The Law of Averages

Book 2: Chapter 5: Delilah Favored Roses

The home seemed much the same as any other. Green grass and flower beds, a couple of tall pine trees, and some decorative columns separating the roof and the ground. The door was painted a bright, cheerful red. The bricks making up the outer walls were the color of baked clay, a dull red and burnt orange. It was a one story slice of suburbia.

Connor pulled his cruiser up against the curb and double-checked the address. He kept his foot on the brake, the car idling softly while he compared the numbers on his screen to the ones stenciled on the concrete next to the sidewalk.

“This should be the place,” he declared with slight befuddlement. It was his first domestic disturbance call. He’d half expected the front yard to be on fire. Maybe an angry woman in a nightdress waving a cleaver, or a naked man with a broken beer bottle shouting obscenities. This seemed so… normal.

Freya consulted the GPS with a furrowed brow, then nodded.

“Guess so.” A pause, as she cocked her head. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Connor couldn’t hear much of anything. The cruiser was almost entirely soundproof. It wasn’t an intended design feature, so much as a consequence of its air-tight security features. With the press of a button, the entire car would be isolated completely. It was a useful option, as aerosolized attacks weren’t uncommon.

Freya quickly reached down and unlatched the door. It opened a crack, the brisk winter air rushed in, and with it, noise. Loud shouting split the scenery. A woman’s enraged shouting, and the hoarse bellowing of a man. Both were so loud that they rattled the hinges of the front door. Something brittle broke in the distance, and Freya was up and out of her seat before the sound finished echoing. Connor slammed the cruiser into park, leapt out of his seat, and followed.

Freya’s long strides ate up the distance between the street and the door. She moved purposefully, keeping her face locked in a stoic, professional mien, but Connor could read the slight hints of concern etched in the lines of her face. He hustled behind her, one hand straightening his shiny new badge, and the other drifting towards his service weapon. He let it rest there, pressing against the rubber grip and leather holster, as Freya knocked twice on the front door.

“APD!” she barked. “Is everything alright in there?”

The sharp question quickly silenced all sounds of argument within. Connor heard pounding feet, and the lock clicking, then the door eased open. The chain lock was still attached, allowing only the slightest hint of the inside to be seen. A pair of suspicious eyes peered out at them from a man’s face. He was short and thin, with a scraggly moustache and thick glasses. His curly brown hair was a mess, tousled like he’d been rubbing it with his hands. The man had a prominent mole next to his chin.

“APD?” he questioned warily. His eyes found their badges, and narrowed. He scanned over the badge numbers, eyes flicking between faces and clothing. Finally, he seemed satisfied. His body relaxed, and came to attention. “Good afternoon, officers. How can I help you?”

Freya cocked an imperious eyebrow at him. “Are you Mr…” She checked her pad. “Webb? James Webb?”

“That’s me,” he confirmed with a nod.

Somewhere just behind him, a woman yelled, “Damn right that’s you! That’s him, officers! That’s the bastard right there!”

A woman’s hand appeared between the man and the door, its pink nail polish chipped and faded. The hand scrabbled at something just above the man’s ear, and he pulled away with a surprised yelp. The door slammed shut, and for a moment Connor could only blankly stare.

He turned to his partner.

“You think we should…?” He gestured helplessly towards the home. Kicking in the door seemed a bit extreme here. The woman sounded angry, but not distressed. Nevertheless, it was better to check with Freya, whose upgrade allowed her a near perfect grasp on people’s tone.

Freya held up a single finger. Something scraped against metal behind the door—a chain being unlatched—and it opened wide. James Webb stood in his small foyer, cast slightly in shadow by dim lights. There was a grotesque expression on his face, the only part illuminated, a mix of shame, irritation, and anger. In front of him, a woman that Connor could only presume was the man’s wife.

“Mrs. Lois Webb?” he asked, just to confirm.

The woman nodded, her face fixed in a scowl, though not directed at the two officers. She had Hispanic features, with brunette hair and darker skin. The woman was attractive, if rather tiny. The top of her head barely reached Connor’s sternum, even with the help of her rather poofy hair. If she was over five feet tall, he’d eat a tire.

