“Parrot,” said Jim. “You can do a good imitation of Brian here. You can do a good imitation of a man who knows what he’s talking about. But deep down, you’re dumb as a stump and you ought to be chained to your desk writing press releases.”
It was almost eight o’clock by the time they left the crime lab. On the damp steps of the building, Dennison stopped and took Jim’s arm, aiming him away from Raymond and the suddenly subdued Mike Paris.
“I’ve got a proposition for you, Jim. I want to put you where you belong, back on this case. You can come on as sergeant of detectives — that’ll be a level-five pay grade. Violent Crimes will be your section, and you can focus on Ann. Interested?”
“No.”
“Care to explain why?”
“I quit that life five years ago,” said Weir. “Because chasing after people to put them in jail just doesn’t do it for me. And you know something else, Brian? Some of your men are real assholes.”
Dennison regarded him with suspicion as Jim told him about his shearing at Davis Marine Industries the night before, and his encounter at sea with some of Dennison’s finest. As Jim looked at him, he saw that the chief had lost weight the last few days, that his coat seemed large and his pants were slipping down. The outdoor floodlight threw a waxy shine onto Brian’s face.
Dennison listened carefully, then, to Jim’s surprise, actually apologized. He pulled a roll of antacid tablets from his pocket, chewed down a small handful. “Jim, Jesus... I’m going to kick some ass tomorrow. I swear to God.”
“You might mention to them that at this rate, someone’s going to get killed.”
It was clear to Jim that Brian Dennison finally believed that he was in over his head. His campaign was plodding, his suspect was still at large, and he couldn’t keep track of his own men. Something between worry and panic showed in his eyes.
“That’s why I need you,” said Dennison. “You quit the Sheriffs on your way up. You were good. I’ve checked around — everybody thought you were good. I’m giving you a chance to do what you’re best at.”
“I’ve got a new trade and I’m going to ply it.”
“Hunting treasure?” Dennison asked. There was a whisper of near-woe in his voice. “Or working for Becky Flynn?”
“She asked me to do some work.”
“And you took it?”
“She’s moving in some interesting directions.”
“Care to share these with the police?”
“Not right now. She’s got a press conference tomorrow. The papers should be full of it.”
The few cars in the lot were misted with condensation, windshields opaque as dirty mirrors in the lamplight. Weir could smell the moisture rising from the asphalt.
“I could really use you, Jim.”
Weir looked again into Dennison’s uneasy eyes. “What you want is me off the case, Brian. You see it one way and I see it another. If I go to work for you, I’m paid to see it your way. No. But thanks.”
“I hope you changing sides won’t loosen your tongue about the arrangement we had.”
“It won’t. But you saw that Becky knows, same as your men and half the people at city hall. If the papers finally start to make noises about Ruff and a cop car, don’t come to me.”
“No.”
“You’re too eager for Goins — even you know that. Maybe your Internal Affairs people have kicked up something that doesn’t smell right. Something about Kearns’s twenty minutes away from his car that night.”
Dennison paused. “Internal Affairs is moving carefully, as they should. But I’m not sold on Goins. There are some things that don’t fit.”
“I noticed.”
“I took a beating in there just now.”
“Don’t tell George Percy that.”
“Robbins will. Just don’t forget, Weir, that two hairs in this universe don’t make Horton Goins an innocent man. That guy’s a dangerous son of a bitch and you know it. You can check my file for the pictures of what he did in Ohio, if you ever need to put Horton Goins in a clear perspective. He left one of her tits hanging by a piece of skin. He raped her the nice old-fashioned way, then he tried to do it again with his fist. Made the same kind of bruises we found on Ann, incidentally. Nice kid. Reliable. Innocent. A heartwarming individual.”
“We’ll see, Brian. My guess is a lot of things might look different to you, after June fifth.”
Dennison’s eyebrows fluttered above his flat gray eyes. “You shouldn’t make too much of that. Yeah, I’m using this case for the publicity. And Becky’s found a way to do the same. She and your mother will be all over this chemical spill in the bay, like if you don’t vote for the Flynn, Slow Growth ticket, you may as well have dumped that stuff yourself. It’s just the politics of politics, Jim. A year from now, we’ll all be doing whatever we’re doing and no one will even remember.”
“I don’t care about the politics,” said Jim.
“Maybe you should.”
Weir stopped, took Dennison by the arm, and turned him. “You know what I think? I think politics is just a circus full of assholes — everyone for himself. I think whatever happens to Newport is whatever Newport deserves. You and your developer friends can have it, if that’s how the people vote. Dice up every last inch and sell it off. Mom and Becky can preserve the whole thing in formaldehyde, legislate flattops and bouffants if that’s how it comes out. But Ann wasn’t politics, unless you’ve learned something I haven’t. Someone killed her and all you people do is try to fit it into your programs. I’m sick of the bullshit, Brian — the way you’ve used Goins to look good, the way you’re playing up half the evidence and playing down the other half, the way you and Becky snarl at each other like a couple of dogs over a stinking bone. Anybody care about the fucking truth here? What I care about is getting that guy, sticking his ass where the sun don’t shine.”
“So join up with me. Ann would be yours.”
“She already is mine.”
Dennison stopped at his car, put his hands in his pockets, and looked at Weir. He shivered once, bunching up his shoulders against the chill. “Virginia and Becky are going to point some fingers on this spill, aren’t they?”
“Christ, Brian — that’s what I mean.”
“Do me a favor, will you?”
“No. No Brian, I won’t do you a favor. I’m out of fuckin’ favors for you and everybody else.”
“If Virginia knows who did the dumping, will you tell me? Just tell me if she knows. She’s got some ideas, doesn’t she? They’re going to make an announcement, right? All I’m asking you to do is share some information.”
Jim was silent for a moment. There was just no way to get through, he thought, no way to get a train like Brian Dennison or Virginia Weir to stop and change direction. Maybe that was the way of the world.
“You know what you’re trouble is, Weir? You’re afraid to put yourself on the line, to take a side. Stand in the middle of the road, Jim, you get run over by traffic on both sides.”
“I’m off the road, Brian. It’s your road. It’s Mom’s.”
Then Dennison offered a haggard smile. “The only people who stay free are children and drunks. Life’s a shitty thing sometimes.”
Dennison climbed into his car and rolled down a dew-dripping window. He turned over the key but the starter just kept coughing and the engine wouldn’t catch. “Becky can use you just like I can, Jim.”
“I know that. And I also know you’ve got to get Ray back on the job. He’s got no business with Annie’s case right now. It’s hurting him. Get him out there on the streets where he belongs.”
Dennison’s car finally started. “One step ahead of you, Jim. Ray’s on the day shift starting tomorrow.”
He pulled the Jaguar up to Jim, gunning the engine. “I’ll share everything I’ve got on Ann with you, if you’ll share some of Virginia’s and Becky’s intelligence with me. It could work out in the best interests of us both.”