Smoke and Mirrors

by K Ryn

  His eyes danced back to the clock. 3:59.

  Pick up the phone, Jim... if you can...

  He forced his gaze away from the dash and back to the wipers. He wished he could push away the fear that something had gone wrong just as easily.

  Calm down... Jim has to wait until he's clear to make the call. He could still be meeting with Gordon. And even if the meeting's over, he's still going to be under surveillance... they wouldn't stop following him now... Maybe he didn't even leave on his own...

  Blair shuddered and immediately shot a sideways look at Joel, worried that he'd noticed. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The big man's attention was still on the road.

  Keep it together, Sandburg... if he didn't leave on his own that doesn't mean that things went bad... Gordon could have decided to take him to Jenson right away... Jim's a pretty good pitchman... he'd demand to meet with whoever's in charge before committing himself... that's what we discussed... get to Jenson, get him to reveal the rest of the players...

  The thought that things might be going according to plan was less than comforting. The zillion other questions whirling in his head weren't either.

  The shrill ring of Taggert's cell phone shot Blair bolt upright in the seat. Wide eyed, he watched Joel fumble the unit out of his suitcoat pocket. He was inordinately glad that the bigger man had the chore of answering the call, because he wasn't sure he would have been able to even choke out a 'hello' at this point.

  "Taggert... yeah, Simon, he's still with me."

  Joel shot Blair a quick, uncertain look and the younger man's throat constricted even tighter.

  "He is? Hold on a minute." Joel's face was filled with a relieved smile as he lowered the phone and looked at Blair again. "Jim's okay," he said softly. "I'm going to pull over so we can get the details."

  Taggert's last comment was lost on the anthropologist. The assurance that his partner was all right meant his heart could start beating again. Blair nodded numbly and turned his head to stare out the passenger-side window. The raindrops sliding down the glass mimicked his own unshed tears of relief.

  He didn't turn back to face Joel until the bigger man placed a gentle hand on his arm. Dimly, he realized he'd missed the rest of the one-sided conversation.

  "Jim's back at the loft," Taggert began. "Things went well. Archie Gordon was the contact." Blair nodded at the confirmation of what he already knew, but kept silent. "Jim thinks that he managed to convince Gordon. He pushed for another meet."

  "With Jenson?"

  "Gordon didn't say who it would be, but Jim told him he wanted to meet whoever was in charge."

  "When and where?" Blair prodded.

  "Jim doesn't know yet. They're supposed to call him."

  Blair considered that information for a moment, then rubbed at his eyes worriedly. "Does that mean they did buy the act, or they didn't??"

  "It means they're being careful," Joel said quietly. "They tested the waters with the first meeting. That they're going to set up a second one makes it look promising."

  Promising? Yeah, right. Or maybe they've seen through the deception and they're going to lure him somewhere so that they can kill him in private instead of in front of witnesses. Blair kept those grim thoughts to himself. He took a deep breath and straightened in the seat, pushing his fingers through his unruly hair to shift it out of his face.

  "So we're back to waiting," he murmured aloud.

  "Looks that way."

  Blair appreciated the sympathy he heard in the bigger man's voice, but it cut into the defenses he was trying so desperately to keep in place. "Well, we've waited this long, what's a few more hours, right?" he said with forced lightness. "Good thing I've still got a pile of my student's papers to grade. That should keep me busy at my office until at least ten o'clock."

  "You're not going back to your office, Blair," Joel said with a sigh. "Now that Jim's made contact, you're too exposed there."

  Blair shut his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard against the anger of being dictated to once again. "My car's still at the university," he acquiesced wearily. "If you'd drop me at the lot, I promise to head straight back to the motel."

  "I'm sorry, Blair. I'm supposed to take you there right away. Simon's orders."

  "Come on, Joel. I'm not sure if you noticed, but the motel neighborhood's not exactly the kind of place that I'll be able to just grab a cab. I'll be stranded..." Blair's eyes widened as he realized that was exactly what Simon had in mind. "Damn him!" he exploded, jerking at the door release.

