by Colin Conway
Watson watched her with concern. “You okay, Edie?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “What about the people? Did Baumgartner or Farrell say anything about the people on the Anti-Crime Team?”
Curado nodded. “I asked why Farrell picked Gary Stone and he said he had just sent him to a surveillance school.”
“Did he send him to the school for the team?” Durand asked. “Or was he sent before Farrell knew he was going to be on the team?”
Curado blinked several times but didn’t answer.
“That’s an important distinction. It would have been an important question, Esteban.”
Watson remained silent as Durand leaned slightly toward Curado who bristled at his supervisor’s use of his given name.
She continued. “Hatcher told me that Stone didn’t have the experience to be on a team like that. So why was he there?”
“The surveillance school,” Curado offered.
“Which brings it right back to my question. Did Farrell send him to the school so he could justify his existence on the team? Or did he realize later that the skill was worth having on the team?”
Esteban Curado shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”
“So Stone wasn’t street worthy,” Watson said softly.
Durand nodded as she leaned back into her chair. She breathed a little easier now that the song was over, and the music had moved to something she had never heard before. “Hatcher said the same thing about Jun Yang. That she was inexperienced. Did Baumgartner or Farrell say anything about her?”
“When I asked about her,” Watson said, “I thought the chief was going to tell me women can’t do police work.”
“I don’t think he would say that,” Durand said.
“Me neither,” Curado chimed in.
“I was there,” Watson said, tapping her chest. “That’s what he was intimating.”
“Were you giving him the Dani Watson special?” Curado asked.
“What’s that mean?”
“You know what I mean. He might say that if you were kicking the man in his—”
Durand coughed. “Kelly Ragland didn’t think she belonged on the team either.”
They turned to her.
“The sergeant said that?” Curado asked.
“Why would he say that?”
“He called her a push around,” Durand said. “He thought she might have been in a relationship with Gary Stone. The man dished on Garrett and Stone, too. He called them Tango and Cash.”
Curado’s brow furrowed. “Tango and Cash?”
Watson laughed. “C’mon, Steve. Where’s your man card? Sylvester Stallone. Jeff Bridges.”
“Never seen it,” Curado said.
“Or was it Kurt Russell?” Watson muttered.
Curado mimed pulling something from his breast pocket and tossing it on the table. “My man card.”
Watson raised her glass to him. “They’re not a good thing to be compared to,” Watson said. “Tango and Cash were hot shots.”
Durand pointed at Watson. “Loose cannons. That’s how Ragland described them.”
“That works,” she said.
Curado frowned. “So Stone was inexperienced, but his sergeant compared him to a loose cannon?”
Durand nodded. “Yeah.”
“Interesting,” Watson said. “Any feedback on Zielinski?”
“Farrell called him experienced,” Curado said.
Durand lifted her glass. “Hatcher suggested the same, but Ragland thought him susceptible to noble cause corruption, especially in light of some recent troubles.”
“What kind of troubles?” Curado asked.
“The kind Dani will find out about when she stops by Internal Affairs tomorrow,” Durand replied.
Curado smiled slightly at her words.
“Noble cause,” Watson said thoughtfully. Then she asked, “Did the sergeant use those exact words?”
Durand nodded. “The union president cut him off after that. Watch out for that one if he shows up to an interview, by the way. I got lucky with Ragland since he was a talker, but anyone else might listen to that man’s advice. He’s suggesting they not talk with us.”
The three of them sat quietly for a few minutes. Each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Watson asked, “So the plan tomorrow? We interview Zielinski and Garrett?”
“Zielinski, yes. Garrett is still last.”
“Why last?”
“A gut feeling. A guy gets screwed by the system like he did, he’s either going to carry a lot of wisdom or a ton of anger. I don’t want our investigation tainted if it’s the latter.”
Durand said, “Make sure you interview Detective Wardell Clint, though. He shadowed the investigation into Garrett’s shooting incident with Todd Trotter. He might have some interesting insights we won’t get from the official paperwork.”
Curado nodded. “And you, boss?”
“I’m going to talk with a councilwoman Captain Hatcher recommended I speak with.” Durand took another sip of wine, thinking. “Keep getting files, too. I want to get as much as we can to take home with us. After this visit, I’m not sure how compliant SPD is going to be without a mandate.”
Chapter 28
“It was nice spending time with the kids today.” Tiana Kennedy smiled. “Molly makes me laugh.”
“She likes you,” Tyler Garrett said.
“I like her.”
They were seated on the suspended bridge of Twigs Bistro and Martini Bar. The bridge hovered above the lobby of River Park Square. They had a view of not only downtown’s Post Street through the large front windows, but the entire mall below. The din of activity added to the ambiance. They had ordered their meals and were each sipping a cocktail.
“Jake really wants to move in with you,” she said.
Garrett nodded. “Someday.”
“When he’s old enough to decide for himself?”
“He’s old enough now,” Garrett said, “but the courts discourage it until they’re sixteen. After that, they can drive themselves around. Then what can you do? There’s no stopping them after then.”
