Along Came December

by Jay Allisan

  “No,” said Paddy quietly, easing himself into the chair next to me. His face was the color of oatmeal and he was as taut as a bowstring. He brought up the suspect list, turning the monitor so I could see. “Usual crop of low-lifes. Plenty of motive for targeting the police, but nobody’s got the skills to pull this off.”

  Paddy scrolled slowly through the mug shots. I didn’t recognize anyone, not that I expected to. I scrolled through rap sheets on Max’s computer, scanning the known associates. “What about connections? Anyone have friends or family ex-police?”

  “Why ex-police?” asked Dixon. “What makes you think that?”

  “Kristoph went to help another cop get a prisoner into a squad car, right? And now the car’s been found empty, but with Kris’s cell phone still in it. The cop and the prisoner must have been Garrison, and in order to get the uniform and cruiser they must have had—”

  “Someone on the inside,” Josie said. She glanced at Whale. “Someone from Red Rocks.”

  “We don’t know that,” Dixon said. “It could be anyone from anywhere.”

  “No matter who it was, it was premeditated,” Whale said. “The fire was the perfect cover, with so many people coming and going.” He turned to Paddy. “Was there anyone else around when the alleged officer called for help? Do you think your partner was targeted?”

  Paddy shook his head. “I don’t remember. There were people all over the place, but I don’t remember anyone going to help except Kris.”

  “Anyone on the suspect list have previous interactions with Kris?” I asked. “Anyone who’d want to target him?”

  Paddy slammed his fist on the desk. “Why the hell would someone target Kris? He never hurt anybody in his life! He’d never—he’d never deserve this. Not him.”

  “Did the other cops deserve it?” I asked quietly.

  Paddy dropped his head into his hands. “Dammit, Shirley, that’s not what I meant.”

  “I have to ask, because I don’t know. Did internal investigations turn up anything? Was someone on the take or turning a blind eye to something? Is there some connection—”

  Max skidded through the door, nearly slamming into Dixon. “New file,” he said breathlessly. “The broke file.”

  “What broken file?” I asked.

  “No, the Broke file! Emerson Broke!”

  I typed the name into the computer as Dixon said, “What about him?”

  Max gulped down air. “His brother? The one who was killed in the gang shootout last year? Kristoph was the one who shot him.”

  16

  COLD SILENCE engulfed the room. Then Paddy whispered, “What?”

  Dixon leaned over my shoulder and scrolled through the file, even as Max explained. “Kris was on the detail working drug smuggling. He was in deep cover for months. They were close to a bust when somehow the sting was compromised, and three of the gang members were killed by the undercover cops, including Dante Broke, Emerson’s little brother.”

  “How could you not have known this before?” I asked, shocked. “Why didn’t someone—”

  “Those files were sealed,” said Shapiro. “For the protection of all the officers involved.”

  Every head turned toward the sound of her voice. She stood still as a statue at the edge of the computer bay.

  “You knew this?” Dixon demanded.

  She lifted her chin. “It was my operation.”

  Josie gaped at her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “For the same reason no one else, including Detective Gauge, did. Emerson Broke was investigated and cleared. There was no need to disclose the information. It wasn’t relevant.”

  “DOES IT SEEM FUCKING RELEVANT NOW?” Paddy roared. He got to his feet. “Get me an address. I’m going after the son of a bitch.”

  “Not alone,” Dixon said. “No one faces this man alone. Max is with you—”

  “And so are we,” Josie said. “Me and Whale will back you up.”

  Dixon nodded. “Everyone’s in full gear. No one takes any chances, understand? You do this right. You get Kris out and you take Broke down. I’ll have an address for you in five.”

  I waited until they’d left the room before saying, “He’s not going to be home, Dixon. There’s no way he’s working from his house.”

