And every item that came to BCPD arrived through Cletus. He opened the crates and the packages, he cataloged the serial numbers and the property tags, and he made sure that everything ended up exactly where it was supposed to be. Let’s see one of those eager-beaver cruiser jockeys keep everything together with that level of detail.
The more he thought about it—and he’d been thinking a lot these past few months, ever since he’d announced his retirement date—the more he realized that the time was right for him to leave. Too much had changed in too short a time for him to keep up with it all. It wasn’t just the new computer system and the other bullshit efficiency measures, either.
In the past few years, there’d been a palpable change in the atmosphere of the BCPD that he didn’t like one bit. Yes, the cops were more paranoid and trigger-happy, but the society they protected had become angrier than they’d ever been in the past. It was as if the general public no longer looked at the police as providers of peace, but rather as the enemy. Cletus had reached the point where he avoided telling people he met that he worked for the department at all. He told them that he was a county employee, and then he avoided the rest.
It didn’t help that the sworn officers’ daily garb had switched from the long-standing light blue shirts atop dark blue trousers to an ensemble of black-on-black that made every one of them look like they were part of an assault force. The guys loved it because it made them look tougher—cooler—but who wanted to approach a storm trooper for directions? Who wanted to seek assistance from a soldier festooned with weapons and ballistic gear? The officers would say they wore the new kit because the streets were getting tougher for them, but they never saw a connection with the fact that cops these days projected malice.
Cletus understood the viciousness of the circle, but the world he lived in was many times more nuanced than that which was imagined by many of the cops with whom he interacted. These were same cops who continuously pressured him to break the rules and allow them to have special favors that the department would never allow. He’d lost count of how many times he’d heard, “I won’t tell, and if you don’t tell, there’s no way anyone can be the wiser. Come on, Clete, be part of the team.”
No, sir, Cletus Bankstrom had lived sixty-six years on the right side of honesty, and he wasn’t about to start crossing that line now. If only his was not such a minority commitment. It used to be that pilferage was never a problem, that you could trust cops to be trustworthy. And for the most part, they were, but there again, something about the current crop of newcomers—something about the way they were wired—apparently made it okay to steal. For the past year, year and a quarter, inventories that used to balance one hundred percent had begun to show losses. Nothing huge, maybe five thousand dollars total over that period, but that was a huge increase over a baseline of zero, and Cletus lost sleep over even the little stuff.
Now he was reviewing the incoming receipts from the laundry service, and he could see that Sergeant Dale had signed for thirty uniform blouses and thirty pairs of trousers when in fact there were only twenty-five of each on the racks that had just been delivered to his storage room. Good lord, how was Cletus supposed to do his job if he couldn’t even get the supervisory officers to count before they signed? This was the last straw.
Cletus was not a confrontational guy—and he for sure didn’t want to spend his waning days with the department in conflict—but he had to do something about this.
Sergeant Dale sat down the hall in an office that allowed barely enough room for a desk and chair. In charge of logistics and planning, he was seen by many as a suck-up and finger-pointer. Cletus always figured that Dale had another job on the side, else how could he afford to drive a Maserati? The official version of things was that he’d won a settlement in a lawsuit over a traffic accident. Cletus didn’t believe the story, probably because he didn’t like the guy, but that was for Internal Affairs to referee, not him.
As Cletus turned the corner into the office, he caught the sergeant in the middle of a conversation with Yolanda Pierce, a pretty young thing who knew she was hot as hell and flaunted it everywhere she went. Yet another member of this generation who didn’t understand the meaning of propriety. Short skirts and dipping blouses were for the dance floor, not for the office. But again, that was not his job. She worked in the IT department, and that meant Cletus had very little interaction with her.
“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Cletus said.
“No, that’s okay,” Dale said. “We’re about done here.”
Yolanda looked startled. She turned quickly to see who’d entered behind her, and as soon as she made eye contact, she broke it off. “Yes,” she said. “I was just about to leave.”
Something happened between them in the three seconds that passed as she pushed her chair out and stood. Cletus had always prided himself in his ability to read people—to read their expressions—and what he saw from Dale was an eye twitch that said, “Don’t worry about it.”
About what? Cletus wondered.
As she left, Yolanda said nothing to Cletus. She just edged past and left.
“What was that?” Cletus asked.
Dale feigned shock. “What was what?”
“I got an odd vibe.”
The sergeant shrugged. “You felt what you felt,” he said. “Doesn’t mean it was there. What do you need, Clete?”
Cletus brandished the uniform receipt. “You signed this,” he said.
Dale leaned forward and squinted. “Uniforms?”
“Exactly.”
“I frequently sign for laundered uniforms.”
“You signed for thirty,” Cletus said. “Thirty complete sets—blouses and trousers. There were only twenty-five.”
Dale’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?” he said.
“With all due respect, Sergeant, it doesn’t help me do my job if you don’t do yours.”
“And what, exactly, do you perceive my job to be?”
