by Simon Hawke
"Okay, get these down to the lab," he said. "Maybe we can get a decent voice print that will let us match it to a suspect." He paused. "And let's see if we can't have a divination performed on those, as well."
"You know that's not admissible without corroborating evidence," Moran said.
"Yes, I know, but at this point, we haven't got anything to go on, and I don't want to overlook anything that can help us get a handle on this guy."
"I'll need that list of callers, too," Moran said.
"I'll make you a copy," Solo replied. "I want to keep this one for myself."
Moran shook his head. "Commissioner, you don't want to go getting personally involved in this."
"I am personally involved, John," said Solo. "I want to talk to these people."
Moran took a deep breath. "Sir, with all due respect, that's really not your job. Let me assign some detectives to this thing and do it right."
Solo smiled. "Are you saying you don't think that I can do it right, John?"
Moran sighed. "May I speak frankly?"
Solo smiled again. "You always do."
"Again, meaning no disrespect, sir, but you're not really experienced at this kind of thing. As far as I'm concerned, you were the best damned D.A. this town ever had, and I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have as commissioner, but you don't really know the streets. This sort of thing is work for street cops, for detectives. Let your people do their job. And don't make mine any harder than it already is."
"In other words, butt out," said Solo.
Moran exhaled heavily. "Yeah, in other words, butt out, sir. Please."
Solo stared at him for a moment, then sighed and nodded. "Okay, John, I'll let you do it your way. But I want our best people on this, and I want to personally see copies of every single report."
"You got it," Moran replied. "I'll put Chavez and McVickers in charge of it."
"No," said Solo. "I want Leventhal."
"Leventhal!" Moran echoed him, incredulously.
"He's the one I want, John," insisted Solo.
"Sir, Chavez and McVickers are the senior detectives on the Homicide Squad," Moran protested. "They're the best people for the job. Besides, Leventhal works Vice."
"And what was he working before he worked Vice?" asked Solo.
"Homicide," admitted Moran, uneasily, "but he was transferred out. The man's a problem, Commissioner. He's a maverick. He's insubordinate, he cuts corners, he couldn't even get anybody to work partners with him. The guy's a flake."
"If he's a bad cop, why isn't he out of the department?" Solo asked.
Moran hesitated uncomfortably. "Well... I didn't say he was a bad cop, exactly."
Solo raised his eyebrows. "Because he gets results? You know, I've seen his file, John."
Moran worked his tongue around inside his mouth. "Okay, so he's got the best record of felony arrests in the department," he said grudgingly. "But he's also got the most reprimands. Internal Affairs has had him on the griddle at least a dozen times. He's been cited repeatedly for excessive force, charged with brutality-"
"Any of it ever stick?" asked Solo.
Moran grimaced. "No. But you already knew that, didn't you? Besides, that's not the point. The point is that this is going to be a high-profile case, with lots of media attention. You want somebody handling it who comes across polished, professional, and competent, like Chavez and McVickers. You give the media Leventhal and it'll be like throwing raw meat to a bunch of starving wolves."
"You think he's going to embarrass the department?" Solo asked.
"Sir, have you ever met Leventhal?"
Solo smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Back when he was working Homicide and I was in the D.A.'s office. It's been a few years, but I still recall the incident vividly. It was one of the few times we screwed up. Actually, I screwed up. I assigned a young, relatively inexperienced A.D.A. to prosecute a case Leventhal brought in. She was a good lawyer, but she was a bundle of nerves and I thought a baptism of fire would make her rise to the occasion. It didn't. She made a procedural error that violated the rules of evidence, and the defense counsel jumped on her about it, jumped her hard enough to shake her up and really throw her off her stride. The perpetrator wound up walking on a technicality. Afterward, Leventhal came storming into my office and read me the riot act, blamed me for screwing up his case."
"Well, there, you see? That's precisely the sort of thing I'm talking about," Moran said. "The man's irresponsible, a loose cannon."
