Chapter 3 – Sergeant Sean's Guide to Asset Protection
Women take far longer to change clothes than men—a universal truth.
Sean, bored, scrolled through news on his phone outside the women's locker room. Whenever a familiar face—or a subordinate—passed by and saw him in street clothes, they couldn't help but call out:
"Admin leave's over? Good to have you back on the job!"
"Damn right! They should've called in an Abrams tank to blow that scumbag away!" Clearly, this officer wholeheartedly approved of Sean's RPG solution.
The moment Erin stepped out, Sean quickly wrapped up the conversation and walked over to her.
She'd changed into a beige, long-sleeved, crew-neck blouse and black jeans; her former tight bun was now loose, shoulder-length blonde hair.
Sean kept it simple too—white cotton crew-neck t-shirt, khaki cargo pants, and a brown leather jacket that made concealing his Glock 19 easier.
With his rugged build and full beard, he looked less like a cop and more like a bouncer who'd worked club doors for twenty years.
"So, which car are we taking?"
In Los Angeles, cars aren't optional—they're survival equipment. The city's so sprawl-heavy that even ID checks accept a driver's license as proof of identity.
"We'll take mine. What sounds good for lunch—BBQ, sushi, Italian, or Mexican?"
Still getting to know Sean, Erin felt shy; even in a high-risk job like policing, she couldn't quite shake that natural reserve around new people.
"Whatever works for you!" She deflected the choice back to him.
"All right—Italian it is."
Since she'd left the decision to him, Sean didn't overthink it. He'd briefly considered Mexican, but remembering how spicy salsa might not agree with her, he settled on Italian instead.
Such a thoughtful guy, he congratulated himself silently.
"Look, I'm your supervisor, sure, but I'm also your partner. When it's just us, call me Sean. It'll help you relax—working next to 'the boss' long-term gets stressful."
"Yes, sir!"
"Hmm?" Seeing Sean's expectant smile, Erin caught herself and sheepishly managed:
"Okay... Sean."
"Perfect. Let's go grab some food."
Right across from the precinct sat an Olive Garden, but Sean had eaten there dozens of times—maybe fifty, maybe a hundred. He'd lost count.
He felt like a guy who'd been dating the same person for years and desperately needed something new.
As for the Indian place behind the station? Hard pass.
He had no desire to become intimately familiar with the precinct bathrooms today.
They walked less than two minutes to Sean's car in the visitor parking lot.
Sean began his introduction with obvious pride:
"Audi TT, hardtop convertible, V6 engine."
"I own four vehicles total: a Chevy Tahoe SUV, a 2010 Crown Victoria, this TT, and a retired police Dodge Charger with the V8 Hemi." He counted them off on his fingers.
Two of Sean's four vehicles were decommissioned police cruisers.
That wasn't unusual—many had seen minimal service before being auctioned off; some patrol cars put into service last year were already on the surplus lot this year.
If nobody was skimming funds somewhere, Sean would eat his badge.
It was the classic chain: if you don't take your cut, how can your supervisor take his?
If he doesn't take his, how can the deputy chief take his?
If the deputy chief doesn't, how will the city councilmen get theirs?
You'd be cutting off the whole food chain—practically un-American!
Erin listened patiently while Sean listed his fleet, suddenly recalling something David had joked about:
"If I were one of the women he'd been with, the second that pregnancy test showed positive, I'd already own half his house in Torrance."
Now she understood the weight of those words. Anyone who could afford to maintain four cars definitely had money.
Los Angeles is a low-rainfall city: wetter in winter, bone-dry in summer.
February weather is like a middle-aged man's unpredictable bladder—frequent, urgent, and inconsistent.
And now September weather feels like a guy who's been with his girlfriend for three months straight—he's literally got nothing left in the tank.
Today was rare: sunny turning overcast, no blazing sun and no rain. Thick clouds blocked the worst of the heat.
In Los Angeles, June through September are the hottest, driest months—monthly rainfall can measure in single-digit millimeters, which is exactly why wildfires rage every year.
Long drought, high heat, and plenty of dry brush!
One spark and the whole hillside goes up.