  Taggert grabbed him and stilled his efforts. "Simon wants you at the motel and so does Jim. That's where you're going. End of story," Joel announced. "If you've got those papers with you, you can work on them for a few hours and then you're going to sleep, like you promised me. I'll pick up something for you to eat later. You're going to sit tight and wait, just like the rest of us."

  Blair pulled free of Taggert's hold, but didn't make another break for the door. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared sullenly at the dash. "Not quite. No one else is under house arrest," he snarled. "Who's the criminal here? Jenson or me?"

  "You know darn well why they don't want you to have your car, Blair," Joel said firmly. "Admit it."

  Blair's face darkened even further. "Jim's my partner. It's my job to watch his back," he hissed.

  "But you can't this time. You told me the other night that this separation was for Jim's protection as well as your own. You know what would happen if you went sneaking around and got caught."

  The soft words carried the force of a gut-punch. Blair's eyes closed and his head dropped. All the fight went out of him in the face of that simple, deadly truth. This was Jim's show. Reserved seating only. And he didn't have a ticket. Totally drained, Blair didn't attempt to argue any more. He huddled further into himself as Joel started the car and eased out into the flowing traffic.

  You who dirty the mirror, cry that it isn't clean.

  Never assume anything.

  Jim had first heard that cautionary warning from a combat- hardened drill sergeant when he was a wet-behind-the-ears recruit. Ellison had taken the sage advice to heart immediately and years later he was still thanking the various officers and instructors that had drilled their own versions of that decree into his brain. Never assume you're smarter than your opponent -- your ego won't protect you from a bullet. Never assume a level playing field -- you're liable to trip and never recover. Never assume you have the element of surprise -- or you'll find yourself on the wrong end of the gun. Never assume anything -- assumptions got you killed.

  The words reverberated in his head as he watched Archie Gordon pause in the doorway of the Lariat to light his cigarette. He would make no assumptions about this man or any of the others. They were smart and they were deadly. He'd need every ounce of cunning and craft that he'd learned over the years to beat them.

  But beat you I will, the Sentinel vowed. He raised the glass of beer to his lips and took a sip. He let himself settle even further into the arrogant, lone-wolf persona he'd fashioned and met the other man's gaze without a blink.

  Gordon gave him an almost negligible nod and wandered over to the bar. While he ordered a drink, the Sentinel inched up the dials on his senses, examining his adversary. On the surface, the other detective was calm and cool, his expression as he'd made eye contact with Jim a little smug. But there was tension and the cold smell of fear emanating from the man as well.

  An inch or so shorter than Jim, Archie Gordon carried at least thirty more pounds on his heavy frame. His dark hair was stringy and oily-looking, and his denim jacket and jeans were long past the point of needing to be washed. From where he sat, the Sentinel could already smell the reek of stale smoke and wondered how he was going to stand it once the man sat down next to him. His eyes were already watering.

  "Just dial it down, Jim. Get past it," his Guide's voice reverberated in his mind. Ellison had to remind himself not to smile. Even when Blair wasn't by his side, the young
er man's guidance and support still kept him grounded.

  Sometimes the extent of the invisible connection that they shared was spooky -- like when Gordon had walked in. If he hadn't known better, Jim would have sworn that Blair was right by his side -- the sense of the younger man's presence had been that strong.

  Sometimes it was simply reassuring -- as it was now. The sensory control techniques that the insistant Guide had pounded into his stubborn Sentinel's head were queued up and waiting for just the right occasion.

  Jim mentally lowered the sensory dials a notch. He forced himself to breathe easily, his gaze never shifting from his adversary as he reviewed what he knew of the man. Gordon had transferred to Central from West's Vice squad just after Ellison had left the department. Their paths had crossed on a few cases, but they'd never worked together directly. From all reports, he was a good cop with an impressive arrest record.

  But the Sentinel knew differently. All he had to do was prove it.

  Jim was careful to keep both hands in clear sight as Gordon approached his table. The man stopped and rested one hand on the back of the chair to Jim's right, one eyebrow raised questioningly. The Sentinel's eyes narrowed a fraction, but he gave a terse nod and Gordon slid into the seat.

