Chapter 10 – Paid Vacation Under the Palms
"Sean! We're really just gonna sit here? Aren't you worried Internal Affairs will show up, or someone calls the LAPD Tip Line?"
Erin's worry was written all over her face; she clearly hadn't adjusted to such a relaxed shift.
Even though she'd been riding with David—also spending time in the car with minimal activity—this was the first time she'd ever slacked off so blatantly.
David was nearing his transfer to desk duty and retirement; the last thing he wanted was to screw up at the finish line and give anyone ammunition against him.
That's why he worked even harder, to avoid trouble and protect his pension dream.
The "Internal Affairs" Erin mentioned is the department's watchdog unit, handling administrative and criminal investigations into officer misconduct—goofing off, abuse of power, policy violations.
Sean thought it was needless worrying, but he understood:
Rookie. A few more laid-back shifts and she'll be a natural. As for Internal Affairs—why would they leave their air-conditioned office to stake out a cop scrolling his phone in a patrol car?
And that LAPD Tip Line... practically no one ever calls it.
We're all paid with taxpayer dollars. Politicians like the City Council skim millions in "consulting fees" and taxpayers never bat an eye.
At least they can see an officer "diligently maintaining a visible presence" inside the car.
By that standard, Sean suddenly felt exceptionally "dedicated."
He even figured Captain Winston ought to award him a "Medal of Valor for Showing Up."
"Alright! Partner's nervous—let's relocate."
Sean fired up the engine and told Erin:
"Let's hit the main drag for speed enforcement. Nobody likes seeing a black-and-white Ford Explorer lighting them up in the rearview."
He knew too well: once those red-and-blues start flashing and the siren chirps, you either score a set of "steel bracelets" or sign your name on a citation—either way, it's a bad day.
So drivers pray that cruiser parked on the shoulder never moves.
Tires rolled toward Wilshire Boulevard. Sean cranked the A/C and cracked both front windows; hot wind poured in, yet it felt great—natural beats recycled air.
No matter how advanced technology gets, man-made can't match Mother Nature's "gentle touch."
"4-Adam-9, responding to patrol Wilshire Boulevard."
Sean keyed the radio mic and notified dispatch.
4 was Western Division's identifier, Adam meant two-officer patrol unit, 9 was his vehicle number.
"Dispatch copies, 4-Adam-9."
The cruiser glided along—smooth and easy!
With a legitimate reason to take it slow and the body cam conveniently off, Sean was in high spirits, briefing Erin on his ground rules:
"Rule one: riding with me, you wear the vest ninety percent of the time—officer safety first."
Who knows if the next radio call throws us into a shootout?
As her supervisor and partner, he was responsible for her safety—and his own—so she wouldn't freeze when bullets started flying.
"Got it!"
"Rule two: when we make a traffic stop, you only approach the vehicle if I tell you to. Otherwise hang back and provide cover."
Routine violations, non-threatening drivers—Erin could practice her skills;
run into a dangerous suspect? Then the conversation would be conducted by the Glock on his hip.
"He Drew First"
"I Feared for My Life"
"Talk to My Union Rep" flashed through his mind as standard responses.
"Understood!"
The dead seriousness in his eyes told her this wasn't a suggestion; she answered with equal gravity.
"Rule three: if I'm shot and go down, don't hesitate—fall back and call for backup immediately."
If even his "system buff" couldn't save him, Erin rushing in would only add another casualty to the body count.
"But..."
How could she abandon her partner if he were bleeding out?
"Ride with me, you follow my protocol."
Sean cut her off, brooking no argument:
"Got a problem with that? I can request reassignment tomorrow."
"Yes, sir!" Erin straightened in her seat.
She had no comeback—he'd laid down the law crystal clear.
Besides, half a day together and she already felt this decent, good-looking, generous boss was one in a million—a unicorn in the LAPD.
Sean was equally pragmatic.
Out on patrol, the next moment could throw a tweaker waving a knife—high on meth, suicidal, or just batshit crazy.
Welcome to Los Angeles, shootout capital! You stay ready for combat 24/7.
He could keep himself alive, but what if a stray round caught Erin?
The scorching California sun seemed ready to melt the asphalt into sticky black tar.
The cruiser parked along Wilshire Boulevard, tucked under a palm tree's meager umbrella of fronds.
The stiff, fan-shaped leaves turned almost translucent gold in the fierce sunlight, their ragged shadow barely covering the hood's front half.
The A/C blasted, pumping arctic air, yet sunlight hammering through the windshield still roasted the driver's side.
Sean could feel his black uniform pants—especially where they touched the door panel—radiating heat, a maddening contrast to his chilled upper body.
So he shifted into reverse, backing up until the palm's shadow completely covered the windshield.
He activated the dash-mounted radar gun; tiny numbers and indicators flickered, silently scanning the river of traffic flowing through the heat.
An endless metallic stream whooshed past, tires on sun-softened pavement creating a droning, hypnotic white noise.
"Speed limit here's forty-five mph. Under ten over, I let it slide—everyone speeds a little. Over twenty mph above the limit?"
Sean tapped the radar display:
"The alarm screams, no need for us to watch like hawks."
"And parked here, who's gonna know we're taking it easy?"
Sean eased Erin's anxiety, telling her to relax; this strategy had never failed him.
Right next to their position sat a plasma donation center; some people coming out looked absolutely wrecked, stumbling around like extras from The Walking Dead.
Watching them, Sean finally understood why America's zombie movies felt so authentic—reality provided perfect reference material.
With source material like this, how could Hollywood miss?
Stuck on how to shoot a convincing zombie scene? Just film outside a plasma center—unforgettable imagery guaranteed.
Sean glanced over, couldn't be bothered to intervene. What could he do? God only knows.
America is just a corporation masquerading as a nation.
America is merely the elite's private playground.
The upper class lives large—leaving faucets running 24/7, one private jet to the Hamptons equals an average person's lifetime carbon footprint.
White-collar criminals?
Throw enough money at lawyers and even felonies disappear into settlements and sealed records.
So every time Sean drops a violent felon in the act, he feels he's doing society a favor.
Indirectly saving taxpayer resources, removing one threat from circulation.
Ah, another day of being a model public servant.
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