Book 2: Chapter 5: Delilah Favored Roses (1/2)
The home seemed much the same as any other. Green grass and flower beds, a couple of tall pine trees, and some decorative columns separating the roof and the ground. The door was painted a bright, cheerful red. The bricks making up the outer walls were the color of baked clay, a dull red and burnt orange. It was a one story slice of suburbia.
Connor pulled his cruiser up against the curb and double-checked the address. He kept his foot on the brake, the car idling softly while he compared the numbers on his screen to the ones stenciled on the concrete next to the sidewalk.
”This should be the place,” he declared with slight befuddlement. It was his first domestic disturbance call. He'd half expected the front yard to be on fire. Maybe an angry woman in a nightdress waving a cleaver, or a naked man with a broken beer bottle shouting obscenities. This seemed so... normal.
Freya consulted the GPS with a furrowed brow, then nodded.
”Guess so.” A pause, as she cocked her head. ”Do you hear that?”
”Hear what?” Connor couldn't hear much of anything. The cruiser was almost entirely soundproof. It wasn't an intended design feature, so much as a consequence of its air-tight security features. With the press of a button, the entire car would be isolated completely. It was a useful option, as aerosolized attacks weren't uncommon.
Freya quickly reached down and unlatched the door. It opened a crack, the brisk winter air rushed in, and with it, noise. Loud shouting split the scenery. A woman's enraged shouting, and the hoarse bellowing of a man. Both were so loud that they rattled the hinges of the front door. Something brittle broke in the distance, and Freya was up and out of her seat before the sound finished echoing. Connor slammed the cruiser into park, leapt out of his seat, and followed.
Freya's long strides ate up the distance between the street and the door. She moved purposefully, keeping her face locked in a stoic, professional mien, but Connor could read the slight hints of concern etched in the lines of her face. He hustled behind her, one hand straightening his shiny new badge, and the other drifting towards his service weapon. He let it rest there, pressing against the rubber grip and leather holster, as Freya knocked twice on the front door.
”APD!” she barked. ”Is everything alright in there?”
The sharp question quickly silenced all sounds of argument within. Connor heard pounding feet, and the lock clicking, then the door eased open. The chain lock was still attached, allowing only the slightest hint of the inside to be seen. A pair of suspicious eyes peered out at them from a man's face. He was short and thin, with a scraggly moustache and thick glasses. His curly brown hair was a mess, tousled like he'd been rubbing it with his hands. The man had a prominent mole next to his chin.
”APD?” he questioned warily. His eyes found their badges, and narrowed. He scanned over the badge numbers, eyes flicking between faces and clothing. Finally, he seemed satisfied. His body relaxed, and came to attention. ”Good afternoon, officers. How can I help you?”
Freya cocked an imperious eyebrow at him. ”Are you Mr...” She checked her pad. ”Webb? James Webb?”
”That's me,” he confirmed with a nod.
Somewhere just behind him, a woman yelled, ”Damn right that's you! That's him, officers! That's the bastard right there!”
A woman's hand appeared between the man and the door, its pink nail polish chipped and faded. The hand scrabbled at something just above the man's ear, and he pulled away with a surprised yelp. The door slammed shut, and for a moment Connor could only blankly stare.
He turned to his partner.
”You think we should...?” He gestured helplessly towards the home. Kicking in the door seemed a bit extreme here. The woman sounded angry, but not distressed. Nevertheless, it was better to check with Freya, whose upgrade allowed her a near perfect grasp on people's tone.
Freya held up a single finger. Something scraped against metal behind the door—a chain being unlatched—and it opened wide. James Webb stood in his small foyer, cast slightly in shadow by dim lights. There was a grotesque expression on his face, the only part illuminated, a mix of shame, irritation, and anger. In front of him, a woman that Connor could only presume was the man's wife.
”Mrs. Lois Webb?” he asked, just to confirm.
The woman nodded, her face fixed in a scowl, though not directed at the two officers. She had Hispanic features, with brunette hair and darker skin. The woman was attractive, if rather tiny. The top of her head barely reached Connor's sternum, even with the help of her rather poofy hair. If she was over five feet tall, he'd eat a tire.