One carelessly tossed cigarette right now could set half the county ablaze.
Erin was studying the interior of Sean's car; the windows looked reinforced with some kind of film. What puzzled her was the LAPD jacket on the back seat bearing three chevrons on the shoulders, so she asked:
"Sean, why do you keep a spare uniform jacket back there?"
Sean pulled out of the precinct lot and merged onto Venice Boulevard.
Hearing Erin's question, he explained matter-of-factly:
"If I'm driving through a sketchy neighborhood, to a restaurant in a rough area, or parking anywhere overnight, a thief who spots that jacket won't dare smash my window. I'm not afraid of confrontation, but it saves hassle and keeps my insurance premiums down."
"Plus, when other cops—CHP, Sheriff's deputies, whoever—pull me over for whatever reason, they see the jacket, immediately know I'm law enforcement, lower their threat assessment, relax their guard, and we avoid any twitchy-finger accidents."
It was invisible deterrence: if a car thief cased a vehicle and spotted a police jacket, he'd have to weigh the consequences and probably pick a different target.
Any smart criminal would think twice and move along.
"Sean, that's brilliant! I should do the same thing to avoid problems."
"Thanks for the compliment. Want the window down?"
Sean still played the gentleman around female colleagues. Extreme feminism might be loud on Twitter, but it was a fringe minority; most people still appreciated basic courtesy.
Like the outrageous comments online—only the truly crazy ones grab attention and go viral; the normal, reasonable ones don't trend. Classic survivor bias.
"It's getting stuffy—thanks."
Sean rolled down the window, gestured with his free left hand toward a major north-south street, and pointed it out:
"That's Hauser Boulevard, runs all the way down to West Jefferson. There's a donut shop on that corner—Randy's Donuts—pretty damn good if you want to grab some."
Donuts do sound good...
Erin waved him off politely, showing she didn't need any right now.
They chatted back and forth, quickly growing comfortable with each other.
"Sean, do you live alone?"
The conversation drifted naturally to personal life and living situations.
Sean didn't find it intrusive; he treated it as normal small talk between new partners, answered with an easy smile, and outlined his current setup:
"I used to live alone, but after my sister's divorce, she and my niece moved in with me temporarily. I also have two cousins here in LA—Charlie and Alan Harper. You might've heard of Charlie—he writes jingles."
Erin's eyes widened in surprise:
"You're not married, but your sister already has a kid?"
Sean chuckled:
"Yup. And honestly? I don't plan on getting married. I'm not sure I could resist all the temptations out there—this city's full of them."
"Besides, I don't want to wake up one morning to some divorce lawyer saying: 'Mr. Horace, congratulations—your wife is divorcing you, taking half your assets, your pension, and the house. Oh, and you owe her alimony. Have a great day!'"
He dropped his voice into a theatrical lawyer impression that made it even funnier.
"Forget that noise! As long as someone cleans the house and someone warms the bed regularly, who needs a wife and a marriage license?"
Sean's goofy lawyer voice cracked Erin up completely; whatever tension remained melted away.
"That's... actually pretty smart," she admitted between laughs. "My dad said the same thing after his second divorce."
"Your dad's a wise man," Sean said sagely, navigating traffic. "Charlie—my cousin—he's on his second divorce too. Says the same thing. 'Marriage is just expensive dating with worse exit terms.'"
They pulled up to a red light, and Sean glanced over.
"But hey, if you ever do meet someone worth marrying, go for it. I'm just too cynical and too fond of my bank account."
Erin smiled. "Noted. So where are we actually eating?"
"There's this great little Italian place in Culver City—family-owned, been there forever. Real old-school red-sauce joint. The owner's grandmother still makes the pasta from scratch every morning."
"Sounds perfect."
Sean grinned. "Trust me, after a month riding with me, you'll know every decent restaurant in the Western Division. Consider it part of your training."
"Is that in the Field Training Officer manual?"
"It should be. 'Chapter Seven: Strategic Meal Planning for Officer Survival.' Right between 'Radio Codes' and 'Use of Force Continuum.'"
Erin laughed again. Maybe this partnership wouldn't be so bad after all.
(To be continued...)
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