Yeah, he was a different man, now. Once, his colleagues, like Chase Adams, now with the FBI, and Damien Drake, now a fugitive and most likely dead, had thought him too green to go anywhere in the department.
It was a crying shame that he’d proven them wrong.
After Chase Adams had vacated the Sergeant post, he’d been appointed in a matter of days. His rise up the ranks of NYPD 62nd division was nothing short of meteoric, but Yasiv wasn’t naive; his promotion wasn’t based solely on merit.
After the indictments had been handed down, he was one of only a handful of cops left who wasn’t dirty.
Yasiv took another heavy drag, enjoying the sound of the cigarette wrapper burning.
He was also young-ish and a fresh face. A signal to the people of New York that the corruption that festered within the NYPD for so many years was now gone.
But what they hadn’t told him, was that the body count rose the higher up the ranks you went. And yet, with the increase in pressure and responsibility, the more impersonal everything become along the way.
The more numb.
The door opened behind him, and Yasiv turned to see Detective Dunbar peering out. Another young, green face.
“Hank? I've got PO Salzman waiting for you.”
Yasiv nodded and thanked Dunbar.
“I'll be in in a minute, as soon as I finish my smoke.”
Normally, a sergeant wouldn't get involved with a PO violation. Normally, Yasiv would stay as far away from such a minor infraction as possible.
He took a final drag of his cigarette, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, and then flicked the butt to the curb.
But Wayne Cravat was no normal parolee.
Chapter 4
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” Beckett shouted as he sprinted up the stairs and burst through the basement door. He tried to slam it close but then had to run back when he realized that it was still ajar. Then he glanced down at himself. He was wearing an apron that was literally covered in blood. He quickly tore it off, then jammed it beneath the sink.
“Beckett?” he heard Suzan say.
Fuck!
His first thought was that he hadn’t hung up his phone yet, and he looked at it. The screen was dark, which meant that—
“Beckett?”
—Suzan had used her keys to open the door and was just now stepping inside.
He frantically searched his dark shirt and jeans for any sign of Wayne's blood. Not immediately finding any, he turned to the fridge, knowing that he only had a few seconds before Suzan made her way to the kitchen.
How the hell did this happen?
Beckett could see the headlines now: Serial Killer Captured because the Moron Gave a Set of Keys to Girlfriend.
You idiot!
“I'm in here, Shnookums,” he hollered.
There wasn’t much in the fridge: a handful of beers, some ketchup, mayo, and a block of cheese. With the headaches he’d been experiencing lately, Beckett had lost most of his appetite.
He found two thick-cut sirloin steaks on the bottom shelf and quickly pulled them out. Then he spun around, tossed them on the cutting board on the center island, and tore the plastic off.
“What the heck are you doing?” Suzan asked as she stepped into the kitchen.
Beckett tried his best to offer his girlfriend a natural-looking smile.
He failed miserably; the expression on his face was the one of a man who just sharted and realized he was wearing white cotton pants.
“I was just about to cook some steaks,” he said, nodding towards the hunks of meat on the cutting board.
Suzan raised an eyebrow and stared at him. She had this way of seeing through him, a way of penetrating his soul.
The outer layer, at least.
More than ten years his younger, she offered him something that other women he’d dated or slept with over the years couldn’t. Mainly, she kept up with him, in more ways than one.
And she kept him in line, too; she didn't put up with his shit as others in the past had.
Some people might frown at their age difference or the fact that she was a TA for one of his residency classes, but Beckett made a habit of not caring what other people thought. Suzan Cuthbert was an adult who could make her own decisions.
Suggesting otherwise was just plain ignorant.
“And did you slaughter the cow yourself?” she asked as she set the two bags of takeout down on the table.
He shook his head.
Not a cow, exactly.
“Then why are you sweating?”
“IBS,” he replied quickly.
Suzan looked at him and crinkled her nose.
“I told you that I got takeout.”
