Police Officer Kerrie McCord slumped in the shotgun seat of the Ford Interceptor SUV, choking down rancid coffee from her travel mug while Jenna Russert put the finishing touches on her arrest report. In a perfect world she and Jenna would be seated in their usual booth at Bunky's Diner, savoring hot fresh java while awaiting their breakfast order of French toast and hash browns.  Instead they were parked at the far end of the East Division lot, logged Code 7 (out of service) with Dispatch until they completed priority paperwork--and make no mistake, even in the Digital Age it was still paperwork.  
     "Almost done," said Jenna in anticipation of Kerrie's unasked question.  Squinting at the onboard computer screen she resumed typing her narrative.  Dellinger was remanded to custody of Central Lockup personnel at 4:11 AM.  He was uncooperative during the booking process, responding to all questions with the words "Look it up, asshole."  Dellinger finally knocked a clipboard from the hands    of Deputy Delgado while calling him "a goddamned wetback who isn't in this country legally."  At that point jail deputies escorted Dellinger to the Segregation Unit.  Off. McCord and I cleared from Central Lockup at 4:35 AM and returned to East Division to complete reports.

                                                        --Police Officer Jenna L. Russert #4151
                                                          East Division Patrol Services      
      
     "Fini," proclaimed Jenna, clicking the Save icon followed by Upload.
     Kerrie stole a glance at her digital watch.  "More than four hours of our lives we'll never get back," she said gloomily.
     "We put a serious dent in Charles Dellinger's day," Jenna retorted.  "So there's that."
     "Not as big a dent as he put in that minivan."  Kerrie reached for her shoulder mic.  "Twenty after five, you suppose they'll let us go Code Six?"  
     "Dispatch owes us."  As Jenna spoke, she glimpsed a heavyset figure angling across the lot toward their cruiser.  "I think we have company.  Looks like Vukovich."
     "Oh, Christ," sighed Kerrie.  "Could we just drive off and pretend we never saw him?"
     "Have a heart," said Jenna in a mildly reproachful tone.  "He's the oldest cop on the Dog Watch, he has no one to talk with except Phil Garza, and even Phil's young enough to be his son."
     "He has enough seniority to bid for a permanent slot on days.  Coffee up and trade war stories with the rest of the Jurassic Park cops."
     "The man lost his wife last year," Jenna reminded her. 
     "We were both at the visitation, Jen."
     "His kids and grandkids all live out of state.  If you stop to think about it, we're the only family he has left."  Jen lowered her window just as Vukovich lumbered up to the car.
     "I hear you ladies landed a big fish," he said cheerily.  "Charles Dellinger, Attorney at Law."
     "More like Asshole at Large," growled Kerrie.
     "Smoked a red light at Pershing Boulevard and Ontario Street," Jenna said.  "T-boned a Honda Odyssey with a couple from Overton Park and their three children inside.  That's five felony counts       of Injury by Intoxicated Use right there."  
     "Is it true he had a woman in the BMW with him?"
     Kerrie smiled.  "That's what the Uber driver who witnessed the crash told us.  She bailed and was last seen headed east on Pershing in her bare feet.  Dellinger refused to identify her for us.  Probably some skank."  
     "Yeh, guy with his bankroll he's for sure got some side action goin.'  Every so often I hear stories he's involved with some real skeevy stuff, underage girls like that Epstein pervert out East.  He's also into tying up women against their will."
     "Non-consensual bondage has to constitute a felony," Jenna said indignantly.  "It's deviate sexual conduct.  How does he get away with that shit?"
     "He has money to buy the victim's silence, in some cases get her to leave town, and influence to shield himself from prosecution.  Golfs with the mayor, plays handball twice a week with the DA and chief judge.  Welcome to reality, girls.  Listen, you all done with your reports?"      
     "We are," Jenna said.
     "Meet me at Bunky's in fifteen.  I'm buyin' you gals breakfast for a job well done."
     Both policewomen were taken aback.  "We couldn't possibly--" Kerrie began.
     "Of course you could.  But I'll warn you now, just because I'm pickin' up the check doesn't mean breakfast is free.  You gotta sit through a lecture from an old street cop."  Vukovich slapped the side    of the black and white SUV.  "So, whaddya say?  Is it a date?"  