  Gordon placed his glass on the table and busied himself lighting another cigarette. His gaze flickered once around the room before returning to Jim. "I hear you've had some problems down at the station."

  "You heard wrong," Jim answered evenly.

  Gordon eyed him in surprise. Jim took another drink from his glass and settled back in the chair, his expression and body language broadcasting an air of casual indifference. "The way I see it, it's Banks that's got the problems. He's the one that's got to explain to the 'powers that be' why no one's working my cases, while I enjoy this little vacation he so graciously granted me. The one major pain-in-the-ass problem I did have is no longer in the picture. No matter what happens from this point on, it will have been worth it not to have some stupid civilian dogging my heels night and day."

  "So Sandburg's out, eh?"

  Jim let a nasty grin fill his face. "Hell, Sandburg's always been out. He inhabits his own little world, several steps outside reality. I just don't have to put up with it any more."

  "Still, seems kind of strange... always got the impression that you two were pretty good friends," Gordon pushed.

  Jim's grin died and his eyes grew ice cold. "And I always had the impression you were a pretty bright guy. I'll say this once, Gordon. Listen well. Banks stuck me with the kid. I put up with him because it was expedient to do so. My choice. It's no longer expedient, so I got rid of him. Again, my choice."

  "Hey, I believe you. If it had been me, I would have tried to strangle the punk months ago, just to shut up his yapping mouth. What's it going to cost you?"

  Jim covered his anger at the comment about his partner with a shrug. "A couple days of attitude adjustment... without pay. Small price considering."

  "And then it's back to Major Crimes?"

  Jim's face darkened and he stared down into the glass in his hand. "I suppose so," he said slowly. "I'll have to suck up to Banks for a few weeks... take the crap and the shit cases until he's forced to give me back what's rightfully mine." His eyes lifted and caught Gordon's, narrowing even further and glinting menacingly in the dim light. "Why the sudden interest in my future plans, Gordon? Internal Affairs send you to check me out?"

  "You're a fellow cop, Ellison," Gordon protested. "I heard what went down. I know what kind of crap you had to put up with dragging Sandburg around. Just wanted you to know that I think you're getting a pretty raw deal from Banks and the rest. Man needs to know he's got friends, right?"

  "Bullshit."

  Gordon's pulse and respiration skyrocketed, much to the Sentinel's grim delight. Jim fixed him with a glare that kept it that way. He reached out, plucked the cigarette from the man's fingers and stubbed it out viciously in the ash tray.

  "You and I are not friends, Gordon," he hissed, his voice as cold as his eyes. "Never were, never will be. Now cut to the chase and tell me why you wanted me here."

  The other detective wrenched his gaze away with a barely concealed shudder. He started to reach for another cigarette, but abruptly wrapped his slightly shaking hands around his glass instead. "I'm here to check you out," he said quietly. "Maybe offer you an opportunity, if you're interested."

  "In Vice? No thanks, I've already been down that road," Jim said, intentionally misreading the man's intent.

  "Actually, vice is pretty well covered. We'd prefer you stayed in Major Crimes."

  "We?"

  "Some... associates and myself," Gordon hedged, squirming a little under the Sentinel's scrutiny. "There's a small group of us who've been dissatisfied at the direction that the department's taken over the last few years. If the rumors I've been hearing are true, it seems you feel the same way."

  "And what if I do? You and your associates have a way to change it?" Jim put as much skepticism into his voice as he could.

  "Not exactly," Gordon admitted. "But there are ways to work around the system. Ways to make some extra cash."

  "Money's always a consideration, but not the only one," Jim countered with a shake of his head.

  "What about power? That hold any interest for you?"

  "Depends on what kind of power you're talking about," Jim responded.

  Gordon leaned forward, his face shining with the same light the Sentinel had seen in the eyes of fanatics and madmen. "Real power. Life and death. Judge and jury. Spoils and profits to the victor. Interested? We could use a man with your background. Your skills. Your connections."

  "Sounds illegal." Jim murmured.

  Gordon simply smiled.

