by Neal Griffin
In the car, Ben tried to focus. Wild ideas ran through his mind. Everything was a long shot. All of it fraught with risk.
Ben held the composite sketch and stared hard at the face looking back at him before folding the paper and putting it in his pocket. There would be no easy way, but Ben had never asked for that. Any way. Any chance. That’s all he needed.
FORTY-TWO
Ben half jogged through the long, stark, harshly lit hallway of Chicago General Hospital. Doctors and nurses floated about as if they were somehow disconnected from the rest of humanity. Groups of family members clustered outside rooms, often huddled in quiet conversation. Some were smiling, their expressions reflecting relief and hope. Others dabbed at their eyes, their faces marked by disbelief and sadness. The oldest people Ben saw were very old indeed and, for the most part, alone. Invisible to everyone were the orderlies and cleaning staff, who were well represented not only by their presence but by the thick scent of Pine-Sol.
He’d left Newberg at daybreak, making the three-hour drive to Chicago in a little more than two. This was the first day Tia was being allowed visitors and Ben had to see her. Not just to see for himself that she was alive and how she was doing, but also to find out just what had happened after she’d left his house two days before.
Ben navigated through people, medical equipment, and food carts. As he searched for Tia’s room number, he saw two uniforms sitting in a doorway not far ahead. It was a pretty good bet, that was where he’d find her. He approached the officers, who stood. One put out a hand to stop Ben and spoke with polite authority.
“Official business only, sir.”
The patch on his arm identified the man not as hospital security but as Chicago PD. Ben was impressed with the department’s commitment of resources.
Looking first at the officer’s name tag, Ben said, “How’re you doing, Officer Woods? I’m her sergeant. Ben Sawyer. Newberg PD.”
“No problem, sir. Could I just see your badge?”
Now, that was a problem. Still suspended, Ben’s badge was back in Newberg, in Jorgensen’s desk. “Uh, yeah … I…”
Suspicious of a man who said he was a cop but was unable to produce proof of it, Woods shifted to block the door. Ben admired the action even as he wondered how he was going to get past these guys. He hadn’t expected Tia to be so protected.
The voice that called from inside the room was weak, but Ben recognized it immediately.
“It’s okay, Albert. That’s my sergeant. You can let him in.”
Ben patted his pockets and turned sheepish. “Must’ve left it in the car.”
The officer’s defenses disappeared. “No sweat, Sarge. You want me to shut the door?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
Ben walked into the dim room, which was lit only by the midday sun leaking through the thick shades pulled down over the windows. The single bed was surrounded by beeping equipment; hoses and tubes ran everywhere. The enormity of it all—the shooting, the hospital, the near-death experience—seemed to have swallowed her whole.
Her head was turned toward the door. She raised an opened hand a few inches off the bed, and Ben swooped in and took it in both of his own.
“Tia, what the hell did you do? I told you to stay out of it.”
“Yeah … it’s good to see you too.”
Ben laughed. “Damn, girl. You’re looking rough. How’re you feeling?”
“Honestly, not bad. Between growing up in a migrant camp, going off to war, now being a cop, it’s almost like I’ve been waiting half my life to get shot full of lead. I finally got it over with.”
Ben couldn’t hide his relief that Tia was alive and talking. He squeezed her hand. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
Tia’s voice turned lyrical as she switched to Spanish.
“Papa, Mama. Este es mi jefe y mi amigo.” Tia smiled as she gave the Spanish version of his name. “Ben-ha-meen Sawyer.” Ben had followed along with the basic introductions but was glad when Tia continued in English, “Sarge, I’d like to introduce you to my parents. Enrique and Consuelo Solis-Suarez.”
For the first time Ben noticed the man and woman sitting quietly behind him and turned to greet them. Tia’s father stood up. He was dressed in pressed jeans, a pearl-button shirt, and a bolo. Most men would have looked comical in such an outfit, but on this solid, compact man with a dark, weatherworn complexion, it worked. Enrique Suarez’s leather boots were clean, but by the wear of them Ben bet more often than not they weren’t. On the table next to his chair sat an aged Western hat that screamed with authenticity.
