Page 54 of Man Cuffed
“Are we all going together?” I ask, trying not to let my disappointment show. I want to sit up front with Mac and watch him work.
“Yes and no,” Mac says. “Lance will be driving another cruiser, and a trainee will ride shotgun with him.”
“Oh. Good.” I brighten up immediately. “I brought enough moanies for all of us.”
“Moanies?” Lance asks. “Is that, like, food that makes you moan? I like it already.”
“Yep. And moanloudly,” I say. “They’re right up Mac’s alley. Did you know our apartment building has really thin walls?”
Lance practically keels over laughing, while Mac scowls. “Are we gonna stand around here all night or what?”
“Let’s do this.” I clap my hands. “Lead on, Coppers.”
* * *
“This only worksif you stay in the car,” Mac says as we approach the cruiser. “I can’t do my job and worry about you at the same time.”
“Can I roll the window down?” I ask. “I need to hear you.”
“Sure. Fine. So long as your butt is in that seat, it’s all good.”
“Fair enough.” I watch him check the tires on the cruiser, then open the driver’s side door. His posture is straight and forthright, and I feel my spine lengthening already. This is why research is so helpful with acting. When you see someone who lives it, it’s easier to step into their shoes. Metaphorically, of course.
I climb into the passenger’s seat, and a few minutes later we’re cruising the southeast side of the city, listening to the radio. It’s all gibberish to me—numbered codes passed from cop to cop.
Mac picks up the radio transmitter while we’re stopped at a red light. He barks something like “This is 23. I’m 10-8,” into it.
“What’s 10-8?” I ask.
“In service. Available for assignment.”
I scribble that down. “Okay, what other codes am I going to hear?
“Oh, some 10-28s.”
“What’s that?”
“A vehicle registration request. It’s not all action, Meg. A lot of police work is deterrence. Cruising around, making your presence known. Without serious action.”
“Just like my sex life,” I point out.
He snorts. “When I work a daytime shift, there’s more detective work. I’m often following up on investigations in progress. But this graveyard shift is all about helping people in trouble, and spotting drunks behind the wheel.”
I’m still asking questions a few minutes later when the radio squawks with: “Available units south for a 10-31.” Or something like that.
I notice Maguire’s body language shift slightly. He’s more alert. More engaged. Like something in him is cocked and ready.
“Unit 23,” Maguire barks. And then they have a rapidfire back and forth that ends with Maguire stepping on the gas.
“What’s a 10-31?” I ask as we accelerate.
“Possible breaking and entering in progress.” He turns a corner quickly, handling the car like a speedway driver.
My heart rate kicks up as I experience an adrenaline surge. “This is so exciting!”
Maguire glances my way for a split second. “You’re staying in the car.”
“I won’t forget.” And I won’t. You may notice that my response is notquitethe same thing as saying I’ll obey him.
