by L. A. Witt
I gestured at the screen. “I want to know who those guys are.”
“We’re working on it, Detective.” She nodded toward her partner, who was squinting at another screen, flickering images reflecting on his glasses. “So far, all we’re getting is the backs of their heads.”
“It’s like they knew where every camera in the building would be pointed,” her partner grumbled, and stabbed a key on his keyboard. “I don’t have a single shot of their damn faces.”
I scowled. “Get anything you can from businesses within a two-block radius of the courthouse. These assholes can’t know where every camera in the city is pointed. You get a look at either of their faces, text me a still immediately.”
“Will do,” Garland said with a sharp nod.
Before I left, I had her pull up a few stills and send them to my phone. While she got started with that, I hobbled back toward the elevator, and on the way, called upstairs to have Weyland and Brando taken from their holding cells to the interrogation rooms. And specifically, to make sure Weyland went first and Brando saw him go. Since Weyland had lawyered up, I couldn’t talk to him. That was fine—as long as Brando knew Weyland was also in an interrogation room, I had some leverage.
I stood behind the two-way mirror and watched him twitch for a minute. As much as I wanted to get in and drag the truth out of him, years of interrogations had taught me that there was an art to it. If I wanted him to believe he and Weyland were being played against each other, I needed him to spend some time imagining the worst-case scenarios.
It was working too—he was getting twitchier by the second. His eyes flicked back and forth from the door to the mirror, and he couldn’t sit still. He wasn’t cuffed, so he got up and paced, muttering to himself and running a shaky hand through his hair every now and then. When he was starting to visibly sweat and almost hyperventilate—which took maybe ten minutes—I stepped into the room.
He took one look at me and gulped. “I told you everything I know. I—”
“Sit down,” I growled.
He did, and nervously placed his palms on the table as if that might cool him down. Then he folded his hands, leaving sweaty handprints on the stainless steel. “So, what’s—”
“You told me you were randomly approached at the courthouse by a clean-cut white guy who offered you a job.”
He sat straighter. “I—”
“Don’t fuck with me.” I took out my phone and showed him one of the images Garland had sent. “That’s you, Brando. You and Weyland. For two guys who just wrapped up hearings, you’re not in a big hurry to get out of the courthouse.”
His poker face might’ve been rock-solid, but the loss of color in his complexion gave him away. So did the uneasy glance at the two-way mirror.
“Tell me the truth, Brando.” I pocketed my phone again. “You weren’t randomly approached. You two were waiting for someone.”
He chewed his lip.
“You might as well start talking,” I said. “My partner’s in the next room squeezing Weyland for the same information. First guy to tell us the truth might have a shot at a plea bargain.”
He squirmed, eyes flicking toward the glass again. “I thought he had a lawyer. You can’t make him talk.”
“And you don’t think his lawyer is smart enough to tell him when it’s time to talk?”
That took care of what color remained in Brando’s face. He wasn’t just nervous like a guilty perp who’d been cornered—he was damn near translucent with fear.
I shifted my tone to something a little gentler. “I need you to tell me what—”
“I can’t.” Brando pressed his elbows into the table and raked both hands through his greasy hair. Without looking up, without even moving his mouth in any way I could see, he murmured, “Take me somewhere outside the station, and I’ll talk.”
“What?”
He lifted his head. His eyes flicked toward the glass again. Then, scratching his jaw and partially obscuring his mouth, he quietly said, “Take me outside the station, and I’ll talk.”
Under any other circumstances, I’d have wrung his neck for wasting my time. But Brando knew how to fuck with cops. He knew how to play games and dance around answers. When we’d confronted him in his apartment, he hadn’t been this scared. Not even when Darren had slammed him into the wall.
“All right.” I stabbed a finger at him. “But so help me, if I don’t get an answer—”
“You will. I promise.”
I wasn’t usually one to take the word of a criminal.
But a scared kid staring back at me and looking like he was about to crumble?
