by Marcus Sakey
He looked like he was doing long division in his head. "He told you not to tell anyone."
"Yeah," she said. "Actually, more than that. He told me not to tell any of my colleagues." She though back, remembering the play of sunlight through the window, the feel of the phone in her hand. Felt a shiver down her core. Jesus. Oh, Jesus. She looked up at Palmer. "He specifically said not to tell a guy named James Donlan."
"Who's he?"
Her body felt heavy. "He's the head of the Area One Detective Division."
Palmer's mouth fell open. "My god."
"Yeah."
They sat for a moment and listened to the cartoons coming through the wall. Her shoulder holster pinched, and she undid it, set it on the bed beside her. Rubbed at her eyes, remembering Donlan as she used to know him, a friend, then a confidant, then a lover. "It might not mean anything. The guy could just have been making a point."
"Hell of a point."
She nodded.
"What about calling Internal Affairs? Couldn't they help?" Palmer said it like a civilian, somebody who'd watched cop shows but never worn a star.
"IAD?" She winced. Coming out against another officer was betraying the brotherhood. Besides, it wasn't that simple. "We've got no evidence."
"We'd tell the same story, though."
She laughed. "Sure. It'd go like this: 'While neglecting my assigned duties in order to work a case I'd been ordered off, I had an anonymous caller tip me about a secret meet where I saw my former partner, a decorated sergeant and twenty-year veteran, sell submachine guns to gangbangers. No, I don't know where he got them, or where they are now. No, I don't have any pictures or physical evidence of any kind. On the up side, I did manage to lose my service weapon – does that count for something?' "
"We know DiRisio's name."
"You extorted it from a gangbanger. Not too useful. If it's even his real name."
"We'd have Billy. He could identify them."
"Our ace in the hole is the eyewitness testimony of an eight-year-old?"
"So what, you want to just quit?" His voice had that tone men only got when speaking to women.
"No, coach," she said. "Stay in my face and I'll win the big game."
He stared at her, anger in his eyes, and then something broke, and he ducked his head and laughed. "Right. Sorry." He blew a breath. "Been a long couple of days."
"Yeah." She paused. "Look, you're right. Your nephew's testimony is something. But it's not enough. Not nearly."
"So where does that leave us?"
"I believe the technical term," she said, "is 'up shit creek.' "
Their TV had a porn channel.
They'd talked round and round until they were worn out. No evidence, and no way to know who was clean and who was dirty, so they couldn't go to the cops. No lead on DiRisio. Working Galway was their best bet, but he would know that. He'd surely protect himself. And the mere thought that Donlan might be involved was enough to make her consider fleeing the country.
Finally, in frustration, they'd decided to take a break, clear their heads. He was in the shower, and she'd flopped on the bed looking for local news, see if by any chance there was mention of automatic weapon fire in downtown Chicago. A deep exhaustion had begun to settle, a hollowed-out feeling from the spent adrenaline. The dingy mattress felt better than it had a right to, and she was channel-surfing, the volume muted. Click, sports. Click, sitcom. Click, two blondes with fake tans and fake tits doing unlikely things to one another with an enormous pink dildo.
It was like a nature film, bugs filmed in extreme close-up. This turned men on?
She shook her head, clicked again. The water stopped, and she heard the curtain slide and a towel pulled from the rack. It was a strangely intimate sound, and put her back in another hotel bedroom. Cramped and dim, a threadbare robe and the smell of red wine spilled on the sheets. Burning shame as she listened to James Donlan in the shower, whistling as he washed her off his body before going home to his wife.
Stop, she thought automatically. But it never worked.
She remembered their awkward breakfast. The pressure he'd put on her, telling her not to screw this up. Was it a message that he was involved? Or was it exactly as it appeared on the surface, a politician's desire not to see a simple case get complicated?
