Arrest

Blazing sunlight poured down from above.

Five police cars halted in front of the Colorful Bar, and several officers split into two teams:

Fully armed, Carl led two officers and Bud Burton through the bar’s main entrance.

Holden and another officer took up positions at the front and rear exits to prevent the suspect’s escape.

Dean followed Thomas in through the back door, but upon seeing the formation, he asked, “Don’t we need a warrant to make an arrest inside the bar?”

Thomas shook his head and explained in a low voice, “Under the latest law this year, you only need a warrant to arrest someone in their home. For workplaces or any other locations, you don’t. In fact, as soon as the suspect steps out of their house, you can arrest them without one.”

“And since this case involves a fatality, it’s a major crime—no need for eyewitnesses, either.”

Dean nodded, turning his gaze to the bar’s back door. Out of habit, he scanned the area with a god’s-eye view, ensuring there was no danger before pushing open the green iron door and slipping into the narrow emergency corridor.

The corridor was deserted and dimly lit. Against the wall stood a vending machine. Dean glanced at it; aside from various drinks, it held an array of brightly colored, differently sized “little umbrellas.”

The two moved quietly past the open kitchen, the emergency exit, and the vending machine, circling around before pushing open the door to the main hall.

The bar’s layout was even darker than the Balka Disco Dean had once visited, divided into a drinking area and a dance floor.

A bar stretching over twenty meters and rows of wall-hugging tables left only a narrow passage between them.

Dean imagined that if the place were packed at night, anyone passing through the corridor would surely brush back-to-back with patrons perched on the high stools at the bar.

“A clever setup,” he thought.

But it was only eight or nine in the morning—the bar’s busiest time was midnight. Now it was empty, without a single customer.

A portly Mexican cleaning lady, dressed in work clothes, was wiping down tables in the drinking area, flipping chairs upside down onto the tables as she went.

Behind the bar lined with liquor cabinets stood a burly figure in a black leather jacket. Her profile was striking—the hard lines of her face softened only by hints of feminine delicacy in her eyes and cheekbones.

She was nearly six-foot-three, well over two hundred pounds by the look of her, perfectly matching the suspect’s description.

She was polishing glasses with a white cloth, her bare, gleaming arms rippling with muscles that moved like fish swimming beneath the skin.

Indeed, thought Dean, excessive fitness erases the line between masculine and feminine.

He followed the woman’s gaze to a television hanging from the ceiling directly in front of her. On screen, reporter Catherine Medici—wearing a deep V-neck black dress that seemed designed to ensure the wealthy viewers missed nothing—announced in a sweet voice:

“Breaking news: Around nine o’clock last night, a homicide occurred on West Ninth Street. According to sources, the victim was a teacher at Liz Special Needs School…”

At that moment, several officers surged into the main hall from the front entrance.

At the head, Carl swept his eyes over the room, instantly spotting the striking, leather-clad, muscular woman at the bar. Beside him, Bud nodded in confirmation, his expression complicated.

“Rosie Tawney, I’m Detective Carl Land of the LVPD. You are a suspect in last night’s homicide. Please come with us to the station for questioning.”

Carl called out loudly as he advanced with his team toward the bartender.

The bartender had no intention of surrendering. Sensing trouble, she pushed off the bar with her left hand, swung a muscular leg over, and vaulted into the aisle, charging toward the back of the bar with the force of a tank.

She ran straight into Thomas, who was closing in from the rear.

“LVPD—freeze!” he shouted.

But the woman ignored the warning, grabbing several chairs and hurling them at Thomas in quick succession. The veins bulged on her massive hands as she swung them back, tossing a charging officer to the ground. Seizing the opportunity, she leaped across the tables in a blur, bolting for the back exit.

But less than five meters from escape, she was blocked by a figure spinning a baton.

The person barring her way was neither tall nor burly, his expression calm, as though strolling through a garden path.

“Get out of my way, bastard!” she snarled, charging forward with a menacing scowl.

But suddenly, her foot slipped inexplicably, throwing her off balance.

Crack!

The baton struck from an impossible angle, catching her on the side of the face and ear, sending a deafening hum through her mind.

With a roar, she thrust her iron-like arms forward as if to topple a wall, but hit nothing but air.

That shadow darted behind her.