Vukovich speared a sausage link with his fork, waving it at Kerrie and Jenna as they tucked into their hash browns.  "You may have won the battle but the war is just beginning," he stated.  "I've tangled with Dellinger before, so have a lot of cops on this department, and I'm warning you now the man is    a snake.  He will do whatever he believes necessary to discredit the two of you before this case ever goes to trial."
     "Every minute--no, every second--of the four hours and change we spent with him is on video," said Kerrie.  She tapped the body-worn camera attached to her uniform shirt.  "Jen and I behaved     like professionals the entire time."
     "What I meant is, he's gonna dig around in your backgrounds for whatever dirt he can find.  He    has private investigators, some of 'em ex-cops I'm sorry to say, on retainer.  I know how much you Millenials like your social media, Instagram and all that shit, but if either one of you has something    on your Facebook pages you wouldn't want your grandmothers to see, take it down right away."    
     "Nothing on my Facebook page except puppy videos," Jenna said.
     Vukovich waited for Marci the waitress to refill his coffee cup before continuing.  "Another thing, you got any ex-boyfriends out there, especially an ex with a grudge, you can make book Dellinger's snoops will look them up."
     "My ex is now a Marine second lieutenant stationed in Kandahar Province, Afghanistan, so good luck with that," Kerrie said.
     "Tim and I broke up last year," added Jenna, "but it was a mutal decision, no hard feelings.  He isn't the sort to badmouth me."
     "Call him up anyway, warn him to keep his trap shut if anyone comes around asking questions about you.  Anything in your past that casts doubt on your integrity, they will rake it up and use it against you, count on it."   
     "You make it sound like we're the ones on trial," Kerrie said bitterly.
     "Classic O.J. defense, distract the jury from the facts by raising doubts about the truthfulness of the arresting officers."  Vukovich shook his head.  "Hard to believe you gals were in preschool when Johnnie Cochran got the Juice off.  May they both fry in Hell." 
     Despite the dire predictions of Vukovich, nothing untoward occurred in the immediate aftermath    of Dellinger's arrest.  Kerrie and Jenna learned through a contact in the district attorney's office that Dellinger had asked the judge to dismiss all charge at his preliminary hearing, claiming "the officers   falsified their written reports as part of a vendetta orchestrated by higher-ups on the police force."  Judge Loniello admonished him for his theatrics from the bench but agreed to fast-track a trial date.  Working the streets of Sector Charlie night after night, dealing with drunks, domestic abusers and psychiatric outpatients off their meds, Jenna Russert and Kerrie McCord soon forgot entirely about Charles Dellinger.  Unfortunately for the two young policewomen he had not forgotten about them.   


