by L. A. Witt
It didn’t matter, though. Not right now, anyway. Whatever was going on between us could be addressed later. Whatever had gone on in that conference room after I’d left, he could fill me in later, but this had to happen now, and it was not a plus-one occasion. I had to meet the informant alone or not at all.
Forty-five minutes after I’d slipped out of the precinct under Thibedeau’s radar, after doubling back and driving in circles to be absolutely sure I hadn’t been followed, I pulled into the parking lot of a rundown bowling alley. The enormous bowling pin and neon FAMILY BOWL sign had been there since roughly 1957, and probably hadn’t been cleaned or maintained more than once during that time. The dilapidated building seemed to be held together by graffiti and prayers. Foot-tall weeds shot up between cracks in pavement that hadn’t been painted since the Reagan administration. It was less than two miles from the gleaming financial center of the city, but resembled something out of a postapocalyptic wasteland.
And parked near the side exit was a dull gold-brown Impala with mismatched rims. He was here.
I gave the lot a sweeping glance to be doubly sure I hadn’t been followed. Then I went inside.
At the counter, a twentysomething ex-junkie from the halfway house down the road met my gaze. He nodded toward the lounge at the opposite end of the sparsely crowded building. I returned the nod. As I started toward the lounge, the eighties throwback music blasting from crackling speakers got louder. Almost painfully loud. Loud enough to fuck with any bugs, wires, or eavesdroppers.
The lounge was nearly empty. A couple of older guys drinking beer at the bar. A bored bartender who, like the building, had seen better days. A gray-haired woman playing pull-tabs while she vaped.
And in the corner, partially obscured by the back of an oversized booth, was the man I’d come to see.
Without a word, I slid into the booth. He didn’t react, and he sure as fuck didn’t greet me. After all, Vincent Blake was not a man who wasted time with small talk.
I folded my hands on the table. “I need to know what’s going on.”
Blake glanced over his shoulder and scanned the room. Facing me again, he spoke so quietly I barely heard him over the thumping music. “The mayor’s cleaning house.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
He scowled. “Probably don’t need to tell you you’re on his shit list.”
“No, you don’t.” I suppressed a shudder as the hairs on my neck stood on end. “I need to know who’s tipping him off.”
Blake slowly shook his head. “That, I don’t know. But somebody’s spooked him, and he’s making sure anyone who’s got dirt on him is quiet.” He paused, subtly checking our surroundings again. “I don’t think it matters who’s ratting people out to him—it’s time for him to go down.”
I sighed heavily. “Yeah, that’s a problem. We both know what he’s up to, but I don’t have enough to arrest him.”
“You don’t have enough for you to arrest him.” Blake raised an eyebrow. “If that partner of yours makes a move, though . . .”
“I’m not throwing him under the bus. He’s a good cop, and if he tries to arrest the goddamned mayor without enough evidence, he’s toast.”
“Yes. Yes, he is.” The burly drug lord leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “But it’s one man’s career versus the lives of anyone who’s ever crossed paths with Crawford.”
I swallowed. He was right. About all of it. No one would ever sign off on an arrest warrant for the mayor if it had my name on it. I’d be reined in so fast my head would spin. Possibly even put on administrative leave pending another psychiatric evaluation.
But Darren . . .
He was a solid cop. The stepson of a respected police commissioner. Someone who took his job seriously, toed the line, and knew how not to piss people off. If he put in for an arrest warrant for someone on high, people would listen because he wasn’t a loose cannon. But if the arrest was made, the PR nightmare initiated, and the mayor wasn’t convicted? Darren would be a pariah. People loved the mayor. He was one of the most popular, scandal-free politicians this city had ever seen. Short of a bulletproof case, no cop in his right mind would try to collar that asshole, least of all for murder, running a complex ring of narcotic trafficking, and anything else on the laundry list of charges.
My stomach somersaulted. I tried not to consider whether I’d have thought twice about putting a previous partner in this position. I was definitely thinking twice about it with Darren. While I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Crawford had blood on his hands—especially after witnessing his involvement with my own eyes—I couldn’t prove it. Not yet. Not without names to connect him to the others I knew were involved.
I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. “Shit.”
“You gotta do it, Andreas.” Blake casually sipped his coffee as if we were just shooting the shit and catching up. “You need to bring his ass in, and every corrupt motherfucker in city hall along with him.”
“But I still need those names in city hall.” I threw up my hand. “What good will it do if the charges don’t stick? I need more than this. You know I do.”
It was his turn to sigh, and he nodded. “I know. He’s a slippery one, though.” Was he ever. Even someone as high up the food chain as Blake was kept in the dark more often than not. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
I thumbed the peeling table edge and thought for a moment. “I need time.”
“There isn’t time, Andreas.”
“And if we make a move now, a lot of people could die,” I growled. “If we’re going to bring him in, and we’re going to stop him from taking down—”
“You’ve had time,” he snapped. “What more do you need?”
“I need evidence, for God’s sake. It doesn’t do me a damn bit of good to arrest him if a jury won’t convict him.”
“Then maybe we need to skip the judge and jury and go right to the executioner.”
