by Marcus Sakey
"Yes." The voice was muffled.
Jason reached for the door handle, willing his body ready, welcoming the old familiar tingle in his fingers. This was as good a spot as any. He visualized the move: open the door, hurl himself through, use the momentum to slam it behind him. It would only hold off DiRisio for a fraction of a second, but that should be enough for Jason to make a play.
Maybe the last of his life.
CHAPTER 43
Deep
She swam in some deep fuzzy place, the surface of consciousness rippling above. There were sounds, and someone touching her, but she didn't want to open her eyes. Wanted only to sleep, to plunge back into the abyss.
"Wake up, Elena." A man's voice, close. Jason? The voice was correct, she realized. She should wake up. There were important reasons.
"Come on, wake up."
Things to do. They were in trouble. They had to tell-
She gasped, and her eyes flew open. She was in a car, the backseat, side door open, humid air thick as soup, a shape leaning in the door, a man, one hand propped on the seat, the other reaching. Her purse. The gun was in her purse. She tried to check the seat next to her, found that her hands were bound. The man touched her arm, and she moved without thinking, caught his wrist and twisted, bent it back, spinning her body for leverage.
The man yelped, dropped to his knees. Fumbled at his belt.
Came up with a gun.
"Goddamn it, Cruz!"
She recognized the voice now. "Galway." She stared down the barrel of his gun, let go of his hand. Looked around. She was in the back of the Towncar. Last thing she remembered was hearing footsteps coming fast, turning, seeing a shape colliding with her skull. They'd walked into a trap. "Motherfucker."
Galway snorted. "Sure." He held the gun steady, his finger outside the trigger guard. Good form, prevented accidents but wouldn't slow him down.
"Where's Jason?"
"Inside. Let's go."
"Inside?" Her head was clearing enough for her to know what that meant. The alderman. "He wants to talk to us? Why?"
"You'll need to ask him. Come on, now." His voice was firm but not harsh. "Slide out of the car. Slow."
She didn't want to, but didn't see a choice. She moved gently, taking the opportunity to scan for her purse on the floor. Praying they'd just tossed it after her, not checked it out. But there was no sign of it.
Cruz spun her legs out of the car, awkward and overdressed in the formal attire. Her heels spiked the gravel. Galway backed up a step or two, the pistol out, watching her carefully. She stood up, then suddenly went swimmy, black spots dancing in front of her eyes. Scrabbled at the car roof, found it wet, her bound hands sliding, thighs trembly, the spots multiplying, the world dark, then shit, she was falling.
Strong arms caught her. Her head screamed to attack now, that he couldn't at once prop her up and have the gun trained on her, but her body was shaking, blood thumping hot and heavy. Two serious blows to the head in one day. What were the odds. She closed her eyes, concentrated on deep breaths. This close, she could smell Galway, his familiar cologne like woodsmoke. How many times had she smelled it, rolling with him through Crenwood, bullshitting and philosophizing, listening to him talk about his life, his divorce?
Galway guided her hands to the car door, helped her get a grip, then stepped away as her vision cleared. "Christ, Elena." He shook his head. "Why did you have to get involved?"
"It was my case."
"And I told you how to close it. Would it have been so bad to put everything on a waste like Playboy? Just let one job go? So what if he didn't kill Palmer? You know Playboy has more than one body on his resume." He shook his head. "I never wanted you to get caught up in this."
"It was my case," she repeated.
Galway snorted. "Yeah."
Her vision had steadied, and she looked around. A house, shit, a mansion more like. Boxy Bauhaus-knockoff nestled under ancient oak trees. The air was fetid with the smell of growing things.
"You feeling better?"
She looked at him, the stern face now wearing thin, in need of a shave, with pits under his eyes and a faint twitch to his lip. The pistol at his side, like he just happened to be holding it. "Why are you doing this, Tom?" He didn't reply, and she took a careful step, then another. Her strength seemed to be returning, though pain was coming with it, a deep ache sloshing between her temples. "Was it money?" The high heels were the wrong choice, near impossible in the wet gravel. She stepped to the lawn, turned to face him, bent a knee to hike a leg up and undo the strap of one shoe. "I know you've got bills, your son. But I never would have figured you to go bad."