A left elbow drove into her back, and the baton in the right hand came crashing down on her neck and shoulder, again and again.

Thud, thud, thud!

The sickening sound of the baton meeting flesh echoed as it rained down with a relentless fury, leaving blurred afterimages.

Clutching her head, the woman wailed in agony, her powerful body sinking inch by inch as if hammered into the ground.

When her face finally met the floor, Dean twisted her wrists behind her back and nodded to the approaching officers.

In the system display, the investigation progress quietly ticked up to ninety-five percent.

“Well done, kid!” Thomas gave Dean a thumbs-up as Carl and the others secured the muscular woman and hauled her up.

Red marks covered the back of her neck—she’d barely avoided being beaten unconscious.

“Rosie Tawney, you are suspected in last night’s West Ninth Street homicide. You’re coming with us to the LVPD for questioning,” Carl repeated, his tone righteous.

But the muscle-bound woman only maintained a blank expression, silent as she was led toward the front entrance. Her swollen eyes scanned the officers until they landed on a familiar face lurking behind the others. Her lips moved.

“Bud…”

In that instant, her hardened expression melted like steel in a forge, and the tenderness in her gaze clashed starkly with her rugged exterior.

But Bud, red-eyed, simply met her look from within the ranks of police.

No accusations, no curses, no rage.

In their silent exchange, a thousand words passed unsaid.

Bud watched as she was led away.

…

“You holding up, man?” Dean glanced at him. “After this case, you should probably talk to a therapist.”

“Yeah. Thanks for caring.”

…

The suspect was locked in the back of a patrol car.

Holden waved Dean over, inviting him into his own vehicle. As they drove back, Holden had Dean recount everything that happened in the bar.

“What’s next for Rosie?” Dean asked.

“Don’t worry. We’ve got solid evidence—she won’t get away,” Holden replied confidently.

Hearing this, Dean finally relaxed. The investigation would soon reach one hundred percent.

Holden grinned. “From last night to this morning, in under a day, we caught the killer and closed a high-profile murder case. It’s the fastest the LVPD has solved a case in the last six months.”

“This is a success worth boasting about. I expect the department will hold a press conference as early as tomorrow, patting themselves on the back.”

Dean fell silent.

“You were impressive—handled the arrest with restraint,” Holden praised without reserve. “All your colleagues say you’re diligent, brave, careful, and capable. You’re a born detective!”

“But there’s one thing I don’t get. Your people skills are notoriously poor—how did you persuade Bud to testify against his unfaithful partner?”

Dean smiled openly. “Are you sure you want to know the unscientific details?”

Holden’s eyes narrowed in doubt, and he shook his head. “Never mind. Anyway, your contribution is undeniable. I’ll recommend to the chief that you be admitted out of turn.”

“Admitted out of turn?” Dean asked.

“To become an official LVPD officer, not just a volunteer.”

“But doesn’t the normal process require police academy and passing the selection exam?”

“You ever heard of special admission? Ordinary people, the mediocre, don’t get to bypass the rules. But for someone with talent and ability, for those who’ve made outstanding contributions to the LVPD, green lights and fast tracks are necessary.”

Dean gazed out the window at the shops coming alive as the city awakened, his expression uncertain.

“You said yourself I’m bold—sooner or later, as a full-time cop, I’ll cause some big trouble. Being a volunteer suits me; once I’ve learned enough, I’ll find a more independent job.”

“More independent? You mean a private investigator?”

“Yeah.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Holden’s face, but he didn’t press further. “Actually, being a PI and a cop aren’t mutually exclusive. You could work here a few years, build some connections, then go solo and take your own cases. Plenty of cops take that path.”

“But don’t rush—becoming a private investigator means getting your high school diploma, then applying to the state’s Private Security Board for registration and licensing. If you don’t have money or connections, you’ll be waiting a while.”

…

A diploma and a license application?

Dean nodded. “Got it. I’ll just keep my head down and work at the department for now. By the way, when you write the report for this case, please leave my name out of it.”

“You don’t want the bonus either?” asked Holden.

“How much is it?”

“A hundred, maybe two hundred bucks.”

Dean considered that he hadn’t spent much recently and still had about four thousand in savings. He decided to try something he’d just learned. “Can I use the bonus to treat Carl’s team to a meal?”

(End of chapter)