  Jim took another sip of his beer. Letting the lukewarm liquid coast down his throat, he let his gaze drift over the interior of the bar. "You're taking a pretty big risk, approaching me. How do you know I won't turn you in?"

  It was Gordon's turn to shrug. "Your word against mine, and right now yours isn't worth much inside those hallowed walls. Besides, it's in your best interests not to. Being a cop's a dangerous occupation. You have to depend on backup, you know? Especially if you're working alone."

  The veiled threat hung in the air between them as the Sentinel considered his response. Was it hot air or was the network of crooked cops much larger than they'd thought?

  "I want to meet the man in charge," he said finally.

  "Doesn't work that way. You're my recruit. You work with me. I'm the only contact you need."

  Gordon's smile was smug as he grabbed his drink and started to raise it. Jim reached out and wrapped one hand around the other detective's elbow. Before Gordon could react to the unexpected movement, Jim's fingers dug into a pressure point. The glass dropped from the man's nerveless grasp and he barely stifled an agonized cry of pain. The glass shattered and beer cascaded over the tabletop. The Sentinel ignored the mess, locking gazes with his opponent.

  "Think again," Jim whispered in his most deadly voice. "I don't deal with messengers. I meet the man. Tonight. You set it up. You call me."

  Jim squeezed his fingers and Gordon whimpered in pain, nodding immediately.

  The Sentinel released his hold and rose smoothly to his feet. Towering over the other detective, he paused, his gaze still razor sharp. "Oh, by the way, tell Smithson, Harris and Randolph they're out of practice. Next time I see any of them in my rearview mirror they'll find out just how much I like being followed. And you... you stay out of my loft. I found your little presents. Your eavesdropping days are over as of now."

  Gordon blanched and barely managed another nod. Jim patted the other detective on the shoulder and left the bar without a backward glance.

  Ignoring the steady rain, Jim paused at the edge of the sidewalk, glancing left and right to check the oncoming traffic before crossing the street to his truck. The momentary hesitation at the curb had revealed the beige van that had followed him the day before, pa
rked a block behind his own vehicle. Jim fought back the urge to reach for his gun, digging in his jacket pocket for the keys instead.

  Unlocking the driver's door, he slid behind the wheel, started the truck and eased out into the steady flow of traffic. Glancing into the rearview mirror as he flipped on his lights and the wipers, he saw the van slip into line four cars back. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection -- jaw clenched in anger, eyes narrowed and shining like ice -- and forced himself to take several deep breaths.

  Careful... now's not the time to blow this... stay cool... see what they do...

  His gaze kept flickering back to check on his shadow as he guided the truck through the traffic. After six blocks, he saw the van veer off onto a side street. The driver's face was mostly obscured by the cell phone he clutched to his ear, but Jim was able to recognize Harris.

  When no new tail appeared after a few blocks, he breathed a small sigh of relief. Jim relaxed the deathgrip he had on the steering wheel, but kept up his guard, watching the upcoming intersections and criss-crossing alleys for any sign of trouble.

  Confronting Gordon about the surveillance and the listening devices had been a risk, but Jim had deemed it necessary. He wasn't about to wait on the slimy vice-cop's bidding. Not when he had bigger fish to catch. Pushing had been a gamble; one that appeared to have paid off. Someone had called off the men tailing him -- probably Jenson in response to an urgent phone call from Gordon -- but he still had to be cautious. One wrong step and they could just as easily decide that Jim was too dangerous an accomplice to acquire; and set the wheels in motion for his death.

  Yet the Sentinel could barely suppress a feral grin.

  The little power play he'd instigated had shifted things into gear.

  Which was exactly what he'd wanted.

  The electronic snooper that had been hidden in the lamp was his first target upon returning to the loft. His enhanced hearing picked up every tinkling snap and crackle of its individual wires and components as he crushed it underfoot. He did a quick check of the phone, but found nothing foreign inside the device, confirming his earlier guess that they'd tapped the line, not the equipment. A thorough scan of the rest of the apartment uncovered no other active bugs and no sign of any other type of intrusion. A quick sweep of the street and the alley came up empty as well.