Tiana frowned. “He’s having a tough time with her. I’m not sure he can wait until he’s sixteen.”
“He say something to you?”
“When you went out, he did. He’s not happy. He misses you. He also talked about her new boyfriend.”
“He hasn’t told me much about him.”
Tiana widened her eyes and frowned at the same time. “He’s afraid to.”
He pulled slightly back. “Why?”
“He thinks you’ll do something.”
Garrett smirked. “Like what?”
She shrugged. “Hurt him maybe.”
“I wouldn’t hurt the guy.”
“And that’s what I told him, but Jake is still worried. He knows how tough you are, and he says this guy isn’t so much.”
Garrett sipped his drink and glanced down to the crowds milling below the suspended bridge. After getting seated, Garrett had excused himself and gone into the restroom. Standing in front of the sink was a large Native American man in a Chicago Blackhawks jersey, baggy jeans, and Timberland boots. His hands were in the sink, but nowhere near the running water.
Garrett checked underneath the stalls to make sure no one was seated there.
“We’re alone,” Royal Harjo said.
“This is for you,” Garrett said, and held out a wad of bills.
Harjo’s hand enveloped the cash and quickly slipped it into his pocket. “Anything else?”
“We’re good for now. Unless you’ve heard from Earl.”
“It’s quiet out there,” Harjo said. “Like the man vanished or something.”
“Stay safe,” Garrett said and patted him on the shoulder as he left the restroom.
Now, back in the restaurant, he watched customers ascend the three levels of escalators.
Tiana lifted her drink to study it. “I’ll also say this. Jake doesn’t like that his
mom is messing with a white man.”
“He’s white?” Garrett asked. He pretended a little surprise, but not too much to upset Tiana.
“Yeah and he doesn’t like it.”
“All right. I’ll talk with him.”
“What are you going to say?”
“What can I say? His mom can see who she wants to see.”
Tiana put her hand over his. “He’s a sensitive kid. If you want me to—”
“I’ll talk with him,” Garrett repeated. “It’ll be okay.”
She patted his hand. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
His cell phone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket. “It’s Angie,” he said and showed her the screen.
Tiana’s face hardened. “Perfect timing.”
“I’ll call her back.”
“Better take it now,” she said. “Otherwise, she’ll keep calling. You know how she is.”
Garrett swiped across the screen to answer. “Hey.”
“Ty?” Angie said. Her voice was soft, which made it hard to hear above the noise of the mall. “Can you talk?”
“Sure,” he said.
Tiana crossed her arms.
“My…the guy I’m seeing…”
“Yeah?”
“Where are you? It’s really noisy.”
“I’m out. What’s going on?”
“The guy I told you about? He was assaulted today.”
“Okay.”
Garrett looked to Tiana and rolled his eyes, but she didn’t smile.
“It happened in one of the homes he has for sale,” Angie said. “Can you believe that? It doesn’t make sense. Someone jumped him for no reason.”
“A lot of attacks don’t make sense. Did he call the police?”
Tiana’s brow furrowed and she leaned forward. Garrett was sure she was trying to hear his ex-wife on the other end of the call.
“He did report it,” Angie said. “Fat lot that’s going to do. There’s no witnesses. He had to go to the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Fractured occipital bone. Broken nose. A couple teeth were…He’s a mess, Ty.”
“Is he still there?”
“At the hospital? No. I just brought him home. To my house, I mean.”
Tiana mouthed the words, What’s happening?
Garrett held up a finger as a signal for her to wait.
“I don’t mean to sound rude, Ang, but what do you want me to do about it?”
“I was hoping…” Her voice trailed off. “I mean, maybe you could…I don’t know, look into it. Maybe?”
Garrett inhaled deeply before answering. “Yeah. Okay. Text me his name.”
“Really?”
“And do you have the report number? For the assault?”
“I’ll text that to you, too,” Angie said.
“Then I’ll look into it,” Garrett said. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”
They said their goodbyes and ended the call.
Tiana’s lip curled when she asked. “What was that about?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Her new boyfriend got beat up.”
Tiana’s eyes narrowed. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
“You kidding?” Garrett said with a laugh. “Why in the hell would I do something like that?”
She relaxed then and their food arrived. As Tiana picked up her knife and fork, she said, “I’ll tell you one thing.”
“What’s that?” Garrett said.
Tiana pointed her knife at him and scowled. “I’m not fucking thrilled that the first thing she does when there is a problem is to call you.”
Garrett smiled. For some weird reason, the whole thing made him happy.
WEDNESDAY
Don’t compromise yourself—you’re all you have.
―John Grisham, The Rainmaker
Chapter 29
Ray Zielinski slept fitfully in the front seat of his car throughout the night. Each time he awoke, sometimes only after dozing for a few minutes, he rubbed his eyes and tried to force himself to remain alert for as long as he could. Periodically, he drank the coffee he’d brought in a thermos, mixed with a healthy infusion of Baileys Irish Cream liqueur. The booze made him sleepy, but the caffeine kept him awake, and he told himself the two canceled each other out.
