by Toby Ball
“Yes.” Gerald Svinblad.
“And you have indicated that you wish to discuss something with me. Would this be a different matter?”
“Yes, I—”
Wayne raised his hand to silence Dorman. “Not now. Let me see.” He closed his eyes, rocking his head slightly. “Tomorrow night. Midnight.” He laughed again. “Midnight, I like the sound of that.” His voice changed, more menacing. “Idaho Avenue building site. Alone. No guns. No wire. Comprende, amigo?”
Dorman wanted to put his fist through the guy’s face. He figured he wasn’t the first one to have had that thought.
HE WALKED BACK TO CITY HALL WITH HIS UMBRELLA UP AGAINST THE rain. He couldn’t shake the unpleasant sensation of being in Wayne’s presence, the way he seemed to exude ill health—both physical and mental. Interacting with Wayne seemed sordid, left an impression that something immoral had taken place.
Dorman barely noticed the other pedestrians, gray in the rain, heads down, intent on getting to their destinations. A street preacher stood at a corner, an Old Testament figure under an umbrella, his grievances against the world drowned out by the sound of the rain. Dorman had the uneasy sense that the man was watching him as he walked away, but he didn’t turn around to see.
The steps leading up to City Hall were empty. Dorman had ascended the first few when he saw a man, without umbrella or hat, coming down toward him. The effect of the man’s sheer disregard for the elements put Dorman on his guard, even though he didn’t recognize Reuther until they were barely ten feet apart. At that distance, Dorman could see the rage and pain on Reuther’s face. Dorman stopped.
“You goddamn bastard,” Reuther howled, and Dorman saw that he had a knife, holding it inexpertly, like a tennis racquet.
Dorman took a step back. “I tried to warn you.”
Reuther took a wild swipe. Dorman barely had to move to avoid it. He threw his umbrella down the steps. Reuther took a step closer and swung the knife as hard as he could, but he wasn’t even close to being cut out for this type of thing and succeeded only in throwing himself off balance. Dorman stepped forward and punched Reuther hard below the eye, knocking him down the steps so that he landed with his feet higher than his head. The knife had slid out of his hand and down to the sidewalk.
Dorman walked to where Reuther lay, his body shaking with sobs. Dorman knelt down next to him.
“You’re ruining lives for no reason but spite,” Reuther managed. “It was bad enough, but now people are going to be on the street.”
Dorman stared at him, the rain now penetrating his clothes. He wanted to say something reassuring, but knew that it would be bullshit. Nothing was going to change Canada’s decision. He looked up and saw guards hustling down the steps toward them. He stood.
“Bastard,” Reuther spat.
Dorman started up the steps, moving aside to let the guards pass him as they went to arrest Stanley Reuther for violently threatening a government official.
77
GRIP RETURNED TO THE STATION TO FIND THAT HE HAD BEEN ASSIGNED A partner, a detective named De Flandre. Grip assumed that De Flandre had been told to keep an eye on him, though what anyone expected Grip to do was a puzzle. He himself didn’t know what he was going to do—he couldn’t even piece together what it was he’d done to convince Zwieg to let him off the hook. He knew it must have something to do with Ving and Kraatjes—he had exposed their relationship with Linsky and with whoever had made the drop at L’Ouverture Park. Albertsson was the connection. Kraatjes/Ving to Albertsson to the snitches. Still, it just didn’t feel like anything had been settled—everything was tenuous and uncertain.
The detectives in his squad knew that something had happened, but did him the favor of pretending that they hadn’t noticed. As far as Grip could tell, though, it seemed that most of the cops knew that he had been involved in something either important or at least out of the ordinary. He caught looks from cops he didn’t know, cryptic comments as he passed by them in the hall. Did they know something he didn’t? Or was this just the old paranoia?
Despite being on guard with De Flandre, Grip found that he liked the guy well enough. He was younger, but not green, and he seemed to share Grip’s politics. De Flandre had been working the cases that Grip had abandoned while working for Zwieg—clearing some, letting others languish.
