White Space Season 1

up and Houser filled her in on what was going down. His time as a cop led him straight to the point.
    The dispatch operator, a friendly sounding woman, asked, “What’s he doing now?”
    “Just broke into the house,” Houser said, staying on the line, his camera trained on the front door. “You got someone coming?”
    “Officers are on the way, sir.”
    The burglar popped out of the house a few minutes later, a black duffel bag bulging at the seams and slung over his shoulder.
    “He’s out,” Houser said.
    Houser turned the camera, following the guy as he sprinted across the yard to a car parked three behind Houser. The guy got inside, and pulled away. Houser said: “He’s in a Red Camry, heading east on 17th just north of Gardenia Drive.”
    Houser looked at Benedict’s house and figured the guy wasn’t going to come outside doing gymnastics in his yard anytime soon, so he pulled from the curb and followed the burglar. Moments later, he updated the dispatcher, “He just turned south onto Greenview.”
    “Are you following him?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Houser said. “Uh-oh, I think he spotted me, he’s speeding up. But don’t worry, he’s not gonna lose me.”
    “Sir, do not chase him,” the dispatcher said.
    “You don’t want to catch him?” Houser asked. “I’ll back off when I see some cops. Until then, I’m following.”
    The dispatcher was silent. She must be new, he figured, as he sped up, pulling closer to the Camry. Houser hit 60 in a 45 to keep pace. The community was on the quiet side, without much traffic, but that could change in a heartbeat if the Camry pulled onto an artery road, headed toward the city.
    “He’s going about 65, just passed Franklin,” Houser updated the dispatcher.
    “Sir, I must advise you not to speed.”
    Houser laughed, “Yeah, okay.”
    The dispatcher repeated her warning, but Houser ignored her, lowering his right foot. The Camry turned sharply, trying to turn onto a crossroad, but instead, slid out of control, and hit a parked Audi.
    “He just crashed into a parked Audi,” Houser said as he pulled up behind the guy, whose car was stalled. “He’s stalled. Should I sit here with my thumb up my ass or you got someone coming?”
    “Officers are on the way,” she said.
    Houser looked around, “Unless you’ve got some new invisible cops I don’t know about, I don’t see, or hear, anything close by. Uh-oh. He’s out and on foot. I’m gonna go get ‘em.”
    “Sir, please let the officers handle this,” the dispatcher said.
    “Sure thing … when they get here,” Houser said, putting the camera down, then hopping from his car.
    Ski Mask turned around, eyes wide as he saw Houser giving chase. Houser was six foot five, 260 pounds of muscle, an intimidating fucker standing still, but Hell personified when charging. A white mom and black dad made Houser the perfect shade of mocha, just dark enough to intimidate most white guys when he wanted, but not so dark he had trouble getting into places where the only non-whites welcome were on the payroll.
    Ski Mask dropped his duffel and reached behind his back.
    Oh shit!
    Ski Mask didn’t have a gun, but he did have a blade. Houser smiled. From 10 feet the blade was a kernel of corn in a pile of shit, unless Ski Mask was a ninja. Houser pulled his gun and said, “Drop the knife.”
    The dispatcher spoke, “Sir, do you still have a visual on the suspect?”
    “You could say that,” Houser said, “he’s waving a knife around, but I’m pretty sure I can squeeze off six shots before he reaches me. What do you think?”
    Houser said this for Ski mask’s benefit, not the dispatcher’s, who only answered with an uncertain sigh. Houser was pretty sure she was starting to take a shine to him. Ski Mask’s eyes were wide and terrified. He dropped the knife, then the bag.
    “Good boy,” Houser said, advancing, gun still drawn, ready to drop the phone in a moment’s notice, to either chase or fight. He didn’t have to do either. A siren blurted behind him, followed by a woman’s voice over the speaker. “Put the gun down, sir.”
    “I’ve gotta go now,” Houser said to the dispatcher, and set the phone on the ground beside his gun, nice and slow. As two uniformed officers approached, guns drawn on he and Ski Mask, Houser turned to explain the situation, then smiled at the familiar face of Detective Stephen Chan.
    “Oh Jesus,” Chan said with a grin. “I heard some crazy asshole was chasing a