Police Brutality (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 2)

by Gregory Ashe

  Hazard ignored the offer for a moment, craning to peer farther down the hall. The doorways had all been widened, he saw. The alterations were purely functional: someone had cut out the frames with a saw and left exposed wood and the raw side of the paneling revealed. The kitchen, what Hazard could see of it, was a sty: takeout containers piled everywhere, plastic bags of trash stacked against one wall—one of the bags was leaking something brown. From deeper in the trailer came a waft of something: the distinct odor of shit.

  “You can sit down,” Andy-Jack said, and when Hazard looked back, the man’s face was red.

  “Professional curiosity,” Hazard said, settling onto the sofa.

  “Like I said, can’t afford to move. Not yet. And I’ve got to be able to get to the bathroom. Got to get to the kitchen.” He rubbed his forehead, and he didn’t look so young anymore. “Place is going to be shit to sell, though.”

  “You’re expecting some money?”

  Andy-Jack assumed an expression so cagey it was comical. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just can’t.”

  “Does it have something to do with the case you’ve got against Hoffmeister?”

  “I don’t have no case.”

  “The county prosecutor’s case,” Hazard said. “My mistake. The civil suit will come after.”

  “I can’t talk about none of that. Say, you’re the guy that busted Mikey Grames. I hated that piece of shit; knew him when he was a kid and he’d come out here just to fuck around. Didn’t know you, did I?”

  Hazard shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I ought to buy you a beer. You got any good detective stories?”

  “You got any good engineer stories?” Hazard asked, tipping his head toward the coffee table and its miscellany.

  Andy-Jack made a noise of disgust. “That’s just piece work. Shit jobs nobody else wants to do. They give it to me because I’m not good for anything else.”

  “What’s your training?”

  “Whatever you call hanging around my dad’s scrapyard. An apprenticeship, I guess.”

  Hazard was surprised by his own smile. “Looks like you picked up some useful skills.”

  “Sure. Hey, tell me about Grames. What really went down with him? Is it true you ripped off his face? One of my buddies said they found him in the basement of that building, and there wasn’t enough left even to identify him.”

  “Can’t talk about that.”

  “Come on. That asshole had it coming; everybody knew it. Is it true he cut up that other cop so bad he had to retire?”

  “What? No. I’m the one that left the force.”

  “You? Oh yeah, right.”

  Hazard nodded.

  “What the hell are you doing here, then? Jesus, I was worried you were here to bust my balls about the shitface who put me in this chair.”

  “Hoffmeister? But you invited me inside.”

  “I thought I should play nice; you said you were a detective.”

  “You said I was a detective. And I am, but a private detective.”

  “Well, what do you want with me?”

  “I have a client who’s interested in everything going on with Officer Hoffmeister right now.”

  “Who?”

  Hazard spread his hands.

  “All right, all right.” Andy-Jack leaned on his elbow, his face clouded with thought now. “Well, shit, man, I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “You said you thought I was here to harass you about Hoffmeister.”

  “Yeah, man. You know how cops are. You used to be one, right? They stick together. Something goes wrong, they zip lips and line up and you can’t get anything to stick.”

  “You’ve had complaints about police officers in the past?”

  “Sure. Everybody in Paradise Valley does. They like to stop us just for kicks. Ticket for a missing taillight, ticket because you didn’t signal on the last turn, ticket because you’re five over. Like we’re a goddamn piggy bank; every time the budget’s low, they write some more tickets.”

  To Hazard’s knowledge, the statement wasn’t true, but he had been a detective in Wahredua for less than a year. During that year, his focus had been on the investigations that came across his desk, not traffic violations. But the more he had learned about the department, the less he had liked it.

  “Any of those guys in specific?”

  “You know them, right? I shouldn’t be talking about them.”

  “I’ve got a different job now. Because those guys shit-canned me.”

  “Guess that’s true. There’s this one woman who writes tickets like they’re love letters. And a couple of the older guys, if you get mouthy, they might ask you to get out of the car, mess with you a little bit.”

  “The way Hoffmeister did?”

  That cagey look flitted across Andy-Jack’s face again, and he straightened in the chair. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Right, right. Just background information. Nothing about the case.”

  “I guess.”

  “Anybody else ever get hurt by the police? Hurt bad, I mean?”

  “Officially?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Officially, I don’t know. I don’t think so. A few tussles. Split lips. Black eyes. If they were too drunk to know what was good for them, and they didn’t keep their mouths shut.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “Duck, duck, goose.”

  “What?”

  “You never heard about that?”

  “My little girl likes to play that game.”

  “I mean it: be straight with me.” Andy-Jack’s eyes were narrowed now, his fingers curled over the wheelchair’s armrests.

  “It’s a kid’s game. That’s all I know.”

  “Somebody told me that’s what cops call it. The game they play. Duck, duck, goose.”

  “What is it?”

  “Every once in a while, some of them take off their badges, dress up like civilians, and go out drinking. They pick a bar at random—duck, duck, goose. When they get there, they get loaded. Blasted. They pick a guy at random—duck, duck, goose. And they mess him up. Nobody gets involved. Badges or no badges, everybody knows they’re cops. Nobody wants that kind of trouble.”

