Read Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage for Free Online Page B

movies, the beach; it was like a second childhood for both of them.
    But, inevitably, Bishop had become what every father of a teenage girl was: a worrier.
    He sat at the table and smoked half a dozen cigarettes before the detective in him had had enough. He pulled his leather jacket on and was halfway down the hall when he heard a sound that made every muscle in his body immediately relax. He looked over his shoulder to find Alice holding the old hand of Dory McHale, their elderly next door neighbour.
    ‘I was just being silly,’ the old lady said.
    ‘Mrs McHale fell,’ Alice said.
    ‘I was just being silly.’
    ‘You should have asked me to do it.’
    ‘I don’t want to hassle you.’
    ‘She was trying to change the batteries in her smoke detector,’ Alice said as Bishop helped them into Mrs McHale’s apartment.
    Alice made her a cup of tea while Bishop changed the batteries in her smoke detectors along with all the light bulbs in the flat that had blown which she couldn’t reach.
    Before she left, Alice leant down and gave the old lady a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll be by tomorrow to check on you.’
    For the next week, Alice visited the old lady every day. She sat with her, made her tea, listened to her stories and brought meals around at dinner time. Alice began to remind Bishop of the vague and faded memories he had of his mother.
    A week later the telephone rang and everything changed.
    *
    When Tom Bishop and Patrick Wilson arrived on the scene, the show was already in full swing. Patrol cars blocked both ends of the suburban street and flashing red and blue bounced off the faces of those with nothing better to do than watch the six o’clock news unfold in front of them. They parked by an ambulance in the safe zone and ducked under the tape. Two steps later, gunfire cracked through the air. Everyone hit the deck and held their breath.
    Wilson gave Bishop a wry grin. ‘Where the hell did they get automatic weapons? We can’t even get automatics.’
    After a couple of moments of silence, they rose to their feet and holstered their weapons. A pimply faced uniform hustled over. ‘Chief Inspector Wilson,’ he said, equal parts formality and eagerness. ‘Constable Leary, sir. I’ve been—’
    Wilson cut him off. ‘You first on scene?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Wilson led the way though the blockade of patrol cars, ambulances and uniforms. ‘What have we got?’
    Leary read from his notebook. ‘At 7:46 PM we received complaints about what appeared to be a domestic dispute. At 8:14, officers Schapiro and Bolden conducted a doorknock. A Middle Eastern man in his mid-thirties refused them entry. When Schapiro persisted, he was shot twice in the chest at point blank range.
    Bishop looked at his watch: 8:46. ‘You isolated this area in thirty minutes?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Good job.’
    ‘How’s Schapiro doing?’ Wilson asked.
    ‘Not looking good, sir.’ Leary motioned with an uncertain hand. ‘Every time we go near the building, they fire into the grass.’
    ‘Any idea what’s going on inside?’ Bishop asked.
    ‘No sir.’
    ‘How many shooters?’
    ‘At least four.’
    They reached the wall of patrol cars that lined the front of the building and crouched down behind one. Bishop pulled a rifle scope from his pocket, leant on the bonnet and took a closer look. The Oak Park Apartments was a three-storey block with large windows that were mostly obscured by heavy curtains. A red light flowed out of one of the rooms on the top floor; every once in a while, Bishop would see a curtain shift for a moment before it settled back into place.
    He dropped back behind the patrol car and leant against the door.
    ‘What do you see?’ Wilson asked.
    ‘Whorehouse.’
    ‘Hostages?’
    ‘I’d say more than a few.’
    ‘Call SOG,’ Wilson said to Leary. ‘We need a couple of snipers and a storm crew.’
    Leary got on the blower and called it in. A moment later he said, ‘Fifteen minutes.’
    Bishop lit a