“Mattox?” a voice repeated back as soon as the word was out. Harsh and gruff, it carried the familiar graveled rasp that Reed had heard nearly every day for the last year and a half, the owner instantly clicking into place.
Even if it was an odd occurrence, the sort of thing that had happened no more than a handful of times in the preceding eighteen months.
And not even a full handful at that.
“Hey, Captain,” Reed said, returning his attention to the grill. Wedging the phone in tight between his shoulder and ear, he again lifted the cover. Setting it aside, he used a pair of Oklahoma Sooners emblazoned tongs to lift the steak, depositing it on a waiting plate nearby.
“What’s happening?”
“What are you doing right now?”
The tone and the word choice both brought an immediate clench to Reed’s stomach, the sort of thing that years of working with CPD had trained his body into doing.
Just one of a great many reactions, memories, and experiences he could probably do without.
“I am making dinner,” Reed said. Leaving the steak where it lay, he raised his attention back to the line of trees, to his partner currently terrorizing whatever might be lurking nearby.
“You’re making dinner?”
“Well, I’m grilling steak on the back deck,” Reed added, realizing how the first statement must have sounded, completely ignoring the insinuation from his captain.
“Ahh,” the man replied, a bit of dawning in his voice. “How fast can you get that eaten and get down here?”
Again, the feeling in Reed’s core reared itself, this time drawing so tight he doubted he would be able to get more than a few bites of the steak down, no matter how much he might want to.
As if on cue, picking the physiological changes in his body from the air, Billie again appeared, abandoning her hunt as she bounded toward the deck.
“We’re not on tonight, Captain,” Reed replied, watching her as she cut the distance between them. “I think it’s the new guy’s turn.”
“I know. That’s why I’m calling you.”
Chapter Three
The last of daylight had blinked out from the sky above by the time Reed Mattox pulled his department-issue sedan into the front lot of the 8th Precinct. Long since void of any daytime employees, only a handful of lights could be seen through the front windows as he bypassed the parking lot, easing into the visitor stalls outside.
All of Reed’s working career had been spent with the Columbus Police Department, the first eight years as a beat cop in the neighboring 19th, two more thereafter as a junior detective.
For the last two, he had called the squat brick building he was now staring up at his working home, the place resembling something much closer to the elementary school he attended as a child than someplace he ever thought he would be drawing a paycheck from.
Three floors in height, each side was of a uniform length, the once bright red brick having faded considerably under years of abuse from the elements. Now sitting somewhere closer to light pink, a waist-high hedge lined the front and a flag pole was situated just off the driveway.
A macabre picture of modern Americana if there ever was one.
Shifting his gaze from the front of the building to the rearview mirror, Reed was met by the unblinking stare of a pair of chestnut colored eyes, the two wet circles the sole parts of his partner that weren’t matte black.
Using her front paws for support, she stared back at the glass, waiting for him to exit, seeming to know precisely where they were and what had brought them.
The second answer being one that Reed himself only had a loose grip on at the moment.
“You ready?” he asked, wrenching open the driver’s side door. Stepping out into the cooling night air, a gust of wind wrapped around him, rising from his knees up over his head, lifting with it the combined scents of grass and sweat and steak.
For just a moment, he envisioned himself again back home on the deck, the happy memory interrupted seconds later by his partner spilling out from the backseat. Not waiting for him to make his way to the rear, she fell to the asphalt with a clatter, her toenails scratching the ground from the elevated angle, her collar rattling slightly.
Jogging out a few steps to gain her balance, she turned and stared back at him, any thoughts of her earlier time in the yard long since evaporated.
“You’re right,” Reed said, seeming to reach the same conclusion his partner already had, the resolute stare on her face spurring him the last little bit he needed. “Let’s do this.”
Swinging the door shut, he turned for the front door, Billie falling in beside him, both passing into the interior of the building with nary a sound.
The inside of the 8th Precinct looked much like the front façade would suggest, the building cleaved in half by a solid wall, a set of frosted doors the only passageway from the front into the back.
The right was reserved for office employees, secretaries and admin personnel that worked standard hours. Stretched in the opposite direction was desk space for the beat cops, the area almost completely dark, only a couple of small lamps providing clumps of illumination to the room.
Having spent so much time in the same position years before, Reed knew that was a state that tended to exist independent of time of day, most cops taking any task possible to avoid sitting for extended periods in the office.
Especially given that on the opposite side of the frosted glass was housed the brass for the precinct, including the man Reed had just been summoned to come see.
Giving nothing more than a quick glance in either direction, Reed went straight for the doors before him, bright light glowing through the opaque panels. Pressing them open wide, he waited for Billie to pass through before stepping in behind her.
Taking no more than a few strides forward, he stopped at the first door to his left, raising a hand and tapping the back of his knuckles against the frame.
“Come in!” the same voice he had heard on the phone less than an hour before called, the same tense tone present.