She was a good five inches shorter than Beckett, so when she leaned up to kiss him, it was on him to do most of the heavy lifting. Their lips met, but only for a second; Beckett was worried she’d be able to smell the death on him.
When Suzan pulled away and looked up at him with her green eyes, Beckett held her stare. She was an extrovert who liked to be in the presence of others, but she was also introspective, smart, intellectually curious, sexy as hell, fit, funny, crude, sarcastic, had an ass like the North Star, tits like—
He blinked and averted his eyes.
Jesus, you’d think you were in love, Beckett.
“Yeah, but I was already getting things ready when you called,” he lied. “I was going to vacuum seal the steaks, sous vide them for about an hour and then sear at ultra-high heat on the cast-iron.”
Suzan made a face.
“Who are you and what have you done with Beckett?”
“It's a new era, Suzan,” Beckett said agonizingly slowly. “Women can vote and men can cook. Didn’t you hear?”
Suzan rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, but men still can’t seem to be able to pee in the toilet.”
The comment took Beckett by surprise and it took him a moment to process it.
“You smell like piss, like a homeless man.”
Fucking Wayne.
Beckett took a deep breath and tried to play it cool.
“Well, you know what they say… sprinkles are for cupcakes and toilet seats… and underwear. Something like that, anyway.”
Suzan went back to the table and started taking the food out of the bags.
“No one says that.”
“Sure, they do.”
“No, they don't. Put the steaks away, we’ll cook them tomorrow, Gordon Ramsay.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Beckett re-wrapped the meat and put it back in the fridge. When he turned back, he was surprised to see that Suzan was staring at him again.
“The modern man… can’t pee in the toilet and can’t do his own laundry, either.”
“What?”
Suzan pointed to the back of his shirt and Beckett craned his neck.
“You got blood on your shirt,” she informed him.
Beckett’s heart did a triple axel in his chest.
“I can see that,” he somehow managed. There was a quarter-sized drop of Wayne’s blood on the hem of his shirt, and more on his jeans beneath.
“Must've been from the steaks,” he offered.
“Oh, really, Mr. Sous vide? For someone so experienced in the kitchen, I’m surprised that you’re unaware of the fact that there is no blood in meat from a properly butchered animal.”
“Maybe the butcher was drunk then, or perhaps I just cut myself shaving,” Beckett shot back as he grabbed a couple of plates from the shelf and brought them over. He just started to open a metal takeout container when Suzan knocked his hand away.
Beckett's eyes narrowed.
“What? What is it now?”
“Go wash your hands, Mr. IBS. Gross.”
Chapter 5
“So, PO Salzman, I've just got a couple questions for you,” Yasiv said as he slid into the seat across from the man. He opened the folder that Dunbar had prepared for him and turned his attention to the pages within.
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“Am I in some sort of trouble?”
Yasiv lifted his eyes to look at the man. He had shaggy dark hair, a beard that extended a little too far down his neck, and had red-rimmed eyes, either from too much alcohol or not enough sleep.
Maybe both.
“No,” Yasiv said, shaking his head. “Why would you think that?”
Salzman shrugged and glanced around.
“Normally, when a police sergeant invites you for an interview, sits you down in one of the chairs usually reserved for suspects or prisoners, and has a folder in front of him, you're in trouble.”
“Normally? Do you mean that this has happened to you before?”
Salzman looked at Dunbar who was standing behind him, arms crossed over his chest, then turned back to Yasiv.
“No, not to me… but it happens in just about every cop movie I’ve ever seen. Oh, and please call me Tully—my dad went by Salzman.”
Yasiv nodded.
“All right, Tully. No, you're not in trouble. I just have a couple questions for you about one of your charges.”
Tully sighed.
“When you called me in I thought either I was in trouble or it was about Wayne. Fifty-fifty, I figured.”