Jenna Russert's internal debate--pancakes vs. Belgian waffles for breakfast, now less than an hour away--was interrupted by a Call Pending tone from the onboard computer.  Reluctantly putting all thought of breakfast on hold, Jenna tapped the Receive key to bring up a Call Type 31, Suspicious Activity, location 700 block of West Monroe Street.  She scrolled through the dispatcher's notes: a   GMC van, plate number unknown, idling in the alley between Taggart Electric Supply and Levitsky Furriers.  No information though on the reporting party's identity or where they were calling from.  Jenna keyed her radio mic while Kerrie turned north on Fillmore toward Monroe.
     "Charlie Four-oh-Three, reference our call on Monroe, can you advise who the caller is?" Jenna asked the dispatcher.
     "Stand by one, let me check with the calltaker...Four-oh-three, reporting party is the owner of Taggart Electric."
     Kerrie frowned.  "Four in the morning, what's he doing in the office this early?"
     "Good question," Jenna said.  She keyed her mic again.  "To clarify, is the RP on location?"
     "Unknown.  I'll see what my calltaker has to say."
     "This is all basic shit," Kerrie complained.  "We shouldn't have to waste air time asking for it."
     "Must have someone new working the phones tonight," Jenna said charitably.
     "Four-oh-three, thank you for your patience," the dispatcher said.  "RP is not on scene.  States he's at home monitoring his security cameras on the Internet.  We are still on the phone with him.  He does not observe anyone in or around the van.  He'd liked it checked out though."
     Jenna conceded it was a reasonable request in light of several recent commercial burglaries in the Monroe Street corridor.  "Copy that," she said.  "Show us en route." 
     They arrived four minutes later to find the suspicious van still parked in the alleyway facing the street, motor running but lights off.  Kerrie and Jenna exited the cruiser, activating their body cams    per policy, and approached the van with handguns drawn.  Jenna fanned her flashlight beam across the front bumper.  No license plate.
     "Officers, it's all good," called a male voice from the gloom of the alley.  A man in a long-sleeved denim shirt and khaki Dockers emerged clutching a clipboard in both hands.  He was in his early to mid-thirties, crookedly handsome features framed by a full, precisely trimmed beard. Both officers relaxed--most burglars did not carry clipboards--but nonetheless remained on alert.  Neither chose    to holster her .40 Glock duty weapon. 
    "Keep your hands where we can see them," Kerrie ordered.
    "Of course."  The man flashed an embarrassed smile.  "Sorry, I should have called in sooner.  I forgot Jeff Taggart installed those security cameras next door.  I'm Joe Schubert, by the way, with Levitsky Furriers."
     "We'll need to see some ID," Jenna said.
     "Naturally.  My billfold's in my jacket if you care to step inside with me."
     "Mr. Schubert, what are you doing here at oh-dark-hundred?" Kerrie asked.
     "Our alarm service woke me up at home.  They detected a problem with the cold-storage vault where we keep furs in the warm-weather months.  I got down here and sure enough, the AC is off.     It better not be the goddamn compressor again; we had it replaced less than a year ago.  Soon as    my cousin gets here with a second van we'll start transferring the furs to our suburban location."
     "Without security?"
     "Oh, I brought security.  Follow me and I'll introduce you.  Could I ask you to put the hardware away?  Guns make me nervous."
     "Let me update our dispatcher first," Jenna said.  She keyed her shoulder mic.  "Four-oh-Three, we're on scene and in contact with an employee from Levitsky Furs.  Disregard backup."
     "Ten-four," acknowledged Dispatch.
     "Come this way, ladies," Schubert said.  He cast a grin over his shoulder.  "Am I allowed to call    you 'ladies' on duty?"
     "It's nicer than what the street mopes call us," said Kerrie.  She wondered idly if he was flirting with her, or Jenna, or possibly both.  He wasn't bad-looking, she reflected, and if he was related to Nathan Levitsky of Levitsky Furs he had money.  How would her parents react if she brought home       a Jewish boyfriend?
     Sidearms now secured Jenna and Kerrie trailed Schubert down the alley toward the side door of    the business.  No sooner had they rounded the rear end of the van than the double doors opened to reveal a trio of men in black jackets and jeans, all wearing fright masks, all armed with semi-auto rifles.
     "What the fuck?" hissed Kerrie.  The oiled sound of a rifle bolt locking back dissuaded her and Jenna from reaching for their Glocks.  Too late they understood they'd been lured into a trap by a bogus 911 call. 
     "On your knees," barked Schubert, no smiles now.  "Don't try any cute shit like triggering your radio alarms.  My associates are all zeroed in on your heads, meaning your body armor is useless.  You're worth more to us alive than dead, but we get paid either way."   
     "This is all on video, shithead," Jenna warned him--a calculated bluff, best she could do while struggling to keep suffocating fear at bay.
      "Nice try," Schubert said dryly.  "The footage from your body cams isn't uploaded to the server until you end your shift, we both know that.  Ergo, it does you absolutely no good.  Enough bullshit.     I said down on your knees, bitches.  Clasp hands behind your heads.  Do it now."
     Jenna and Kerrie weighed their non-existent options and obeyed, not without venomous glares.  One accomplice held them at gunpoint while his masked cohort relieved the hapless pair of service weapons, concealed backup pieces and radios; the third gunman tore the body cameras from their uniform shirts and smashed them with his rifle butt.  Lastly, the ringleader cinched their wrists and elbows together behind their backs using police-issue flexcuffs.
     "A stopgap," explained Schuster--assuming that was his real name.  "The client likes his women    in good old-fashioned rope bondage.  We'll attend to that en route to the exchange site."
     "Any harm comes to us, you're all dead men walking," Officer Kerrie McCord said tonelessly.  "Every cop in five states will come after you.  They'll kill you and piss on your graves afterward."
     "First they have to catch us."  Schuster produced a matching set of ventilated silicon ball gags.     "I believe we've heard enough out of you for now."
     "Asshole, don't you dare put that fucking thing in my--GRRRNGH!"  Schuster tamped the gag    between Kerrie's teeth, sweeping her auburn tresses aside to buckle it in place at the nape of her neck.  Within moments Jenna too was muzzled.     
     "Charlie Four-oh-three, welfare check," said the dispatcher's voice over the discarded radios.
     "HLLMPH!" Jenna and Kerrie whimpered through their gags, as though they had a chance in Hell    of Dispatch hearing them.
     "Load these brainless cunts in the van," Schuster instructed his trio of henchmen.  "I want them both stripped down and tied up before we reach the exchange site."  He paused to smile malignly at the policewomen kneeling before him disarmed, bound and gagged, abjectly helpless.  "Mr. Dellinger reserves the right to inspect the merchandise before taking delivery."  

This is the second installment in my Damsels of August series.  Artwork by Daniel of