Hard Line

by Sidney Bell

  Tobias deflated. “We can’t count on the cops to be reliable.”

  “Probably not.” Sullivan paused. “But on the other hand, neither can Spratt. They aren’t all dirty, not even the majority of them. He wouldn’t be able to control who got sent to the scene, cop or security guard, so I’m not sure Spratt would go either route—you wouldn’t want anyone in your home if you can’t ensure they won’t talk about the guy you’ve got tied up in your basement.”

  “Then what’s the point of an alarm?”

  Sullivan did a quick search for home security, and only a couple minutes later, he had a consumer review article about the different types and benefits and drawbacks. “Some systems are set up so you can get alerts on your smart phone. If I were Spratt, that’s what I’d do. I bet the alarm isn’t meant to keep people out so much as to keep people in. When we breach the alarm, he might come right home expecting to find Ghost trying to run.”

  “If we’re in his house, can he just shoot us?”

  “If he thinks we’re there to commit a crime by force, yeah.”

  “What’s force? In these circumstances, I mean?”

  “Pretty much whatever he wants it to be. It’s called the ‘Make My Day’ law for a reason. If you give him a shove on the arm, that’s force. You don’t even have to be armed.”

  Tobias blinked. “That’s terrifying. Are we going to take one with us in case—”

  “No. I don’t like guns.”

  “But you’re a PI.”

  “So?”

  “So you carry one, don’t you?”

  “Have you seen me carry a gun? Why would I carry a gun? Someone could get shot.”

  “I just thought—”

  “No.” Despite what movies and television claimed, Sullivan didn’t know a single private detective who carried; if there was a job that proved that guns started more trouble than they ended, it was his. Guns made people feel invincible, which was another way of saying that they did stupid shit because they thought being armed would protect them from the consequences. They picked fights they wouldn’t otherwise pick, they stuck around when they’d be safer running, they tried to teach assholes lessons when they would normally call the cops. And almost all of it was avoidable if you did your job without getting your dick in a bunch. He cleared his throat. “Look, the second a gun shows up, you eliminate all the nonviolent options for resolving a situation. They make any situation life or death simply by existing, and I don’t like life or death. It’s usually a sign that someone fucked up ten steps back.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’m sure as shit not breaking in to a cop’s house with a gun.”

  “Okay,” Tobias repeated, more softly. He was watching Sullivan with kind eyes. “I’m not advocating that. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I know how much this could cost you. Maybe you think I haven’t thought of it, but I do know. Thank you.”

  Sullivan gazed back at him, all blue eyes and tousled curls and earnest, open gratitude. He wasn’t sure he believed that Tobias fully grasped just how bad this could go, but he got a warm pang from the words anyway. Helpless, he leaned forward and kissed him, deep and slow, once. “Yeah,” he said, pulling back. “You’re welcome.”

  Tobias smiled sweetly and cleared his throat. “So where do we go in?”

  Sullivan straightened and pulled out the smaller camera. The pictures he’d taken revealed that there were six windows facing the backyard; two set near the ground that led to basement rooms, two on the ground floor and two on the second. Spratt had installed bars on both basement windows, black cast iron, delicate enough to be almost decorative, but thick enough to ensure that no one was getting in or out that way. “I think one of the windows by the back door is our best choice. We don’t need to get complicated. Break the glass, pull out the screen, we’re in. Run downstairs, find him, untie him, and back out exactly the way we came. Shouldn’t take more than a minute or two, depending on what we find inside.”

  “We don’t know what we’ll need,” Tobias said. “We’ll have to bring an assortment of things. Your sister probably has a ton of tools, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

  “But—”

  “The first rule of this is that we can’t take anything that could point to us, because we might end up being forced to leave it behind. They can’t find out who we are, or we’ll be fucked. A small break-in and setting Ghost up with Lisbeth’s retired cop friend is one thing, but if they know who we are, there’s a good chance we’re not living through that. We have to walk out of there without leaving anything behind that could be traced back to us.”

  “So we’ll buy anything we use brand-new outside of town with cash.”