That night he went to Crippen’s—mostly to drink but also hoping to run into Albertsson. Instead, he found Wayne reading the newspaper, three whisky shots lined up before him. Grip took the chair opposite.
“You cleaned yourself up,” Wayne said, dropping the newspaper on an empty seat.
Grip shrugged. Wayne was bare-headed, and his skull was not pleasant to look at, somehow slightly lopsided, the pale skin mottled with pink patches.
“Nervous times among the brass.” Wayne tipped back a shot, then pushed one to Grip.
“Is that right?” Grip hadn’t sensed anything like that at headquarters, but of course he’d only been focused on people’s reactions to him.
“Keep your head low’s what I hear.”
“From who?” For an unrepentant asshole, Wayne seemed to have an inordinate number of people who fed him information, even if a lot of it was far-fetched.
This time it was Wayne who shrugged, smiling.
Grip drank the shot. He wondered about the meeting with Albertsson’s snitch, and the potential killer on the hillside. How could this not be connected to the anxiety that Wayne claimed was afflicting the upper reaches of the Force? How could it not be related to Zwieg’s plans to make a move on Kraatjes? He couldn’t quite figure out Zwieg’s game—he didn’t have enough information or wasn’t understanding that which he had. But he was in no doubt that Zwieg did have a game going and that he’d played a part in it. He was in a precarious position.
“This got anything to do with Zwieg?”
Wayne raised the nubs where his eyebrows would have been. “That’s an unexpected question, Tor. I haven’t heard as such, though I will certainly keep an ear out.”
78
PRESIDENT MILLEDGE’S OFFICE AT THE TECH SEEMED TO GLEAM IN THE light that slanted in from four tall windows set in the corner walls. Frings sat in a wood and leather chair, apparently designed for discomfort, the Tech’s seal etched into the top of the back. Panos slouched in his wheelchair, grim, making little humming sounds. They didn’t speak. Waiting, Frings scanned the titles of the books lined neatly in the glassed-in bookshelves covering the wall to the left of Milledge’s immaculate desk—law books, books with Latin titles, a row of very old Bibles.
Milledge had wandered out to his secretary’s office, sitting in her chair to read the manuscript that Frings had given him. Milledge hadn’t wanted to read it with Frings and Panos watching, and not wanting to inconvenience the frail Panos, had sent his secretary to an early lunch.
Frings had prepared himself for the conversation that was to follow. He didn’t necessarily relish these kinds of situations, but he didn’t avoid them either, existing as he did in a complicated world of debts and pressure. He preferred giving favors—the quid pro quo that made his and so many other people’s jobs work, and which were, in fact, the City’s real currency. Today, though, he would have to apply pressure. Milledge didn’t owe him anything, and anyway, what he was after was beyond the scope of the normal debt relationship.
The chatter from the hallway echoed in to them, the secretarial staff exchanging news about children, minor gossip: all subjects alien to Frings.
He’d brought Panos along out of respect rather than need. The old man didn’t have a role to play, except that his mere presence as a friend of Milledge’s could help things along. Milledge was grim when he returned, avoiding eye contact with Frings. He looked to Panos when he’d taken the seat behind his desk.
“You’ve read this?”
Panos nodded wearily.
Milledge turned to Frings. “Are you going to press?”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about.”<
br />
“Has Littbarski seen it?”
“Not yet.”
“Thank Christ.” Some of the tension seemed to leave Milledge’s shoulders. Frings read this as a willingness to negotiate.
Milledge said, “You realize I had no idea about the details of this research. I knew he was working with this kind of drug, but the methods…” He let it trail off, but when Frings didn’t speak he started again. “It’s impossible to know the—”
“Damn it, Estes,” Panos snapped. “My grandson was one of the subjects.”
Milledge seemed startled by the outburst, looked in the direction of Panos’s knees. “I’m sorry, Panos. I understand that I failed all of those boys.”
It was silent for a moment as Frings let this comment hang, giving Milledge a chance to absorb his culpability.
