“In your fucking dreams you shot a two sixty-two,” someone said.
Mac’s finger made the sign of the cross on his barrel chest. “It was pretty funny. They had this bull dyke on their squad-”
Dray was on her feet. “Why’d you use that word?”
Mac stopped, glanced at Gutierez and Fowler for support. “I don’t know. Because she was, I guess.”
“Why? Short haircut, good build? Working hard on the job?” Her arms were crossed, and Tim knew from her expression that she was all about the fight right now and not the content, and so they’d be at it for hours. “I field that shit all day, and you can bet your ass she does, too.”
Bear signaled Tim with a jerk of his head, and Tim followed him out through the side gate. Bear pointed to his truck, and they both climbed in and sat for a moment. They could still make out Dray’s voice, the fricatives and raised syllables.
“On the warpath, ain’t she?” Bear said.
“It’s a thickheaded way for her to beat up on herself.”
Bear fingered one of the schisms in the heat-cracked dash, then wiped his moist palms on his slacks. He was giving off discomfort like a scent, fiddling with the hockey puck of a watch strapped to his wrist. Tim waited, knowing Bear didn’t like to be pushed when it came to words.
“Look, Tim. This is a tough thing to ask you. It’s about the killings. This vigilante stuff.”
Tim felt an icy band of sweat spring up on his forehead, just at the hairline.
“I know you quit and all, but…we’d like your help apprehending the guy.”
Tim made sure he breathed a few times before he answered. “Why’s the service involved?”
“There’s some talk the guy could be a fugitive-his fuck-all attitude, probably. Like he’s got nothing to lose. Mayor Hahn’s going ballistic on this one. He tapped Robbery-Homicide, Chief Bratton is leaning on us to pull together a fugitive list from their profile, we already have FBI up our asses-Tannino says fuck ’em all, if we’re doing the work anyway, we might as well try to get the collar ourselves, carve us a bigger piece of the pie at budget time.”
“Makes sense.”
Bear’s hand rustled in his jacket. “Just give this a listen for me, would you?”
“I’m not really-”
The microcassette recorder peeked out from Bear’s fist like a trapped canary. He flipped it and punched the side button with a thumb. Tim heard his own barely disguised voice issue forth. “I have a medical emergency at 14132 Lanyard Street. In the basement. Repeat: in the basement. Please send an ambulance immediately.”
Bear clicked it off. He stared at Tim expectantly. Tim got busy studying the front lawn through the window.
“Personally, I don’t buy the fugitive angle.” Bear’s tone was driving, knowing. “I’m thinking the guy’s former military or PD. He’s got the radio formality, repeating key information.”
Tim recalled being impressed with himself at the time of the call for refraining from spelling out the street name using a phonetic alphabet. Somewhere beneath his guilt and fast-hardening shame shone his admiration for the meticulousness it took to be a competent criminal. A single lapse in a high-heat moment-the location repeat-had narrowed the ground Tim was standing on considerably. A helpful tip from a friend and partner, granted from a position of plausible deniability.
“This jackass”-Bear shook the recorder-“is usurping the law, stealing it from the same people who are gonna track him down. That’s liable to piss people off-understandably so, if you ask me. If I was this guy, I’d be pretty concerned. I’d make sure I knew exactly what I was into.”
Tim waved his hand, palmed some sweat off his forehead, then looked at his watch. “Shit. I’m late for a…meeting.” In his split-second hesitation yawned another void he’d later fill with worries. Bear’s eyes seemed cold-another of Tim’s concerns, trickling in, seeking the emptiness.
“What meeting? You don’t have a job.”
“Exactly. It’s an interview. Private security gig.” Tim pushed open the door and stepped out onto the curb.
“That’s good.” Bear’s face held a not-so-subtle warning. “A lot of people need looking after these days.”
27
“WE’RE JUST FINISHING up the media recap, Mr. Rackley,” Rayner said when Tim entered the conference room. Rayner stood at the head of the table, a thick manila folder laid open before him on the granite surface, press clippings protruding messily.
“If you ever pull a move like you pulled this morning on TV without our collective and express approval, I’ll-”
“You’re not in charge here,” Rayner said. “Why should I have to listen to you?”
“Mutual assured destruction. That’s why.” Tim stared at Rayner until Rayner looked away, then slid into his chair. “Your comments were unsubtle and reckless. Don’t do that again, or anything like it. If something shows up in the press, I’ll know if it smells like you. Before we act, we agree on matters here. That’s an inviolable rule.”
The others were present, but without Dumone there seemed an imbalance. Some element of gravitas had been lost. Before, they’d been a commission; now they were just six pissed-off people in a room.
They all kept their picture frames turned in like mirrors; the Stork alone positioned his facing away from him. To Tim’s right, Dumone’s wife peered out from her still-present frame, gazing at the empty black chair before her. Not for the first time, Tim thought about what cheap props the photos were. Facile, like a gimmick for one of Rayner’s chat shows.
Ananberg observed Tim silently from the seat beside him. She looked spent, strung out on an adrenaline hangover. They were all beaten up-Robert in particular. He still hadn’t raised his head. It had been a hellacious twenty-four hours, between the Debuffier execution and Dumone’s stroke. Only the Stork and Rayner, shielded by their inherent yet opposite superficialities, remained imperviously alert.
Rayner took a sip of water. “I’d like to finish the media recap now.” A shuffling of papers. “On CNBC last night-”
“The instant we became aware that Debuffier had a live victim in hand, the sole objective should have been rescuing her and saving her life.” Tim spoke with Dumone’s resolve and authority, and, as when Dumone spoke, the others were silent. “The only valid reason to kill Debuffier would have been as a necessary tactic to extract the victim, which it was not. I had injured him nonfatally-”
Robert spoke slowly and vehemently. “I shot Debuffier because it was the quickest way to get to the victim.” He finally pulled his head up, revealing his face.
“No. You shot him because you wanted to play hero.”
“We voted he should be executed,” Mitchell said. “He was executed.”
“There was no longer a need to execute him. He was committing a crime that could have put him away. We could have secured him and turned matters over to the proper authorities.”
“Then we would have had to stay with him and gotten caught,” Robert said.
“We do not kill people to avoid getting caught,” Tim said. “If covering your own ass is your primary objective, you don’t belong here.”
“Come on,” Mitchell said. “The guy had a torture victim captive in his basement, for Christ’s sake. What are the odds that we’ll stumble into a situation like that again?”
“These are not predictable situations. We never know what we’re going to stumble into.”
“Then you should be grateful I thought to come prepared, since you sure as hell weren’t. You were busy riding my ass for bringing my det bag. Without it we wouldn’t have gotten through that door.”
A laugh escaped Tim. “You hold that to be a well-planned, well-executed mission? You think you can take control operationally? With that?” He turned to Rayner-who wore a worried, atypically passive expression-and Ananberg, looking for support.