The sky remained black, pierced only by the needle points of stars and a half-shrouded moon. He looked at his watch. The glowing hands told him it was shortly after three. He considered calling it a night. A few hours of real sleep in his bed would freshen him up, and he could be back by midmorning. It wasn’t like he was punching a clock here. Clint had no concrete ideas about when Earl Ellis might return anyway.
Zielinski shook his thermos. It was nearly empty. He poured the remains into the thermos cap that doubled as a cup. The last of the spiked coffee filled it about a third of the way.
Drink this. Then go home.
It seemed like a fair bargain.
He sipped the coffee, which was barely warm at this point. That alone should tell him he was over-achieving in his duties as Clint’s lackey. But what else did he really have to do? Wait around for Internal Affairs to finish its investigation? For his career to end?
Zielinski scanned the street for the thousandth time that night. Nothing moved. Barely anything had, unless you counted a few people coming home late, or the pair of raccoons he spotted working on a trash can just three houses down. That had at least entertained him for a while, watching the furry bandits try to figure out how to get the swinging lid to stay up. They seemed to be making progress when one of the returning cars frightened them off. It turned out to be the homeowner of the garbage can in question. Zielinski wondered if they knew how narrowly they’d avoided having their garbage can burglarized.
So much had to do with chance, he mused. If he hadn’t been sent on a certain call, or if he’d been paying attention while on the way, things would have happened quite differently. Unfortunately for him, fate didn’t intercede, and now he was where he was.
Which was screwed.
I’m going to lose my job.
And then what? Go back to the construction work he’d dabbled in? Compete for work with men half his age, for less money and no benefits?
His kids would love that. They already hated him, but at least they couldn’t say that he didn’t provide. That was about to change.
Or maybe not. He held out some hope that the Internal Affairs investigation would have a few holes, and that Dale Thomas would then punch bigger holes in it. During the review process, he had a friend in Dana Hatcher, who would see things through that lens.
Or would she?
He frowned. Most leaders he’d known in his career drank the company line Kool-Aid at some point. They changed, and usually not for the better. Hatcher always seemed different, but since being promoted to captain, he’d seen signs that she was falling prey to this same path. She was drinking the Kool-Aid, too.
Bottoms up and welcome to the dark side.
The inevitable loss of another good one to the brass made him sad, but he’d seen it so many times that it was hard not to be cynical about it.
If things didn’t go his way on the IA front, there was really only one other possible route to salvation. It was that slim chance that had him sitting in his car at three o’clock in the morning, watching a house at the behest of Wardell Clint. Clint had been clear that Ellis was the golden ticket. He could put Garrett at the head of a drug operations ring, and more importantly, as part of the conspiracy to murder Gary Stone.
Zielinski hadn’t particularly liked Stone. The officer had been pampered in his short career and hadn’t earned it. In the time they spent on the Anti-Crime Team together, all Zielinski saw was Stone emulating his hero, Tyler Garrett.
Some hero.
Zielinski had long held his own suspicions about Garrett. Even so, when Clint had finally r
evealed all he knew about the man, he was shocked. Shocked at what Garrett had done, and that he’d managed to get away with it so far.
I might have fucked up, but at least I’m not dirty.
Garrett was. He needed to be stopped. And if being part of that somehow saved Zielinski’s own career, so be it. He deserved a break.
Zielinski raised his cup to his lips, then stopped. A small flash of light caught his eye. It came from the street almost directly in front of Ellis’s house. A moment later it disappeared.
He put down his coffee and leaned forward, peering into the darkness. The sliver of light appeared again, lasting for several seconds before it was dampened. A slight reddish glow remained.
Zielinski immediately recognized the tactic. He’d used it himself on patrol at night. Cup the end of the flashlight before turning it on. Spread a finger to allow a little light through, directing it in the desired direction. It was light discipline, straight out of Patrol Procedures 101.
That thought sent a jolt through him. Could it be Tyler Garrett? Clint had theorized that Garrett could be looking for Ellis, too.
He hesitated, watching carefully. The silhouette was difficult to make out, and race was impossible for him to determine. But the man had the same basic build as Garrett. Or Ellis, he realized. It could be either one.
The light played peek-a-boo again while Zielinski considered his options. Exit the car and try to sneak up on the man? Wait and see if he went inside the Ellis residence? Call Clint?
“To hell with that,” Zielinski muttered.
He flicked the ignition key, and his sedan rumbled to life. At the sound of the engine, the man froze for a split-second, then turned away.
Zielinski turned on his headlights and flipped on the high beams. At the same time, he dropped his car into gear and leapt forward.
The man was already running.
Damn!
Zielinski accelerated the half block to where the man had been standing, keeping his eyes fixed on the fleeing silhouette. He lurched to a stop, flung open his door, and gave chase. The first few steps were painful, as the long hours of sitting had stiffened his muscles. But after a half dozen strides or so, he hit his rhythm, pumping his arms and breathing deeply.
