“We are on scene,” I say into the radio.
“Will advise nine-one-one.”
“Have them tell Samuel to let us in the front door, if he can do so safely.”
If not, I’ll let Santucci kick at the lock. I’m betting he was paying attention when they taught him how to do that at the Academy.
I toss the radio mic to the floor and swing open the driver side door.
“I’ll take the lead,” I say.
“Let’s roll!” shouts Santucci, sounding totally stoked.
Inside the house, we hear a scream. Female.
And then another, younger voice. Samuel.
“Stop it! The police are right outside!”
I race up the steps to the front porch. Bang on the door. Someone yanks it open on the other side.
Samuel Oppenheimer. He’s in a wheelchair and clutching a cordless phone. He looks terrified.
“Over there!” he shouts, pointing to a sunken, white-on-white living room.
I see the back of a raven-haired lady in a purple tracksuit. She is throttling a kinky-haired, younger woman in yellow scrubs who is wildly swinging her arms and trying to kick her way free. But the older woman has her hands locked in a vice grip on the younger woman’s throat, and that keeps the nurse far enough away that her slaps, scratches, and kicks don’t land.
I move closer.
I can’t see the younger woman’s face. It’s buried beneath a whirlwind of flailing curls.
“Break it up!” I shout.
“Knock it off!” adds Santucci.
I grab hold of the strangler’s shoulder.
She snaps her head around. All sorts of chunky gold jewelry clatters on her neck and ears as she shoots me a dark and dangerous look. I half expect her to hiss.
But her brain finally kicks in and she realizes there is a uniformed police officer in her living room with his hand firmly attached to her clavicle.
Now her eyes go all wide and terrified.