  Dixon laid his hands on the table. “Then you find me a better lead. Get me his car, his business, any properties he owns in the city. Tell me who he calls and who he emails. Tell me how he slipped through our fingers and how the hell he’s pulling this off!” Dixon struck the table, his palms smacking harshly. “Tell me anything,” he said, his voice low and pained. “Anything at all, Shirley. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Shapiro dialed her cell phone as she paced the length of the computer bay. “Broke’s unemployed,” she said. “He owns nothing, no property, no vehicle. He’s a high school dropout who self-medicates for the juvenile arthritis that left him barely able to walk. He’s physically incapable of the Garrison attacks. He was cleared.”

  “But we know he’s not working alone,” I said. “Whoever Kris went with today from Red Rocks, it wasn’t Emerson. Kris would have recognized him. And he’s got the motive. The file says he’s been sending the force all kinds of hate mail since his brother died. Maybe someone in Dante’s gang—”

  “No,” Shapiro snapped. “If this was gang retaliation it would have happened months ago.”

  “It’s some kind of revenge,” I argued. “At least for Emerson. When was Dante killed? Is today some kind of anniversary?”

  “No,” she said again. “Dante was killed in November. His birthday’s in March. It’s not—”

  Her eyes went wide and she began barking into her phone, calling for SWAT and dogs and paramedics, rattling off an address from memory. She turned to Dixon.

  “I need a vest. Tell me where they are.”

  “How do you know?” Dixon asked instead.

  “It’s not when,” she said, glancing sideways at me, “it’s where. It’s where Dante was shot, and it’s in Amberleigh. Tell me where to find a vest.”

  “Follow me,” Dixon said. “Shirley, you stay put.”

  I was standing, poised to follow. “But—”

  Dixon put his hands on my shoulders and leaned in so close I could count his eyelashes. “You leave this building and you’re done. Clear?”

  I gritted my teeth but nodded. He and Shapiro ran from the room, their footsteps ringing in the hall. I took one look at Kristoph’s vacant desk and decided I didn’t give a shit about what leaving meant. I snatched up Max’s car keys and raced for the stairs.

  THE SIRENS came from everywhere.

  Amberleigh was already stuffed with police searching block by block for Kristoph, and they all scrambled to the new address. One by one sirens cut the air, every new and urgent wail pressing my foot down harder on the gas. Behind me was a different cry, the low blare of an ambulance air horn. I drove faster.

  I didn’t know the area but I knew when I’d found it. Squad cars were parked six deep, and dozens of cops surrounded the building, a shipping warehouse just shy of the docks. I ran past the officers setting up barricades, no one moving to stop me. I stopped myself inside the perimeter.

  I couldn’t go in. I didn’t have a badge. I didn’t have a gun. I had a borrowed BRPD jacket that called me police, but this was no place to be stupid. I had to wait. I’d wait while they swept the entrances for bombs or traps. I’d wait while they kicked in the door and put an end to the Garrison. I’d wait for the all clear, and I’d be there when we saved Kristoph.

  All around me radios crackled to life. I recognized Shapiro’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. I searched the crowd and caught sight of her impossibly blonde hair near the delivery entrance. Dixon was behind her, and his team and hers, everyone with weapons drawn. Terror knifed through my lungs at the sight of Max, but then they were moving and there was nothing I could do.

  There was nothing I could do.

  The de
livery door opened like a dragon’s mouth, swallowing cops in twos and threes. Every instinct urged me forward, but I forced myself backward. I stood beside a cop stationed at the barricades and waited for the call to come over her radio.

  I tapped a finger against the barricade, measuring the seconds. It was a big warehouse. Even if Shapiro knew exactly where to look, they’d have to clear the whole thing, which would take time. That was good. Taking time meant doing things right, and that meant nobody would get hurt, and as long as nobody got hurt⁠—

  “Shots fired! Shots fired!”

  “He’s down, I repeat, the hostile is down.”

  “We need the paramedics in here!”

  I ran.

  Others surged around me, flooding the warehouse, but I pushed to the front and followed the voices. They were there, up ahead, a wall of people I couldn’t see past, but I heard it. I heard Paddy’s voice above everything.