  “Now you’re thinking.”

  “And we’ll have to get rid of anything we do use so it can’t be found in our possession later.”

  Sullivan nodded. “It’s not likely, but he might have exterior cameras. We can’t bring the car too close. If they see the tags, we’re screwed. And...shit, he’ll have access to traffic cameras. We’ll have to find out where the cameras are so we can avoid them. God, I hope we don’t miss anything.”

  “We should make a list.” Tobias glanced at the clock. “It’s almost midnight. Can we get everything done before tomorrow? What is tomorrow, anyway?”

  “The fifteenth.”

  “I meant what day—wait, the fifteenth?”

  “Yeah. Tuesday. What’s up?”

  “Tomorrow’s Assumption.”

  “Tomorrow’s a fact, actually,” Sullivan said, just to be a jerk.

  “Ha-ha,” Tobias said. “The Assumption of Mary. It’s a day of obligation. I’m supposed to go to Mass tomorrow. Ugh, this is the worst timing.”

  “I don’t know. We could probably use some divine intervention. You should go. We’ll never be able make the breakout work for tomorrow anyway.”

  “Sullivan—”

  “I know this is driving you crazy, but there’s way too much to do before tomorrow afternoon.” Sullivan caught the way Tobias’s eyes went pinched, and added, “It doesn’t do Ghost any good if we get him out only to get busted again three hours later because we fucked something up by rushing. He’s been there for weeks. Another day won’t kill him, and it might be the thing that makes him safe in the long run. Patience, Kamikaze. Spend tomorrow morning praying. We’ll do everything else tomorrow afternoon, and then the day after, we’ll go get your friend.”

  “Right.” Tobias nodded and squared his shoulders, as determined as any general, as resigned as any foot soldier.

  Sullivan turned away to search for paper and a pen, asking casually, “You don’t expect me to come with you, do you? To Mass, I mean. The only thing my family is devout about is not giving a shit, so I wouldn’t be more than a religious rubbernecker.”

  “No.” Tobias smiled. “You can stay here.”

  Sullivan lifted his eyebrows. “No arguments that I should? For the good of my immortal something-or-other?”

  “No. I’m not going to guilt-trip you or proselytize. I love God, but I don’t need other people to confirm my faith for me. If you want my opinion on the subject, you’ll have to ask me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. What you do with your immortal something-or-other is between you and Him.”

  “Huh.” Sullivan tapped his pen against the table. “Let’s make a list of stuff to get.”

  * * *

  When the plans were made as best as they could be, they set everything aside and went to bed. Tomorrow would be filled with assorted tasks: shopping, timing how long it took to get from the nearest precinct to Spratt’s house, that sort of thing.

  But now it was late, deep in the night, and there was nothing else they could do.

  When Tobias slid close to him, Sullivan didn’t push him away. He probably should
; he was too tired to have sex, so this was unabashed cuddling, but Tobias smelled like Sullivan’s soap and he was warm and he made a soft humming sound as Sullivan’s arms came around him, settling in like he never planned to move.

  It both soothed Sullivan and pissed him off. On the one hand, having Tobias close like this was probably the world’s best high-blood-pressure medication; he could feel his heartbeat slowing. On the other hand, how had Tobias phrased it? I want this for now, but I don’t know that it’ll stick.

  There was a good chance Tobias wouldn’t be here in his bed in two days’ time. Sullivan was part of Tobias’s little rebellion, and maybe it felt real, but he’d have to be stupid to forget that Tobias had made no promises. He’d been honest, at least, but that honesty meant there was zero reason to hope Tobias would stick around once Sullivan had delivered.

  It was a lie. Tobias here, in his arms, snuggled up like a damn kitten, sleepy and warm and heavy against Sullivan’s chest, was a lie. Maybe Tobias wasn’t like his other dirtbags, pretending to be one thing while actually being another, but even if Tobias had the best of intentions, it was still a lie because nothing about what they were doing was his to keep.