Casting a quick glance to Billie, Reed stepped inside, finding Captain Wallace Grimes seated behind his desk, staring intently back at him.
Despite the hour, Grimes was dressed just as he was most every time Reed encountered him, the white shirt of his uniform unlined, still fastened at the throat and cuffs, his tie drawn tight.
Just past his fiftieth year, his once black hair was now well entrenched in a steady march toward gray, his skin the color of milk chocolate. Now in his second year at the helm of the 8th, his transition behind the desk was realy starting to show, his midsection distended slightly, the jowls on either side of his face a bit more pronounced.
All in all, an aging process Reed only hoped he handled so gracefully.
“Captain,” he said.
“Mattox,” Grimes said, unlacing his hands from atop his midsection and extending one toward the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
Glancing down to his side, Reed added a bit of bass to his voice. “Down.”
Waiting for Billie to lower herself to the floor, he settled into one of a pair of matching cloth visitor seats, the space exactly as it had been on his last visit more than a week before.
To his left was a small end table free of any personal touches save a small collection of work related accolades.
Before him, the same desk that looked to have been present for decades, the item thick and stocky, painted black, no doubt with a metal serial number tag affixed to its undercarriage.
“Thanks for coming in like this,” Grimes opened. “I’ll see to it you draw overtime for whatever time you put in tonight and tomorrow.”
With just a single sentence, two key pieces of information both jumped out at Reed, each as important as the other.
First, that he and Billie would be working for the next two days, their designated weekend shifted at the moment given the recent shakeup in schedules that had occurred due to the sudden retirem
ent of a pair of longtime detectives and the difficulty the department had had in replacing them.
Second, the city was under a pretty stringent budget crunch, meaning that Grimes’s willingness to sign off on the overtime meant that whatever had got them called in was important.
Or ugly.
Or both.
“How bad?” Reed asked, skipping ahead to the end.
If it was already assumed they would be working the next two nights, he would prefer to get out ahead of things quickly, to not be bogged down with excessive discussion on the front end.
Arching a single eyebrow, signifying that he understood what was being asked and why, Grimes said, “Very.”
“Hmm,” Reed replied, nodding slightly, letting the information process. “The what or the who?”
This time both eyebrows rose, the movement accompanied by a sigh.
“Both,” Grimes said, “though the back end was what got me a personal phone call this evening, which in turn earned you the same.”
Having suspected as much since receiving it, Reed only nodded.
“Downtown?” he asked.
“Per usual,” Grimes replied, his direct response and his refusal to sugarcoat two things that Reed had grown to expect from his captain.
Those being at the top of the list for why Reed accepted his invitation to consider switching precincts and becoming a K-9 officer eighteen months before.
“Afraid of the headlines?” Reed asked.
“Aren’t they always?” Grimes answered, the two having already encountered that very thing and the lengths the department hierarchy was willing to go to protect it a year prior.
Not bothering to voice his agreement, Reed asked, “They put a timeframe on us yet?”
“Yesterday,” Grimes replied.
Chapter Four
Cliché would have the meeting taking place somewhere underground. A clandestine spot away from any daylight, the room sparsely illuminated, replete with dark wood and leather. Smoke rings would hang heavy, dripping from the end of fat cigars imported from Cuba, or Honduras, or some other Caribbean locale.
Only Vinson Gerard was not one for clichés.
Or anything that might be construed as habitual, painting a target on him or his operation.
The interior of the room was bright and open, floor-to-ceiling windows along one side folded open wide, letting the cool evening breeze flow in. Arriving in slow gusts, it pushed the thin curtains covering them out to a forty-five-degree angle, the light fabric nothing more than gossamer, providing an open, almost ethereal quality to the room.
Underfoot, the ground was done entirely in white tile, the surface reflecting the bright lights that hung from sconces along the walls.
Overhead, a chandelier swung from the middle of a vaulted ceiling, a hundred crystal pieces hanging down in even rows, casting the glow in a full circle about the room.
A far cry from what one would expect as the headquarters of someone that did what he did for a living, which was exactly the point.
Well into his seventh decade, most of the hair was gone from atop Gerard’s head, leaving behind a pate that was dappled with sun spots. What remained was shorn tight, framing a face with skin pulled unnaturally tight, his skin taking on a hue that trended somewhere close to tangerine in color.
Seated behind a clear glass top desk, he rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, tapping the pads of his thumbs together, waiting in silence.
Three minutes prior, he had watched as the man he was expecting pulled into the front drive, the closed-circuit cameras outside capturing everything from the moment he arrived. Pushing aside what he had been doing – careful to never let his employees see him at work – Gerard sat and stared, waiting for the knock he knew would soon arrive.
For as much as his insides seemed to be dancing with anticipation, every part of him wanting to know how the evening had played out, the work nothing more than an attempted distraction, Gerard was careful to keep his features serene.