My heart dropped. “You know I could arrest you just for suggesting that.”
He laughed dryly. “You could’ve arrested me a hundred times over the last few years, but you haven’t, and for the same reason you won’t now—because you need me if Crawford is going to go down.”
“And I need a solution besides assassinating a goddamned politician.”
“Then find one,” he said. “Or my people will. We’re running out of patience, and I’m not going to sit back and watch more of my people’s bodies pile up while you make sure all the proper forms are filled out.”
“You want to stop him and his people? Or do you just want to take him down and let his successors pick up where he left off?” I thumped the table with my knuckle as I added, “We need to stop the whole operation, not just him.”
“Then do it.”
“Just give me some more time.”
“How much more, Detective?”
“A few days. Maybe a week. I’ll . . . I don’t need much more.” God help me, there was no way I was bringing Crawford down in a week, but I hoped like hell that could buy me a few days to keep one of Blake’s men from opening fire on him.
“One week.” Blake sat back, eyes still narrow and fixed on me. “If you don’t find a way to stop him in a week, then I will.”
I just nodded. We both knew he wasn’t kidding. After a moment, I took a deep breath. “When this all goes down, you know there isn’t much I can do to keep you out of prison.” For all the evidence I didn’t have against Crawford, I had piles against Blake and the people who worked for him.
“I know.” His voice was calm. “But I still have your word about my family.”
“You do. Of course. It might not hurt for you to get them out of town now. As long as I know where they are, I can make sure they’re kept safe.”
Blake nodded slowly, but said nothing. He took out his wallet, put a wrinkled five beside his coffee, and left without another word.
I stayed behind to put some distance between us. Couldn’t risk being seen leaving
the same place together, not even when he was incognito in faded old clothes and that piece-of-shit car. Too many people—too many cops—knew both our faces.
While I waited for him to leave, I debated ordering a drink, but thought better of it. Coffee would make me too jittery. I’d already had one beer at Darren’s and didn’t dare have more—I’d learned the hard way in the past that my medications’ side effects didn’t go well with more than a small amount of alcohol. After the day my body had had, there was no point in pushing my luck.
Five minutes after Blake left, I got up and left. As I walked out into the muggy night, my mind was fixed on the mission ahead. There had to be a way to do this without resorting to Blake taking the mayor down. I could pull some strings to get a few years taken off his sentence for the mile-long list of charges—though we both knew he was probably going away for twenty-five to life no matter what—but I wouldn’t be able to help him if he assassinated the mayor. He’d be dead before he made it to trial.
And, anyway, it wouldn’t solve the big problems over at city hall. There was no point in cutting off the head if the beast would just grow a fresh one.
So I had to find another way. Problem was, arresting the mayor or one of his high-up cronies wouldn’t be as simple as planting heroin in his office. On the other hand, maybe it would. A judge would never be reelected if he was even suspected of possession.
Judge Harrison was in the mayor’s pocket. She was absolutely involved in his illicit activities. If I could threaten her like I had Jake, then I could possibly turn her on him. It would be risky. Bringing in a no-name thug off the streets and holding possession charges over his head—that didn’t draw much attention. Even thinking about it with a judge could—
“You want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Darren’s voice spun me around and damn near gave me heart failure. “What the—”
“I just saw Blake leave,” he snarled, stepping closer and glaring at me like he was ready to rip out my throat with his bare hands. “You want to tell me—”
“How did you find me?” Panic sent ice water through my veins. If he knew I was here, who else did? “Answer me, Darren.”
His lips pulled tight, and he broke eye contact. He wasn’t exactly sheepish, but I got the feeling he didn’t have a prepared answer to my question.
It was my turn to move closer. “How did you find me?”
He stared at the ground between us. “I . . .” Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a GPS receiver. The exact same kind the department issued when we put a transmitter on someone’s car.
The ice water turned to pure fire. “You tracked me? How the . . . When the fuck did you . . . Where is the tracker?”
He swallowed. “Under the passenger seat. On the back of that box.”
“You son of a bitch. How long have you been—”
“I’m trying to keep IA off my fucking back,” he snapped. “I put it in your car the first day we worked together, all right?”
“No, it’s not all right! You told me you were—”
“And you didn’t tell me you’re meeting with goddamned Blake.” He gestured sharply toward the bowling alley. “What the fuck is going on, Andreas?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You think I’m going to trust you with anything now? Fuck you.”
“Well then, I guess we’re both in the same boat, aren’t we? Because it turns out that while I’m covering your ass for IA, putting my own ass on the line because, shit, I trusted you for some fucking reason, you’re here talking with—”
“You want to say it a little louder? Because that’s how cops get other cops shot.”
He set his jaw. “Then maybe you need to start talking and tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“Yeah? Before or after you tell me how many other bugs you planted on me?”
“For God’s sake.” He threw up his hands. “What did you want me to do? I’ve had the captain and IA breathing down my neck since day one, and I—”
“And you put trackers on another cop, Darren. On your partner.”
