Court’s bullshit meter was tilting into the red. “So, I get the connection being a minor conflict of interest here. There’s more to this than you sort of knowing him, isn’t there?”
She looked away for a second. “I did everything else tonight, so you could at least pick up some of the work.”
Court held up his hands. “Okay. Okay. I’ll get to it first thing in the morning. I came back to see where’d you gotten. We should both go home and get a good night’s rest.”
“Yeah, I’m too tired to think.”
Court followed her into the elevator, but she ignored him. He probably deserved it. It was late enough the buses had stopped running, so he snagged a taxi home.
Once inside, he took off his jacket, hung it on the hook by the door and removed his shoes. Amanda had instituted the no-shoe rule early in their relationship. He changed into his plaid Haflingers. The ritual had morphed into something he did every day when he got home, like Mister Rogers donning his sweater at the beginning of every show.
In the silence of his home, he could no longer avoid thinking about the way Audrey Drummond had talked about her husband’s planned suicide. She’d been so steady and unruffled. Classically black-widow-y. There had to be more to her story.
Had expecting her husband’s death made his death easier for her? He had expected Bailey’s death while hoping for a miracle. But it hadn’t made the reality any easier on him. The way Drummond had described her husband practicing with his gun was distant, clinical. The fact she hadn’t tried to stop her husband when he was practicing with the gun bothered him. Too many years as a cop thinking and training about stopping guns from being fired, maybe? What if it had been real and not practice? What if he had blown his head off in front of her, after she’d had plenty of time to stop him? So many “what ifs.” And he wasn’t Audrey Drummond. And Berkeley wasn’t Amanda.
He shuffled into his bedroom and opened the closet. Shoving aside the hangers holding his trousers, he unlocked the safe, feeling around for the velvet bundle. He sat on the bed with it on his lap, stroking the rich fabric before unfolding it to reveal his first gun. The same gun that Amanda had used to kill herself.
For years, the gun was a natural extension of his hand. The heft of it, the size, everything about it was perfect. He’d babied it. Cleaned it, oiled it, cared for it like any other part of his body. It was unloaded, but habit had him opening it to spin its empty chambers before closing it. The affirmative click sent a familiar surge of warm excitement and expectation through him even though it was empty. He raised it to his nose and smelled. Simple gun oil. Nothing more.
Had she done the same thing as Drummond? Had she spent any time considering where and how to shoot? Had she planned it ahead of time and waited for the moment when Court stepped into the shower leaving his gun on the dresser like he always did? She had left a note, almost illegible in her drug-addled script. Or, had she scribbled the note and shot herself without thinking it all the way through? He’d never know. Enough premeditation to leave the note. To make it clear she’d meant to kill herself. The why had destroyed him.
He’d been placed on leave during the investigation, taking an extra two months off after he’d been cleared and her death ruled a suicide. It was bad enough after Bailey died. Co-workers didn’t meet him in the eye for weeks, mumbled incoherent sympathies and empathies, grasped his arm gently without words. None had seen the loss of a child. His was a singular experience, and then Amanda shot herself. Her note was taken into evidence, along with the gun and many of their belongings in their bedroom. Her journal. How many people had read her private thoughts? And cops gossiped. As far as he could tell, the gossip hadn’t all made its way up to Seattle.
Once the investigation was over and he’d gotten the gun back, he’d been unable to use it again. Couldn’t stand the thought of carrying it around. The thought of shooting someone else with it was sacrilegious. He also couldn’t sell it or get rid of it. It had been an intimate part of his life, and the last thing Amanda had touched.
He ran his finger along the short muzzle and imagined her lips wrapping around it, swallowing it up. She had made the mistake many people make, and aimed too much upward and sheared off the front of her face. He fell back onto the bed, cradling the gun against his chest as he fell asleep.
23
Court spent an hour sweating at his local gym before heading into the station. During his cardio workout, he read the latest on the train wreck in the mountains. The news of twenty-three dead and fifty-seven injured eclipsed the news of Berkeley Drummond. The paper ran the promised obituary, quoting a vague “close to the family” source as stating the death was likely related to the brain tumor he’d kept a secret from the public. The article stated that SPD had yet to make any comment. Links to articles on Colchuck Down, Drummond’s history with Montpelier, and cancer took up the sidebar of the page.
He was inside the squad room before the October drizzle began. It was disappointing to see gray clouds gather and hang over the city only to get a slow steady drip. Thunderous lightning storms were few and far between in Seattle. In the three years he’d lived here, there’d only been one thunderstorm. It would be nice to have some flash and crash every once in a while. Endless rain without the rest was … boring.
Court cleaned out the sludgy coffee remains clinging to the bottom and made a fresh pot. The Sunday morning squad-room atmosphere was peaceful. He was alone, with nothing new on the docket. He and Ivy were still the on-call detectives through the weekend, and he’d been thrilled to not have to divide his time between cases. This one was enough.
