“I told Nick,” Dee admitted. “Jim hasn’t forgiven me for that.”
“He used it in a letter to threaten Jim. Just a few months before Nick was killed.”
“I was cross with Nick for using that information,” Dee admitted. “It wasn’t appropriate. Nick sometimes had a different perspective on how to make things happen.”
“You think maybe Nick did that to someone else and got himself killed?” Hailey asked.
“I think it’s possible. I still think about it, even after all these years. Tom pointed it out the other night—I’d somehow ended up on Nick’s death again. I’m sure it drives him crazy.”
Would it bother Tom to hear about Dee’s lost love? Would he be threatened by something so far in the past? She thought of Bruce, the other woman. Was he still threatened by John? It would make sense. She could no longer recall all the things that had driven them apart. John’s flaws had vanished in death. How could Bruce compete with that?
“But Jim didn’t have anything to do with Nick’s death. We were standing together when we got the news. I hadn’t seen Jim that upset since Dottie.”
Did that mean he wasn’t guilty? Maybe. In twelve years, Dee had to have asked herself that question over and over. If she believed he might have been behind Nick’s murder, surely she wouldn’t be here, inside his house.
But even as Hailey closed her eyes to go to bed, she felt like she didn’t know Jim Wyatt at all.
She arrived at the station at eight the next morning without sleeping. In her notebook, she’d made lists of places she and the girls might stay, ideas so they could get out of Jim’s house.
Already she’d put in a call to the woman who used to sit for the girls when they lived in Berkeley.
Twice before she’d left the house, Bruce had called. Twice he’d sent text messages.
Four times, she’d ignored him.
Marshall’s door was closed when Hailey arrived and she walked past, straight to her desk. Hal’s coffee cup wasn’t on his desk, but she didn’t see him in the department.
As her computer was booting, Marshall’s door opened. He peered out, looking angry.
He pointed to her, curled his finger to call her into his office. Silent Marshall was bad news. Much better to hear him yell out, curse.
Hal sat in one of the old wooden chairs across from Marshall’s desk. The other was vacant. Marshall pointed to it and she sat.
Hal held his head in his hands. Hailey started to feel sick.
What did Hal do?
Marshall ran his finger under the rim of his collar, took the knot in his fist and pulled it loose, then twisted his hand under it to undo the top button. All the time he stared at her. “Harris came in this morning to request a transfer.”
“A transfer?”
“He wants a new partner.”
Hailey pressed her hand to the scalding in her cheek.
“Isn’t that right, Harris?” Marshall pressed.
Hal lifted his head, sat up straight and nodded. “That’s correct, Captain.”
“You know about this?” he asked her.
Hailey shook her head, couldn’t find her voice.
“You’re okay with it?”
No. Of course she wasn’t okay. How could she be? How could Hal ask for this? How could he not give her a chance to explain? She studied Hal. The same Hal from last night. His expression was angry but flat. Unreadable.
Marshall launched himself from his chair. “Somebody better start talking,” he barked.
Someone outside his office dropped something that broke then cursed. “This isn’t reality TV or a fucking soap opera. You don’t just come in here and tell me you don’t like your partner.” He strung out the words, the mocking tones of someone whining. “You’d better have one hell of a reason.”
Hal sat up. “I have reason to believe Inspector Wyatt hasn’t been forthcoming about our recent cases. I can’t have a partner who lies, Captain.”
It was like he struck her.
Marshall knocked his chair to the back wall then leaned across his desk at Hal. “You said that, Harris. But it doesn’t mean shit until you tell me what you’re talking about.”
Hal shook his head, looked down.
“What about you, Wyatt? You want to explain what he’s talking about?”
“I’m not sure, sir.” She searched for a story, something harmless to confess. This was her reputation, her career.
“You’re not sure,” Marshall snapped. “So I’m supposed to get IA up here so we can dick around for the next month with microscopes up our asses?” He pounded his fist on the desk, turned his back and kicked the chair so it bounced off the wall and landed on its side.
He pressed both palms flat on his desk, lowered his voice. “I am not breaking up this team unless one of you has formal charges to bring against the other.” He paused, then he said, “You guys are my best team. This Dennig case is all over the goddamn papers. I’ve got city hall and the chief on my ass twenty-four seven to solve this thing. Hell, even the mayor is calling from Sacramento. What do you want me to tell them? ‘Sorry, Harris and Wyatt aren’t getting along?’ Do you have any idea what kind of shit storm that would cause?”
Marshall pulled his chair back beneath him, sat down. “Either of you got something to say?”
Hal shook his head.
“No, sir,” Hailey said.
“Then get out of here.”
They both rose but Marshall stopped her, waited until Hal had left the room and closed the door behind him. “If you’re holding something back, Wyatt—anything—I’ll see that you can’t get a job writing parking tickets in the Tenderloin. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
Hailey left. Just a few steps out of Marshall’s office, the door slammed behind her, glass rattling, the captain cursing behind it.
Hal wasn’t at his desk.
