of the next hour and a half was spent with him trying to prepare them to grab their first opportunity to fight back and run. They learned some simple techniques for breaking holds or knocking a weapon from an assailant’s hand.
“Next week,” he said, concluding, “we’ll talk about how to use everyday objects as weapons and shields. Molly will be here to demonstrate more releases, more ways to drop me like a rock.” He smiled. “See you then.”
Several women came up afterward to talk to him. By the time Bruce looked around for Karin, she had disappeared. When he went out into the hall to find her, he realized that some of the women had brought children. A second room had evidently been dedicated to child care. He spotted her in there, holding a toddler and talking to one of the participants. Karin saw him at the same time, and handed the toddler to the mother, then walked over to him.
“I’ll escort you out,” she said. “I appreciate you doing this.”
They started down the hall, her long-legged stride matching his. “I thought it went well,” Bruce commented.
“It was amazing. I saw such…hope.” She said the word oddly, with some puzzlement.
Had he surprised her? Given her job, maybe she didn’t like men much and didn’t think one was capable of inspiring a group of battered women.
Or maybe she’d just been groping for the right word.
He wanted to ask whether she was married or involved, but how could he without making things awkward? And, damn it, he was running out of time—the front door stood just ahead.
“I understand you volunteered for this workshop,” Karin said. “That’s very generous of you.”
They’d reached the door. Opening it for her, he inquired, “Are you making any money for this evening’s work?”
He’d surprised her again. She paused, close enough for him to catch another whiff of citrus scent. For a moment she searched his face, as if trying to understand him. “Well…no. But I do work with these women.”
“I do, too,” he said simply.
She bit her lip. “Oh.”
“’Night, Karin,” someone called, and she retreated from him, going outside to exchange good-nights with women on their way to their cars.
Maybe just as well, he tried to convince himself as he, too, exited the building. He’d ask around about her. They inhabited a small world, and someone would know whether she was off limits. If nothing else, he’d see her next week.
“Good night,” he said, nodding. He’d finally snagged her attention.
“Thank you again,” she replied.
Their eyes met and held for a moment that seemed to bring color to her cheeks. Wishful thinking, maybe. He turned away. Even with his back to Karin, he was aware of her speaking to others in the parking lot. The voices, he was glad to hear, were animated.
He kept going, enjoying the cool air and the way the scent of the lilacs was sharper after dark. He liked the night and the sense he had of being invisible. He could see people moving around inside their houses or the flicker of televisions through front windows, but by now not a single car passed him on the street.
He reached his car, now sandwiched between an SUV and a VW Beetle. Not much room to maneuver. He’d be inching out.
His key was in his hand, but he hadn’t yet inserted it in the door, when he heard the first terrified scream.
CHAPTER TWO
IT HAPPENED SO FAST.
The parking lot had emptied quickly. Only a van from one of the battered women’s shelters remained, the director half sitting on the bumper as she awaited her charge. Satisfied with how the evening had gone, Karin was walking back toward the front door of the clinic when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement under a streetlight. She turned to see a dark figure rush toward the lone woman halfway between the building and the van. Oh, God. It was Lenora Escobar. She’d just said good-night to Karin.
“Roberto!”
The distinctly uttered name struck terror in Karin.
His arm lifted. He held a weapon of some kind. Lenora screamed.
The weapon smashed down followed by an indescribably horrible sound. Like a pumpkin being dropped, squishing. Lenora gurgled, then crumpled.
The arm rose and fell a second time, and then Roberto Escobar ran.
During the whole event, Karin hadn’t managed two steps forward.
As though time became real once more, Karin and Cecilia, the shelter director, converged on the fallen woman. Karin focused only on her, ignoring the squealing tires from the street.
Should I have run after him? Tried to make out a license-plate number?
But no. There could be no doubt that Lenora’s assailant—not her murderer, please not her murderer—was her husband. His vehicle and license-plate number would be on record.
Thank God, Karin thought, dropping to her knees, that Lenora hadn’t brought her children tonight. He would have taken them if she had.
Lenora’s head lay in a pool of blood. A few feet away was a tire iron. Karin’s stomach lurched. Fingerprints…Had Roberto worn gloves? No. He didn’t care who knew that he’d killed his wife for the sin of leaving him.
“Cecilia, go back inside and call 911. Or do you have a cell phone?” She sounded almost calm. “Unless…wait.” She heard pounding footsteps and swiveled on her heels. “Detective Walker,” she said with profound relief—relief she felt not just because he was a cop and he was here, but because tonight this particular cop had managed to reassure and inspire a roomful of women who had every reason to be afraid of men.
He was running across the parking lot, holding a cell phone in his hand. Then he was crouching beside her. He spoke urgently into the phone, giving numbers she guessed were code for Battered Wife Down.
He touched Lenora’s neck and looked up. “She’s alive.”
Karin sagged. “Can’t we do anything?”
He shook his head. “We don’t want to move her. The ambulance is on its way.” His gaze, razor sharp, rested on Karin’s face. “Did you see what happened?”
“Yes.”