Yeah. I believed him.
I stepped out of the interrogation room and texted Darren.
Need your help. Meet me by Interr.Rm. 2?
I almost expected him to either ignore me or tell me to fuck off. He was a consummate professional, but he wasn’t himself right now. He shouldn’t have even been at work. Not with this raw grief pulling him to pieces.
But he responded that he was on his way, and minutes later, he joined me.
His expression offered nothing. “What do you need?”
I gestured at Brando, who was back to twitching and pacing. Damn near shivering even though the room was quite warm. “He might have something for us, but he won’t say anything unless we take him out of the station.”
Darren’s brow furrowed. He watched Brando silently.
“I think he’s afraid of who might overhear him,” I said. “I don’t know if he’s playing us or not, but—”
“If he is, he’s doing a damn good job of pretending he’s scared shitless.”
“Yeah. That’s why I want to give him the benefit of the doubt.” I paused. “Look, I know you’re upset about—”
“It’s fine,” he said curtly. “Let’s go see what he has to say.”
I nodded and reached for the door. We could hash this out later. Whatever Brando had to say couldn’t wait.
We took him to Darren’s car, and I briefed Darren on what I’d learned so far as he drove us to one of the parks down by the river. One I’d brought Darren to back when I’d decided I could trust him, and had needed to tip my hand without the possibility of eavesdroppers. In fact, I was pretty sure this was the picnic table where we’d sat to have that conversation.
Brando was too restless to sit. I eased myself down on the bench to take some weight off my ankle. If the fucker decided to run, he wouldn’t get far, and he’d have to take whatever Darren gave him until I caught up enough to pry him off.
He’s not in a good space right now, I wanted to say. I’d suggest you not fuck with either of us.
Given the way Brando kept eyeing Darren, I decided that wouldn’t be an issue. He was probably still scared after Darren had snapped and damn near strangled him.
“All right.” Darren pushed his hands into his pockets and looked at Brando. “So why can’t we do this at the station?”
“Because I don’t know who was behind that glass,” Brando snapped, but he sounded more shaky than angry.
“Fine,” I said. “There’s no one else here. Now talk.”
“Okay. Okay.” Brando started pacing on the damp grass. “Look, we knew we were meeting those guys. One of them, he showed up at Weyland’s place two nights before we had to go to court. And he was in a uniform.”
“A cop?” Darren asked.
“Yeah. He didn’t have a name tag on, though. Looked like there’d been one, but he’d taken it off. Anyway, he told us he had a job for us, and he’d give us details after our hearing.” He folded and refolded his long fingers. “He said he could place us at the scene of a murder and that it wouldn’t take much to convince a jury we’d had the guns in our hands. They’d get a slam-dunk conviction if they wanted to.”
Darren glanced at me, then back at him. “What murder?”
Brando shook his head. “I don’t know. He had pictures of us, though. Like he’d been following us for a while. And then he said we�
��d know how much clout he had when we went to our hearings, because the judge would reduce our probation from eighteen months to three with”—he made air quotes—“a warning that one more screw up, and we could kiss our freedom goodbye.” He looked me right in the eye. “And that’s exactly what the judge said. Like, those exact words.”
“And after the hearing?” I asked.
He glanced around nervously. “We waited. Right where he said to wait. When he and the other guy showed up, they told us when the job would happen, what we’d need, and how much we’d be paid. And I mean, what could we say? The cop told us that first night that we either went through with it, or we’d go down for murder and my girlfriend and Weyland’s wife were dead. He had pictures, man! He even had one of Weyland’s son.” He showed his palms. “We’re crooks, man, but we don’t fuck with kids. Never. But . . . with the shit he said, and the pictures, and . . . I mean, what were we supposed to do?”
Darren tapped his pen on his notepad. I gnawed my thumbnail. Under normal circumstances, the obvious answer was Go to the cops. But if they’d been threatened by a cop . . .
