Author: Mojave Dragonfly PM
[Nick of Time] The cops arrive at the Bonaventure Hotel to catch the Governor's would-be assassin. Now complete.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Chapters: 12 - Words: 14,623 - Reviews: 57 - Favs: 3 - Updated: 02-09-05 - Published: 10-24-04 - Status: Complete - id: 2107488
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
As often happens to me, I don't know where this is going; I just want to see how it turns out.
MAJOR SPOILERS for the movie "Nick of Time." I'm serious. If you haven't seen the movie, I don't want you reading this, because it's a very enjoyable suspense movie, IMO, and this will completely ruin the suspense for you.
Disclaimers: I do not own the rights to anything having to do with the movie Nick of Time, and I hope this isn't offensive to anyone who does own those rights.
There is a final scene in some broadcasts of Nick of Time where the major players say good-bye and thank you to each other and Gene and Lynn walk off into the sunset (so to speak). My DVD doesn't have that scene, and this fanfic picks up at the end of the movie without that scene.
I'd rate this PG for some language.
Mike and I were at Magee's Donuts when we got the call. Shots fired, Westin Bonaventure Hotel, all available units respond. Mike's eyes got big over his jelly-filled, so I responded to the call, digging out money to pay the tab. It's true, you know, what they say about cops and donuts. Mike likes chocolate, sprinkles, jelly-filled - actually Mike likes just about any donuts. Me, I'm an original glazed girl, but they go straight to my hips, so most of the time I just drink the coffee and wish that cops were famous for hanging out at Starbucks.
"Bonaventure Hotel," I said as we scrambled away from the table, the morning's briefings clicking into my head. "That's the Governor."
"Shit," said my ever-eloquent partner.
What he meant to say, of course, was "Shit, if every unit in central L.A. is responding, then it's not just shots fired and a perp on the run. It's going to be dangerous confusion as a bunch of cops, hotel security, and possibly gubernatorial bodyguards pour into the hotel, bouncing off each other like the original keystones." That's what he meant to say, but I knew that.
We were quiet beneath our siren as I raced the maze that is the jewelry and hotel district, listening for updates. Shots fired in the ballroom, possible assassination attempt, suspect believed to be still in the hotel. Description: white male, thirty, average height, brown hair, wearing a gray suit.
"Shit," I said. What I meant to say, of course, was "Shit, that's a business convention hotel, there must be hundreds of people fitting that description. Also, there must have been a bunch of trigger-happy security trying to bring the bastard down, so God knows how many shots we'll have to trace and morons we'll have to calm down. High likelihood of injured, too. The Governor may be shot, and won't that make for an interesting day."
I whipped the patrol car into the unloading-only area outside reception, studying everything I saw. A gray van squatted directly in front of the doors, its back cargo doors open, and - and this is the kind of thing that's out of place and tells you all is not well - a large teddy bear on the ground behind it. Of course it doesn't take a detective to know all is not well when you spot two crumpled bodies, one on either side of the van.
"Shit," said Mike as I squealed rubber to a halt.
I called for medical to the front of the hotel as Mike rolled out his door, weapon drawn. He approached the body on the side of the van closer to the hotel, barking orders at a startled-looking elderly couple with bags that stood pressed against the wall. They scooted back inside.
I checked out the other body. As I approached her - for it was a woman - I watched the heavy-set black man seated just beyond her on the small concrete median separating the hotel unloading zone from the traffic on Figueroa St. He had one pant leg rolled up, and struggled to attach a wooden prosthetic to just below his knee. He gave me a tired smile. "Officer," he said, with a nod.
He looked like a witness, to me, so I didn't order him to clear out. Besides, he wasn't very mobile, yet. The woman - I recognized her! Lenore Jones, from the 21st!
"Officer down!" yelled Mike from the other side of the van, and for a moment I wondered how he knew. Then I smartened up.
"Two officers down!" I yelled back at him, fumbling for my radio. "Is it Smitty?" I'd heard of these partners even though they weren't in my precinct. Smith and Jones. Like we were Pat and Mike.
"Yeah," Mike replied. "He's been shot."
I could tell from Mike's tone that there was no point in rushing Officer Smith to the hospital. I bit back another "shit" before I called in the update. In the hearing of civilians, we're supposed to be professional, but the adrenaline already coursing through me had a sudden sharp feel to it. A cop was dead. On this lovely crisp fall morning as I was sipping coffee at Magee's, a cop was killed. A cop like me.
What about Lenore? I checked her as I'd been trained, moving her as little as possible. She was alive, but unconscious. "Who shot her?" I demanded of the black man.
"Nobody shot her," he replied calmly. "I clobbered her with my wooden leg."
I stared at him. He was middle-aged and mostly bald, wearing one of those utility-type vests they sell for people who imagine they might go on safari. He looked familiar.
"To keep her from shooting the little girl," he added. "And me."
Oh, this was going to be an interesting day.