“We need to figure this out,” Frings said.
Milledge brightened a bit. “I would be interested in your thoughts.”
“I’ll get straight to the point. In 1958, Simon Ledley conducted an experiment that may have involved some unwitting members of the public. I want to see the files.”
Milledge sank back in his seat, looking, if it were possible, worse than he had after reading the manuscript. “1958.”
“Vilnius Street.”
“How much do you know?”
“Does it matter? I know enough that I need to see those files. This is the deal that I’m offering you: show me the files, and I’ll kill the story about the 1959 study with the boys.”
“What will you do with the information about 1958?”
“I won’t know until I see it.”
“I need a guarantee.”
Frings kept his voice low, calm. “I guarantee that if you don’t show me, the Tech is going to be all over the news for allowing its students to be used in dangerous drug experiments. That’s a guarantee. If you show me the Vilnius Street files, I guarantee you that I will kill that 1959 story. What I can’t guarantee is what happens after I see the Vilnius Street files.”
Milledge looked to Panos, but Frings saw that the old man’s eyes were closed. It wasn’t clear whether he was asleep or just thinking.
“You’re asking quite a bit. Is there no other way?”
For the first time in this conversation Frings felt some anger. Milledge knew something about the Vilnius Street study. At a minimum he knew that he wanted it kept hidden.
“I’m going to give you two minutes to think about what you want to do. After two minutes, I take back my offer. I take the manuscript to a judge along with everything I have on the Vilnius Street project, and he’ll issue a ruling to release those files. Then the story hits hits the newsstand tomorrow, maybe the next day. Two minutes.” Frings made a show of looking at his watch, though he knew it wouldn’t take thirty seconds.
“Okay,” Milledge said, deflated. “Okay, let me arrange it for the earliest chance, say tomorrow afternoon.”
Christ, he was pushing it. “I’m sorry if I was unclear. I want to see them now.”
Frings watched Milledge closely. Just an hour before, the man’s life had been moving along as normal. Now Frings had shown up, destroyed whatever stability Milledge had had. Still, he couldn’t muster up much sympathy for him. The more he heard, the more he was convinced that even if Milledge hadn’t known about the specifics of these projects, he’d known that the Tech was on—to be charitable—treacherous ethical footing and had allowed them to continue. He had created an environment where that kind of research could be conducted.
“I don’t know if I can arrange it this quickly.”
“You’re the goddamn president. You can arrange anything any time you want. Do you need more motivation?”
Milledge sighed, looked at his hands clasped on his desk. Frings thought that he could almost feel the president’s desire to will all this away.
79
GRIP HEARD SOMEONE CALLING HIM AS HE WALKED FROM THE ELEVATOR to his squad room, and he felt his day go to shit.
“Drop your coat and hat off at your desk. We need to go upstairs.”
Grip nodded at Deputy Chief Ving, walked into the squad room and found it empty. He draped his coat over the back of his chair. He sighed, placed his hat on the desk, walked back out into the hall to find Ving leaning against the wall, listening with half an ear to a uniform who talked with staccato hand gestures. Ving caught Grip’s eye and excused himself from the cop.
“Come on.” Ving led him up the stairs, moving in that effortless way he had. It was almost a relief to be doing this, Grip thought—the dread anticipation would finally end. They walked past Ving’s door to the meeting room where Grip knew Kraatjes would be waiting. Kraatjes didn’t have meetings in his office, which was unusual and provoked a lot of rumors among the ranks. What, exactly, did he do in there?
Ving opened the door and stood aside for Grip to enter. Kraatjes was leaning, almost sitting, on the back of a chair, smoking a cigarette—languid. He was thin, his narrow face showing a day’s worth of beard, his short hair more gray than white. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but his pants and shirt were expensive.
He stood and flashed Grip a pro forma smile. “Detective, have a seat.”
Grip sat, forearms on the table. Ving closed the door, and Grip was vaguely aware that he’d taken up a spot against the wall behind him.
“Cigarette?” Kraatjes asked.