“The weird thing was,” Brando went on, “they told us we were just supposed to shake these guys up and steal their car. Like it was supposed to be a carjacking. But a few hours before the job, when the cop called us to give us a location, he changed the deal. Doubled the price, but said he wanted the kids themselves.” Brando pushed out a shaky breath. “None of us wanted that, but . . . man, we were in too deep to back out.”
Darren and I exchanged glances.
“We’re going to need a description,” I said quietly. “As much as you can give us.”
Brando’s eyes narrowed. “Man, I’m already taking a risk here. How do I know my girl’s gonna be okay? And Weyland’s family?”
“Tell us where they are,” Darren said, “and we’ll get them security detail. Twenty-four seven until this is over.”
Brando didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“My family’s on the line here too,” I said. “You help me find mine. I’ll make sure we protect yours.”
“What about me?” Brando asked. “Keeping me in jail doesn’t keep me safe from fucking cops.”
Darren turned to me. “You still have any favors left with the US Marshals?”
“I will if they know my kids are missing.”
That seemed to ease some of the tension in Brando’s posture. “Get me and Weyland someplace safe with our families, and I’ll give you a description.”
His refusal to just give us the information was irritating, but at the same time, I didn’t blame him. Whoever we were up against was dangerous as fuck.
To Darren, I said, “Let’s get back to the station. As long as one of us keeps an eye on him, he’ll be fine. I’ll call the Marshals in the car.”
By the time we were back at the precinct, a friend from the US Marshals was on his way. We also had a sketch artist on the horn, and she’d agreed to coordinate with the Marshals and meet them at an undisclosed location to do a sketch. After that, as promised, Brando and Weyland would be taken someplace safe.
We put Brando back in the interrogation room for the time being, and hovered outside it while we waited for the Marshal.
We stood in silence, watching Brando on the other side of the glass. This hardly seemed like the time to deal with anything personal, but as long as there was a momentary lull in the chaos, it was probably as good a time as any.
“Listen,” I said. “I’m sorry. About yesterday. I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you.”
Darren exhaled, and in the dim light, he suddenly looked years older and a hundred times more exhausted. He scrubbed a hand over his face, and I realized he’d forgotten—or just hadn’t bothered—to shave. “I understand why you did it. And you were probably right. I don’t think I could’ve handled anything else.”
“I know.” I rested a hand on the small of his back. “For what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re here. With as much as you’ve got on your plate right now, anyone else would’ve collapsed.” I reeled him in a little closer. “I feel guilty for leaning on you at all, but I—”
He silenced me with a soft kiss. “I want to find your kids. More than anything.”
“I know. And thank you.”
Our eyes locked. Neither of us probably had the energy required for a smile, but a kiss—a short, chaste one—wasn’t too much to ask.
As we pulled apart, my phone vibrated.
“Oh please let that be Officer Garland,” I murmured as I took it out. Sure enough, it was.
First, a text:
Got one—cameras in coffee shop cross lenses w/hallway cam. He couldn’t hide from both.
The next message was a photo.
And my heart stopped.
“Holy shit . . .”
Darren craned his neck. “What?”
“We got a face on the cop who approached Brando and Weyland.” I turned it so he could see it. “Look familiar?”
Darren’s jaw dropped. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Yep.” I scowled. “Officer fucking Blaine.”
“Blaine?” I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. “The one who’s been helping us out?” The guy who was so square he could be used to build a bookcase? That Officer Blaine? “Why the hell would he do something like this?”
“There has to be a connection to the list. Something that isn’t obvious, or we would have had him in here for an interview with the first round of people.” The edges of Andreas’s fingers were white, he was gripping his phone so hard. “We need to find him. Now.”
