Portland Cop DJ Appleby goes from bad apple to badass. Ride along with Bad Apple for an intimate look at the man behind both the badge and the bars.
Too often, cops are accused of operating outside the law, as seen recently in places like Ferguson, Missouri, Cleveland, Ohio, and Baltimore, Maryland. Most such accusations are false, but occasionally, there is a bad apple in the bushel.
Meet Officer DJ Appleby, one of Portland's finest; winner of the Medal of Valor, lead hostage negotiator, ex-SERT team operator. But what a difference a day can make. On patrol one day and ruthlessly hunted down by the police the next, DJ, has become Oregon's most notorious bad apple.
Surrounded by his own SERT team, on the phone with his fellow negotiators, DJ still manages to pull one hell of a disappearing act. But he can't hide forever, and when the clock finally runs out, he's forced to survive in the worst place a cop can be. But DJ's a resourceful guy, and he rises to the occasion—all the way to the very top of the food chain. There, looking his demons squarely in the eye, he doles out some justice of his own, Bad Apple style. And in doing so, DJ inadvertently sets up a chain reaction that will change his life forever.
Excerpt
Prologue
I eat meals I can’t afford. It started when I won a raffle at work for an all-you-can-eat dinner at Morton’s Steakhouse in Portland. I ordered their most expensive cut, along with several appetizers and a couple of side dishes, and it was the best meal of my life. With drinks and dessert, it came to just over two and a half bills, but it didn’t cost me a thing. Even the tip was covered. When you love food like I do, you don’t forget a meal like that.
Sometimes, I can just taste that dinner, completely out of the blue. It’s called a gustatory memory. The appetizers themselves were better than most main courses I’ve ever had. I drool like one of Pavlov’s dogs every time I think about it.
Even though I can’t afford to eat like that on my own nickel, I’ve done it several times since then—twice at Morton’s and once each at El Gaucho and Ruth’s Chris. Next on my list is Portland City Grill. I’ll probably go before my next paycheck, which will really screw up my budget. Damn the financial consequences; my craving is just too strong to resist.
Sometimes, my other urges are like that, too.
Chapter 1
March 15, 2014
The end of life as I knew it came on a Saturday. The urge had been coming on strong for over a week, just like the gustatory memory. But I was slow to respond because satisfying this particular craving does not come easy to me. My anxiety had been increasing for days, ever since the urge started coming on. I usually feel like that right up until the moment I do something about it; at which point, everything suddenly makes perfect sense, and I’m back in my comfort zone. It happens every time.
Somehow or other, I made it through the workday. It was pouring and unseasonably cold when I left the office. March in Oregon can be like that. They say it only rains once a year in the Pacific Northwest—from October ‘til May. Weather-wise, the one thing you can count on is that it’s predictably unpredictable. Tomorrow will probably be sunny and seventy.
I’m a carnivore, and I was hungry after work, starving actually. There wasn’t a lot in my apartment that could still be considered edible. In my place, red meat isn’t bad for you. Fuzzy, green meat is bad for you. I sat in my car and tried to decide where to go.
Some of the guys at work had been raving about a place called Killer Burger in Northeast Portland. I liked the name, so I looked the place up. I found it at the corner of NE Tillamook and Sandy, which was a few miles out of my way, but I figured it might be worth the trip.
I pulled up and noticed the streets surrounding the place were mostly empty, probably because of the weather. A couple of pickups, a soccer mom van, and a lowered 90’s Nissan were the only vehicles parked nearby.
There were only three people in the dining room, a young couple in their twenties and a well-dressed guy about my age. As for employees, I only saw three: a multi-pierced teen whose name tag said NICK, a pimply
girl about twenty years old scrubbing down the grill, and a young man in his mid-twenties. There might or might not have been another kitchen scullion somewhere in the back.
As I tried to decide what to order, the urge slapped me hard in the face, and at that moment, I just knew. It was going to happen, right here and right now, and it would be a doozy. In a flash, I was as taut as a guitar string.