There was a menace in Dale’s tone and posture that gave Cletus a chill. This was a man capable of violence. Rumor had it, in fact, that the reason Dale had a desk job instead of being on the street was because he’d beaten the tar out of a kid who had done nothing wrong.
Cletus broke the sergeant’s gaze and instead focused on the receipt as he spoke. “Sergeant, sir, I expect you to count the items you sign for, before you sign for them.”
“Why would Destin Uniform Company want to short us five sets of uniforms?”
“Wait. What?”
“Why would the uniform company want to short us on our delivery? They always deliver what they say they’re going to. Did you call Destin and ask them?”
“Of course I did,” Cletus said. “And of course they maintain that they shipped us thirty uniform sets. What else are they going to say?”
“There you go, then. And I agree. From where I sit, there are only so many different places that uniforms can go after they’re here.”
“You’re telling me that you did in fact count the shipment?”
“Of course I did,” Dale said. “And I’m more than a little insulted that you would have thought otherwise. Those uniforms went someplace else, but not from my hand.”
“Then by whose hand?” Cletus said. He heard his voice rising and he lowered it. No sense shouting at one another.
“You tell me,” Dale said. “As far as I know, there’s a direct line between my contact with the shipment and yours. What have you been doing with the uniforms?”
Cletus was dumbstruck. “You think I took them?”
“No,” Dale said. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. He looked smug as hell. “But I’m saying that if you really want to push this, the burden is going to fall on you to prove that you’re as on top of things as you pretend to be.”
Cletus gaped.
“And it’s not just uniforms, is it, Bangstrom? Over the past year or so, there’s been a steady trickle of stuff getting lost in the system.”
“You know that because I told you!” Cletus said—nearly shouted. “I’ve told you all along. It’s pilferage.”
“But whose?” The smile went away as Dale leaned forward and planted his elbows on the edge of his desk. “Have you been helping yourself to the company store?”
“How dare you!”
“How dare I what? Your inventories come up short”—he used finger quotes—“and you need to deflect the blame. You report it to me and blame unknown parties. Today, you try to lay it at my feet. You work with cops, you know. We’re not stupid about how crimes are committed.”
Cletus’s heart raced. There was absolutely no truth in anything Dale was saying.
“I get it,” Dale said. “Or at least I think I do. You’re only a few weeks from no longer having a paycheck, and you’re trying to feather the nest a little. I imagine that’s a hard temptation to resist.”
“I did not steal anything!” This time it was definitely a shout, and he startled himself. He dialed it back in. “I never have.”
“And in a few weeks, you’ll never even have the opportunity again,” Dale said. “I’m willing to let it slide. And I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m really not. If I was, then I’d be obliged to investigate more deeply, and I don’t think either one of us wants that, do we?”
“I didn’t steal.”
“Fine,” Dale said. “Let’s just leave it at that. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to work.”
Chapter Fourteen
Jonathan Grave considered himself to be a gourmet cook. At his core, he had a taste for fine food, and in his travels over the years he’d picked up a taste for cuisine from all over the world. Even England had fine cuisine, he’d found, though most of it was found in Indian restaurants in London.
Over the years, he’d developed a tradition where on every third Thursday, as long as he was in town, he’d have people to his house for dinner. The invitations were more often than not spontaneous, driven by what was going on at the time. If there were no pressing issues to be discussed from the covert side of Security Solutions, he might invite some of the junior investigators, and he often included friends like Dom D’Angelo or Doug Kramer.
Tonight, though, the topic for table discussion was destined to be compartmented, so the guest list was the one that was most typical: Boxers and Venice. It was a list that brought tactical advantages, too. For too many years, Big Guy and Mother Hen had been crossways with each other—for any number of reasons—and Jonathan felt that by breaking bread, they could develop a bridge that would help them get along better. At least that’s what he told himself.
Every good meal began for Jonathan with a good martini, a delicate balance of six parts Beefeater gin, one part dry vermouth, and two olives. Boxers’ meals began as they ended, with one very large part scotch whisky—the more expensive the better, especially if it came from Jonathan’s liquor cabinet. Venice was a moving target, most often bouncing between a glass of sauvignon blanc or a Kir Royal, but tonight was one of her wild card nights of a cosmopolitan, poured with Ketel One vodka, Cointreau, and cranberry juice.
Years ago, when Jonathan bought the old firehouse and converted it into his home and offices, he did little to change the layout of the kitchen from the way it was when he was a boy and he hung out here with the fire crews. All the appliances and finishings had been upgraded, of course, but he maintained more or less the same footprint, with the main fridge, cooking, and prep surfaces occupying the long wall on the left, and the longer-term storage along the corresponding wall on the right. The far end of the rectangular room was left for the pantry, sink, dishwashers, and drain board. Down the middle of the eighteen-by-twenty-four-foot space, where the guys back in the day had tucked three picnic tables end to end, Jonathan had installed a granite-topped table capable of comfortably seating sixteen people in butt-friendly padded wooden chairs that had been designed specifically for the space. He had a formal dining room as well—what used to be the day room for the firefighters—but he could count on two hands the number of times he’d used it. Let’s face it: no matter how much space you had, people always gathered in the kitchen.