  “Get him down! For the love of God, somebody cut him down!”

  I hit the wall of officers like a freight train and burst through to the other side. What I saw stopped me cold.

  Paddy stood immobile in the center of the crowd, Kristoph cradled in his arms like a child. Kristoph’s wrists were bound, his arms stretched above his head by a chain suspended from the rafters.

  “Get him down!” Paddy cried. “Get him down!”

  People around me were in motion. There were bodies on the floor. But all I saw was Kristoph’s pale, pale skin, and the vicious slash of scarlet across his throat. All I saw was the blood at Paddy’s feet, blood that dripped from Kristoph’s neck and chest, and I knew it was too late.

  We were too late.

  Paramedics rushed in front of me, obscuring him from view. Someone had a bolt cutter and was working on the chain. I sank numbly to the floor and pressed my face into my hands.

  We were too late.

  I heard the thick snap of the bolt cutters and looked up. Paddy lowered Kristoph to the floor. The paramedics crowded in but Paddy wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t let go of his partner.

  I looked around the warehouse, suddenly at a loss. I shouldn’t have seen this. I shouldn’t have come. I should never have met him, this kind and gentle man lying dead on the floor. I should never have chosen this life.

  “Shirley?”

  I looked up. Max stood beside me, his face wet with tears. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a whimper. He hugged his arms to his chest.

  “It’s okay, Max,” I said, because there was nothing better to say. I stood, and put my arms around him one at a time, like he was made of glass. I squeezed, and he shattered.

  17

  THE STORY was on every channel every hour. The Garrison attacks were over. The police had won. And with each broadcast came new praise for the woman who’d pieced together the mystery and led the victorious assault—Old Town’s soon-to-be captain, Anna Shapiro.

  “This city has suffered a great tragedy,” she’d said, just hours after the raid. “There are no words that will ease the loss of our officers. The actions of the so-called Garrison are unforgivable. Yet even in our grief we will honor the fallen through our commitment to this city and to the duty we are sworn to. We will serve. We will protect. We will prevail.”

  The press took it up like a mantra, selling the victory and turning Kristoph’s death into a somber footnote. For the public, his funeral was a milestone to be passed before the city could move on. For the police, and for his team, the mourning had only begun.

  Max was part of the honor guard and spent hours standing watch over Kristoph’s body. The rest of the time he was with Sam or with Kristoph’s mother, serving as a family liaison. He only came home to sleep, and he shut himself in his room without a word to me. I didn’t know what to say to him either, so I curled up on the couch and watched the news on repeat.

  Three days passed in an empty haze, and then it was the funeral. The ceremony would be broadcast throughout the city, to homes and to the massive screens erected outside the hall for the officers who couldn’t fit in the building. The mayor would speak. The commissioner and Captain Shapiro would speak. So would Dixon. The wreath would contain no roses.

  The service was scheduled to begin in an hour and Max hadn’t left the apartment yet. I knocked softly on the bedroom door, letting myself in when there was no response. Max stood in front of the mirror, solemn in his dress blues. He fumbled with the buttons at his wrist.

  I went to him and took his wrist, securing the cuff and smoothing the edge. I did it again on the other sleeve. He stared straight ahead, his arms falling stiffly to his side, rigid as a tin soldier’s.

  I lifted his cap off the dresser, smoothing back his hair before settling the cap low on his forehead, the brim obscuring his eyes. Silent tears tracked down his cheeks and splashed against his collar.

  I squeezed his hand. “Do you want me to drive you?”

  He shook his head once, swallowed, then nodded instead. “Will you stay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, the word sounding thick. I swallowed too. “Yeah, I’m going to stay.”

  Max let out a long breath and wiped his eyes. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  THE STREETS downtown were a sea of blue, officers pressed shoulder to shoulder. I stood among them, watching, listening, crying as the coffin was draped in colors for Kristoph’s final journey. He was carried from the building by his team, by those who loved him most, and I knew it was a burden they would never be free of. It was a pain that could never be buried.

