CRISIS UPDATE began to flash repeatedly on the screen, and the camera moved in on Beckert. When the blinking phrase disappeared, he began to speak. His voice was clear, dry, unaccented. There was also something familiar about it that Gurney couldn’t quite place.
“One hour ago the White River Police Department Special Weapons and Tactics Unit carried out a successful assault on the headquarters of the Black Defense Alliance. Pursuant to appropriate warrants, the premises have been secured and are currently being searched. Files, computers, phones, and other potential evidentiary materials are being gathered for forensic examination. Fourteen individuals have been arrested at the location on charges including felony assault, harassment, obstruction, drug possession, and weapons violations. This process is being conducted pursuant to our receipt of credible information regarding the shooting death of patrol officer John Steele. Be assured that our full investigatory resources are being applied to the apprehension of those responsible for the heinous murder of one of White River’s finest officers, a man who earned my deepest respect and admiration.” He lowered his head for a respectful moment before going on.
“I have an important request. Two high-ranking members of the BDA organization, Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker, were observed leaving the Willard Park demonstration just half an hour prior to the shooting of Officer Steele. We are eager to ascertain their whereabouts at the time of the shooting. We also have reason to believe that these same individuals slipped away from BDA headquarters prior to this morning’s raid. It’s vital that we find these two men. If you know where they are, or have information that could lead us to them, please call us anytime, day or night.”
An 800 number began flashing on the screen next to the words POLICE HOTLINE as Beckert continued, “This savage attack on civilized society will be met with all necessary force. We will not allow jungle law to triumph. We will do whatever it takes to end this anarchy. I promise you—order will prevail.”
Concluding with a gaze of fierce determination, Beckert turned toward Shucker.
“Mayor, you have a few words for us?”
Shucker blinked, looked down at a sheet of paper in his hands, then back up at the camera. “First, Mrs. Steele, my condolences for this tragedy.” He looked down again at the paper. “Those who set out to terrify our community with wanton violence and attack the heroes who protect us are the worst kind of criminals. Their reprehensible acts must be halted to restore peace to our wonderful city. Our prayers go out to the Steele family and to White River’s brave protectors.” He folded his sheet of paper and looked up. “God bless America!”
Beckert turned toward Kline. “Sheridan?”
The district attorney spoke with iron resolve. “Nothing challenges the rule of law like an attack on the men and women sworn to uphold it. My office is applying the full weight of its resources to a thorough investigation, the discovery of the truth, and the achievement of justice for the Steele family and for our whole community.”
The video cut to the female news anchor. “Thank you, gentlemen. Now we go to our follow-up questions from the RAM Issue Analysis Team.” The video cut back to the three men at the table as questions were posed by off-camera voices.
First Male Voice: “Chief Beckert, are you suggesting that Jordan and Tooker are the prime suspects in the sniper shooting?”
Beckert replied expressionlessly: “They’re definitely persons of interest in our investigation.”
Second Male Voice: “Do you consider them fugitives?”
Beckert, in the same flat tone: “We have a high degree of interest in finding them, they have not come forward, and their whereabouts are currently unknown.”
First Female Voice: “Do you have evidence of their involvement in the shooting?”
Beckert: “As I said, we have a high degree of interest in finding them. We are focusing significant resources on that objective.”
Same Female Voice: “Do you think Jordan and Tooker were tipped off prior to the raid?”
Beckert: “A reasonable person might reach that conclusion.”
First Male Voice: “What’s your plan for addressing the ongoing chaos? Fires are still breaking out in the Grinton area.”
Beckert: “Our plan is full-force pushback. We will not tolerate disorder or anyone who threatens disorder. For anyone tempted to use political protest as a cover for looting, burning, hear this: I have instructed my officers to use lethal force wherever necessary to protect the lives of our law-abiding citizens.”
Another male voice asked Chief Beckert if his SWAT team had encountered armed resistance by BDA members. He replied that weapons were present during the operation and more facts would be released after the filing of formal charges.
The same voice asked if injuries had been sustained on either side of the confrontation. As Beckert was giving another “more information later” nonanswer, Gurney noted the time on his computer screen. It was nine fifteen, meaning he needed to leave for his nine thirty meeting with Hardwick. Although he was curious about what might be revealed during the remainder of the press conference, he knew RAM programming was routinely archived for later viewing. He closed his laptop, grabbed his phone, and headed for the Outback.
9
Formerly a creaky old country store with a distinctly musty smell, Abelard’s had been taken over by a transplant from the Brooklyn art scene by the name of Marika. An abstract expressionist, she was an intense thirtysomething woman with a dramatic figure she wasn’t shy about showing off, numerous piercings and tattoos, and a startling array of hair colors.
When she wasn’t painting or sculpting, she’d been gentrifying the place. She’d removed the live-bait cooler and the displays of turkey jerky. She’d sanded and refinished the wide-board floors. She’d installed a new cooler full of things organic and free-range; a bin for locally baked breads; a high-end espresso machine; and four funky cafe tables with hand-painted chairs. The hammered-tin ceiling, pendant-globe light fixtures, and rough-hewn shelving had been left intact.
Gurney parked next to Hardwick’s classic muscle car—a red 1970 GTO. As soon as he entered the store he spotted Hardwick sitting in the back at one of the little round tables. He was wearing the black tee shirt and black jeans that had become his de facto uniform ever since he’d been forced out of the state police for offending his superiors too many times. This combative man with the pale-blue eyes of an Alaskan sled dog, a razor-keen mind, a sour wit, and a fondness for obscenity was definitely an acquired taste—one you could almost get to like if you didn’t choke on it first.
His muscular arms were resting on the table, which seemed too flimsy to support them. He was talking to Marika, who was laughing. Her hair that day was a spiky patchwork of iridescent pink and metallic blue.
“Coffee?” she asked when Gurney arrived at the table. Her striking contralto voice always got his attention.
“Sure. Double espresso.”
With an approving nod she headed for the machine. He took the chair opposite Hardwick, who was watching her departure.
When she disappeared behind the far counter, he turned to Gurney. “Sweet girl, not as batshit as she looks. Or half as batshit as you are if you’re planning to get involved in that White River insanity.”
“Bad idea?”
Hardwick uttered a grunt of a laugh, picked up his mug of coffee, took a long sip, and laid it down with the care one might give an explosive. “Too many virtuous people involved. All with high opinions of their own visions of justice. Nothing in this world worse than a pack of crazy fuckers who know—absolutely know—they’re right.”