He shook his head. "Quit stalling."
She dropped the shoe to the ground, put her bare foot in the wet grass, bent her knee to work on the other. "There were always rumors. That guy shakes down pimps, this one freelances for a dealer, the other steals cash from crime scenes. But it was always lousy cops waiting out their pension. You, you're a great cop. What happened?"
"Elena, look." The lights from the porch framed his shrug in silhouette. "I'm sorry you're mixed up in this. I really am. But cut the true confessions crap, okay?"
She tossed the other heel. "Are you really going to shoot me? Your partner?" She took a step toward him, bound hands low, not threatening. "I know you've done some bad things, but are you willing to go that far?"
"I haven't shot anybody." He spoke quickly.
"What about down by the river?" Maybe guilt would shake him. "You shot at me then."
"No." His voice firm. "That was DiRisio. I saved your life. He would have hit if I hadn't stopped him."
Hope flared in her chest. Maybe they could work this out yet. "You see? I knew you were still police." She took another step. "Let's figure this out together, cop to cop. There's got to be a way out."
"I wish," he said, and brought the gun up to shoulder height, the barrel at her torso. "But I saved your life once already."
She stiffened, the backs of her arms cold, goosebumps breaking out on her shoulders. Overhead, a wisp of gray clouds parted to reveal a tarnished silver moon.
"You want to know what it was? You really want to know?" His eyes flashed, and he flexed the fingers of his gun hand, tapping them against the grip. "I got tired. Tired of hauling in fourteen-year-old kids for murder counts. Tired of trying to track down their parents, finding Mommy three sheets at eleven A.M. and Daddy ten-years gone. Tired of standing over different teenaged corpses on the same corners. I mean, that corner at Fifty-fourth and Damen, you know how many bodies we had there last year? Five. On one worthless corner. Kids dying over ten feet of cement in front of a gas station." He paused. "I used to believe that we could change things on the street. I used to think the work meant something. But it doesn't. We're not cops. We're zookeepers. And I got tired."
"So you figured you may as well make a buck?" She didn't even try to keep the acid from her voice.
He shook his head. "That's not why."
"But there was money."
"Of course there was money. But it wasn't why. I did it because…" He blew a long breath, looked around, as if the words he needed were over her shoulder. "One night I stared at the mirror and asked myself if the world wouldn't maybe be a little bit better if somebody burned Crenwood to the ground and rebuilt it with a Starbucks on every corner and a nice private school. If we forgot 'political correctness' and 'giving everyone a fair shot' and just got rid of the assholes. And if we had to hurt a few people to do that, well, they were already so busy hurting each other I couldn't see the difference."
In the silence that fell she could hear the faint patter of water dripping between the oak boughs. She supposed she ought to be horrified at what he'd said, but she'd been a cop for too long. He hadn't said anything they hadn't all thought at one time or another. No way around it, prowling war-zone streets day after day. She couldn't refute him without lying, couldn't agree and remain true to herself. So finally, she just said, "Don't do this."<
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Galway stared with sad Irish eyes. He looked like an upscale drunk, one of those dissipated men that spent their afternoons in hotel bars. "It's too late. I'm in too deep." He shook his head. "Besides, I tried to keep you clear. I told you how to fix it. I practically begged you to stay out. You ignored me. There's nothing I can do now."
"Tom-"
"Let's go," he said, and something in his expression told her he'd made up his mind. She grit her teeth, turned around, started for the house. The gravel was rough and wet against her bare feet.
"You know," she said, "somebody sent that evidence. Whoever it was, they're going to try again. You may not be able to stop him next time. And if that happens, you think the alderman is going to go down alone?"