He laughed humorlessly. “Oh, please. The day I put that tracker on you, you still thought I was shit on your shoe. But now you’re suddenly all righteously indignant and horrified that one cop might not completely trust his partner.”
“I didn’t trust you because I thought you were in IA’s pocket. Then you convinced me otherwise. And now—”
“Now it turns out I had a reason to chase you down.” He stepped even closer, right up in my face. “What the fuck is going on?”
I held his gaze, not sure how to answer him. An hour ago, I would have thought nothing of tipping my hand to him. Now I couldn’t be sure who was looking over his shoulder. What if someone else had gotten their hands on that receiver? What if he’d handed it over to Thibedeau? If he’d put the transmitter in my car to appease IA and convince them he was doing their bidding, then they could have asked at any time to see where I was. What if Thibedeau or the captain had come rolling in while I was conspiring with Blake to bring down the mayor?
I’d promised Blake I’d find a way to arrest the mayor within a week, but that promise had hinged on being able to rely on Darren. Quite possibly putting his career at risk, yes, but having him as an ally had been absolutely crucial.
And now . . .
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I couldn’t look at him. I was too angry, too betrayed, and I also had a rapidly ticking clock that wouldn’t slow down for anyone or anything.
“I’m going to go get some sleep.” I turned to walk away, throwing over my shoulder, “You might want to do the same.”
He called after me, but I ignored him. I got in the car and slammed the door, cutting off Darren’s voice. If he kept shouting, I didn’t hear it.
I got the hell out of there, and a mile or two away, pulled over and went around to the passenger side. Now that I knew it was there, it didn’t take much digging to find the little transmitter duct-taped to the box where I kept various pieces of contraband.
I ripped it loose, dropped it on the pavement, and ground it under my heel. I didn’t check to make sure I’d destroyed it enough to keep him from finding it. In fact, I hoped he did find it, and saw it smashed on the ground as the Fuck you, Darren it was meant to be.
And when I got back in the car, my cell phone was ringing.
Darren.
Of course.
I had a history of making rash decisions when I got worried.
When my mom first started dating Vic, back when I was seven, it hadn’t taken me long to understand that she’d been serious about him. He’d made her happy, he’d been nice to me and my brother, and I’d wanted him to stay. I’d ensured he would stay by puncturing one or two of his tires with nails every time he came over. By the time I was sent to bed each evening, he’d have a flat tire and either stay the night, or call a patrol car to pick him up and come fix his car later. Instant insurance that he was coming back. It had taken weeks for Vic to work out what I was doing. Needless to say, neither he nor my mom was happy about it, but they’d understood.
I’d tried to keep my best friend from moving to a new state during middle school by suggesting we run away into the woods together. That had ended in a massive search led by Vic that left me grounded for the rest of the year. I’d tried to keep my brother from forgetting about me when he went away to school by emptying my savings sending him singing telegrams—I hadn’t realized at the time the company I’d contacted actually worked primarily as stripper-grams, and that he’d almost been kicked out of school housing for “inappropriate conduct.”
Needless to say, my record wasn’t fantastic. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when the result of my bugging Andreas was him giving me the cold shoulder.
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. Not at this point, at least. Admittedly, when I’d put the tracker in his car, I’d been unsure of how things would shake out between us, but I hadn’t done it for Internal Affairs.
I’d done it because I hated not knowing things. I hated the thought that he could go somewhere, be somewhere, and get into trouble, and I might not know about it. I might not be able to help. I’d bugged his car so I’d be able to provide that help, but I should have told him about it.
Or not, because Andreas had reacted exactly like I’d feared. “You think I’m going to trust you with anything now? Fuck you.” Which was fucking rich, given that he’d gone off to meet Blake without telling me anything. Hell, I still didn’t know what they’d talked about. Why the fuck did they have anything to talk about, other than Andreas reading him his Miranda rights? What the hell was going on?
And now I might never know.
I sighed and ground the pads of my thumbs against my gritty eyes. It had been a long day, with too many twists and turns for me to follow at this point. I didn’t know if I wanted to fuck Andreas, interrogate him, or beg him for forgiveness. The best thing I could do for myself now was sleep, but I didn’t want to go back to my apartment. It was too lonely, and I’d never be able to get the vision of Andreas beneath me on the couch out of my mind.
Home it was.
I let myself in a little after one in the morning. Everybody should have been asleep, but when I stepped into the living room, I saw Vic stretched out in his recliner, one hand resting on the remote, the other scratching absently at his chest as he stared at the muted TV screen. He glanced up at me as I came in. “Hey, son. You look like hell.”
“Yeah.”
He nodded toward the love seat. “Pull up a chair, tell me about it.”
One of the things I’d always loved about Vic—he could handle shit like nobody’s business. Nothing threw him. It had made him a popular commissioner, and it had endeared him to my mother like nothing else could. It didn’t matter what was going on, it always seemed like Vic could deal.
I flopped down onto the love seat. “Why the late night?”
“Ah, old aches and pains. I couldn’t sleep.”
I frowned. “Did you take some aspirin?”
“You and my damn doctor. Yes, I took the aspirin. If my blood were any thinner, I’d have hemophilia.”
