Free Marrying Mike...Again by Alicia Scott Page A

Sandra impatient. They all knew what had happened here. Why was it so hard to admit?
    Then she got it, she actually got it. They didn’t want to hear that Vee had held back from killing two officers. They wanted the thirteen-year-old to be evil. These men in front of her, Alexandria’s finest, wanted the excuse to war. They were frustrated with their jobs, angry with their community and tired of being disrespected. They wanted to break down every door and bust every kid who’d ever looked at them sideways. And they were perfectly willing to use a thirteen-year-old as an excuse to do so.
    She suddenly felt nothing but contempt for all of them.
    Mike spoke up. He said simply, “Warning shots.”
    Rusty skewered his partner with a look. “Yeah. Warning shots.”
    “It seems to me,” Sandra said slowly, so there’d be no mistake, “that Vee made a conscious decision not to shoot two officers.”
    “Yeah, he made the decision,” Koontz burst out heat edly. “But what about next time, or the time after that or the time after that? Better yet, take a look behind the yellow line, Chief. See any sympathy there? See any concern? Hell, they’re disappointed the kid missed. They’re thinking if only we’d stop paying attention, maybe they could finish the job. That’s community relations these days. If we don’t come down on this kid with everything we got, if we don’t set a grade-A example of what happens to people who screw with us, our lives aren’t gonna be worth the cheap tin used to mold our badges. Get it yet? ”
    Rusty stalked off to join the other officers, who stood clustered a few feet away. They opened up as a group to receive him, then closed in around him, anchoring him within their midst.
    Sandra and Mike remained outside the group. Then she noticed a few officers inching away from Mike and refusing to meet his eye. A gap was opening up, she realized. They were consciously ostracizing her for being herself. But now they were also ostracizing Mike, because he had brought her here. He had spoken up on her behalf.
    “I’m sorry,” she murmured to Mike honestly.
    “Not your problem, ma chère. ”
    “Well,” she said briskly, “at least you didn’t say ‘Fine.”’
    Sandra retreated to the smoking police cruiser. She watched the upholstery burn down to embers until one lane was finally cleared and the ambulance sped away.
     
    One hour later, Mike drove Sandy back to her house. He’d been waiting for some token argument, but she’d said nothing. Instead she seemed to have shrunk in her seat since the shooting. Her skin was pale, her blue eyes bruised, and her red-brown hair wild around her shoulders. If Sandra could see her reflection right now, she’d scream bloody murder. Funny then, how Mike thought she looked pretty good.
    Pulling up the driveway was awkward. What to do now? Say goodbye in the car? Shake her hand? Pretend he hadn’t lived in this damn house a year himself, or that he’d once spent a Sunday afternoon kissing every inch of her creamy white skin? Hell, Mike hated awkward.
    He got out of the car, opened her door for her and walked her to the door. Her hands were fumbling uncharacteristically with her purse. He took the Coach bag from her grip and dug out her keys himself.
    “I’m fine,” she said now.
    “Sure.”
    “No, really, I’m fine. ”
    “ Ma chère, we both know fine is my word, not yours. Why don’t you have a seat on the couch.”
    He tossed her bag negligently onto her glass hall table and, without bothering to look back, headed for the marble wet bar. He might not be Sandy’s husband anymore, but he remembered what she drank. A perfect V.O. Manhattan, served neat with a twist. Koontz had practically fallen over laughing the first time she’d tried to order it at the Code Blue, the local cops’ bar. Sandy, of course, did not drink beer. For the Code Blue, however, she’d finally learned to stomach very bad whiskey.
    Tonight, Mike mixed two Manhattans.