Chapter 16: The Paid Slacker of Hancock Park
At 4:30 p.m., the Los Angeles sun still carried an unapologetic heat, slanting across the police station parking lot and glinting off rows of black-and-whites, their hoods throwing back blinding white reflections.
Sergeant Sean Horace—or, in the role he preferred right now,
'Paid-Vacation Professional'—was heading toward his slightly dusty but meticulously maintained Audi TT.
His fingertips brushed the door handle; the cool metal chased away the last traces of toner dust and stale coffee clinging to him from the Internal Affairs office.
As the door opened, a familiar blend of leather upholstery, an aging cabin filter, and faint gunpowder residue greeted him.
He inhaled deeply; it wasn't just air freshener—it was freedom.
Key in the ignition, the engine gave a low, satisfied purr, as though it too understood the extended holiday about to begin.
Sean shifted into gear with the fluid ease of chambering a round; the static crackle of the police radio had already vanished from his consciousness.
Just as he was about to hit the gas, he spotted Erin waving and eased off the accelerator.
"How are you getting home?"
Sean asked, ready to offer her a ride if needed.
A stand-up guy—and a cop in excellent vacation spirits—he didn't mind giving Erin a lift.
Erin might lack street experience, but she had solid emotional intelligence; she caught the polite subtext and quickly declined, mentioning she'd driven herself.
"No worries—I brought my own car. I just realized we... haven't exchanged phone numbers yet."
After a full shift together, Erin suddenly realized she still didn't have her partner's contact information and hurried over to catch him before he left.
Ran into a 'fan' asking for contact details.
Can't be helped—being popular has its complications.
"310..." Sean rattled off his cell number.
"Got it! Enjoy your time off."
"See ya!"
With a rev of the engine, Erin was left waving at Sean's departing taillights.
The Audi rolled out of the station gate, merging into L.A.'s early-evening traffic flow.
Instantly, Sean was enveloped in the city's rhythm: the distant freeway hum, impatient car horns, and palm trees swaying lazily in the coastal breeze.
"Mission reward: $27,400."
"Administrative leave passive buff: Physical conditioning +12%."
The system notification had barely faded when vitality coursed through him; his mood soared, and even his entire body felt energized and alive.
Golden sunset poured through the windshield; he rolled the window down, letting the ocean-scented, exhaust-tinged, food-truck-perfumed breeze tousle his brown hair.
He cranked the stereo; Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the U.S.A." replaced the engine's purr, the beat rattling the cabin as his fingers drummed the steering wheel.
When the light turned green,
he eased onto the throttle and glided into traffic, destination crystal clear—away from downtown, crime reports, and anything requiring body armor.
On the dashboard, the odometer ticked, the clock advanced.
But for him, time would no longer be measured in patrol shifts or call response times.
Instead: happy hour, beach days, and dinner dates with attractive women.
Sweet life!
Sunlight stretched ahead like a river of molten gold. Sean hummed off-key, leaving the city chaos and badge responsibilities behind him—a fish finally escaping the net, swimming toward his paid, sun-drenched vacation paradise.
In the rearview mirror, only the L.A. skyline burned crimson in the sunset; the station had shrunk to a distant, irrelevant speck.
Who decreed that cop protagonists must clock in weapon-ready, eager to shoot suspects daily?
They're human; they love sleeping in. Anyone who dreads vacation time needs psychiatric evaluation.
Sean cruised across Mid-Wilshire, down the Miracle Mile, onto North Highland Avenue, and finally—home.
Truth be told, Sean was financially comfortable: four properties to his name—one in Hancock Park, one in Torrance, another in Glendale, and the last... he honestly couldn't remember where.
The instant the system awarded him the second house as a mission reward, he'd planned to sell it immediately.
No mortgage doesn't mean no property tax burden.
One to two percent annual property tax on multiple homes? He'd wanted to liquidate fast.
Every April you're filing taxes, itemizing deductions—four houses? That tax liability was astronomical.
Fortunately, the system later clarified the gifted real estate came with a special provision; no ongoing costs beyond basic utilities.
After triple-checking the details, Sean relaxed—no repairs, no landscaping fees, no HOA dues, no insurance premiums. Someone else covered everything; the dream life had materialized.
He abandoned talk of selling—why dump appreciating assets that cost him nothing? Property values would rise eventually, and if not, it didn't cost him a dime.
Of the four properties, the Hancock Park residence sat closest to Western Division headquarters, so it became his primary residence.
He loved the layout: two-story detached, six bedrooms, five bathrooms, four-car garage, dual living areas, gourmet kitchen, floor-to-ceiling windows, plus a backyard infinity pool.
Even his sister-in-law Evelyn Harper constantly gushed over it:
"Sean darling, should you ever consider selling, I'll get you an absolutely fabulous price through my connections."
How does a cop whose official net worth barely breaks $250K own four Los Angeles properties?
Don't ask—System magic works in mysterious ways.
Sunlight filtered through mature palm trees and purple jacaranda blooms, casting long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn.
The air carried sun-warmed grass and California jasmine, with distant fountain sounds and neighborhood kids' laughter drifting over.
Sean eased the Audi to the curb and parked in his designated spot.
A coating of city dust clung to the wheels, silent testimony to his day's activities.
As he reached for the door handle, the heavy craftsman-style oak door flew open from inside with excited force!
"Uncle Sean!"
A bright child's voice rang out like wind chimes, brimming with unfiltered joy.
Sunlight flooded the entryway, framing the small figure perfectly.
Jenny Harper stood there in a pale-blue sundress dotted with tiny white daisies, golden curls forming a fuzzy halo around her beaming face.
She hadn't even bothered with shoes; tiny bare feet pressed against the cool Italian marble tile.
Blue-green eyes wide with excitement, cheeks rosy with enthusiasm, her little chest heaving as if she'd sprinted from the back of the house.
Seeing his adorable niece—who'd clearly heard the engine and raced to greet him—Sean's heart melted completely.
He couldn't resist the urge to scoop her up and opened his arms; Jenny launched herself headfirst into his broad embrace. The impact barely moved his solid arms before he caught her securely.
Her small arms, surprisingly strong for a kid, locked around his neck in fierce affection.
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