"He was absolutely right," Solo replied. "He gave me quite a dressing down, and I thought it took a lot of guts."
"He's got them, all right," Moran said, scowling. "What he ain't got is a lot of sense, or respect for authority."
"Let's just say he made a favorable impression," Solo said. "He's the man I want, John. Have him come and see me. Pull him off whatever he's doing and get him here as soon as possible. As of right now, he's in charge of this case."
Moran rolled his eyes. "Commissioner, why are you doing this to me?"
"Because you're a good cop, John, but you've been behind a desk too long," said Solo. "Like you said, this is going to be a high-profile case and the media is going to make waves. I want someone who can bring in some results. And make waves right back at them."
"Oh, I think you can count on that last part," said Moran. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
"I won't. Your warning has been duly noted, John. Now get me Leventhal."
Six
AFTER Chief Moran left, Solo went to take a shower and change. He seemed irritable and off his stride, and not just because of the events of that morning. I'd noticed the same kind of thing in Paulie when we'd roomed together in Santa Fe. Like Paulie, Solo was a creature of habit. Most people are. They have little routines and schedules they develop that they like to stick to, and when those are violated in some way, it upsets them and throws them off. Solo's routine consisted of getting up early and going to the gym to work out, then taking a walk or a short run, coming home, showering, shaving, getting dressed and puttering about, then going to the office. That routine had been disrupted-by a murder, no less-and as the afternoon wore on, I noticed Solo becoming more and more edgy.
Karen, on the other hand, seemed to be taking things in stride, which told me that she was a much more easygoing and adaptable person. Pulled off routine patrol duty at the downtown mall to baby-sit a grief-stricken cat, she seemed very relaxed and calm about it. Any other street cop might have become nervous at the prospect of being placed on such unusual duty at the commissioner's own home, but
Karen fell right into it. She called in, made her report, then took off her leather, unbuttoned the top of her uniform blouse, and made herself at home, brewing up some coffee in the kitchen and getting breakfast started while she fielded the phone calls coming in.
It made me think about the human habit, or even compulsion, of developing routine activities. To many people, it was a sort of security blanket, something familiar they could take comfort in amid the chaos of the world around them. Animals sometimes fell into it, as well, but more often than not, they were animals that had been domesticated. It was as if the human compulsion for routine activity was a disease they'd caught.
Relieved by their human masters of the need to hunt or scrounge for their food, domestic cats would fall into the routine adopted by their owners. If they were fed at eight o'clock each morning, seven forty-five would find them waiting expectantly by their bowls. And if their humans had to go away for a time, and someone else came by periodically to take care of them, they would often act surly and out of sorts until their people returned.
Humans often felt the joy their domestic pets displayed when they came back after an absence was a sign of fondness for them, a sign that they'd been missed. Maybe, but personally I think it much more likely it was relief that the familiar, comfortable routine could once more be resumed. I've always thought that much of human grief and emotional trauma could be attri
buted to a disruption of routine. The greater the disruption, the greater the emotional upset. People who avoided falling into patterns of routine activities seemed much more resilient. They could bounce back more easily and were seldom thrown by the unexpected. Karen seemed to fit that profile.
We chatted about Paulie and my life in Santa Fe while she got breakfast ready, "as if nothing at all unusual had happened, and I realized that it wasn't that Karen was insensitive, but quite the opposite. It had been a rough morning, and while Moran was there, I felt a palpable tension in the room, especially while we were listening to the tapes. Karen sensed it-hell, anyone could-and she was just doing what she could to break it, to return things to some semblance of normalcy, so that we could all get on with business.
As I watched her putter around the kitchen, looking domestic as all hell even in her uniform, boots, and gun rig, what struck me about her was the fact that everything she did, from riding her scooter, to taking in the situation earlier that morning, to answering the phone, to whipping up some eggs and bacon, she did with an air of relaxed natural competency. That old expression "taking things in stride" meant preserving the constant flow of forward motion without stumbling, without "breaking stride." And there was a smooth flow to everything that Karen did. She was a lady with a lot of cat in her, all right. She landed on her feet.
