Killing Red by Henry Perez Read Free Book Online Page B

few months. Chapa’s tense relationship with the local police dated back to his coverage of the Grubb case, and had just grown worse over time. He watched the cop get out of the cruiser, and shook his head when he recognized him.
    Chapa rolled the window down.
    “License and registration, Mr. Chapa.”
    “What’s the matter, Tate, you get all worn out from not catching the bangers who pulled off that carjacking a couple weeks back?”
    “Don’t need a conversation.”
    “Then why are we having one at all?”
    Streaks of gray were shuffled in with the cop’s naturally auburn hair. They weren’t there the first time Chapa had tangled with him. Or the second. Neither was the solid beer gut that was beginning to encroach on Tate’s waistline.
    “Maybe I’m cleaning up the streets of my town by dealing with a low-rent, shithole, waste-of-space journalist like yourself.”
    “See, that’s probably why we never got along. You don’t understand that part of my job is to protect the rest of us from abuse by anyone in a position of power.” Chapa leaned out the window and lowered his voice, like he was about to share something special with the officer. “Actually, Dan, it’s the part of my job I like best.”
    Tate shrugged.
    “So why was I pulled over? Think fast.”
    Tate pointed to the duct taped side-view mirror. “You have a broken piece of safety equipment, and if it should fall off it could present a hazard to other motorists. Now, I’m not asking you again.”
    Chapa turned over his license and proof of ownership, and Tate walked back to his squad car. He returned ten minutes later with a pink slip of paper in his hand.
    “You understand I could let you off with a warning, but this time I just went ahead and wrote you a ticket. Sign here.”
    Chapa scribbled something approximating a signature, then Tate tossed a pink slip of paper into Chapa’s car.
    “Not that it matters, officer, but that mirror isn’t going to fall off anytime soon.”
    Without taking his eyes off Chapa, Tate raised his left arm, his hand forming a fist, like he was going to punch himself. Then Tate slammed his left elbow down on the mirror. The duct tape put up little resistance. A piece of Chapa’s car was now dangling by a cable, and his ability to mask his anger was quickly waning.
    “Like I said, you gotta get that thing fixed.”
    Chapa knew the smart move was to say nothing and just drive away. Go to the first place he found and have a new mirror installed. Quiet. Uneventful. Smart. He knew that was the thing to do, even gave it a moment’s consideration.
    And instead, he went with, “Is that what the doctor said to your mother on the day you were born?”
    Tate’s forehead turned nearly as red as the hairs that lined it. He took a step back and unsnapped his holster.
    “Step out of the vehicle, now!”
    Chapa undid his seat belt, pausing a moment to show Tate that it had been buckled, then slowly got out of his car. As soon as he emerged from the vehicle, Tate rushed him, and in one well-trained move spun Chapa around and pressed his chest against the side of the Corolla. Before Chapa could make a sound, Tate grabbed the reporter’s left arm and yanked it up until his wrist was just below his shoulder blades.
    Pain raced across Chapa’s back, shoulders, and up into his neck. Even more when Tate let his considerable weight push in against him. But except for an involuntary grunt, there was no way he was going to let Tate know how much this hurt.
    “When I saw your shitty little car, I thought, oh happy day.”
    “Didn’t know you cared so much, Dan,” Chapa said through teeth that were grinding with every breath.
    Tate pressed even harder, jamming Chapa’s left shoulder into the metal frame of the rear driver’s side window.
    “That’s Officer Tate , asshole.”
    His breath smelled like Doritos. That, combined with the pain, was starting to have an effect on Chapa’s stomach.
    “Maybe it’s just me, but