  * * *

  Tobias was gone when Sullivan woke up, but was back, as promised, by eleven. He was wearing a blue suit and tie, his hair neatly combed, his shoulders straight, like something about the whole process had bolstered him, and Sullivan had to admit it: devout was a good look on him. And true to his word, there was no implication—spoken or otherwise—that Sullivan had failed him by staying behind.

  Okay, then.

  They spent the rest of the morning shopping in Aurora, buying clothes and gear before heading over to Spratt’s place to watch out for Tidwell’s afternoon visit. Tidwell rolled up exactly six minutes after he’d arrived the day before.

  Once again, he made sandwiches. Once again, he was gone in roughly twenty minutes. Once again, no one came in or out of the townhouse until Spratt returned, this time at almost nine p.m. Ghost came upstairs with his wrists handcuffed again, apparently free to wander the place for an hour, but he instead haunted Spratt’s footsteps like, well, a ghost, trailing him from room to room, quiet and attentive. At one point, while Spratt’s back was turned, Ghost reached out as if to touch him, his expression was hard and soft at once, one hand knotted into a fist, the other outreached, tentative and slow-moving. But by the time Spratt faced him once more, Ghost had jerked away, his face tipping down and out of sight.

  “We’ve got to get him out of there,” Tobias said from the passenger seat, his face shadowed in the dark. “That’s—none of that is him.”

  “We will,” Sullivan said.

  That night they got Chinese takeout and sat at the table to research which streets in Capitol Hill had traffic cameras so they could avoid them. In that way, they had some luck—as long as they avoided Speer Boulevard, West 6th Avenue and the highways, Spratt wouldn’t be able to track where they went. It meant they could park closer, too.

  They also figured out timelines. Cops usually didn’t live in the jurisdictions they policed, but administration staff had more leeway. The Denver Police Administration building, where Spratt’s office was located, was roughly a mile from Spratt’s place—a six-minute drive in normal traffic. However, since Spratt frequently traveled to different stations in the city, they couldn’t assume he would be in his office. The chance was small but real that he would be at the Division 6 station, which was even closer and would have a more straightforward route on the one-way streets. They decided to give themselves the smallest possible window to ensure the lowest likelihood of taking longer than they should. For that reason, they would need to be in and out of Spratt’s place in fewer than four minutes.

  It was after midnight by the time they finished, but Sullivan felt like sleep would be impossible. The hours until tomorrow pressed down with a near-palpable weight.

  While they were cleaning up, Tobias said, “I can see why you’d be mad at me for all of this.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I know. That’s what I don’t understand.” Tobias fiddled with a napkin, tearing it into shreds. “I know it’s my fault you have to break the law for someone you’ve never met. If I hadn’t blackmailed you, none of this would be on your plate. There’s a lot at risk for you. That would make anyone mad. But you’re not. You’re...something, I can’t tell what, but you’re not mad.”

  “No, I’m not mad.”

  “So what are you?”

  Sullivan scrubbed at a bit of spilled soy sauce while he tested possible answers. He couldn’t come up with anything, though, because he was too wrapped up in questions of his own: What would you do if I said no? Would you blackmail me again? Would you still stay afterward if I refused to help?

  He wasn’t sure he wanted the answers. He wasn’t sure he could trust the answers. In the end, he didn’t say anything.

  “You’re a good man,” Tobias said, and Sullivan jerked his head up. “To do all of this, risk so much, for a guy you don’t know? Yes, you’re a good man.”

  I’m not doing it for him, Sullivan thought, but that would be admitting too much. “You think so?”

  “Yes.” Tobias shrugged one shoulder, a self-conscious, perhaps even embarrassed move. “You push me to say what I think and feel and once you know those things, you respect them, and that makes it so much easier to share them. But you also don’t let me hide, and that’s—you’ve helped me be better and happier. You wouldn’t believe me if I said how good I think you are.”

  Sullivan couldn’t hold the eye contact, couldn’t keep everything he felt off his face.