Grip accepted, more to be agreeable than because he wanted one. Kraatjes slid the pack across the table. Grip took one, slid the pack back, and inhaled as Ving, from behind, provided him with a light.
“You know why you’re here, correct?” Kraatjes’s tone was soft, not exactly friendly, not adversarial—just calm.
“I think so.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Grip hesitated. This was dangerous ground. He had a guess about what was going on, but he wasn’t sure, which made discussing Zwieg a tricky prospect.
“Detective,” Kraatjes prompted.
“Lieutenant Zwieg. He had me investigating Kollectiv 61.”
Kraatjes nodded. “Did you make any headway on Kollectiv 61, develop any leads, make any arrests?”
Grip shook his head.
“Instead, what?”
“I found Ben Linsky, sir. I found out that he was a snitch. My assumption was that he was connected with you and Deputy Chief Ving.” Grip paused, but Ving didn’t say anything. “And then Linsky was murdered.”
“Do you have any idea by who?”
Grip shook his head.
“Neither do we. Go on.” Kraatjes was very still, two fingers resting against his left temple, his cigarette cupped just off the table.
“I met a cop who does bag work for Ving.”
“Name?”
Grip sighed. Best just to get it out there. “Albertsson.”
“Albertsson.” Kraatjes absently ground out his cigarette in an ashtray, pulled another from his pack, lit it. “He took you to the drop in L’Ouverture Park.”
Grip nodded.
“There was someone with a gun there. Was that you?”
“I had a gun, sir. But I think you’re talking about a man that I saw on the hill. He had a gun as well.”
Kraatjes didn’t say anything.
“I saw him and gave chase, but he had a good head start.”
“I’m sure he did, detective. Do you know who it was? Did you get a good look at him?”
Grip shrugged. “Not really. Caucasian. Dark hair. That’s about it.”
“Do you think it might have been Zwieg or someone who Zwieg put up to it?”
Grip had thought about this himself, but if it was, he didn’t see how it fit in with the rest. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t see how that plays.”
Kraatjes looked surprised. “Plays into what?”
Grip felt the heat in his face. He had no idea what to answer.
Kraatjes nodded quickly, seemed to switch to a new speed. “How did you get involved in this, detective? You aren’t u
nder Zwieg.”
Grip told him about Nicky Patridis’s story—his lie—and the work that Grip had been coerced into by Zwieg. He told him about Ben Linsky and the memo that he’d left on the table. He told him about Zwieg’s protection of Patridis.
“When you found out that …” Kraatjes looked to Ving.
“Nicky Patridis.”
“When you found that Nicky Patridis had lied about the theft, why did you continue with this line of investigation?”
“I owed Lieutenant Zwieg a favor.”
“You owed him a favor.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kraatjes stared at him for a moment. “That doesn’t strike me as an adequate explanation.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Kraatjes took this in. He sighed. “Okay. What do you think Zwieg is up to?”
“I think he’s trying to get at you, but I don’t know how. He seems to think that it’s too late to stop him.”
“Good. Thank you, detective.” Grip watched as Kraatjes looked past him to Ving, who must have given some sign because Kraatjes nodded. “Detective, you have put in three decades of good police work. Your tactics aren’t always … sound, but you are loyal to the Force. Because of this, I am going to ask you to forget this meeting and forget these past few weeks that you have been working with Zwieg. Go back to your job, do what you’ve always done. If I hear that you have told anyone about this or that you were in fact a more willing participant in Zwieg’s project than you have said, we will have another meeting. Is that clear?”
Grip nodded.
“Zwieg has always looked at his hand and seen a flush, even if he held a pair of deuces. It’s not a trait that serves him well.”
The guy had a way of intimidating without raising his voice, crowding space, any of the usual tricks. Grip just wanted to get out of there.
“Another thing: I may ask for your peripheral involvement in what could prove to be a tricky arrest. I would like you to participate without revealing any of what we’ve just discussed. I think seeing you at the scene might clarify a few things for Lieutenant Zwieg.”