Hailey sat, numb and shaky. Hal was ready to turn her in.
He was like family.
Had been like family.
Marshall’s door flung open and he came out. His second button was undone, his tie gone completely. “We’ve got a one-eighty-seven at the B of A building.” Another murder. He pointed to her. “Hedge fund manager.” He looked at a piece of paper. “Guy’s name was Harvey Rendell, runs Rendell Funds. You and Harris are on it. They found the same kind of button with the anti-NRA slogan. Get over there now and keep the connections under wrap. I want to know what the fuck’s going on before the press does.” He stepped out of the doorway and walked into the center of the department’s desks, turned a full circle with his hands on his hips. “Where the hell is Harris?”
“I’ll find him.” Hailey texted Hal with the homicide and retrieved her purse from the drawer.
Marshall waited a minute and when Hal didn’t appear, he shook his head, mumbled something then walked back toward his office. “I want an update in an hour,” he said before slamming his door again.
“Haven’t seen him like that since the press caught Krantz boozing on the job,” Kong said from his desk.
“Don’t ask.”
Hal was waiting in the hall. He dangled a set of keys casually, didn’t meet her eye. How long could they go on like this? She tried to find a way to open the conversation.
He started down the hall. “I’m driving.”
She followed him down the hall, but he was moving fast. He entered the stairwell ten feet ahead of her. The door closed before she could reach it.
When she stepped into the dank, cement stairwell, Hal was already a full flight ahead of her.
He made no attempt to let her catch up.
Chapter 20
The car ride was unbearably silent. She was desperate to break the silence, to make amends. But how?
Wha
t could she offer him? He’d already said he didn’t want to work with her.
She’d always been the one the others envied. That she had a respectful partner—that they had a strong friendship, mutual respect. She’d missed him so much when he was out for shoulder surgery. They’d always had such easy synchronicity. How many people complained about lousy partners. She’d never had that with Hal. It was the opposite. He’d been her best friend and then her family.
Hailey considered calling Jamie. She needed a sounding board, but how could she talk to anyone when there were too many things she couldn’t say.
Too many secrets she had to keep.
Traffic was backed up because of the rain, which fell in sheets as they made their way toward the Bank of America Building across town. Lights flashing, Hal honked to move the particularly slow drivers out of his path.
One guy in a 5-series Mercedes flipped him off and Hal turned on his siren.
“You’re going to write him a ticket? Do we have time for that?”
“Asshole flipped off a cop.”
One asshole to another.
If things didn’t change between them, a transfer would be the only option. She wanted nothing to do with Hal when he was this angry.
A few blocks from the department, his cell phone rang. “Harris,” he said.
She could tell from his expression that it was Sheila.
“I can’t talk now,” he said. “It was.” Pause. “No, I mean it. Can I call you later?”
She saw the shame in his face. Damn it. He’d slept with her.
Would he have done that if he hadn’t been so angry with her? Why should she care who he slept with?
But she did.
Not because she wanted to be with Hal. It had never been like that.
But because he was the only adult on the planet she trusted.
He doesn’t trust you.
That was on her.
When he hung up, Hailey turned to face him, searching for the right thing to start the conversation between them.
Anger was etched into his cheeks and brow and Hailey found she couldn’t say anything.
He flipped on the radio, changed the channel by jabbing his thumb at the buttons as traffic crept forward.
A few minutes later, Hal grew impatient and turned on his sirens and lights so that people moved slowly out of his path. Traffic thinned out as they crossed Market Street, and the more speed they got, the calmer Hal was.
Hailey felt angrier.
Hal had actually asked for a transfer. No one did that. It was like career suicide—for both of them.
He wasn’t entitled to know everything about her life. She didn’t know everything about his. His father was shot on the job. He’d been accused of accepting bribes and Hailey had never asked Hal to defend his father. Never pressed him.
It was his business, not hers.
Now he had the captain watching them. That was screwed up. God, she needed old Hal back.
“What?”
“Hal.”
“I heard you,” he quipped. “Nothing wrong with my ears.”
“You’re behaving like a child.”
“Sorry I’m not up to your standards.”
“Shut up, Harris. Just shut the hell up.”
“Don’t you—” Hal barked back when her cell phone rang. An East Bay number.
They both stared at it. Hal shrugged.
“Wyatt,” she said, half expecting to hear Marshall even though the call was coming from the wrong part of the bay.
“This is Bert Tomaso from Oakland PD, calling on Donald Blake.”
“Thanks for calling back, Bert.” Hal looked over, eyeing the phone. “I’m here with my partner, Hal Harris.” The words came out a little rougher than she’d planned.
She punched the speaker button and held the phone between them.
“Hi, Hal,” Bert said.
“This is Bert Tomaso from Oakland PD, regarding Donald Blake’s murder,” Hailey told Hal. “Bert. We’re here.”
“Sorry I didn’t call sooner. We’ve had quite a week over here.”
“Sixteen gang-related shootings in three days,” Hal said. “I read about it.”