  “Is Officer Hoffmeister one of these guys?”

  Andy-Jack shrugged. “I’m not the first guy he’s put in the hospital.”

  Hazard weighed this information. “I told you my client’s interested in everything that happens with Hoffmeister.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said.”

  “Plenty of people might want to see a cop like that disappear.”

  Andy-Jack stared for a moment. Then he laughed. “Look, man. I don’t know what your game is, but that son of a bitch is worth a lot more alive than he is dead. Dead men don’t have wages to garnish, you know?”

  “To some people, money isn’t everything.”

  “Yeah, well, when you’re in a chair and you can’t even turn around in your own home because it’s too damn small, when your friends had to scrape together just to put in a lift, when that’s your situation, come tell me again that money isn’t everything.”

  “So your civil suit—”

  “Man, I can’t talk about that. I told you.”

  Nodding, Hazard stood and drew out one of his cards. He scribbled his number on the back. “If you think of anything else, hear anything, if you can point me to one of those games you were talking about, anything, give me a call.”

  Andy-Jack shrugged. “I got my own stuff to worry about. Sorry, but that’s the truth. I probably shouldn’t have said what I did; lawyer’s going to haul my ass over the coals for talking.”

  “You have a good day, Mr. Strout.”

  “Yeah,” he said sourly, strumming the spokes on one wheel. “Course I will.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  DEC
EMBER 17

  MONDAY

  5:42 PM

  SOMERS WAS DUMPING FROZEN vegetables into the stir fry when Hazard got home. Every once in a while, even though things had been so much better over the last two months, Somers would worry. A part of his brain would think about the way Hazard had looked in the aftermath of the Mikey Grames case: the slow hollowing out of his body as muscle melted away, the unkempt growth of beard, the shaggy hair. He would think about the way Hazard had seemed to disappear inside himself. And then Somers would have to fight to keep his phone in his pocket and not call, just to check, just to make sure.

  Hazard’s hair was still long, much longer than it had been when he’d been working on the force, but at least he’d ditched the beard. Tonight, his cheeks were red with cold, and he looked animated. Emotions rarely manifested in Hazard’s face as visibly as they did in most people, but Somers was learning to crack the code: the quickness of his step, the set of his shoulders, the electric sheen in his eyes. Emery Hazard was excited about something.

  He came across the kitchen, took Somers by the chin, and kissed him.

  “Hello, sailor,” Somers said when he could breathe again.

  “Broccoli is burning.”

  “Shit.” He elbowed Hazard, clearing space at the range. “You distracted me.”

  Hazard hopped up to sit on the counter.

  Eyeing him sideways, Somers asked, “Is it Mardi Gras?”

  “You look nice tonight.”

  “I always look nice.”

  “Sometimes in the morning—”

  Somers turned his full gaze on Hazard.

  “You do always look nice,” Hazard said.

  “What’s going on with you?”

  “Tell me about your day.”

  “No, I want to know who replaced my boyfriend with this guy who’s so excited he’s kicking his legs like a kid on a swing.”

  “I’m not kicking my legs,” Hazard said, tucking his heels against the lower cabinets.

  “Ok, swinging.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Just tell me, already.”

  “First, take a look at this.” Hazard produced a piece of paper and passed it over.

  Somers accepted it. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. Then he dropped the spoon. He fumbled for it, catching it before it slid into the frying pan, and then he read the paper again.

  “A1 Private Investigations Emery Hazard Cheap Discreet Homosexual.” Somers was vaguely aware that he had dropped the spoon again. “And your logo is a magnifying glass over a penis.”

  “What? No. Come on. That’s a stylized P. For private eye. It’s—you have to hold it like this—” Horror contorted Hazard’s face. “You’re a pervert.”

  “Well, yeah. But you see it too, right? And the suggestion isn’t flattering, Ree. You’re a nice-sized boy. You don’t need a magnifying glass to see your—”

  “On your fucking life, John.”

  Somers decided to change tack. “And the name—”

  “What’s wrong with the name?”

  “Umm. Towards the end it gets a little . . . rentboy-ish.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Somers shrugged and continued to study the paper.

  “It’s very clear,” Hazard said.

  “It is?”

  Hazard grabbed the paper and tapped it. “It includes important keywords for search engines and explains the advantages my agency offers over competitors—”

  He broke off, read the name, and looked back at a smirking Somers. Fuck.

  “You’re cheap?”

  “Money is really important to some people, John. Not everybody blows a whole paycheck on dinner.”

  “I believe you’re referring to the time I got a thirty-dollar steak and a bottle of wine.”

  “Well, it wasn’t fucking Mardi Gras, John. Have some self-control.”

  “Is that what this part of the name is about? A1? Like the steak sauce?”

  Hazard ripped the paper out of his hands. “You know what? Never mind.”

  Somers took the paper back. “I’m not saying it’s bad. But why did you feel like you needed to include discreet and homosexual in the name? Are those advantages too?”

  “All right, John. You made your opinion very fucking clear, thank you.”