“Ah, Señor Sawyer. Mucho gusto.” The man’s voice was reverent and he extended his hand. He continued, in accented English, “My daughter speaks of you often. And always with very great respect. My pleasure is to meet you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Suarez. Mucho gusto. Your daughter…” Ben shook hands with Mr. Suarez, and was surprised by the wave of emotion that swept over him. “Your daughter is very special to me, to all of us at the police department. We were … we were sad to hear about what happened. But she’s going to be okay.”
Still seated, the woman bowed her head slightly and gave a polite smile. Ben returned the smile and added a nod of acknowledgment.
Enrique struggled for words. “My daughter. She tells me of your troubles. Tu esposa. Yo lo siento. My wife and I, we pray for…”
He looked to his daughter for help, “Mija, como se dice interceder?”
Tia looked warmly on her father; clearly the center of her world. “Intercede, Papa. You say intercede.”
“We pray for God to intercede,” Mr. Suarez said.
Ben, not big on prayer, was grateful anyway. “Thank you, sir. I think God must’ve sent your daughter to do just that, but he needs to keep up his end of the bargain and keep a closer eye on her.”
Mr. Suarez translated for his wife. Mrs. Suarez covered her mouth in shock and crossed herself fervently. Tia spoke to her parents lovingly in Spanish. Ben couldn’t follow a word of it, but Mrs. Suarez rose as her husband said, in a voice full of pride, “My daughter wishes to speak to you in private, sir. We will … uh, we will stretch out our legs, sí?”
Ben shook hands again with Tia’s father and stepped away from the bed, letting her mother get closer. The women exchanged a few quiet words; Tia laughed softly.
Once both her parents had left the room, Tia took a deep breath. A look of intense pain flooded her face and Ben clenched his jaw at the sight. After a moment, the pain eased and Tia looked at her boss with the slightest glimmer of a twinkle in her eye.
“My mom said I forgot to mention my boss was an infidel.”
“Oops. Sorry,” Ben said. “Did I offend?”
“My mom prays before she crosses the street. That’s her world. Don’t worry about it.” Tia’s weak voice grew serious in tone. “How’s Alex? How’re you holding up?”
“Pretty damn good, thanks to you and Darnell Reynolds. Alex and I had a great visit last week, spent about three hours together. I was able to see her again yesterday afternoon, and I got her up to speed. She was devastated at first, but I told her that you had pulled through and I was headed down here today for a visit. She sends her best.”
“Darnell’s good people. We go way back to Afghanistan. He saved my ass a few times.” Tia frowned, changing the subject. “Ben, listen to me. You’ve got to get down to Danville. There’s a case there…” She stopped and held her breath, wincing in pain.
“Take it easy,” Ben said. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.”
“Yes, we do,” Tia said, gasping after each word. “You need to get to Danville. Seale and I were going over the case against Alex when that guy opened up on us.” Ben could see Tia’s expression grow distant as her mind shifted gears, remembering the diner. “He just came walking up. I just figured him for some civilian. I never had a chance to…”
“Listen to me,” Ben said. “I don’t want you stressing about this r
ight now. You need to stop talking.”
“Goddamn it, Sawyer. You listen to me.” Ben looked over his shoulder. She had almost been loud enough to be heard in the hall, and he didn’t want the Chicago cops to come running in.
“There was a murder in Danville. Whoever pulled it also killed Louis Carson.” Tia took a deep breath and went on. “There’s no doubt about it. He’d duped nine one one calls on both cases. I confirmed it, and no, I’m not telling you how.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Tia? How can I use the info if we can’t talk about it? I don’t care if you violated some search protocol. We’ll get around it.”
Tia grinned. “There you go again, thinking it’s like the eye chart.”
“Just fill me in, Tia. I can handle it.”
