There was nothing worse than babysitting a rookie just out of the academy and, in Cal Sylvester's judgment, Gordon Butler had to be the biggest blockhead who'd ever made it through. Though only a couple of inches shorter than Cal's six-foot-three, Butler was slim and had girlishly pretty features. Thick auburn hair contrasted sharply with his fair, lightly freckled skin.

Butler had a fine-looking wife. Cal's pulse quickened at the memory of the recent glimpse he'd had of sexy Darcy Butler when he'd returned for Gordon after the dinner break. He'd most definitely make it a point to become better acquainted with her.

Rocky Bluff was a small community bordered on the west by the Pacific Ocean and on the east by the foothills that gradually expanded into the coastal mountain range. Located approximately twenty miles from the city of Ventura, the town was growing swiftly as affluent people from the crowded urban areas of Southern California fled to what they considered a safer environment, bringing with them some of the big city problems. This didn't bother Cal one bit. A little action might liven things up.

The first half of the shift had been boring. Having Butler for a partner hadn't helped; the rookie didn't even know any good jokes. Cal made a boulevard stop on Lilac. A brand new yellow VW convertible paused on the other side of the intersection and, as the two vehicles passed each other, Cal checked out the driver. A carefully tousled mass of dark curls framed a heavily made-up face. Thick, black lashes fluttered in Cal's direction, and red lips lifted in a flirtatious smile.

"Hot damn! Did you get a look at that?"

Butler craned his neck in the direction of the passing Volkswagen, and mumbled, "Huh?" while Cal made a screeching brake U-turn.

"What'd she do?" Butler asked.

"Nothing yet. Bound to be something wrong with her vehicle though. Won't hurt to pull her over and check it out. Besides, didn't you see how she gave me the come-on?"

"Uh ... no, I guess I missed it." Beneath the freckles, two bright pink spots appeared on Butler's cheeks.

Dumb kid, still wet behind the ears. Didn't have sense enough to know about one of the many fringe benefits of being a cop.

Following closely behind the VW, Cal was almost ready to make his move when the unit's radio crackled to life. The dispatcher reported a fight in progress on the far end of the Valley, in the parking lot of the Hideaway Bar. Grabbing the microphone, Cal gave his I.D., said he was nearby, and would respond.

"But that's clear over on the other side of town," Gordon protested.

Flipping on the light bar and siren, Cal once again whipped the car around. "We'll get there as fast as anyone else. Listen, Butler, this town is so dead you gotta take advantage of all the excitement you can and maybe even create some of your own."

Glancing in the rear view mirror, Cal took one last look at the yellow bug with a twinge of regret. Oh, well, the driver would probably cross his path again some time.

"I don't understand why you can't find anything constructive to do with your time. If you worked half as hard at developing your brain as you do your muscles, you might get somewhere." Vanessa Barnard replayed her theme song.

"...seven ... eight ... nine..." Ignoring his mother, Holland continued his count and his workout with a forty-pound barbell.

Vanessa Barnard, her hair a pale shade of blonde, was one of those elegant, polished women whose age was nearly impossible to guess. She might be thirty-five or fifty. Holland wasn't exactly sure. His mother wasn't telling, but he knew it had to be closer to the highest figure. Though he would never tell her, Vanessa's slim figure was flattered by her pale gray, silk blouse and darker gray skirt. Her angry face marred the otherwise attractive facade.

"Listen here, young man, I'm not financing your schooling forever, especially when the only decent grade you earned last semester was in weight lifting."

Ignoring her, Holland picked the weight up with his other hand and continued his exercise. He knew Vanessa would have to complete the tirade before she'd leave him alone.

"Twenty years old and you have no idea where you're going. I slave day and night to pay for your education, your apartment in Ventura, and to give you an allowance, all in the hope that one day you'll make a name for yourself. But are you grateful? Not in the least. You fool around, skip classes, and make Cs in everything except physical education."

Her voice droned on, but Holland no longer listened as he admired his tanned, muscled body in the full-length mirror across the room. He liked what he saw, though he'd have been happier to be a few inches taller. Stretching, he was only five foot-seven and a half--unfortunately, the same height as his mother. She always wore high heels and towered over him.

"I don't know why I waste my breath." Vanessa waved her long, slim fingers with their short, blood-red nails. "You don't even appreciate your good fortune. Why, when I was your age, I worked to put food on the table and your father through school. And when you were in elementary school, I worked and went to night school."