  “There are no bad ideas in brainstorming, Ree. Let’s just keep thinking about it.”

  Grunting, Hazard shoved the crumpled page into his pocket again. He looked so wounded about the whole thing that Somers was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

  “Anything else exciting happen at the Emery Hazard Private Homosexual Call-out Service?”

  “I hate you,” Hazard said, turning to leave.

  Laughing, Somers caught his sleeve. “Come on. How was your day?”

  Hazard told him about Hoffmeister.

  “Wow,” Somers said.

  “Wow,” Hazard said.

  “That’s a lot.”

  “It’s bizarre.” Hazard made it sound like a good thing. “That woman at the rally last night, she wanted Hoffmeister dead. That’s what she said anyway, right? And this pastor, Wesley, he got so defensive when I showed up that I’m surprised he didn’t throw me out on my ass.”

  “Smashing that chair probably didn’t help his mood.”

  “I only mentioned that to make a point.”

  “What point? That you’re still strong enough to smash a chair?”

  The red deepened in Hazard’s pale cheeks, and he said, “No. That this guy was trying to push my buttons. He wanted me off balance. He didn’t want me asking questions.”

  “And the Ozark Volunteer guy, Andy-Jack, he made it sound like Hoffmeister has a history of beating the hell out of people. Are you sure you want to get involved in this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Hoffmeister doesn’t have any proof, you know. Cravens already put Peterson on this. He looked into it. Somebody’s messing with Hoffmeister, maybe, but that doesn’t mean they want him dead.”

  “You don’t want me to take the case.”

  “No, that’s not it. I’m just saying—I don’t know. The more I hear about Hoffmeister, the more he sounds like a piece of shit. I don’t want you getting dragged into his shit.”

  “I’m not going to do that. I’m going to do what he asked me to do: help him find out who’s messing with him and determine if there’s a real threat against his life.”

  “I don’t know,” Somers said again, shaking his head as he pulled the stir fry off the heat. “I’ve worked with him a long time, and I never really liked him, but I guess I didn’t know how bad he could get. I saw him beat the shit out of Andy-Jack, remember? I was there. When the criminal case goes forward, I’m going to sit on the stand and tell the court exactly what I saw. When Andy-Jack files civil suit, I’ll testify again.”

  “Hoffmeister’s going to lose his shit. You’re a cop too. Where’s your sense of loyalty?”

  “My sense of loyalty is to the job, not to some asshole we should have fired fifteen years ago.”

  “That,” Hazard said with a small smile, “is one of the reasons I love you.”

  And then he kissed Somers again.

  “All right,” Hazard said, taking down plates and setting the table. “Now you.”

  So Somers told him.

  “A sexual predator on campus?”

  “Not on campus, exactly. But targeting young girls. Exclusively young. Very young. Barely legal. We spent all day trying to run him down and got nothing.”

  “No address? No local government records? No utility bills? No campus enrollment?”

  Serving portions of the stir fry onto each plate, Somers said, “Nope, nope, nope, and nope. We’ve got a name. And the girls gave us his social media accounts, but they go back to dummy email addresses and phone numbers the guy purchased online. Apparently, someone is trying to track the IP, but I think it’s a de
ad end. If he went to all the trouble of hiding his tracks, there’s no way he wasn’t using a VPN. The IP is probably going to end up coming out of Bangkok or Switzerland.”

  “People make stupid mistakes.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Hazard collected a beer, Guinness, and filled a glass with ice water for Somers. “You could go the other way too, right? Look at the victims. See if there’s a pattern. How’s he choosing these girls? Why are they all from Wroxall?”

  “Oh my gosh.” Somers straightened in his chair. “Jesus Christ, Ree. That’s brilliant.”

  Hazard shrugged.

  “If only I’d ever worked this job before.”

  Hazard sighed. “Ok.”

  “If only I’d had the bare minimum of training or experience or common sense to think of something like that.”

  “I was just trying to be helpful.”

  “It’s just such a relief to have a big, smart man who will come home and solve all my little problems with his big, rational brain.”

  Hazard shoved Somers’s plate toward him. “Use your mouth for something less annoying, please.”

  Laughing, Somers picked up his fork. “I’ve got some ideas for what I can do with my mouth. I wonder if you’ll think they’re annoying.”

  Hazard rolled his eyes and started eating.

  They talked about other things, little things, day-to-day things. Who was picking up Evie tomorrow? Who had time to throw in some laundry? Groceries? What about that recipe Hazard wanted to try? Somers ate. He laughed. He gave Hazard shit and laughed some more. And inside, he felt this glow, like a house in winter with every light blazing. This feeling was new, something he’d never had before, not in his whole life. It had started coming on him more frequently. He’d be filing something at work and then, pop, Hazard was inside his head, and his chest turned into a bonfire. Or he’d be at home, flipping channels, and Hazard would crack his neck or shift on the sofa or turn a page in his book, and pop, there it was, like the rest of the world was arctic and the last light and heat and warmth in the world were concentrated in Somers’s chest. And what surprised Somers most, when he even managed to think about it, was that it wasn’t scary. It wasn’t frightening. It just felt good. More than good. It felt perfect.