His empire was one built on maintaining control at all times, on exerting pressure and watching as others squirmed to escape it.
On always maintaining the leverage in any particular situation.
Six minutes after the first flash of headlights crossed his screen, a knock sounded at the door. Short and terse, it was nothing more than two sharp tones before falling silent for a beat, a third following shortly thereafter.
Given their current location, the need for such a cadence was not fully necessary, though Gerard had seen little point in abandoning something that had worked so well for them in the past.
Soon enough they would be on their way back home, and it was better to keep protocol sharp than to become lax.
Not everywhere was as oblivious as central Ohio seemed to be.
“Enter,” Gerard said, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard.
A moment later, the doors slid open without a sound, a man dressed in black cargo pants and a matching spandex shirt stepping through. With pale skin and a head that was completely void of hair, his appearance would have been jarring, if not for the prior decade Gerard had spent in his presence.
“Sir,” the man said, nodding once before sliding the door shut and walking across the space, his footfalls silent against the tile.
Pulling up just short of the desk, he spread his feet wide and clasped his hands behind his back, the pose managing to both accentuate his rounded trapezius and triceps muscles, as well as hint to his background in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.
“Please, sit,” Gerard said, jutting his chin toward the polished steel and white leather chair across from him.
Pausing for just an instant as the man did as instructed, Gerard asked, “Is it done?”
Of all the tasks Gerard had undertaken, none as important as the one that had occurred minutes prior. More than two years in the making, it was at once a culmination and a beginning, a linchpin moment for a thought that had not left Gerard’s mind in all that time.
Every last aspect of the operation had been planned down to the micro-detail, Gerard knowing it as well as the men that were tasked with completing it, trusting no one but Clarence Koob to carry it out.
If possible, he himself might have even abandoned his long-held maxim of never getting involved personally, only his age and his pride inhibiting him from doing so.
Though that still didn’t mean he couldn’t take a great deal of pleasure in seeing it completed.
“It is,” Koob said, dipping the top of his head slightly.
“Were there any problems?” Gerard asked.
“None,” Koob replied, just the faintest hint of his native Cockney accent detectable. “The planning was superb, the execution flawless.”
Handfuls of questions flooded into Gerard’s mind, each one either pushed aside by the next, more pressing one in order, or made obsolete by the prior statement from Koob.
The man was a professional, in every sense of the word. If there was anything that had gone awry, he would have mentioned it.
Or more likely, would be out dealing with it.
There was no need to insult him by peppering him with questions.
“Onsite now?” Gerard asked.
“Hirsch and Neville are each posted nearby,” Koob replied. “Both are tucked aside in the spaces we secured, had a full and clear view of the building as I left.”
Grunting softly, Gerard nodded his approval. Given his druthers, he would have preferred Koob be the one keeping watch, though he knew how and why that wasn’t possible.
In his stead, the next best options were the only two other men they had brought along, each hand selected for their particular skill sets.
It was Gerard’s sincere hope that they both had the chance to use them before things were finished.
“Police?” Gerard asked.
“Arrived on scene just after my departure,” Koob said. “Hirsch checked in, said the place looked like a laser light show, blue-and-reds flas
hing everywhere.”
Shifting his gaze away for a moment, Gerard let his eyes glaze over, imagining the scene, the thought almost pulling a smile to his face.
Almost.
“We chose well,” Gerard said, leaving it at that.
“We did,” Koob agreed.
His voice faint, it barely registered with Gerard as he kept his focus averted, watching the thin curtains dance with the breeze.
“The question is,” he replied, his voice detached, just as low and monotone as Koob’s, “do we think it worked?”
Chapter Five
Gone was any vestige of the time spent on the North Shore, the deep tan splashed across Sydney Rye’s face and the film of saltwater still painting her skin the sole indicators that the trip had even been made.
The carefree nature, the easy smile, even the loose fall of her hair, were all now but a distant memory, replaced by the woman that had first booked the ticket, the one in such dire need of stepping away.
Dressed in dark skintight pants and a baggy leather jacket, her hair was pulled back away from her face, held in place by a healthy dollop of what other women so lovingly refused to as product.
Women that hadn’t seen what she had, had nothing better to do than think on such trivial matters, assigning arbitrary names to such things.
Women like she had used to be, that were able to sleep better at night because people like her existed.
With most of her face hidden behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, Rye strode through the terminal of Columbus International Airport. Her attire alone should have been enough to keep any curious onlookers at bay, any doubt obliterated by the sneer on her face, the intent clear and unmistakable.
From the moment she had dragged herself out of the water on the North Shore and cleared the sand from her suit, she had been on a mission.
The message she had received was painfully thin on details, but that was hardly the point. Word for word, it was exactly as she had coached all that she had come in contact with over the years to send.
It was the who that had her far more concerned than the what, especially given that more than a dozen attempts at making contact since had gone unanswered.
Justice Page 2