Solo could do a hell of a lot worse, I thought, and then I immediately pushed the thought away. It was none of my business, and there was nothing more ridiculous than the idea of a battered old trooper like me playing matchmaker. Besides, if Solo was half the man I thought he was, then he wouldn't let this one get away.
When Solo came out again, he had showered, shaved, and changed into a comfortable, well-cut, brown Neo-Edwardian suit. Now, instead of a worn-out and put-upon bureaucrat, as he had appeared earlier, he looked more like a man ready to take charge of things. He smelled the coffee brewing and the bacon frying and glanced at the kitchen with surprise.
"I thought you could use something to eat," said Karen, coming out of the kitchen with a plate of food and a fresh-brewed cup of coffee.
"Why, thank you, Officer Sharp," said Solo, a bit taken aback. "That was very considerate of you. You find everything all right?"
"Sure, no problem," she replied. "I got Gomez some food, as well, from that bag on the kitchen table."
"I appreciate it. Will you join me?" Solo asked.
"I'll just have some coffee, thanks," she said, as she started to button up her blouse.
Solo waved her off. "Forget it," he said. "Make yourself comfortable. We've all had a rough morning and I'm not conducting any inspections here."
She grinned and poured herself a cup of coffee, then joined him at the table.
"Princess still asleep?" he asked.
"Out like a light," I said.
"We're going to have to figure out what to do about her. She'll have to find someplace to stay. And given her political militancy, I don't think calling the animal shelter would be the best move."
"If none of the victim's friends can take her, I can put her up with me," said Karen.
"You're sure?" said Solo. "I wouldn't want to put you out."
"No problem, sir. I like animals. I've already got two snats who could keep her company."
"Okay," said Solo. "If we can't make any other arrangements, she can stay with you for the time being. Did you call in?"
"Yes, sir. I explained that I'd be on duty here, until you had no further need of me. There've been a lot of calls, mostly from the media. The reporters are still camped outside. They're anxious to speak with Princess."
Solo grimaced. "That figures. Let's keep her away from them if we can. At least until we can get a better handle on this thing." He shook his head. "I'd sure like to know how they keep getting my private number. I keep changing it, but they keep right on calling anytime something like this breaks."
"Somebody's handing it out," I said. "I think it's called 'a leak.' The cause is usually attributable to a sudden infusion of cash."
Karen grinned, but Solo scowled. "Well, if I ever find out who's leaking it, I'm gonna have his ass in a sling."
"What if it's a her?" asked Karen innocently.
Solo glanced at her and cleared his throat. "Well, I wouldn't want to be thought of as a sexist, Officer Sharp," he said. "Let's just say it would be a case of equal-opportunity butt-kicking."
She chuckled and reached for the coffeepot. There was a knock at the door. "I'll get it," she said. "Finish your breakfast."
"What breakfast, it's almost suppertime," Solo replied gruffly.
Karen checked the peephole, scowled, then said, "Who is it?"
"Leventhal."
"Good. Let him in," said Solo.
She glanced at him dubiously. "Are you sure?" Without waiting for a response, she opened the door.
The guy who walked in looked like a Ripper. He dressed like one, at any rate. He wore loose black breeches tucked into heavy black boots festooned with metal buckles, a black T-shirt, and a black, blouson-cut, studded leather jacket. An antique, gold, double-edged razor blade dangled on a chain around his neck, and he wore studded leather bracelets. He had short, curly black hah" and a dark complexion, with a well-shaped, prominent nose and dark, sad-looking brown eyes. What women often referred to as "bedroom eyes." He looked young, maybe in his early to mid twenties, and he was fairly good-looking in a trashy sort of way.
An unlit cigarette dangled from his lip. He yanked down the zipper on his leather jacket with an abrupt, sharp motion, and unsnapped a small leather case on his belt. From the case he pulled out an antique Zippo lighter, snapped it open with a flourish, and lit his cigarette. Snick, snap, and the Zippo was back in its case. He dragged deeply on the cigarette, exhaled a long stream of smoke, and took the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
"Detective Dan Leventhal," he said, his voice soft and slightly breathy. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, Leventhal, come in," said Solo. "Have a seat. You want some coffee?"