She was winding down to her usual ending. Holland didn't know why she bothered; he knew her speech as well as she did. He'd heard it often enough. Too bad his father had died from a heart attack five years ago. If he were still around, Vanessa would be directing her dissatisfaction at him like she used to. Holland was merely a convenient replacement.

"I have more constructive uses for my time. My work awaits me." With her short, pale curls unmussed, make-up dewy and unsmudged despite the harangue, Vanessa held her pointed chin aloft and exited with the sharp click-clicking of her heels on the highly polished, hardwood hall floor.

Holland knew she was returning to her office, the front room of the large, single story frame home that had been built in the early thirties. The master bedroom now served as the living room. Vanessa reigned over her office and the expensive antique oak desks and filing cabinets, as well as the computer and its components. She served as bookkeeper and accountant for many of the small businesses in Rocky Bluff. Since she'd completed her weekend familial ritual, Vanessa would focus her attention on her world of debits and credits, freeing him for more enjoyable pursuits.

The mercury vapor streetlights illuminated the scene of the accident. Abel Navarro had no trouble seeing the front wheels of the wine-colored Impala dangling over the edge of the freeway overpass. The concrete abutment had shoved the engine toward the driver's compartment before giving way, allowing the vehicle to push its accordion-pleated front end through the broken railing, which formed a net around it.

Another police unit pulled in behind Navarro's, also parking on the ice plant-covered slope. Abel raised his hand in greeting to Felix Zachary, the only African-American officer on the Rocky Bluff force. Because of his race, Zachary had been actively wooed to transfer from the Ventura Police Department. Abel had to admit Felix was a damn fine cop, but he wished he wasn't quite so good. His color and his job performance would speed his promotion to the next rank.

At times, Abel felt invisible. All the other officers hired around the same time as he came on board had already made at least one step upward. Doug Milligan had been transferred to burglary and Ryan Strickland had already made sergeant, partly because of a perfect score on the written test, and partly because of the good will he'd generated when he'd married the widow of a fellow policeman killed in the line of duty. Because there was already a sergeant and a lieutenant of his heritage on the department, Abel's Mexican ancestry might be a hindrance rather than an asset.

As soon as he reached the wrecked vehicle, Abel reached in the open window and searched for a pulse on the neck of the only occupant. There was a slight flutter, though the man wasn't breathing.

Abel sighed. The seedy-looking driver reeked of alcohol and had vomited all over himself. His head lolled back against the seat, mouth gaping, exposing a prominent overbite.

It wasn't fear of AIDS that caused Abel's reluctance to perform the necessary first aid. He had a disposable mask he carried with him for such occasions. He put on latex gloves before using his forefinger to remove chunks of slippery, half-digested food from the drunk's mouth. After pinching the bulbous, red-veined nose, Abel placed his lips on the tubing attached to the protective layer of plastic he put over the drunk's slack, rubbery lips and began the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Abel felt Zachary's nearby presence.

As Abel worked, he heard approaching sirens and wished they would hurry. The rescue squad arrived and relieved him, clamping an oxygen mask over the graying face.

"This one's a goner," one of the EMTs said.

Despite the protective equipment he'd used, Able wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Felix chuckled. "Glad you got here first, man. That about grossed me out."

"Yeah, me too. I had to force myself." Abel watched the victim being extricated from the wreck. "At least this drunk only took himself out."

Zachary rubbed his prominent chin. "It's going to be a long night."

Abel quickly agreed.

"Back me up with the shotgun," Cal barked. Despite his bulk, the big officer bailed out of the car in seconds to warily approach the van he and his partner had just pulled over.

Cal unsnapped his holster and poised his hand over the butt of his revolver. He was positive the van was the same one that had been reported stolen from a grocery store parking lot about twenty minutes earlier. Proper procedure would have been to call for assistance, but since he had the rookie with him, Cal decided the two of them could handle the situation.

"Stand away from the door of the vehicle," Cal ordered. "Come out slowly with your hands on top of your head."

A long, pale face with watery eyes opened wide in feigned surprise turned slowly toward him. "Why, Officer, what did I do--run a red light or something?"

"Out!" Cal kicked the door with one black, steel-toed regulation shoe and felt the metal give.

"Okay, okay, man, you don't have to get violent." The door opened slowly. But just as the suspect stepped to the ground, the shotgun blasted, followed by the tinkle of breaking glass.

