Code Four

by Colin Conway

  “I see. So once you ‘contacted’ him,” Watson made air quotes at the word, “was there any chance he wasn’t leaving the house in your custody?”

  Zielinski sighed. “No, I guess not.”

  “So it’s something of a difference without a distinction, isn’t it, Officer?”

  “He went voluntarily,” Zielinski persisted. He knew it didn’t matter, but it irritated him that someone who held others to task didn’t seem to care much about being accurate herself.

  “As you already stated, he was essentially already in custody from the moment you arrived. If he believed his committal was voluntary, then I’m sure that helped you with the process, and perhaps the paperwork, too.”

  “My paperwork was good.”

  “I’m certain it was. Here’s the entire reason I’m asking you about this: what else do you know about the councilman’s involvement with Bethany Rabe?”

  “Nothing.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “At all?”

  “No.”

  “How about Sonya Meyer?”

  “Who’s that?”

  Watson’s eyebrows fell and she frowned. “She was murdered around the same time as you arrested Mr. Hahn. He was rumored to have been involved with her as well. Detective Clint is the primary detective on the case.”

  Zielinski shrugged. “Outside of my area of concern.”

  “Really. All right, let’s turn to something closer to home. You were assigned to the Anti-Crime Team.”

  “I was.”

  “Why?”

  Zielinski turned up his hands. “You’d have to ask the brass.”

  “Who, exactly?”

  “Sergeant McGinn, I guess. Or Captain Farrell. I don’t know who made the team selection.”

  “What was your role on the team?”

  “Same as everyone else’s. Catch bad guys.”

  Watson turned up the corners of her mouth. “Cute. What dimension did you bring to the team?”

  “Experience?”

  “So you were the team leader?”

  “No.”

  “Who was?”

  He remembered how Garrett had driven the team’s actions once McGinn went out on compassionate leave and the ineffective Ragland took over. Was that what she was searching for? Dirt on Garrett? She’d started there, with his shooting. He knew from Clint that Garrett had injected himself into the Rabe situation, and even shown up at the Meyer homicide. Now she was focusing on the Anti-Crime Team. If DOJ was looking into Garrett, maybe he should help them. They had more resources than Clint did, and from what he’d heard, federal time was worse than state time.

  Then Clint’s words from their meeting at the Happy Time Tavern rang out in his ears, as clear as Watson’s had been moments ago. How if DOJ came in, the odds of Garrett seeing justice went down considerably. And how Garrett might use the opportunity to cut a deal for immunity. Tell the feds whatever they wanted to hear.

  No way. No way does Garrett get away with this.

  “Sergeant Ragland was in charge,” he said.

  “What was your relationship to the other team members?” Watson pressed.

  “We got along fine.”

  “Friendly?”

  “We were professional.”

  “Things didn’t go so well for your team, did they?”

  Zielinski hesitated. “We put some bad people behind bars,” he said carefully. “But, in the end, you’re right. It ended badly.”

  “Officer Stone dead, Officer Yang off the department, and you suspended. Seems like Officer Garrett was the only one who survived that disaster.”

  Zielinski met her gaze. He felt the weight of all that he knew pressing outward from his throat, but his gut told him he couldn’t trust this woman. Clint would say it was because she was a fed, but it was more than that. He knew anything he said would be taken in the most unfavorable light possible.

  “I guess he’s lucky,” Zielinski said.

  Watson closed her file. “I get the sense that you’re not being one hundred percent honest with me, Officer.”

  “I get the sense that you always feel that way.”

  Watson stared hard at him. “Hazards of the job, I suppose.”

  Zielinski shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

  “So I’ll just make a note that you weren’t cooperative,” Watson said, “and perhaps we’ll continue this discussion another time.”

  “I’ve answered your questions,” Zielinski said.

  “Not honestly.”

  “You get to decide that?” Zielinski asked. “I tell you what I know, all facts, and you decide I’m lying? What kind of bullshit is that?”

  Watson stood, file in hand. “Stating facts we already know and withholding the complete truth isn’t cooperation, Officer Zielinski. It’s what we call malicious compliance. Trust me, I see it frequently. It never ends well for the person trying it.”

  Zielinski watched her turn and go. He wished for a moment that he had some sort of snappy comeback to hurl at her as she walked out the door, but nothing came to him, short of the tried and true fuck you! He knew that would do more harm than good, so he kept his mouth closed.

  Once he was sure Watson was gone, he leaned back and let out a long sigh. For a fed, that woman had been tough. Not the kind of person he wanted on his ass, which is exactly where she seemed to enjoy being.

  Pain and worry brewed in his stomach. This was coming to a head. He could feel it. Everything. His IA cases, the Garrett situation, all of it.

  Zielinski frowned. Resentment joined the emotional mixture in his gut. None of it was fair. Not the way things had turned out for him, and definitely not the way Garrett seemed to be skating out of danger every single time. The man lived a charmed life.

  What goes around, comes around.

  He used to believe that, after a fashion. What did they call it? Karma? Maybe it didn’t act in a strict mathematical fashion, but he always thought that whatever a person put out into the world with his acts and deeds and intentions was usually what came back to him. He’d seen too many people do bad shit and then end up with bad shit happening to them not to believe it wasn’t at least a little true.