No idea. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Her mother had warned her not to be a cop, said that it would only lead to trouble. Lately it seemed like she was right. Cruz had loved the first nine, ten years, being on the street, running down bad guys. Sure, over and over she'd needed to prove herself, but over and over she had managed to. But ever since her mistake with Donlan, things had gone downhill. First the respect she'd fought to earn had disappeared like smoke. Then the order had come to tie her to a desk, and she'd spent month after endless month working the database, entering reports and interviews other cops gathered. Seeing the street from a distance, a collection of stats. Just a secretary of horror, a reporter of gang crimes and murder scenes and arsons-
Cruz was on her feet before she realized she was moving. She rounded the bed, hit the closed bathroom door, didn't even hesitate. Shoved through.
"Whoa!" Palmer was bent just inside the door drying his legs, but as she came in, he jerked upright, yanking the towel in front of him. His body was tan, his chest lean and muscular, spare, with the puckered ridge of a scar trailing down his left pectoral to where metal dog tags dangled. "What the hell?"
She smiled. "I know what we need to do."
CHAPTER 27
Custodian
Goddamn amateur.
Anthony grit his teeth, the line of his jaw hard, that muscle jumping. He had the windows half-open, and a warm breeze blew through the car, tugging at his tie, rifling the Sun-Times on the passenger seat. He'd brought it thinking he might read a little to calm down, but the paper lay untouched. His SIG sat on top of it, an ugly suppressor screwed onto the barrel. In the movies everybody had a suppressor, like you could buy one at the corner store, but he'd never had any luck getting a line on them, even with his contacts. Had to build his himself: Steel tube, drill-pressed holes, springs and washers. Used a metal lathe to machine a threaded bit that matched the SIG, then silver-soldered the pieces together. He'd heard you could buy suppressors over the counter in Finland, have to get there someday.
But tonight the SIG was just in case there were any more surprises.
The thought set his jaw jumping again. Galway. Amateur. First he wouldn't acknowledge what had to be done to silence the Billy Palmer brat. Anthony had been forced to plead the case like a first-time trigger-man, and Galway had still found a way to screw that up, using gangbangers to do the deed. And tonight, when Jason Palmer delivered himself up dead to rights, Galway managed to let him get away.
So now here Anthony was, two in the fucking morning, sitting in this fucking jig neighborhood like he had nothing better to fucking do. A fucking custodian, just mopping up the fucking mess.
Headlights glowed in his rearview. About fucking time. He wriggled low in the seat, took up the SIG, held it close to his chest, barrel up, just in case. But the Jaguar passed, the engine smooth and soft as it paused outside a garage, the door rolling up. The garage was surprisingly orderly, no clutter, clean swept, even a pegboard with tools neatly hung. The guy had probably never used them, bought them out of a catalog 'cause that's what you were supposed to have in your garage.
Anthony smiled. Felt that tingle in his bladder that meant play time.
He counted one hundred, then got out of the car, leaving behind his SIG in favor of the cop's Smith. He'd busted the porch lights when he first arrived – it took three shots for two lights, which pissed him off a little, but the suppressor threw off accuracy – and so he walked tall to the front door. He wondered idly if the guy would have company tonight. Galway wouldn't like that. Weakling amateur, no stomach for the work at hand.
Two locks, one an up-model Schlage that cost an extra twenty seconds, and he was inside, mouth open, listening. A hunter
. Let his mind feel his way through the dark as his eyes adjusted. Sleek furniture coming into focus, a black leather couch, a low glass coffee table, a painting of an African woman fighting a tiger, only her head tilted back and her tits exposed, like maybe they weren't actually fighting, maybe the tiger was tearing off a piece. It wasn't clear, let you decide. He kind of liked it.
Thick white carpeting covered the floor, and he moved easy, his passage barely a rustle. Eased up the steps as music started above, something softer than Anthony would have expected. Brown sugar beats and a woman's voice, singing how when she first met him, he was the sweetest thing, a Sade tape in the cold of spring, and then Anthony kicked the door open, the wood swinging fast to crack off the opposite wall, Dion Wallace frozen in tableaux in the middle of his bedroom, perfect, no cover, no weapons, a snifter in one hand, a bottle of Courvoisier in the other, paisley silk robe open and his junk exposed.