  I joined the long procession to the cemetery and found my way to Max. He held my hand as the flag was folded and presented to Kristoph’s mother. She cried on Paddy’s shoulder.

  Slowly the coffin was lowered into the grave. Sam was the first to throw in dirt. Kristoph’s mother and sisters were next. Officers filed by one by one, paying a last respect. The sun slipped lower and lower and still the people came, until it was just Kristoph’s family gathered beneath the bleeding sky, staring down into the pit.

  Dixon knelt in the grass, fresh earth between his fingers. “Gone, but not forgotten,” he said quietly. He cast the dirt into the grave. “You are loved, Kristoph. Rest in peace.”

  “Rest in peace,” Max whispered.

  “Rest in peace,” I said.

  Paddy sank into a crouch, his head drooping into shadows. Dirt streamed from his fist like sand through an hourglass.

  “I’m sorry,” he said into the darkness. “I should have kept you safe. I’d have done anything, Kris. I hope you knew that. I hope you knew…” He pressed his fist to his mouth as he shuddered. He pushed to his feet. “I love you, man. Rest in peace.”

  18

  November

  “SAM TOLD us about the roses,” Max said. He sank onto the couch outside the eighth-floor conference room. “Kris had been leaving them on Dante’s grave. It was the first time Kris fired his gun, and he killed someone. He couldn’t even tell us about it because the file was sealed, but he told Sam. Now I can’t see a rose without thinking of Kris, without wishing…”

  “I know,” I said, sitting beside him. “Me too.”

  Max grimaced. “I’m sorry, Shirley. This probably isn’t what you want to talk about right before your interview. I should be quizzing you or something.”

  “This isn’t a test I can study for, Max. Either I’m ready or I’m not. We can talk about Kristoph. I don’t mind.”

  “Tish says talking about him is good, for processing, I mean. It’s been weeks, but I still look for him every morning. It doesn’t feel right without him. I miss him.”

  “I know.” I laid my head on his shoulder. “Me too.”

  Max held my hand, toying idly with my fingers. “Did I tell you Josie and Whale got the transfer? Dixon seemed pleased. Maybe it’ll be good, having new people around. We should throw them a party, and you, of course. Or maybe just dinner.” A small smile tugged at his lips. “When I first started Kris and Paddy took me out drinking, and, uh…”

  “Oh Go
d, Max. What did you do?”

  It was common knowledge Max couldn’t hold his liquor worth a shit. The last time he went out with his colleagues he’d come home with no shoes, thrown up in the bathtub, then cried about it the rest of the night. I poked him in the chest. “Come on, tell me. What happened?”

  He reddened. “Well—”

  The door to the conference room opened, and Dixon stepped out into the hallway.

  “We’re ready for you, Shirley,” he said. He eyed Max’s color. “That is, if you aren’t otherwise engaged.”

  I followed him into the conference room, casting a backward glance at Max. “I am not forgetting this. As soon as I’m done, you’re telling me the story.”

  His alarmed expression disappeared behind the door, and I turned to face the members of my tribunal. Tish, Dixon, a couple instructors from the academy, a sergeant from recruiting, somebody from HR, and Captain Shapiro. Shapiro sat front and center, her face pinching at the sight of me.

  “Shirley,” she said tightly. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  MAX LEAPT to his feet the second I left the evaluation. “Well? What did they say? Did you read your statement? Do they think—”

  “Shapiro hates me,” I said flatly. “She went on and on about what it means to be a police officer, how you have to earn it, and that if I need all this special accommodation then I don’t deserve to be a cop, much less considered for early specialization, which she thinks is stupid anyway. Christ, you’d think anxiety was catching or something. I mean, I can do the job. I did everything they asked of me at the academy, plus therapy, plus I finished at the top of my class. You’d think all that work might mean something to her, but no, she’d rather talk all day about what she had to do to get to where she is, as if anyone gives a rat’s ass—”

  “Shirley?”

  “What?”