Yasiv stared at Tully, trying to get a read of what he was all about. In his limited experience, PO officers were usually as bad as the cons they were in charge of. Parole Officers held an incredible amount of power over their charges and, well, everyone knows the Spiderman dogma. Too bad being responsible wasn’t a prerequisite for the job.
But Tully Salzman seemed different; he just seemed like a regular guy.
“Well, I’ve documented everything,” Salzman informed him. “I put it all right there in the report.” He raised his eyes and peered across the table at the folder in front of Yasiv. “Yeah, it's there. Wayne was supposed to check in last week, but he missed it. I didn’t report it—it’s only his first infraction and I believe in second chances—but after he missed yesterday, I flagged him. Other than that, he’s been a model parolee.”
“Second chances?” Dunbar asked incredulously from the back of the room. Salzman turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, second chances. Look, I'm not condoning anything that asshole has done, but if we are gonna let him out on parole, second chances are—”
“More like fifth or sixth chances,” Dunbar interrupted. This was a new side of Dunbar. If anything, he could count on Dunbar for being jovial, not ornate. But this was different. For some reason, this case struck a nerve with the man.
Yasiv made a mental note to keep an eye on him.
He cleared his throat.
“This isn't a witch hunt. We’re not blaming you for anything, but I’ll be the first to admit that I’m getting some kinda pressure from up high. After the fallout from the whole Ken Smith mayor debacle, the DA doesn’t want any press at the moment. And Wayne Cravat not showing up for his scheduled meeting with his PO, especially given the brutal nature of the crimes that he was accused of? Definitely press worthy. The DA wants him back in custody before the man’s face is plastered all over the news… again.”
“I don't know where he is.”
“You don't know? How could you—”
“Dunbar, take a walk,” Yasiv said, trying to bury his frustration. Dunbar’s attitude wasn’t helping any.
The man glared at him, and for a moment, Yasiv thought that he was going to disobey a direct order. But then he unlaced his arms and left the interview room in a huff.
Yasiv waited for the door to close behind him before continuing.
“As you can see, everyone's got their back up about this. Most people think that he’s guilty of killing little Will Kingston, irrespective of the jury’s decision.”
Tully nodded.
“Yeah, I get it. But here’s the thing, you think I choose my parolees? You think I wanted to oversee Wayne Cravat? Given the horrible things he was accused of? Hell no.”
Yasiv bit his lower lip.
“Yeah, I know. And you obviously had nothing to do with his acquittal or the fact that he’s now missing, but the sad reality is, people are going to hold you responsible in one way or another. Fair, unfair, whatever, it is what it is.”
Tully scratched his neck beard.
“Who knows? Maybe he offed himself like Trent did. Would save me a lot of paperwork.”
Yasiv’s brow furrowed and Tully pressed on.
“Winston Trent? Two hung juries for the murder of Bentley Thomas? Anyway, the best they could do was get him on showing lewd material to a minor or some shit. I was his PO too before he went and offed himself. Like I said before, I'm all for second chances, but if your second chance means that you want to off yourself?” he shrugged. “I’m okay with that, too.”
Yasiv looked down at the papers that Dunbar had compiled for him. Sure enough, the second page was for Winston Trent.
“So, is this selection process random, then? I mean, who gets assigned to you? If so, you got a stroke of bad luck these past few months.”
“Is it random? It's supposed to be,” Tully began, “but it's not, not really. The thing is, some of the other POs…”
He let his sentence trail off, but it wasn’t good enough for Yasiv.
“These POs what?”
“I don't want to be that guy,” Tully said suddenly, obviously conflicted.
Yasiv understood.
“Hey, we’re looking for Wayne Cravat, that’s it. If there’s anything you might be able to help us with…”
“Whatever. Look, they say it's random, but the truth is, some of the other POs? They’re one step up from a DMV clerk. They wouldn’t know how to deal with a guy like Wayne or Winston. Winston in particular. He’s a master manipulator. If he was assigned to one of the douchebag POs who is either high or drunk all the time? He’d be able to get away with anything. I guess my boss just knows I won’t put up with that shit.”
