Page 1 of Protect My Heart

Chapter 1

Detective Jim Swenson didn’t know which was worse, human nature or Mother Nature. He pulled his collar tight to stop the icy wind from beating on his neck. Cupping his hands, he blew on them, struggling to bring a tiny bit of feeling into his extremities. He scanned the crowd, all huddled in their coats, cell phones in hand.

“Why aren’t these people at home in bed instead of gawking at the body. They couldn’t all need a loaf of bread and cigs from the corner store.” CJ Whittier stepped from the police-issue sedan, strolled up to the scene, and ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. A hand-knit stocking cap covered his closely sheared hair.

“My thoughts exactly.” Jim ran a hand over his dark mop and brushed the accumulating snow free. He turned his face to the sky, then took in the activity on the street before turning to his partner. “I hope the crime scene unit works fast. They’re predicting six inches of the white stuff tonight.”

CJ pulled leather gloves from his coat pockets and slipped them on. “You’d think the gang bangers would have the decency to take the night off for bad weather.”

“Not gonna happen.” Jim had left a warm bed and the hockey game on the TV. The Wild were up by two. He hated nights on call. Glancing down, he took in the body, young and lifeless. Too young. The red stain on the sidewalk quickly disappeared under a blanket of fresh snow. Minnesota winters wreaked havoc with a crime scene.

“I hear we have a witness. Have you talked to him yet?” CJ asked.

“No. Child Services swooped in and claimed we can’t question the boy until his advocate shows up. She’s stuck on 494. A car accident has traffic stopped.” He reached for his inside coat pocket, but his fingers found nothing. The pack of Marlboros hadn’t been there for almost two years, but nights like this he could feel the itch to light up.

“What’s the child doing out this late?”

“The mother works nights. Grandma was supposed to be watching him, but he slipped out. Grandma’s first call was to her daughter. Her second was to this advocate. The boy, Luis Lopez, is home with grandma now. They live upstairs. I put Officer Robbins on guard duty until the child advocate gets here. Tough gig, she’s feeding Jenson cookies and coffee as we speak.”

“In a warm kitchen, no doubt.” CJ’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the text, answered, and shoved the phone in his pocket. “Do we know why the grandma called a child advocate?”

“Not sure. Could be a family friend or one of the shrinks that work at the county. You can ask them when they finally arrive.”

CJ’s phone buzzed again. Signaling his partner he had to take it, he answered and stepped away.

Jim leaned over the boy, no spark of youth in his eyes, just a cold stare. Another of Ashwood’s youth gunned down in senseless violence. He shook his head then stood and surveyed the scene. Officers and crime scene techs flooded the sidewalk.

“Johnson, what do you got?” Jim called to the sergeant talking to the crime scene tech as he pulled a notepad and pen out of his pocket. The pen fell to the snow-covered concrete.

“Shit.” He dug it out and wiped it off on his sleeve. Icy pain cramped his fingers. He really needed to get some gloves––God only knows where he lost the other ones. With some effort, he gripped the thin metal.

“Drive-by.” The sergeant flipped open his notebook and filled him in on the details.

“Any news when we’ll get a tent to preserve the crime scene?”

Johnson grabbed his radio and shot out orders. “…yeah, the tent. Where is it?”

Jim’s gaze cut to the window. He panned through the broken glass, past the red hearts hanging from strings to the convenience store owner. The man waved his hands at the damage, and his lips moved at lightning speed as he gave Officer Harris his statement.

Jim snugged his collar tighter to his neck in a vain attempt to stop the shards of ice and snow from pelting his skin. He hated nights like these, but where else would he be? Being a cop was in his blood. Three generations of Swensons wore the blues.

He made another glance into the shop. Damn, Harris was still getting an earful. He might as well take one for the team. Giving a nod to his partner, who was still on the phone, Jim headed into the line of fire.

“We are closed.” The Middle Eastern man didn’t turn to look at Jim as he spoke. Hell, he barely took a breath as he chewed out poor Harris who was feverishly taking notes.

Jim had seen it before––people concentrate on the least important thing to keep themselves from thinking about the traumatic event right in front of them.

“I’ll take it from here.” Jim’s comment gave the shop owner pause. The break in his verbal assault on the officer granted Harris a narrow window of escape and he took it, flexing his hand as he left.

Hiding a smile, Jim watched him leave. He would track the officer down later for his report, but now Jim wanted to ask his own questions.

He glanced at his notes to find the owner’s name. “Mister Najjar, I’m Detective Swenson. I understand this is all very upsetting to you, but I have a few more questions. The sooner we finish here, the sooner you can start the cleanup and call your insurance agent.”

“Those punks, they shoot up my store. Why they do that? Noah is dead.” He choked on the last word, but slipped back behind his tough facade. “Do you know how hard it is to get good employees? And who will pay for all this?”

“Sir, can you tell me what you saw? Did you see the vehicle?” Jim’s focus was on the man, but his ears picked up footsteps.

CJ stopped at his side and turned his attention to Mister Najjar as well.