front of the Bismarck house, they weren’t alone. And the men belonging to a trio of motorcycles and a beat-up van didn’t look like curiosity seekers who’d gathered to see what all the shouting coming from inside the bungalow was about.
Derek turned off the engine and swore. “How many thugs does it take to terrorize one woman? I hope Vicki’s okay. Should I call for reinforcements?”
“Not yet.” Gina tracked the men as they put out cigarettes and split up to block the end of the driveway and the sidewalk leading to the front door. Middle-aged. A couple with potbellies. One had prison tats on his neck. Another took a leisurely drink from a flask before tucking it inside the sheepskin-lined jacket he wore. Their bikes were in better shape than they were. But any one of them could be armed. And she could guess that the guy with the flask wasn’t the only one who’d been drinking. Judging by what she’d read on the cruiser’s computer screen, these were friends, if not former cell mates, of Gordon Bismarck’s. Gina’s blood boiled in her veins at the lopsided odds. She reached for the door handle. “But keep your radio at the ready.”
Gina pushed open the cruiser door and climbed out. “Gentlemen.” She rested her hand on the butt of her holstered Glock. “I need you to disperse.”
“You need us, querida?” Flask Man’s leer and air kisses weren’t even close to intimidating, and she certainly wasn’t his darling anything.
Derek circled the cruiser, positioning himself closer to the two in the driveway while she faced off against the two on the sidewalk. “In case you don’t understand the big word, you need to get on your bikes and ride away.”
“We gave Gordy a ride home,” Potbelly #1 said, thumbing over his shoulder just as something made of glass shattered inside the house.
A woman’s voice cried out, “Gordon, stop it!”
“I paid for this damn house. And I’ll—”
Gina needed to get inside to help Vicki Bismarck. But she wasn’t going to leave these four aging gangbangers out here where they could surround the house or lie in wait for her and Derek to come back outside. “We’re not interested in you boys today,” she articulated in a sharp, authoritative tone. “But if you make me check the registrations on your bikes or van, or I get close enough to think any of you need a Breathalyzer test, then it will be about you.”
Prison Tat Guy was the first to head toward his bike. “Hey, I can’t have my parole officer gettin’ wind of this.”
Potbelly #2 quickly followed suit. “I’m out of here, man. Gordy doesn’t need us to handle Vic. My old lady’s already ticked that I stayed out all night.”
Potbelly #1 clomped the snow off his boots before climbing inside the van. But he sat with the door open, looking toward the man with the flask. “What do you want me to do, Denny? I told Gordy I’d give him a ride back to his place.”
Flask Man’s watery brown eyes never left Gina’s. “We ain’t doin’ nothing illegal here, querida. We’re just a bunch of pals hangin’ out at a friend’s place.”
“It’s Officer Galvan to you.” She had to bite down on the urge to tell him in two languages exactly what kind of man he was. But she wasn’t about to give this patronizing lowlife the satisfaction of losing her temper. She was a cop. Proud of it. And this guy was about to get a lesson in understanding exactly who was in charge here. “Mr. Bismarck isn’t going to need a ride.” Potbelly #1 slammed his door and started the van’s engine. Gina smiled at Flask Man and pulled out her handcuffs. “Denny, is it? I’ve got plenty of room in the backseat for both you and good ol’ Gordy.” She moved toward him, dangling the cuffs in a taunt to emphasize her words. “How do impeding an officer in the performance of her duty, aiding and abetting a known criminal, public intoxication and operating a vehicle under the influence sound to you?”
“You can’t arrest me for all that.”
“I wouldn’t test that theory if I were you.” Derek stepped out of the way of the van as it backed out of the driveway and sped after the two men on motorcycles. “Not with her.”
Gina was close enough to see Flask Man’s nostrils flaring with rage. “Handcuffs or goodbye?”
“I don’t like a woman telling me what to do,” he muttered, striding toward his bike. “Especially one like you.” Once he was astraddle, he revved the engine, yelling something at Derek that sounded a lot like a warning to keep his woman in check. The roar of the bike’s motor drowned out his last parting threat as he raced down the street, but Gina was pretty sure it had something to do with her parentage and how their next meeting would have a very different ending.
“Make sure they stay gone,” Gina said, hooking her cuffs back onto her belt and running to the front door. She opened the glass storm door and knocked against the inside door. “KCPD!” she announced. The woman screamed, and the man yelled all kinds of vile curses. “Vicki Bismarck, are you all right? This is the police, answering a call to this address. I’m coming inside.”
Twenty minutes later, Gina and Derek had Gordon Bismarck and his former wife, Vicki, separated into two rooms of their tiny, trashed home. Gina had bagged the box cutter Gordon had dropped when she’d pulled her gun and blinked her watery eyes at the stench of alcohol, vomit and sweat coming off Gordon’s body. Either Gordy and his buddies had been beefing up their courage for this confrontation or they’d partied hard and gotten stupid enough to think violating a restraining order was a good idea.
Although the slurred epithets were still flying from the living room where Derek had taken Gordon to put a winter coat on over his undershirt, and Vicki was bawling in the kitchen while Gina tried to assess the woman’s injuries, Gina was already wrapping up this case in her head. Even if Vicki refused to press charges, she could book Gordon on breaking and entering, violating his restraining order and public intoxication—all of which should keep him out of Vicki’s life long enough for her to get the help she needed. If she’d ask for it. Clearly, this wasn’t the Bismarcks’ first rodeo with KCPD. That probably explained why Gordon had brought his friends.
Although she hadn’t noted any stab wounds on Vicki, the woman was cradling her left arm as if it had been yanked or twisted hard enough to do some internal damage. Gina glanced around at the slashed curtains and overturned chairs in the kitchen, her gaze landing on the shattered cell phone in the corner that had been crushed beneath a boot or hurled across the room. Clearly, there’d been a substantial altercation here.
Gina righted one of the chairs and urged the skinny woman to sit. “Will you let me look at that arm?” Gina asked, tearing off a fresh paper towel for the woman to dab at her tears. When Vicki nodded, Gina knelt beside her. Bruise marks that fit the span of a man’s hand were already turning purple around her elbow. But there didn’t seem to be any apparent deformity suggesting a broken bone. Didn’t mean it hadn’t been twisted savagely, spraining muscles and tendons. Gina pushed to her feet and headed toward the refrigerator-freezer. “An ice pack should help with the swelling.”
She heard a crash from the living room and spun around as Derek cursed. “Gina—heads up!”
“Are you turnin’ me in, you bitch? My boys are gonna kill you!”
“Gordy!” Vicki screamed as Gordon charged into the kitchen.
Gina