  On the wall, the thin red second hand twirled around the face of the clock. He wondered how long it would be before they finally swapped it out with a digital one. After he was gone, most likely. Which looked more and more like it would be sooner rather than later, whether he deserved it or not.

  Zielinski sat in the chair for several minutes, stewing on that thought. Finally, he decided that there was another truth he believed in. Yeah, what goes around, comes around. But it doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Sometimes, you gotta be the one to bring it around.

  That’s what he intended to do.

  He had to let Farrell know that DOJ was closing in. Then, together, they needed to corral Clint and form a plan. Otherwise, everything really might come crashing down, and Garrett really might win.

  Zielinski stood and left the conference room, hurrying down the hallway toward mahogany row.

  Chapter 43

  Chief Robert Baumgartner stared across his desk at Farrell, not believing what he’d just heard.

  “Two years, Tom? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Chief, I—”

  Baumgartner held up his hand, his mind rushing, trying to catch up to this new revelation. He felt like he’d been watching a play in which the hero was all of the sudden revealed to be a villain. Every wrinkle and nuance of everything he knew about Garrett, about Clint, about Farrell, was now changed.

  Oh, shit. This is going to kill this department.

  He glared at Farrell.

  What have you done?

  “Two years,” Baumgartner mumbled again. “You sat on a murdering cop for two years.”

  “The mayor—”

  “The mayor didn’t know,” the chief interrupted. He jerked a thumb toward his own chest. “I didn’t know.”

  Farrell dropped his gaze. “I thought it was
best that way. Until we had enough to guarantee a conviction.”

  “Do you know what you’ve done here?” Baumgartner asked him, still astounded. He shook his head unbelievingly. “Jesus Christ. You should have told me two years ago, Tom, or not at all.”

  Farrell raised his eyes. “I thought…” He trailed off.

  “It doesn’t matter what you thought. What matters now is that I have to clean up this massive pile of shit you just dropped on my desk. I don’t know if I’m going to survive this, and worse than that, I don’t know if this police department will.”

  Farrell’s lip quivered. “I was trying to—”

  “Shut up.” Baumgartner leaned forward. “I need you to tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out. I have to know every last detail if I’m going to stand a chance on this one.”

  Farrell opened his mouth but was interrupted by voices outside the office door.

  “I need to see him now!” snapped a woman’s voice. “I don’t care what he’s doing.”

  Baumgartner frowned. Rude interruptions like this were extremely rare, and even then, Marilyn usually handled them deftly. He didn’t know who was being so insistent, but he knew for certain that whatever she wanted to talk to him about wasn’t more important than what he needed to hear from Farrell right now.

  The door to his office burst open, and Édelie Durand stepped in. His eyes narrowed in surprise and then anger. He stood to protest, but Durand beat him to the punch.

  “I need to talk with you,” she said in a tone full of resolve.

  “I’m busy at the moment,” Baumgartner said. “Give me thirty minutes and—”

  “Not you,” Durand said. She pointed at Farrell. “You.”

  Farrell seemed to shrink in his seat. “Me?”

  “Now,” Durand added. “There’s a conference room across the hall. Let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute,” Baumgartner said, his legendary anger flaring up. He wasn’t sure what had gotten under Durand’s skin, but he wasn’t going to let her barge into his office and dictate terms like they were already under a consent decree.

  A moment later, the weight of that thought settled on him, and some of the fire went out of his chest.

  Durand fixed him with a cool gaze. “Or if you want to give us the room, Chief, I’m happy to have my conversation with Captain Farrell right here.”

  Baumgartner boomeranged right back into being angry again. “Across the hall is fine,” he growled.

  “Good.” Durand beckoned Farrell with a crook of her finger.

  Farrell stood slowly. He glanced from Baumgartner to Durand, then back again. He looked beaten, even worse than when he confessed all that he’d done. Baumgartner gave him a hard look and tried to bore a single thought into the captain’s head.

  Don’t make this any worse.

  Durand turned around and left the room. Farrell followed her. Baumgartner stepped around his desk and scrambled out his doorway to catch up. He spotted Durand already standing across the hallway, holding the door open. Farrell was still in the waiting area, skulking reluctantly toward Durand. Baumgartner also registered Ray Zielinski, standing in the hallway in civilian clothes, gawking at the scene in front of him. His longtime secretary, Marilyn, watched on in surprise.

  “Tom!” Baumgartner said in a low, urgent voice.

  Farrell turned. He had the look of a condemned man.

  “We’re not finished,” Baumgartner said. “As soon as you’re done talking to her, you come find me. Are we clear?”

  Farrell nodded dutifully.

  “Immediately after,” Baumgartner stressed.

  “I will,” Farrell said. He waited for any further direction from the chief, and when Baumgartner didn’t add to what he’d already said, Farrell turned and trudged the rest of the way to the conference room. For his part, Zielinski disappeared down the hallway, probably eager to get out of the line of fire. Only Marilyn didn’t turn away from the train wreck.