While he waited for the coffee to drip, Court checked his phone and noticed the text Madeline had sent last night. It was odd it didn’t show up as new. Had he been so tired he’d forgotten it? She’d wished him a good night and sweet dreams, ending by telling him she was going to think of him as she went to sleep. It was a nice start to whatever this thing with her was going to be. And he hoped whatever it was going to be involved sex. Steamy, hot sex with a gorgeous woman like Madeline would make his life a lot more pleasant. Her texts were gently erotic without being gratuitous. He could hardly wait for the afternoon to arrive.
Court turned to work, hoping to plow through what they had as fast as possible. He would wait until nine to give the Schorr guy a call. Give him a chance to be coffee’d up. He transcribed what they’d learned the day before into something legible for the Monday briefing. He spent some time searching for a few good pictures on the internet to put up next to each current suspect list. He put their code names next to their legal names, reconsidered and deleted the flower references. Didn’t seem necessary to out them all so blatantly. Bad enough that everyone working the case would end up knowing these men were all Hunter’s clients. The guys with the burner phones were getting off easy in more ways than one.
He studied the photo of Jim Schorr on his company’s home page. Short-cropped brown hair, dark skin, simple suit and tie. The internet offered up plenty of articles to read. Self-made millionaire yada-yada-yada. The image search came up with a ton of Facebook photos. One of Schorr at a Mariners game had Court stopping short. Next to Schorr were two kids. He grabbed the photo of her son’s bar mitzvah off Ivy’s desk and compared the kids side-by-side. Ivy’s son was sitting next to Schorr’s. No biggie. She’d said they were friends. Court sucked in air as he recognized the dark curly hair draped over Schorr’s shoulder. Ivy had admitted to a conflict of interest. She’d been less clear on the details.
He put the picture back on her desk. It was time to call Schorr. His cell phone went to voicemail, so Court tried the home number. Voicemail again. Didn’t anyone answer their phones anymore? He didn’t leave a message. No telling who might be picking up those messages. There wasn’t a reason for the whole family to be in on it. He tried the cell number again. This time, he left a message demanding a response.
24
Half an hour later, Ivy showed up in jeans and a button-down shirt. So
mething less casual than her usual, while still being appropriate for interacting with potential witnesses if necessary. Her hair was free of its usual confines. He’d gotten so used to the tight bun that kept her hair under control, he’d forgotten she even had long hair. The curls she sported in her wedding picture had been shortened a few inches, but still managed to not go to the curly-haired-lampshade effect. She appeared ten years younger than usual.
She held a travel mug letting people know she was the Best mom in the world. The accompanying drawing was of a stick figure family holding hands standing on top of a blue and green earth rendered in crayon. It was the kind of drawing only a parent could truly appreciate.
Court lifted his own department-issued mug, half full of lukewarm coffee, in greeting. “You seem relaxed.”
Ivy scowled at him and shrugged, not saying anything.
Court put down his mug. She’d been so chill last night. Eaten the cake he’d brought her like they were friends. It was like she was an ice cube left out for a while to melt a little bit, then stuck back in the freezer overnight for a new hard-chill the next morning. It was strange how she would be interactive and all talky when it came to specifics on the case, but a cold fish otherwise. There was something in her body language and the way she spoke to him, or, rather, didn’t speak to him. Even though she had been in Vice until last week, it felt like she had always studiously avoided him. He hadn’t gone out of his way to get to know her either. Now they were partners, he had to make an effort. This less-than-enthusiastic greeting tipped the balance over.
Ivy rolled her chair from her cubby to his so she could share the monitor he was working on. She plopped into it and took a long drink of her coffee.
Court inhaled a steady breath. “Ivy, we’ve only been partners for a week, but I’m wondering if I’m the only one feeling like we’re not gelling.”
She gaped at him like he was an alien who was talking in a language she didn’t understand. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” She turned pointedly to the monitor again.
“So, this”—he wiggled his fingers between the two of them—“this kind of interaction, it’s normal for you?” The word on her was that she was relaxed and cool, even though she had a prudish streak.
“Pearson, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Can we get to it, please?”
“No. I hardly know you at all, but I get the feeling you’d rather be working with anyone else.”
She crossed her arms and pushed her chair back from him a few feet. “Pearson, I don’t care who my partner is as long as we get the job done. We can’t jump into being best buddies. Besides, I am pretty sure we have absolutely nothing in common, other than our jobs of course.”
“How would you know? The only conversations you engage in with me are all work related. You shut me down any time I try.”
“And I’d like to keep it that way.” She met his eyes, speaking without flinching.
Ouch. “I’m not asking to be best friends, but you come across as pretty cold.”
Ivy held up her hands as if she was giving in. “I know you do your job well. I know I will learn a lot from you, but, I don’t need you as a friend. Besides, you’re the one with the walls, Pearson.”
“What? What walls?”
“You stormed out of here after your little tête-a-tête with Stensland. Didn’t explain anything to me—your partner. You can’t tell me there’s nothing going on there. I’m supposed to trust you. You never do anything with people after work. You say no to drinks. You don’t show up to parties. You ice us out. It’s not the other way around.”