“We will.” It was entirely possible that Blaine didn’t know he’d been made yet. He might still be in the precinct. “You talk to the captain, I’ll go check Blaine’s desk.” The beat cops had set up shop one floor down, and I ran to the stairwell so fast that the door crashed against the wall. One floor down, sixteen steps, and they felt like an eternity. I went straight to the lieutenant on duty. “Where’s Officer Blaine?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know, detective. Haven’t seen him in the past hour or so. You might ask his partner.”
“Who’s his partner?”
“Officer May, at the desk over by the window there.” He pointed, and I moved before he could even lower his hand. The cop was idly paging through a report laid out on his desk, but he looked up when I got close.
“Detective Corliss!” He almost snapped to attention, as eager to please as a puppy.
“Where’s your partner?”
Officer May frowned. “Um, he said he was gonna go get lunch about an hour ago.” He shrugged. “I told him I thought it was kind of early, but he said he wanted to keep busy. Kept expecting you guys to call us in to help out with more important work, especially after he’s the one who made contact with the courier who had the letter.” He puffed out his chest a bit. “Do you need our help, Detective?”
Oh, this guy’s bubble was about to get burst hard-core. “I need your help, Officer May, in finding Officer Blaine, who’s just been linked to two of the men responsible for kidnapping Detective Ruffner’s children. You need to—”
“What? No!” May jumped out of his chair like his ass was on fire. “Howie would never have any part in something like that! He’s never wanted anything more than to be a good cop! His father was a cop, his grandfather was a cop! Even after his dad was sent to prison, Howie just wanted to do his duty.”
“Apparently he only believes in protecting and serving when it suits him. What’s his father’s name?”
May’s bluster was already starting to evaporate under the newfound gravity of his partner’s massive fuckup. He looked at me with eyes so wide it was like his irises were floating in milk. “He . . . Uh, it’s, uh, Folsom. Rory Folsom. He and Howie’s mom got divorced when he was little, and Howie took his mom’s maiden name, but he and his dad got pretty close after he turned eighteen.”
“Hold that thought.” I pulled out my phone and called Andreas. He ans
wered on the first ring.
“What have you got?”
“Is there a Rory Folsom on the list?”
“There is.” He didn’t even have to think about it. He probably had the list memorized at this point. “Back when Newberry’s pet drug dealers were doing business, he was one of the cops who made a habit of looking the other way in exchange for a percentage of the profits. He got ten years.”
“He’s Blaine’s father.”
“Fuck, how did we miss this?”
I was tempted for a moment to say, We didn’t miss anything, because I had no fucking idea this list even existed until this morning, but I took a breath and moved on. I wasn’t angry at Andreas for trying to take care of me, not now. I didn’t have the energy for that. “Different last names, it happens. I’m surprised he chanced it, bringing us that list, though. We would have made the connection eventually.”
“He probably figured his time was already limited once we got our hands on Brando and Weyland. He tried to speed things up. I take it he’s not downstairs?”
“Nope. His partner”—who was currently wringing his hands in front of his chest and looked halfway to fainting—“says he went out to get lunch an hour ago.”
“That’s a long time for lunch.”
“Too long,” I agreed.
“Hamilton just tried to call him and got no reply.”
“Blaine knows something is wrong. He might be running as we speak.”
Andreas swore. “We need to check his home, now.”
“I’ll meet you at the car in two minutes.” I hung up and looked at Officer May. He was just as young as Blaine, if not quite as crisp—a little soft around the edges, with his tie loose around his neck and his name badge crooked on his chest. He looked like the kind of guy who probably enjoyed cookouts on the weekends and watching ESPN no matter what sport was playing. The kind of guy who would hang out at his partner’s place every chance he got because he wanted to bond. “What’s Blaine’s address?”
“Seventeen South Broadway, it’s a townhouse,” he said faintly. “Blue trim around the windows and a bright-blue door. I—I helped him paint it.” His hands were shaking. “I had no idea he— It just doesn’t seem possible, I mean . . . to kidnap kids, I can’t believe he would do this! Howie is always so nice! Everybody on our beat loves him!”