"Hiya, C-Note. I'd ask how it's hanging, but I can see for myself." Anthony smiled, stepped in. "You know, I'd always heard you boys packed extra weight. Must be cold in here, huh?"
Dion had the panicked look of an animal surprised, eyes darting left and right, like he wanted to dive back in his hole. "Man, what you about?"
"Figured I'd drop by, see how things were going. You know, shoot the shit. See if you'd finished the assignment I gave your black ass."
The gangbanger straightened, narrowed his eyes. He poured cognac into the snifter, threw it back, poured another. "You want one?"
"Sure."
Dion turned the bottle upside down so the brown liquor poured out in a ropy stream, glug glug. Smiled. "Just ran out."
Anthony shook his head. "See, that's what's wrong with you people. Trying to come off hard, but all you did, you poured booze on your nice white carpet."
"Carpet don't mean shit to me," tossing the empty bottle aside. "I got the bank, have new stuff down before I'm even home tomorrow."
"Yeah, but see, it didn't do any good. You ruined your carpet for nothing. I mean, if wanted to use the bottle as a weapon, that I could understand. Of course," gesturing with his left hand while his right jerked the Smith, like a magician distracting his audience, "a bottle would be a little outclassed. But at least it would suggest some, what do you call it, proactivity."
Dion glanced at the pistol, then into Anthony's eyes. "What you want?"
"I want you to close your damn robe."
The man moved slow, insolent, his eyes heavy-lidded, showing this weren't nothing but a minor annoyance. Anthony waited till he had the sash tied, then holstered the Smith, smiled like they were buddies. "Now, tell me what's happened with Jason Palmer."
"I got crews out all over the place. His crib, his brother's, even watching the bar y'all burned down. He pops his head out anywhere, I got a hard-eyed brother ready to take care of business. Boy's a corpse, he just don't realize it yet."
"That so?"
Dion nodded, took a sip of cognac.
"So then, I gotta ask, how did he and his little cop girlfriend show up at Lower Wacker, screw up a deal I was making?"
Dion coughed, lowered his drink fast. "What?"
"All of a sudden, there he is, like he don't have a care in the world. Not acting like a man got a hundred angry niggers on his tail."
"Lower Wacker." The drink slipped, spilling a few drops before he caught it. "You're shitting me."
Anthony felt his eyes narrowing. This wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated. Something unexpected was going on here. "That ring a bell?"
"Motherfucker." Dion drank the rest of the cognac. Shook his head. "Martinez."
"Martinez?" What was this? DiRisio replayed the conversation in his head. Lower Wacker. The jig had reacted to Lower Wacker. Now why would that be?
It hit. "Oh, you stupid monkey. You made a deal."
"Shit no." The words coming too fast.
"Yes, you did." Pussy-assed amateurs. "You talked to Palmer, didn't you? He offer you money or something?"
"Nah, man, I ain't seen him." His eyes edgy, glancing at the night table. That would be where he had a weapon.
"So who's Martinez?"
"Just some cop, white dude. Came into my crib running game, you know? Said it was like cowboys and Indians."
Anthony stared at him. "I don't speak Ebonics."
"This Martinez said the cavalry was waiting, gonna roll us all up unless I gave him something. I didn't have no choice. But I didn't give up shit he could use, no names or nothing. I figured you're a man who can take care of business. Handle hisself, you know?"
Who was this Martinez? He could be a friend of the woman cop's. But why bring Palmer? And why hadn't Galway heard about it? It didn't make any sense. If the police had known about the buy, they wouldn't have sent just Cruz and Palmer. It would have been a circus of red and blue lights. But if Martinez hadn't told them, how else could Palmer have gotten there? Unless… "You said this cop was white?"
"Yeah, just had a Latin name."
"Was he by any chance about six foot? Built, surfer hair, drove a Caddy?"
Dion stared. "How you know?"
Oh, the fucking humanity. Anthony laughed. Jason Palmer had some sack, no doubt about it. Some serious swinging sack.
Good. Better that way. More fun.
"This Martinez, what did he do to get you to talk?" Savored that sweet tingle. Spoke slow, contempt in his voice. "He get up in your grille? He dis your hoopdy?"