  Baumgartner ignored it all. He looked at Durand. Their eyes met, and then she closed the door. The latch clicked in place, but Chief Baumgartner kept staring at the blond wood of the door, wishing for answers that weren’t there.

  Chapter 44

  Tyler Garrett strode confidently through the parking lot of the public safety building. Earlier in the morning, he’d been called by a DOJ investigator to schedule an appointment. He tried to play the day-off card, but she wasn’t having any of it. He didn’t want her in his home, so he agreed to meet at the department.

  He thought about inviting Dale Thomas along, but the man hadn’t impressed him after his two shootings. Therefore, he was taking the “less is more” approach with the union president.

  The phone buzzed in his left pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. It was a text message from Royal Harjo. All’s quiet on the home front.

  The moment Earl Ellis went missing, he should have put a man on the grandmother’s house. He hesitated to do it while Clint and Zielinski were watching it, but he should have risked it for the intel alone. Now, he was hoping it wasn’t too late. For a bit, he mentally chastised himself, but he couldn’t do that anymore.

  Now was time for business.

  The phone in his right pocket buzzed. He tucked the burner away and pulled out his normal phone. It was a text message from Tiana. Good luck, baby. I love you.

  His quickly responded with a Luv U and put the phone away.

  When he got done with this interview, Garrett planned to task Harjo to go back through Ellis’s network to see if anyone had heard anything from the man. Maybe Ellis had reached out to someone. It was unlikely, but Garrett should at least check. And he’d already exposed himself to Veryl Wooley. He didn’t need to expose himself to anyone further. Let Harjo do the dirty work. The man was built for it.

  Garrett was also going to do some additional homework on Angie’s boyfriend, William Cardwell. Garrett wasn’t finished with him. He thought Harjo’s beating of the man would have settled things, but it hadn’t.

  Sitting face-to-face with Cardwell had irked Garrett. Then seeing how Angie looked at him only served to anger Garrett. He didn’t like the mental space it put him in. It made him feel weak.

  A quick press of a fob against the west door and he was in the building. He walked down the short hall and took a right, past the Investigative Division and into the section of hallway known as mahogany row, a nickname Garrett was sure the brass gave themselves—the arrogant pricks. The hallway made another right turn at the chief’s office, leading past Crime Analysis and a few other rooms before the door to the public foyer. That was where he found a blonde woman and a Hispanic man huddled close together with a woman in her early fifties. All of them wore suits and the constipated looks of federal employees.

  Justice, my ass.

  He started toward the group.

  It was obvious that the younger suits deferred to the older woman because they nodded while she spoke. Her hands tapped together as she spoke, emphasizing her words. Her dark skin shone slightly under the hallway lights. When she was done speaking, the older woman abruptly turned and walked past him without acknowledgment.

  As he neared, the blonde woman faced him. Recognition flashed in her eyes as if she’d seen him somewhere before. “Tyler Garrett?”

  He nodded.

  “Danielle Watson, Department of Justice.” She pointed to her male counterpart. “Esteban Curado.”

  “Steve,” the Hispanic man said and offered his hand.

  Garrett reluctantly shook it.

  Behind them, Marty Hill came through the door from the public foyer. His face was pinched with concern. When they made eye contact, Garrett smiled and lifted his chin in acknowledgement.

  Hill’s reaction was decidedly less friendly, though. His lip curled and he glared back.

  Garrett lifted his palms in a what’s up? gesture.

  “We’ve got the training room reserved,” Watson said.

  Marty Hill didn’t move. He stood there with
his eyes firmly locked onto Garrett’s.

  “Officer?” Watson said. Her arm was held out, directing him toward a nearby room.

  He glanced toward her and slowly followed Curado toward the doorway. Garrett glanced back at Marty Hill. The detective was gone.

  What the hell was that about?

  Inside the training room, several thick files were arranged on a table inside. A presentation made to intimidate, Garrett was sure he had nothing to fear, though. Everything he’d done while in uniform was already checked and given a department stamp of approval.

  Curado pulled the door with the small window closed behind them.

  Garrett sat so his back was to the far wall. The feds sat across from him. They both put their business cards on the table and slid them toward him. The embossed seal of the Department of Justice was in the right-hand corner. Under each of their names was a simple title—Attorney.

  “This is an informal interview,” Danielle Watson began.

  “Informal?” Garrett said. “Way you made it sound on the phone, I had no choice.”

  “We want to talk with you—”

  “But I can get up now and leave and you won’t have anything to say about it?”

  Watson sarcastically said, “Until we come back under the umbrella of a consent decree and compel you to speak with us.”

  Garrett’s eyes flicked to Curado’s. The man raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak.

  “Listen,” Watson said. “We’re trying to do this in a friendly manner.”

  “Shit,” Garrett said. “There’s never anything friendly about a couple suits in an interview room with a cop.”

  The two feds eyed each other. It was an unspoken signal to transfer the lead.

  Curado leaned forward. “Officer Garrett, do you mind if I call you Tyler?”

  “Call me whatever you want but ask your questions so I can get on with my day.”

  “Tyler,” Curado said. “I’d like to take you back to the night of the shooting with Todd Trotter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s where my questions start.”