  “I care about you a lot,” Tobias said, more quietly. He put the napkin down and came to stand in front of Sullivan, reaching up to cup Sullivan’s jaw, directing his gaze back up. He smelled faintly of soy sauce and spray cleanser, and Sullivan let himself be kissed, but he couldn’t help feeling like he was standing on a slippery slope. Tobias might think he was a good man, might care about him a lot, but it didn’t do him any good if Tobias didn’t stay.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They dressed in the morning in the clothes they’d bought the day before—popular, cheap brands of tennis shoes in case they accidentally left footprints somewhere, light windbreakers that would be easy to ditch so as to be harder to track. They both wore thin polyester balaclavas, the fabric folded up at the crown so they looked like ugly spandex hats instead of masks. In case he had to ditch his jacket, Sullivan was also wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt underneath to hide his tattoos. The new backpack was already stocked with everything else they might need.

  When dressed, they looked like poor, fashion-challenged college students.

  They parked in the lot of the diner across the street from Spratt’s while they watched for Tidwell. The smell of burgers and fries made Tobias nauseated; he was too nervous to even think of lunch. Fortunately, Tidwell arrived and left right on schedule, sandwiches delivered, alarm reset, and Sullivan and Tobias were free to get started.

  The most difficult part of the plan was ensuring the Buick stayed concealed; if any of the cops involved got a glimpse of the tag numbers, they were screwed. The day before they’d scouted out the best area to park in; Denver was lousy with one-way streets, and they ended up parking upriver, so to speak, within two blocks south of Spratt’s townhouse, and past an intersection with another one-way street. According to Sullivan, they couldn’t have gotten much luckier; if Spratt wanted to follow them by car from his property, he’d have to go around the block first, while Sullivan and Tobias could run up the sidewalk against traffic, climb into the car, and immediately hang a left and be out of view. It had the added benefit of being far enough out of sight of Spratt’s place that no matter what security system he had, there was no way he’d be able to identify the Buick.

  Sullivan turned off the car. “Got the bag?”

 
Tobias not only had the bag, his fingers were locked around the strap so tightly they might never come loose. “Yeah.”

  Sullivan was watching him, his brown eyes narrowed and thoughtful. “We don’t have to do this today.”

  “Can you promise he’ll be safe until tomorrow?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Then give me a minute. I’ll be fine. Just...one minute.”

  Sullivan nodded and Tobias concentrated on breathing. In and out, in and out, slow and steady.

  He wished he was in Sullivan’s kitchen baking konparèt. Or cherry pie. He wouldn’t say no to making Baked Alaska at this point, and that was a nightmare waiting to happen. He didn’t know anyone who’d made Baked Alaska. He wasn’t sure it would be safe in Sullivan’s firetrap of a house. All it would take was tripping over a hammer while the kirsch was on fire and they’d both die.

  Which was an idea ridiculous enough that he let out a low, grim laugh. He was as calm as he was going to get. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Sullivan eyed him for a second, then got out of the car. Tobias followed suit, and they were—wow, they were doing this.

  They walked down the street, turning right at the intersection so they could get to the alley running behind Spratt’s property. After a couple more minutes of walking, they could see the backyard, and Sullivan nodded. With shaking fingers, Tobias pulled down the hem of the thin polyester balaclava he was wearing so only his eyes showed, then pulled the latex gloves out of his other pocket and slid them on as well.

  “Start your watch now,” Sullivan said, doing the same with the one he wore on his own wrist. “Four minutes.”

  And then Tobias was numbly following him into the backyard. The chain-link gate creaked as Sullivan pushed it open. Tobias had to curtail the urge to flinch.

  Sullivan didn’t waste any time. He walked directly to the window on the right side of the door and pulled the small emergency hammer from his pocket—the kind people kept in their cars to break their windows with in case they had to get out quickly and the door was jammed. The point was steel; the glass fractured in the sill instantly and without too much noise. Sullivan knocked enough of the pane out to make room for his arm, then reached through and flipped the latch, sliding the thing open and using the hammer again—this time the end meant to slice through a stuck seat belt—to get through the screen.