"The alderman?" He sounded amused. "Look around you. This house ran four, five mill. You think he can pony that? And all the property in Crenwood, even cheap, it adds up. Owens doesn't have that kind of cash. And he doesn't have the brains to come up with a plan like this. Hell, without that assistant of his, I doubt Alderman Owens would know how to lace his Stacy Adams."
She paused, turned. Perplexed.
"Elena, we don't work for the alderman." Galway spoke slowly, like he was explaining to a child. "He works for us."
CHAPTER 44
Seethe
Jason froze midlunge, forward motion checked by surprise. He'd only seen the man behind the desk once before, but it hadn't been five hours ago. Seen him from Washington's living room, standing beside Ronald, the two of them staring out the front window at a man who could give away a half million dollars and not miss it. "You're Adam Kent."
The man behind the desk narrowed his eyes, looked past Jason to DiRisio. "Did you-"
"Of course not." DiRisio's voice was calm. "He's a smart kid. I told you that."
Kent nodded, sighed. "Ah well." He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, soft and expensive looking, not the shiny fabric of a rental.
Jesus. He was at the party, too. And on the heels of that, Of course he was. He threw the party.
Jason's mind whirled. It didn't make any sense. This guy had given Washington all that money to save former gangbangers. And at the same time he was arming them, setting them against each other? Burning out houses and buying up property?
Kent gestured to a chair. "Mr. Palmer. Have a seat."
Jason hesitated, then started forward, eyes scanning. Studying the battlefield. A large office. Padded chairs fronting an open fireplace big enough to park a car. August, the rest of the city gasping and sweating, and Kent had a fire battling his air-conditioning. In the center of the room lay an elegant desk of pale wood fronted by three angular chairs, the lines modern and uncomfortable. Jason spotted his cell phone and wallet along with Cruz's purse, sitting on the center of the desk. Behind it stood French doors leading to the backyard, the darkness outside dotted with landscape lighting.
He sat on the edge of his chair, watching DiRisio and Scarface take up guard positions. After a moment, Kent came around the desk to lean against the edge, his posture casual and friendly. He looked like a bank manager. Medium jaw, plain features, salt-and-pepper hair. Ronald had nailed it: You'd walk right past him on the street, never think a thing.
Then Kent crossed his arms, blew a breath and said the last thing Jason expected. "Mr. Palmer, I owe you an apology."
If the man had screamed and raged, Jason would have been prepared. If he'd made threats of torture, promised pain beyond bearing, he would have been ready. But this, this left him speechless.
"First, I'm sorry for the way you were brought here. The circumstances demanded it, but it's a bit crude. Which leads to my second apology." He laced his fingers in a gesture of contrition. "I am so very sorry for what happened to your brother."
Jason's mouth fell open.
Kent continued. "Anthony is overzealous. All I asked him to do was talk to your brother. The last thing I want to do is hurt people like Michael. It's bad for business."
Jason looked back and forth, feeling like he was racing to keep up. Scarface looked at him impassively. DiRisio picked at something in his ear. If what his boss said bothered him, he didn't show it.
"Business?" Jason could feel the heat rising in his cheek. "You mean inciting a gang war for profit? Burning a neighborhood?"
"Yes." Kent's voice was matter-of-fact. "Look, when a house is infested with termites, you don't put up new drywall. You tear it down and start over."
This man gave Washington a half million to help gangbangers? Then the last piece clicked into place. It made sense, in a twisted sort of way. "I get it."
"What's that?"
"Why you helped Washington. You borrowed a play from the CIA. Because you're a white guy from the suburbs, and all of Crenwood looks the same to you. You need on-the-ground intelligence. Right?"
Kent nodded. "Washington is a good man, and I'm happy to help him help those boys. Especially since that also means I can learn everything I need to know."
"Help him?" Jason sputtered. "You used him to commit murder."
He shook his head, sucked air through his teeth. "No. 'Murder' is an emotional word. It's petty, and small. You may not like my methods, but I'm building something. When I'm done, Crenwood will be a safe neighborhood, the kind of place people want to raise kids. And yes, before you bring it up, of course I'll make a lot of money in the process. But the world will be better. I'm a businessman and a pragmatist, but I'm not a monster. I don't even have a moustache."