“And yet you gave Wayne a pass when he missed his last appointment.”
“Yeah, I did, I'll admit it, but I didn’t break any rules. If it were Winston? I would report his ass immediately; that guy was a piece of work. Wayne is different; I mean, I know there’s a lot of hostility toward the man, but he was acquitted of murdering the Kingston boy, and not in the way that Winston got off. You should read Wayne’s file—he’s not like the others. I’m not saying he’s Mother Teresa or Gandhi, but still. Never caught a break, that guy. Not ever. Anyways, the thing is, I knew where he was the whole time: he was at home.”
“And how did you know that?” Yasiv asked. The truth was that he knew little about Wayne Cravat. If it weren’t for the DA shoving this case in his face, he would have liked to keep it that way, too.
“Because regardless of how I feel about him, the last thing I wanted was for a man with his history to be on the loose. So, I swung by his place and did a little knocking. I didn't see him, but there was something on the stove. Figured he was taking a shit or something. I gave him until the next PO visit, which was only two days after his missed appointment before I flagged him. Which is what I did. I mean, I'd appreciate if you didn't go over my head on this, but I'll stand by what I did. Obviously, I regret it now, but I’ll stand by my decision.”
Yasiv nodded and rose to his feet. On the face of it, Wayne Cravat going missing looked bad. But so far as he could tell, Tully was a good man.
He held out his hand, and the PO shook it.
“Thanks for coming in, Tully. Like I said, I'm getting pressure from above, I don’t want to make it seem like I’m just coming down on you.”
“Yeah, I get it, everything has gone to shit since that whole Ken Smith thing went down. Anyways, if you have any other questions, I’d prefer that you come to me first, and not my boss, if you know what I mean.” Tully started toward the door. “You know, professional courtesy and all that.”
“Sure thing.” Yasiv opened the door. “You know your way out?”
Tully nodded.
&nb
sp; “Yeah, see you around, Sgt. Yasiv.”
Yasiv nodded and watched the man leave. No sooner had Tully Salzman disappeared down the hallway, did Detective Dunbar appear by Yasiv’s side.
“You believe that fucking guy? He lets someone like Wayne Cravat run rampant in our city? If that pervert so much as jaywalks, it’s on him.”
Yasiv turned to Detective Dunbar and inspected him closely.
“Let it go, Dunbar. He’s just trying to do his job.”
“Yeah, well, he should do his job better. He should do his job a lot better.”
Chapter 6
The Chinese wasn't half bad. Personally, Beckett would've preferred the steaks, but all in all, the food was serviceable.
“Thanks for picking up dinner,” he said as he dabbed his mouth and took their plates to the sink. He dropped them in and then turned back to face Suzan. She was eyeballing him again. “What? What is it this time?”
“I made dinner, so you have to do the dishes. And no, just putting them in the sink doesn't count, Beckett.”
He grinned.
“Oh, aren't you a progressive woman. I’ll do them later; there’s something I want to talk to you about first.”
Normally, Suzan wouldn't let this slide. The irony of their relationship was that while Beckett was older, she was the mature one. But he’d caught her attention, mature or not, she was a woman and therefore could not resist a talk.
Only, Beckett doubted that she was going to enjoy this one very much.
“Yeah? What is it?”
Beckett glanced around the room.
“Hey? Where’d it go?”
“Where did what go?”
Beckett didn't answer; he was too busy racking his brain for where he might've left it.
In the basement? Tell me I didn’t leave it in the fucking basement.
“Wait, before you get it, whatever it is, I just want to make sure that you know I prefer BMWs to Mercedes, okay?” Suzan joked with a grin.
Beckett was so lost in thought that he barely heard her. He kept thinking about the basement, the projector, Wayne Cravat, and whether or not he’d taken the damn newspaper down there.
Surgical Precision Page 2