Hadn’t she let go of the Stensland thing last night? A lot of what she said was true, but it hurt to hear it spoken out loud. He had intentionally cultivated a friendly-outsider persona for himself within the department. He took great pains to be open, to be willing to do extra work even in the face of obvious belligerence from some of the older guys. Even in San Francisco, he’d held himself apart from groups, especially after he was alone. When he had Amanda and Bailey, they’d gone as a family to gatherings. Amanda had leaned on the other spouses for support. Being a cop’s wife comes with unique and special challenges. She had lived for a long time in constant fear he would be shot while at work. The irony was a bitter pill.
He had never been comfortable in the LGBTQ groups in either city. He presented as a man who liked women, and he was often given heat for “passing too easy” by other transgendered officers. The fact that he’d had early hormonal support through puberty and had transitioned before college meant he hadn’t suffered much through career loss or change due to his transition. He knew plenty of people who’d actually been demoted or forced out of their jobs.
Everyone in the department knew about his kid dying, his wife shooting her face off, and the fact that he’d been born a girl. As much as he would have liked to have left that info all behind him in San Francisco, there was no keeping secrets in the cop world—it was its own microcosm clearly delineated by an infamous blue line.
No one ever approached him to talk about any of those things. Most people stuck to work in conversation. Or sports, the universally safe subject. Court surveyed the empty squad room, picturing people at their desks. He got along with everyone else well enough. Sure, he wasn’t best buds with anyone, but they were like a big semi-dysfunctional family, like any police department. He lingered on Flanagan’s desk, and his wrists ached from yesterday’s Krav class. He’d had the most issues with him. Nothing overt—that would be illegal, and Seattle PD was known for being one of the most gay-friendly departments in the country.
Ivy wasn’t done yet. “Dude, you need to see a shrink. After what happened yesterday at the Drummond house, I’m not sure I can trust you to be there for me if some shit hits the fan.”
She might as well have slapped him. Was she talking about the momentary phase-out when Drummond was explaining how her husband was practicing with the gun? In the twelve years since he’d made detective, he’d never zoned out during an interview before. It was a complete anomaly. Partners had to have trust in each other. Her telling him she doubted he would have her back made him sick to his stomach.
This whole discussion was not going the way he had planned it in his head. She was supposed to say she’d try harder to be more open with him, and he’d do the same, and they’d be able to work side by side as they got to know each other. This judgmental shit about him needing to see a shrink was crap. He was fine.
He didn’t want to talk about himself any more. “Why do you think Stensland shoved us together?”
She sighed like a disappointed parent, her finger tracing the blue outline of the little earth on her mug before answering. “I don’t know. Maybe it has to do with the fact your partner retired and they pulled me in because they needed a woman on the squad for gender equality.”
The way she turned away from him told him she was not telling the whole truth. “So, he stuck you with me since everyone else was paired up?”
“Have you ever compared our résumés side by side?”
“No. What has that got to do with it?”
“Everything.” She held up her hand, ticking off each point on a finger as she went. “We went to comparable schools, got similar grades and awards. We entered police academies at the same time, spent the same amount of time on beat patrol, climbed up the ladder the same way. Until it was time to make detective. You made it two years ahead of me. Then, you moved up from San Francisco and snagged the one opening in homicide. I got stuck in Vice another three years because of you.”
Ah. This explained a lot. Court had figured she carried some sort of grudge over his transfer into the department. He hadn’t thought about their comparable history at all before. Hadn’t known about it. She had taken a close look at their histories. It was sort of creepy.
“Don’t you see? The only real difference between our careers is that I am a woman, and you are a ... man.” She laid into the last three words with such force it might as well
have been a physical punch.
She was pissed he was ahead of her because he had “switched sides.” He’d known staunch feminists who thought his very existence was a betrayal to everything feminine before. Christ, he had no idea she was one of them.
He raised his hands to his face and rubbed at his eyes, the bristle of his facial hair already poking through his morning shave. This conversation was so loaded with land mines that he didn’t want to move forward in case he stepped into something more explosive. He had to work with her, for a while at least. The only thing he’d ever found to work was to be who he was and let people get to know him. When they came at him from this far-out “you’ve betrayed your gender” attitude, it was hard. Some women didn’t like any male no matter what their history. Ivy was married, though, so he had hope.
He went for the only clear way in he could find. He switched the focus of their discussion for a second time. “Did it ever occur to you I had different skills that were needed here? Even though we have a similar time line, we don’t have identical skills.”
She tilted her head in closer toward him, getting in his face. “That’s not the point, Pearson.”
He held his ground. “Yes. It is. Do you remember why I came up here to begin with?”
“The Sino-Trans Case.” Her eyes narrowed into slits.
Court shuddered even though he had brought it up. Hearing the name spoken aloud brought back the clear image of the thirty-seven decomposing bodies locked inside a shipping container. Some things cannot be unseen. The case was connected to a bigger operation of a Triad-based human trafficking ring. The notorious Chinese Mafia had been smuggling workers into Seattle via shipping containers. They’d bungled a shipment, leaving only three survivors. Court liked to think his ability to get those three to trust him had made the case go smoothly, but the Triad had closed up the avenue and disappeared from Seattle’s spotlight. “And, do you remember why I was called up for it?”
Bound to Die Page 13