While her husband wore a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt, rumpled though they might be, Mrs. Webb clearly had not left the house today. She still wore what Connor guessed was a nightdress, a frumpy yellow thing that went down to her ankles. Bright blue flip-flops stuck out from the bottom, each with a pair of pink rabbit ears emblazoned on the front, and her hair was in wrapped curlers. If she was wearing make-up, then she’d done a magnificent job of hiding it.

They were the very picture of what Connor had always imagined a middle-class couple to be. Both people were clipped so neatly out of the sitcoms his mother used to watch when he was a child, that Connor nearly asked if they were professional actors. He was positive those shows were still running. The pair would make excellent additions, though they’d be type-cast for life.

He shook off the distracted thoughts, as Freya asked, “Are you well, Mrs. Webb? There were reports of an argument.” A bit more than an argument, but Freya was probing. Connor left this avenue of questioning to her. It was entirely possible that either person inside was under duress and unable to speak of it. If that was the case, Freya would sniff it out in minutes.

“Am I well?” the woman’s voice raised in pitch as she spat the last word. “No! I am not well! My cheating bastard of a husband refuses to tell me the name of his little fling! What poor, stupid woman did you convince to leap into bed with—”

“Please, darling,” Mr. Webb interrupted, raising his hands pleadingly. “We have company.”

‘You think I care about them?” she demanded, jabbing a finger towards the two officers. Connor instinctively tensed, half-expecting some sort of attack, but Freya remained impressively unperturbed. “They won’t save you, Jimmy! You think I won’t put our dirty laundry out on the streets? I’ll scream it out to anyone who listens!” She cupped her hands around her mouth, drew in a deep breath—

Freya stepped smoothly in-between the pair, holding up her hands in a warding motion. “Please, both of you. That’s quite enough.”

The smaller woman blinked up at Freya, only just now seeming to recognize that there was a police officer in her house. Not just in the house, but also being aggressively disrespected by the woman in question. Connor watched that realization slowly burrow into her brain, and Mrs. Webb’s anger and indignation drained like a sieve. The woman’s face blanched with horror, then fear, as she quickly backpedaled away, arms raised.

“I am so sorry officer! I don’t know what came over me!” she exclaimed, sounding mortified.

Freya’s posture shifted subtly, her back straightened and her chin lifted. Her voice filled with gentle authority. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Webb. You are perfectly within your rights to argue with your husband. But I think we should have a talk about appropriate levels of noise. Why don’t you and I step into another room, while my partner takes a statement from your husband.”

“A r-report?” the woman stammered, eyes going wide. “Am I in trouble?”

Connor stepped in, uncomfortable with the fear in the woman’s eyes. “Of course not,” he reassured her. “It’s just standard procedure.”

With that decided, they broke apart. Freya escorted Mrs. Webb into what turned out to be the kitchen, a brightly tiled room with a marble-top island in the center. Connor watched them lean up against the cool stone, the smaller woman still fretting with painfully obvious anxiety. He led her husband away, heading towards the opposite side of the house, and found himself in a small living room. There was a couch and a recliner, and a large television where a local news station was quietly playing.

“Please sit,” Connor said.

Mr. Webb planted himself on the couch. Connor took the recliner, rocking backwards slightly. He took a brief moment to go over what needed to be said, here. He’d had training for this. Despite what they’d told Mrs. Webb, there was no real need for an official statement. This visit was more a wellness check than anything official, something small and innocuous given to two rookies, half as busy work and half as hazing. Still, Connor would prefer to leave some kind of positive impact behind him.

He considered the man before him, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He passed it to the homeowner, and Mr. Webb glanced at it, bemused. There was a picture of a small shed, surrounded by rose bushes. The letterhead announced it as The Flower Shed.

“I won’t concern myself judging what you have or haven’t done. If you cheated on her: very well. Apologize and reconcile, or get a divorce. It’s your choice. If you didn’t…” Connor chewed over his words. It was what his father had told him, the first time he’d pissed off Freya. Perhaps this man had never received such sage advice. “Just buy her some flowers, man.”

Mr. Webb’s lips crinkled in amusement. Some of the tension seemed to bleed away. “It’s not that simple.”

Connor shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt though, right?”

The man considered that point, then nodded wryly. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”