“No, you can’t and believe me, the U.S. government won’t be too happy if they start getting more press for a database that doesn’t even exist.”
“Jesus, Tia. What the hell did you do?” Ben could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You reached out to your old crew didn’t you? Your intelligence contacts?”
Tia was weak and the stress of the moment was heavy, but her head seemed clear.
“Don’t worry about that. Just get to Danville and find another angle.”
“All right. But at least tell me what I’m looking for.”
Tia swallowed hard and spoke in a near whisper. “Get down there. Work around the nine one one. That connection will have to get made later and by somebody else. But I’m telling you, the caller is the same guy in both cases.”
Tia took a couple of deep breaths. “Danville PD has a guy under arrest for the murder of a transvestite prostitute. I can tell you he is as innocent as Alex. Start there. The guy I was working with, Tony Seale, he was great…”
Ben squeezed her hand.
“I got a good feeling from him, Ben. I think he was probably a hell of a cop. I wish I could have—”
Ben knew she was getting worked up and cut her off. “Not now. Don’t do that. There will come a time for that, but not now.”
“All right,” she said, nodding and closing her eyes for a moment. “But get down there. Find someone you can work with. That case is a copycat of the Carson murder.”
Ben thought back to his badgeless condition. That would have to be fixed.
“Okay, I’m on it. Now get some rest. And no more getting worked up. I’m glad to know you got the uniforms at your door. I want your word you won’t have any more to do with this.”
Tia looked down at herself. “Yeah. I promise.”
“I’m glad you’re okay. You scared the hell out of all of us. We thought we lost you.”
Ben watched a look of peace came over Tia.
“I was in good hands, Sarge. There was never a doubt I’d make it back. I still got a lot of life to live.”
“What do you mean good hands? Back from where?” He was clearly clueless about such things.
“Just get to Danville,” she said. “Start there.”
Ben turned to leave, but Tia called his name. When he looked back, he saw that her face was contorted in pain, so he waited. When it passed, Tia said firmly, “You gotta hear me on this, Ben. The guy who shot me. Who shot Seale. He’s your man. I know that’s a leap, but he killed Carson. You find him and Alex comes home.”
Ben practically ran from the hospital, filled with a new purpose. He got to the minivan, pulling out his car keys and cell phone from his pocket. He dialed the number from memory. He started the engine, waiting for someone to pick up.
“Bernie? It’s me—”
That’s as far as he got before she cut him off. He listened but jumped back in as soon as she took a breath. “Tia is fine. Well, not fine, but she’s going to be. I saw her, Bernie. She’s going to be okay.”
Ben allowed Bernie to express her relief. He needed her undivided attention. When he felt she was ready, he changed the subject.
“Bernie, listen to me for a minute.” His voice was serious. “I need you to do something for me. I hate to ask you, but I’ve go nobody else I can trust who could pull this off.”
Ben paused and listened to the woman on the other end. “I know, Bernie. I know you would and I appreciate that. But this is different. You need to be careful. Here’s what I need you to do.”
Ben dropped the minivan into gear and pulled into traffic as he explained his plan to Bernice. After the conversation ended, he headed north. His mind was focused and his body energized. He couldn’t help but think it felt damn good to have a plan.
FORTY-THREE
Doyle McKenzie walked past the desk of Bernice Erickson as if she wasn’t even there. He knocked softly and walked into the chief’s office, closing the door behind him. He began to speak without waiting for any acknowledgment.
“Chief, we need to talk about Plate Boyd. He’s all over my ass on the Suarez shooting. Sawyer’s got him all spun up, filled his head with all kinds of bullshit. He wants me to reopen the Carson murder. Compare it to Danville. Hell, he wants me to drive down there and follow up with the detectives.”
Jorgensen looked up from behind his desk, and McKenzie picked up on the look of annoyance. The chief didn’t hide his irritation.