I wasn’t prepared for this, but that only heightened my excitement. For a moment, I thought it might not happen, but then I knew there was no stopping it.
“Welcome to Killer Burger,” said NICK. “What can I get you?” And then it happened.
Chapter 2
My gun, a beautiful fourth-generation .40 caliber Glock 27, came out in a smooth, well-practiced draw. “Your complete and utter cooperation,” I said quietly to Nick and the girl. “You can start by not moving a muscle, either of you.” I had my back to the dining room, so the couple at the table was still oblivious to what was going on.
I pushed open the aluminum door and leaned into the storage area. There were no other employees. “This is a robbery,” I declared, unnecessarily. By now, the manager knew what was going on. His hands were held the highest of them all. “All of you, get down on the floor— right here on this side of the counter. Do it now!”
They did it now.
Keeping them in view, I stepped back into the dining room. The young couple had both stopped chewing, their mouths agape midbite. He was a hipster, pure Portland: scraggly beard, black-framed glasses, funky hat, shorts, and Birkenstocks with dark socks. She was a ginger with bland orange hair, empty blue eyes, and freckly skin so pale she looked sick. The other man was still blissfully unaware.
“You two! Dinner’s over. Get back here, and get down on the floor. You too, buddy,” I said, addressing the other guy. “Let’s go. On the floor behind the counter. Right now.”
I now had the undivided attention of everyone in the restaurant. It took a moment to sink in, but then they all nervously stood and obeyed. They’d all watched enough TV to know that the proper way to lie on the floor when ordered by a robber is facedown.
“You!” I said, pointing at the ginger, “You’re going to lock the front door. If you try to run, I will shoot your boyfriend. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes,” she said, crying. From her right nostril glistened a small snotcicle, slowly making its way toward her upper lip.
“Manager, what’s your name?”
“Eric Saunders, sir.”
“Eric, give her your keys. The cameras . . . real or fake?”
As he handed them to the girl, he said, “They’re real, sir.”
I put the barrel against her boyfriend’s head, and she got up and began fumbling with the door, trying to find the right key.
“Ok, good. Now this is exactly what’s going to happen here. When—”
The bathroom door unexpectedly burst open, and a fat guy in a cowboy hat came charging out, shouting. He looked scared, but determined. He held a smallish pistol, a Walther PPK maybe. It was pointed right at me.
I’d been a Ranger in the army and spent my entire life around weapons, but this is where training worked against me. Action, I know, is faster than reaction, and any fight, even a gunfight, is won more in the head than with guns or anything else. This man wasn’t mentally prepared for what he was trying to do. I was. He probably expected me to drop my gun, maybe put my hands in the air.
I did none of those things. I just acted—faster than he could react. Had I not been so well trained, I would have taken a moment to think about it, and I am sure I wouldn’t have shot him. I didn’t want to shoot him. But I didn’t think; I just did what I’d been trained to do. I don’t even remember doing it. As I pulled the trigger, my mind registered his last words: “Deputy sheriff! Drop the gun!”
I scored two center mass hits just under an inch apart, dead smack between the nipples. A perfect double tap. He went straight to the floor in the little alcove between the front door and the bathroom.
As the shots echoed into silence, I was as confused as everyone else in the restaurant. What the hell just happened? I looked at the body on the floor, and when I realized that I may have actually just killed a cop, I almost vomited.
I hadn’t been in the restaurant for two minutes.
Professional Reviews
Alafair Burke, NYT bestelling author of the Ex
“Bad Apple bursts out of the gate with a what-did-I-just-read opening scene and doesn’t let go until the last riveting page. Barry Ozeroff knows his stuff, and it shows.”
Bill McDonald, founder of the American Authors Association
“A plot thriller that keeps unfolding with continued non-stop action from beginning to end. Bad Apple makes for good entertainment! This book is a solid piece of literary creative gold!”
Marilyn Meredith, author of the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series
"Bad Apple is not like any book you’ve ever read before. From the opening pages, it’s one surprise after another, and you’ll never guess the ending. Highly recommended."
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