Jason narrowed his eyes. "Okay."
"Okay?"
He remembered Cruz on the river front. "A friend of mine taught me that as long as someone's got a gun on you, the correct answer to anything is 'okay.' "
Kent laughed. "I see your point. But I want your full attention."
"Believe me, man. You've got it."
"Fair enough." Kent glanced over to DiRisio, gave a quick nod. DiRisio made the gun vanish, then left the wall and moved to stand just behind Jason. "Now," Kent continued, "you have something I need."
"You really think I'm going to give up my nephew?"
"Your nephew?" A bemused smile played on Kent's lips. "What would I want with him?"
The skin of Jason's shoulders crawled. "But the gangbangers, and DiRisio-"
"Were all looking for what I wanted." Kent leaned forward. "The papers, Mr. Palmer. All I want are the papers your brother had, the ones you told the alderman about. You give me that, we're done."
Jason stared, fighting to keep a straight face as the gears clicked. Remembering the party, how he'd hedged with the alderman, not explicitly telling him the evidence had been destroyed because he didn't want to shake the guy's trust. The alderman had reported back to Kent, who now believed Jason had his brother's files.
All Kent wanted was something Jason didn't have.
"You're saying that you'll not only let me walk out of here, you'll leave Billy alone?" He put as much scorn into it as possible.
"Absolutely. That's all we've wanted all along," Kent said. "Mr. Palmer, I realize you don't like me, and I understand why. But the truth is that I don't bear you any ill will. For you, this is a personal matter. But for me, it's just business. I'm in the middle of a very complicated financial venture. Your brother got involved when he shouldn't have. He wouldn't listen to reason. I didn't kill him for pleasure any more than I brought you here to show off my evil plan."
"Okay."
"All right. You're hurting and I can't change that. But listen to what I have to say." Kent ran a hand through his hair. "There's no advantage to killing you. Without evidence, there's nothing you can say that could hurt me. Nothing. I have a lot of money, and a lot of people eager to do me favors. What do you have? A history of petty theft and an 'other than honorable' discharge from the Army." He shrugged. "I'm sorry, but you're outmatched. So let's keep it simple. Give me what I want, and I'll give you back your life."
Jason felt sick. Wrong as it was, the man was right. But he also believed Jason had something he didn't.
"Look," Kent said, "this is a one-time opportunity to save the lives of your nephew and your lover. To watch Billy grow up. It's a good offer. Take it."
Jason sat back in his chair, met Kent's eye. The guy looked sincere, but that was like gauging the intentions of a crocodile. Still. Much as Jason wanted to doubt, Kent made sense. They were out of plays. Going to the alderman had been a last-ditch hope. If Kent let them go, there really wasn't anything they could do to hurt him.
Which only made his anger seethe hotter. Just like in the war, the real players were invulnerable. People talked about the immovable object and the unstoppable force. But the real story belonged to the people caught between the two. People like his brother.
" 'A complicated financial venture,' eh?" Jason shook his head. "You realize you're talking about people? You're killing them, burning their homes, ruining their neighborhoods. To make money. Just another rich white guy who can't get enough."
Kent snorted. He stood up, went around the desk, dropped in the chair. "It's not love that moves the world, Mr. Palmer, and the only color that matters is green. Black, white, brown, who gives a shit? It's about rich and poor. I'm very rich, so I win. You can spout coffeehouse crap all you like. But first decide whether you'd prefer to die tonight or to see your nephew grow up."
Think, goddamn you. Think. He looked away. Grit his teeth and tugged at his wrists. The zip-tie was unyielding, and his fingers thick and heavy. Every fiber of his body screamed to fight. To stand and make a move, to throw himself at Kent or DiRisio. He'd lose, but he'd go out fighting. A soldier's death. Not this terrible choice.
Not having to make a deal with the man who murdered his brother.