“Yeah. A real mess,” Tomaso said and Hailey realized she hadn’t seen a paper in almost a week. “I hear you guys are working something related to the Blake murders.”
Hailey told Tomaso about the case and Hal added that they’d learned the Blakes had been victims of the B&E committed by the dead gunrunner, Jeremy Hayden.
“I don’t know anything about the B&E, but I still think about that murder case. You guys have one of those? One that won’t leave you alone?”
“I’ve got one of those,” Hal said. “A personal one.”
“Blakes,” Hailey said, cutting him off. “They were killed July of 2013, right?”
Hal shook his head. “August 2nd.” Of course he’d remember.
“Right,” Tomaso said. “Good memory.”
“We got a copy of the file but we wanted your take on it,” Hailey said.
“There’s a lot that’s not in the file, so it’s better we talk.”
“What do you mean?” Hal asked before Hailey could.
“Between you and me, Blake’s car was forced off the road,” Tomaso said.
“Forced off the road? You mean, before the shots?” Hal asked, pulling to the curb so he could give the call his full attention.
“Right,” Tomaso said. “My theory is that two or three cars worked together to run the Blakes into the neighborhood where they were shot.”
“Was the theory that—” Hailey started.
“You think Donald Blake was a specific target,” Hal asked, cutting her off.
“Him or someone in his family, absolutely. My captain didn’t agree, didn’t like what that would’ve implied. Better that we don’t get people thinking they might be kidnapped off the highway and shot. Know what I mean?”
“He still there—that captain?”
“No,” Tomaso said, the relief obvious in his voice. “Long gone.”
“You were saying,” Hailey said. “About the car.”
“Right,” Tomaso continued. “The damage to the car corroborated my theory and I had a homeless who witnessed it. Said it was a black car, that it tapped the bumper. While another tan one rode alongside.”
Her breath caught. “A witness?”
“Had,” Tomaso said. “She disappeared two days later. No trace. Her cart, all her stuff was there, but she was gone.”
Homeless rarely abandon their belongings without a fight.
Hailey sat back against the seat.
“Did you ever find the car that hit them?” Hal asked.
“Nope. Never found anything. I did some research on Blake, though, while he was in rehabilitation. Some shitty irony for a guy like that.”
“And Blake is deceased?” Hal asked.
“Killed himself,” Tomaso added. “Broke into the salvage yard where the police were keeping the car—the one his family was in when they were shot. He douses the car in gasoline, gets into the driver’s seat and lights it on fire.”
“They sure it was Blake in the car?”
“Wasn’t easy, but they ID’d him by a dental bridge. It’s the worst case I ever worked,” Tomaso added.
Hailey imagined a man so desperate that he’d lit himself on fire. It was awful.
“Damn,” Hal said. “Anything about Blake stand out during the investigation? Any reason he would’ve been a target?”
“Not really. He worked in DC—low-level jobs mostly. He spent his free time, running with a group that organized protests to push for gun control, but nothing that tied to any Oakland gang.”
The description reminded her of Fredricks, but Fredricks died in 2004. Blake would
have been barely out of college then. Had their paths crossed?
“They lived in your neck of the woods for a while then moved back to the East Bay,” he went on.
“Right. We talked to the paper.”
“You read his stuff?” Tomaso asked.
Hailey thought about the drafted article they’d received. “A little.”
“He wrote almost exclusively about guns and gang violence, a lot about the problems over here.”
“You think he was a target because of what he wrote?” Hal asked.
“No idea,” Tomaso confessed. “I couldn’t make it fit. Tried every damn thing, followed every trail—his colleagues, family, past jobs, everything. I wish I could be more help.”
“No. This was useful,” Hailey said. “Thank you.”
Hal drove up California Street, crossed Battery and Sansome, caught the tail end of a yellow light at Montgomery and stopped at the entrance of the Bank of America Building.
A uniformed security guard stood at the top of the driveway and told them to circle and enter on Bush Street. He was white-haired with a thick accent—Eastern European maybe. Hailey was bad at accents. Hal was good with them.
But he wasn’t talking to her.
Hal flashed his badge but the guard shook his head. “You’ve got to enter on the other side.”
Hal swore under his breath and circled the block. Another guard, younger, with no accent—except maybe a trace of Jersey—asked for Hal’s ID and studied it carefully.
These guys were building security, so the extra security wasn’t for the murder scene. “Something going on in the building today?” Hailey asked.
“Standard since 9/11.” When the guard returned the badge, Hal drove down into the belly of the building and parked in a spot marked “loading and unloading only.”
A young guy jogged out of the small valet box. “Excuse me. You can’t park there.”
Hal stood out of the car and flipped open his black badge, then tossed the kid his keys.
The kid fumbled and dropped them to the ground.
“Better not scratch it,” Hal warned. “Belongs to the police department.”
Hailey passed as the guy picked the keys carefully off the ground and carried them to the small glassed-in guard’s shed.
One Clean Shot Page 20