JoeDog hovered at the base of the cooking area. Jonathan took a pull on his martini, then opened the fridge and removed the sea scallops that had been soaking in milk for the past fifteen minutes. The beast shadowed every step as he walked them over to the pan where the hot unsalted butter and olive oil were waiting.
“Okay, Ven,” Jonathan said. “What do we know now that we didn’t know a couple of hours ago?” The scallops were big—nearly the size of a half-dollar—and they sizzled perfectly as he placed them into the pan. He looked at the clock. He need three minutes per side. JoeDog needed a miracle where a scallop would abandon the pan and jump to the floor. It had never happened, but hope sprang eternal.
“Your friend Henry is a very nice man,” Venice said.
“Konan?” Boxers asked.
“Right. But that’s for you to call him, not me. In fact, he called himself Henry on the phone. Anyway, he called me on my encrypted line—please tell me you gave him the number, that he didn’t just figure it out for himself.”
Jonathan laughed. “Yes, I gave him the number. But now that you mention it, he is NSA.”
“So, he called me, and shared some very interesting news.” It was Venice’s way to set bait when revealing details, enticing her listeners to ask for more. Jonathan knew it was the one habit of hers that evoked the greatest and most frequent ire from Boxers.
“And what might that be?” Jonathan asked. It was a reflex. He turned his attention to the bed of sunflower sprouts he had prepared as the garnish for his scallops appetizer.
“One of the burner phones the NSA had been tracking was found in Stepahin’s pocket.”
“So that confirms Dig’s theory,” Boxers said. “The asshole was here to kidnap somebody.”
“Seems that way to me,” Venice said.
Jonathan said, “How does that help us advance what we know?” He returned to the pan and lifted a scallop to see how it was advancing. Almost time to turn it.
“Try to control your enthusiasm,” Venice said.
He’d hurt her feelings. That was not a hard thing to do. “I don’t mean to offend, but confirming what I already know doesn’t exactly move the ball down the field.” He turned the first scallop and was delighted to see perfect caramelization. He turned the others.
“At least we know more for sure than we did before,” Venice said.
Jonathan shot her a look and smiled. “Yes, we do. Thank you.”
“So how do we figure out who he was trying to snatch?” Boxers asked. “Or, that he was trying to snatch anybody at all? Bad guys don’t necessarily have to specialize.”
“No,” Jonathan said, taking another sip of martini. “They don’t have to specialize, but most of them do. If he were a shooter, we wouldn’t expect him to snatch somebody. I don’t want to close down the possibility, but I also don’t want us to get distracted.” Another check. Almost time to serve. “Is there a way to track where that phone went while he had it on him?”
“There are ways,” Venice said, “but they’re very low probability when you’re dealing with a burner. He did have another phone on him, though, and the BCPD are trying to follow his steps through that, but for whatever reason, they’re not putting it up on ICIS.”
Jonathan lifted the first scallop out of the pan and plated it on the sprouts. Two scallops per plate. “JoeDog,” Jonathan snapped. “Git. Out of the kitchen.” Head and tail both hanging low, the beast retreated to the threshold that separated the kitchen from the living room.
Jonathan served the plates.
“What, am I on a diet?” Boxers grumped with a smile to sell the fact that he was kidding.
“There have been worse ideas,” Jonathan said without dropping a beat. “And there are three more courses after this one.”
“It looks delicious,” Venice said. It’s what sh
e always said. Funny how routines like this develop their own script over time.
Jonathan set the third plate on the table for himself, retrieved his martini, and sat down. A freshly opened sauvignon blanc sat between them for anyone who needed more hydration.
“The phone,” Jonathan said, getting the conversation back on track. “Is there a way for you to track it? Do we need to depend on ICIS?”
Venice took her first bite. “Oh, my God, this is delicious.”
Jonathan smiled his appreciation. She was right. He did scallops better than most.
“If I had more information about the phone I could,” she said.
“If only we knew someone in the most effective eavesdropping organization on the planet,” Boxers said. His scallops were already gone. In another sip, he’d be able to say the same about his scotch.
Venice looked to Jonathan. “How many times can we go to that well?”
He shrugged. “As many times as it takes until he cries uncle. I don’t think we’re close to that point yet. Did he give you a way to contact him?”
“Yes, but with rules.”
There were always rules when it came to clandestine contacts. “Follow them and reach out,” Jonathan said. “The worst he can tell you is no.”
“Actually,” Boxers said, “the worst he can do is mark you for death and order a drone strike. Just sayin’.”
Jonathan pretended to ponder that. “Don’t you think rendition and torture would be worse than a quick drone strike?”
“You’ve got a point.”
“Okay, boys,” Venice said. “Can we move on?”
Jonathan bit into his second scallop. Every bit as good as the first. “You’ve got more?”
“I’ve always got more.”
“How about more food?” Boxers grumped. “Contrary to popular opinion, a mouthful is in fact not a meal.”
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