“You know, Doyle, I’m starting to think you’re in over your head. How is it I go out of my way to be sure you are the lead investigator on this case, and Sawyer, a guy who doesn’t even have a badge, not to mention he is cut off from any official access, somehow does an end run around your ass? How does that happen?”
“I don’t know, boss, I just know that there’s no way Plate is coming up with this shit on his own.”
“Who’s feeding Sawyer information? He’s got to have a source. Did you clean up all the historical bullshit like I told you?”
“Yeah, Chief. It’s dealt with. Harlan Lee never existed in Newberg.”
“Suarez?” Jorgensen asked.
“That’s a problem. I know they’re tight.” McKenzie lowered his voice and proceeded more cautiously. “So, this guy they got hooked up for killing the he-she. He’s hooked into Lee, right?”
“No shit. Is that just coming to you?” Jorgensen closed his eyes and turned away. “Jesus, we do have problems.”
The insult stung, but McKenzie kept going. “What now?”
“Relax. Don’t react. Sawyer is just throwing shit at the wall. Don’t worry about Plate. He’ll lose interest, and Sawyer can’t put it all together on his own.”
“Suarez?” McKenzie asked.
Jorgensen vented his anger.
“I’m tempted to reel that little bitch in. She’s down there palling around with another agency, asking questions tied to an official department investigation. Feeding info to Sawyer. When she gets out of the hospital she’ll be answering to me.” The chief paused. “But the damage is done. Leave her out of it. Keep an eye on Sawyer. Pay a visit or two to his wife. She’ll tip her hand if she knows anything.”
“What about this attorney? This Petite character?”
“Handled,” Jorgensen said. “Let’s just say he saw the wisdom of going with the program. He’s out of play now, and you make damn sure he stays that way. Under no circumstances does Sawyer get a chance to make that connection.”
“All right, Chief.” McKenzie headed for the door. “But you gotta know, this shit is a distraction. We’re losing out on other opportunities, if you know what I mean. I don’t care what happens to that broke-dick Norgaard or his bitch of a daughter. Seems like we could have just let this shit run its course and we’d have been better off.”
“Let’s be clear, Doyle.” McKenzie knew the chief wanted his full attention.
“What’s that, Chief?”
“You serve at my pleasure. All you do, all you get to do, flows from this office. If I say this case is a priority, that’s all you need to hear.”
McKenzie held the man’s eye and wondered if the time had come for some push back. He answered his own question as he turned to leave.
“Whatev
er you say, Chief. You’re the boss, but there’s money on the street. Until we get clear of this shit, that’s where it’ll stay.”
McKenzie closed the office door as he left. Walking by the desk of Bernice Erickson, he thought he caught the hint of a smile.
“Having a good day, Detective?”
McKenzie grunted in response but gave a last look over his shoulder on his way out the door.
FORTY-FOUR
“Sergeant Sawyer?”
The man approached as if in a rush, his long arm already out in front of him. Ben took the man’s offered hand and did his best to come off casual, ignoring the jackhammer pulse that tripped in his neck. Since his visit with Tia two days before, Ben had known what he needed to do, but now that he was here it felt all wrong. From the moment he arrived at the small PD building with the flag at half-mast and quiet subdued hallways, he felt like he was committing some sort of terrible sin.
“Yeah,” Ben stood as he answered. “Call me Ben.”
“I’m Detective Dave Jensen.” His large hand swallowed Ben’s as he towered over Ben by six inches. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Detective Jensen was dressed in a dark suit that hung on a lanky frame. His white shirt was pinched around his neck by a black necktie, and he wore his police shield clipped on the lapel of his jacket, a black band covering the badge. Detective Jensen explained the reason for the wait. His voice and mood were somber. “We’re planning the funeral services for Tony Seale tomorrow. We never buried one of our own before. At least not like this. Getting killed on duty. Anyway … like I said. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Ben was sincere in his response. “It is the hardest thing to do in police work. I’ve been there. My heart goes out to all of you.”
The detective remained grim faced. He looked at the thick file in Ben’s hands. “I hope you had time to read over the file.”