"Man, what you talking about?"
"Nothing, Dion. I'm talking about nothing at all." He did his magic trick with the cop's Smith again.
The first shot hit just above the cheek, ripping the skin up and back, and for a split second, just before it tore off a sizable chunk of his head, the bullet made it look like Dion Wallace really got the joke.
CHAPTER 28
Everyday People
Jason hadn't realized how hungry he was until they'd walked in the diner and the smells hit, bacon and coffee and grease.
"The X-Factor," Cruz said.
"Yes." He spoke around a mouthful of tuna melt.
"I entered a lot of data. I mean, you wouldn't believe how much data I've entered. And every now and then, it started to seem like there was a pattern. You know, something moving behind the scenes. Only I could never put my finger on it."
"Right." He gestured at her untouched fries. "You going to eat those?"
She pushed the plate across the Formica tabletop. "And then yesterday, something you said made me look at it differently."
"Something I said?"
"Yeah. You said something about how in Iraq, people just got used to living in a world that was burning. It made me think, shit, sounds like Crenwood. The arson stats are really high – much higher than they should be. I'd noticed that before, just in the course of entering data. But I didn't realize what it meant, because I hadn't found my X-Factor."
"Galway and DiRisio."
"Exactly." She held a fork in both hands, spun it, staring at the tines. "It's funny."
"What?"
"I hated this assignment. The database. You know, I thought, this is no kind of work for a cop. They put it on me to keep me off the streets. Only it turns out that the cops working the streets are bad, and that the database is the weapon we need."
He nodded. "I think they call that irony."
"Yeah," she said and stiffened.
Jason followed her gaze, saw the blue-and-white out the window. Two men inside. She turned to face him, put a hand up to play with her hair, hiding her profile. Her eyes darted. "Are they watching?"
Jason popped a fry in his mouth, looked out the window, just a guy having breakfast. Ready to move if he had to, thinking a sprint through the kitchen and out the back exit would probably be the best route.
The light changed, and the cruiser pulled away.
"They're gone." He reached for the Tabasco, shook till the fries turned crimson.
She glanced out the window, glanced back. Shook her head. "I still can't believe
this is happening."
"I know that feeling." Thinking of Michael, of Billy. This dirty little conspiracy had cost his brother's life, had saddled him with responsibility he wasn't prepared for. That he hadn't even had time to think about. But now wasn't the time either. First he had to make sure his nephew was safe. Then he could figure out the rest of his life. "You're sure it will have what we need?"
She nodded. "My computer at work is basically an abacus. You wouldn't believe the equipment we have to deal with. So I always work on my personal laptop, then just upload the database to the CPD system every day. I've got data on every recent gang incident, from graffiti to homicide to arson. Somewhere in there we'll find what we need. Then when we go in to IAD, it's not just us talking. We've got facts and stats. Maybe not exactly proof, but enough to get a good cop's attention."
"Sounds pretty thin to me."
"That laptop is the closest thing we have to evidence," she said. He started to argue, but Cruz cut him off. "Look, you know how you were talking about trust? Goes both ways."
He sighed. "Yeah."
The waitress came by with the check, telling them to stay as long as they liked, no rush. Jason nodded, took a slug of the coffee, lukewarm now, forked a Tabasco-soggy fry. Chewed slowly, trying to steady his tingling nerves. For the moment they were all right, but he knew it was a temporary respite, like ducking under an awning against a storm. It didn't stop the rain.
Cruz reached for her tea, took a sip, set it down with her lips curling. "I don't know how you do it," she said.
"What?"
"Eat. My stomach is completely off."
"First rule of soldiering. When there's food, eat. Never know how many miles you'll have to run before chow."
"I wouldn't make it. I need food every two hours or my body shuts down." She paused. "Did you like it?"
"Being a soldier?" He thought of the feeling of pride he'd had when he made sergeant, the thrill of walking with his unit, the camaraderie and faith. "Yeah. I liked it a lot."
"So why leave?"
He wiped his lips with the napkin. "What about you, you like being a cop?"