"Thanks." He sat down, glanced at Karen, and added, "Black."
She raised her eyebrows. "I look like a waitress to you?" she said.
He grinned. "Black, please," he said. "Or would you rather I get it myself. ..." He glanced at her name tag. ".. .Officer Sharp?"
"That's okay, detective, I'll get it," she replied dryly.
"Thank you very much," he said, with a smile.
"I understand you've been working Vice," Solo said.
Leventhal simply shrugged. The way he sat, slumped back in the chair and smoking, you might have thought he owned the place. His leather jacket hung open to display a black leather shoulder holster holding some kind of ugly, semiautomatic cannon. I didn't know what the hell it was, but it looked big enough to stop an elephant.
"As of now, you're back on Homicide," said Solo.
"The chief know about this?" asked Leventhal.
"He knows."
"I'll bet he didn't like it much."
Solo smiled slightly. "How much do you know about what's happened?"
Leventhal shrugged again. "Not a lot. Broadcaster got blown up in her car outside. Friend of yours?"
"Not really," Solo said. "She was a neighbor who lived downstairs. I didn't actually know her very well."
"But it doesn't look too good, a murder right at your front door," said Leventhal.
"No, it doesn't," Solo agreed. "That's why I want you to take charge of this case."
Leventhal inhaled on his cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nostrils, and looked down at the table. "Why not Chavez and McVickers? They're supposed to be the supercops, Moran's dynamic duo. Why not send in the first string?"
Solo steepled his fingers and stared at Leventhal. "Suppose you tell me."
Leventhal looked up at him and gave a small snort. "Because the media's gonna be all over you on this one, and Chavez and McVickers are about as distinctive as a couple of stockbrokers. They dre
ss nice, they know how to talk to the press, they can say 'No comment' about a dozen different ways, and they look good on camera. Me, every time I open my mouth, I get in trouble. The media gets on my case, I tell 'em to fuck off. Somebody gets in my face, I get in theirs three times as hard. They're gonna be so busy bashing me, they won't have any time for you. And if I blow it, it's my fault for being a maverick. Meanwhile, Chavez and McVickers and whoever else work quietly behind the scenes, while I draw all the heat. That about right?"
He drew on the cigarette and spat out the smoke. He noticed me watching him and gave me a wink. I winked back with ole Betsy and gave him a little thaumaturgic sparkle, just a brief flash of bright blue light. For a second, he looked surprised as hell, and I said, "Gotcha." Then he grinned. I decided the guy was all right. He had "street" written all over him.
"Actually, that wasn't what I had in mind," said Solo, "though I'm sure it's occurred to Chief Moran. And those are all pretty good reasons. But the main reason has to do with a lecture a certain snot-nosed, young, rookie detective gave me a couple of years ago."
Leventhal smiled. "You remember that, huh?"
"I could hardly forget it," said Solo wryly. "Nor could anybody else in the D.A.'s office."
"So what's this, payback time?"
"No, that isn't it," said Solo. "It took a lot of guts to do what you did. Maybe it took stupidity, as well, but it showed me that you gave a damn. You cared enough to jeopardize your position on the force. And that's just what I need on this case. Somebody who cares."
Leventhal snorted again, but he had no reply.
"What do you know about the ERA?" asked Solo.
"Equal Rights for Animals?" said Leventhal. He shrugged. "I've heard about it. Know some people who're involved."
"Did you know that the victim, Susan Jacobs, was one of the founders of the group?" asked Solo.
"No," said Leventhal, suddenly looking interested, "I didn't. Is that what it's about?"
By way of reply, Solo picked up a piece of paper on which he'd written down a transcript of the death threats, and handed it to him. Leventhal took it and read silently, then handed it back to Solo.
