Free Damaged Goods (Don't Call Me Hero Book 2) by Eliza Lentzski

arrested.”
    “Yes, sir, Officer sir,” the man obliged with a lazy smile.
    Mendez, without waiting for me, left the apartment. I could hear the sound of his heavy boots as he tromped down the stairs to the fresher air outside. I looked between the man in the dirty tank top and the woman in her long-sleeve shirt. Both their faces were emotionless. I silently pled with the woman to give me a reason to stay and ask more questions, but there was nothing else I could do.
    I descended the staircase with misgivings churning in my belly. Even though I’d left the apartment, the strong stench of ammonia lingered in my nose. It made me wish I had a mustache that I could shave off.
    I paused when I reached the ground level apartment. The couple who’d called in the complaint might have gone back to bed, but I wanted to follow up with them about the complaint. The woman answered when I knocked on the door.
    “So?” Her face was eager for answers.
    “They’ve been warned to keep it down.”
    My response clearly wasn’t adequate. “That’s it?”
    I shrugged, looking as helpless as I felt. “We’ll make a report about the incident. At least now there’s a paper trail started. You can call again if there’s another problem.”
    The woman looked crestfallen, as if she’d expected an arrest. “Okay, Officer.”
    I could understand her disappointment. I was feeling equally unsettled. It was a feeling I’d have to get used to. Rarely were complaints of this nature resolved after one visit, with all the loose ends wrapped up in a tidy bow.
     
     
    Mendez was back at the car when I made my way outside again. He confronted me when I returned to the vehicle. “Listen, I know you’re probably chomping at the bit to make your first arrest, but you’ve got to cool it with the super cop routine.”
    “This has nothing to do with making an arrest,” I testified. “That didn’t look like a healthy relationship to me, and you can’t even pretend that kid should be up there in that filth.”
    “You know we can’t make an arrest without a warrant unless there’s evidence a victim has been abused in the past twelve hours,” Mendez countered.
    “You could have let me talk to her,” I protested.
    “And done what? Braid each other’s hair and share your deepest, darkest secrets? You’re supposed to be a badge, Miller,” he said sternly. “Keep your personal feelings and emotions out of it.”
    Mendez opened the driver side door, indicating that the conversation and any debate were over.
     
     
    Back at the station I peeled off my uniform and didn’t bother folding it before dumping it into my duffle bag. I’d have to get it dry-cleaned along with my bulletproof vest to completely get the stench out of the fabric. I felt moderately better after a hot shower at the precinct, but it would take a few more deep scrubbings to get the scent entirely off of my skin. As long as the stink clung to my skin, the memory of the day would remain fresh as well. It made me actually thankful that Julia was busy preparing for her mother’s custody trial so I wouldn’t have to explain to her why I smelled like ammonia.
    Before I could head home, I had to stop in the men’s locker room to drop off my shotgun in the weapon’s cage. Each uniformed officer had a key to the room-sized storage container where shotguns, handguns, bulletproof vests, bullets, and other weaponry were held.
    I didn’t bother knocking on the locker room door before entering; no one should have been getting ready as it was well after my shift had come to an end and second shift was already on the road. A noise that sounded like a heavy sigh, however, alerted me that I wasn’t alone. When I turned a corner, I saw a uniformed officer sitting on a long bench. I recognized him as the new cop from the previous day who hadn’t been able to find a seat during roll call.
    I ignored him at first as I went to the storage area to put my shotgun away. But the longer he sat