"Don't shoot. I ain't got no weapons." The skinny man slid to the pavement and knelt at Cal's feet, hands clasped on top of his greasy, mouse-brown hair.

"Oh, shit! I don't believe this!" The van's side mirror had been shattered. Cal turned back toward his police unit and winced. Gordon, shotgun dangling from his arm, stood next to the car, surprise evident on his pale, dumb face. A hole as big as a grapefruit blossomed in the unit's open door.

The rookie made a wide-armed 'I don't know what happened' gesture. "I guess my finger slipped."

"Stupid bastard could have killed me," the still kneeling suspect whined.

Me, too, Cal's echoed silently. He nudged the man with his toe. "Wouldn't have been any great loss. Stand up and assume the position. Hey, Butler, get over here and read this guy his rights."

Cal waited to tell Gordon what he thought of him until after booking the culprit, who had been so shaken by his close call that he readily admitted stealing the van and being under the influence of marijuana and beer. The suspect seemed relieved to find himself within the safe confines of the police station.

Report writing took longer than usual because Butler's shotgun blast had damaged the police unit. When the partners finally returned to the field, the younger officer brought up the subject by asking, "Do you think this will hurt my record, Sylvester?"

"Sure ain't gonna help it any," Cal said.

"How could you do this to me, your own mother?" Brenda Costello's voice reached a dramatic soprano note. She clutched her bountiful bosom and collapsed into one of the apricot velvet fireside chairs in the carefully decorated and color-coordinated living room. "You know my heart can't stand this kind of excitement."

Adler Costello's six feet loomed over his son. "This is the last straw, Junior! I've warned you for the final time about bringing dope into this house!"

Patch, as the fifteen-year-old preferred to be called, jammed his hands deep into the pockets of his faded jeans and scrunched even lower in the chair that matched the one his mother occupied. What happened really had been his parents' fault. They told him they would be out late, so he'd invited a couple of guys over to share one lousy joint and a couple of beers. He'd no more than lit up when in pranced Mr. and Mrs. Prim and Proper. His mother freaked out and his friends fled, leaving him holding the bag, or more factually, the single marijuana cigarette.

"This time, young man, we're turning you over to the authorities. They have a way of making boys like you change their ways."

Though Patch wouldn't like to know it, his father had looked very much like him at the same age. The younger version had three inches to grow to match his dad's height, and the slim frame would need another fifty pounds. Adler Costello's sandy hair had silvered at the temples, was cut short at sides and back, and had been left a bit longer in front to hide a slightly receding hairline.

While Mr. Costello had never been seen outside his home wearing anything but the business suits and accessories he felt befitted his role as an investment counselor and city councilman, Patch's usual attire consisted of worn Levis, ragged tee shirts in summer, threadbare and raveling flannel shirts in the winter, white gym socks, and worn, dirty tennis shoes.

Brenda Costello gasped at her husband's threat. "Oh, goodness no, Adler, you mustn't. Think of the notoriety. What would people think of us? We have to keep up appearances, after all. I would just die if they knew the child of the President of the Women's Council of Churches was a drug addict. No, no, no, I couldn't possibly endure such an ordeal."

Patch knew better than to protest. They'd performed this scene for him several times before: Dad threatening to call the police, Mom begging him not to so no one would know her son did the same things as everyone else's kids, carrying on about her heart, her blood pressure, and finally getting around to--uh huh, just as he expected, she was off and running.

"How I managed to give birth to such totally different children I'll never understand. Why couldn't you be more like your sister? Jill has always been an A student and never caused us the teeniest bit of concern in her entire life."

There was no way he could ever compete with Jill, even he thought she was a terrific sister. Patch wished she wasn't away at college because, if she'd been home, she'd have stuck up for him. But he couldn't really count on her anymore because she planned to marry right after her graduation from Occidental in June. At least all the wedding plans had kept his mother off his back until tonight.

His father interrupted his thoughts. "Despite your mother's generosity, we aren't letting you off without punishment. You'll be restricted to this house for one month. I'm calling the school in the morning to check on your grades, and if you're falling behind in any of your classes, this will be the perfect opportunity for your teachers to give you remedial assignments."

Oh, crap. All hell would break loose as soon as his father made the call. He'd find out Patch hadn't been to school at all for the last two weeks. He made up his mind to go through with something he'd been planning for a long, long, time.