A Dangerous Breed

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  “So where was that?”

  “I probably should have a lawyer, right? If we’re talking about a crime?”

  “We’re not accusing you of anything, Van,” Rick said. “Maybe you saw something we should know.”

  The lure, sparkling in the water. Detectives love for perps to try and fool them. I was there, yeah, but it was this other guy . . .

  “What would I have seen?” I said.

  “We just need some facts and then you can go. Where were you again?”

  “ʼCause this sounds like I’m a suspect. What happened?”

  “It’s probably a mistake,” Podraski broke in. “People ID the wrong guy all the time.”

  I was supposed to ask who saw me, where they saw me, jump up and down protesting my innocence. Innocent people protest. Guilty ones get quiet.

  “We just want to help,” said Rick.

  Podraski nodded assurance. “You’re a combat vet. I know what it’s like coming home after being downrange. It ain’t easy. You have to find your place again.”

  “Gotta have a purpose,” I said.

  “So we’re on your side here. Whatever you’re into, we can put in the right word for you. If you need protection, you’ve got it. If you help us in return.”

  Protect me. From whom? From Burke?

  “I’ll call my lawyer,” I said, “and he’ll come here and then we’ll talk.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Podraski said.

  Rick held up a hand. “Your lawyer might not be on your side. Who pays for his services?”

  Now that was an odd question.

  I took out my phone. “I’m calling.”

  “Bad choice,” said Podraski. He stood and plucked the phone out of my hand. “Now we have to stick you in a cell until you get smarter. Stand up.”

  I complied and we went through the business of frisking. The cold strategic part of my brain noted that Podraski was overconfident. He had his main piece clipped over his right kidney. I could have relieved him of his weapon and shot both men before they had Chance One. But I wasn’t a lunatic. I stood quietly while the state detective emptied my pockets and handcuffed me. They left the interview room.

  My immediate future was clear: They would toss me into a holding tank, drag their feet through the booking process, and then allow me to call for a lawyer once everyone had left for New Year’s Eve and I would be guaranteed a long uncomfortable stay. My lawyer was Ephraim Ganz, who had been Dono’s attorney for a long time. Ganz was damn good at his job, but the last time I’d left him, he’d been delighted to see me go. I wasn’t positive he’d even take my call.

  I was going to be a no-show at Ceres Biotech tonight. That was a given. I could only pray Bilal Nath didn’t immediately leap to hunting down my friends in retribution.

  An hour later they returned. Ready to try a new tack. Podraski read me my rights, signifying that their questioning was about to become official. I confirmed I understood. Podraski took the chair this time, Rick at the door.

  “You were in Bitter Lake three nights ago,” Podraski said.

  “I want to call my lawyer,” I repeated.

  “We’ve got witnesses.”

  This was curious. And a little unsettling. Once I’d asked for an attorney, the cops should have shut down their fishing trip. Unless they’d decided to ignore the rules.

  I glanced at the camera on the wall.

  “Just us talking,” Rick confirmed.

  “Now maybe you were only casing the place,” Podraski said. “That’s barely trespassing. You could get off with a warning. Were you there?”

  I counted the checks on the chest pocket of the detective’s blue jacket.

  “A guy with your service record for his country, any judge will probably go easy. Just talk to us.”

  Thirty-two stitches. I counted them twice more as the silence stretched out. Silence makes most people uncomfortable. They rush to fill it. I was happy to meditate on Podraski’s fabric halfway to forever, just to see how long it took them to give up.

  “With the holiday it could be three days before you make bail. We haven’t booked you yet. There’s still a way out of here.”

  The more they are desperate for you to talk, the more lenient they’ll pretend to be. One of Dono’s lessons.

  “Somebody hired you,” Rick said. “He’s the one we want.”

  “Forget it,” Podraski said. “This guy’s an idiot. His granddaddy was a moron, too.”

  I’d have lost a bet with myself on how long it took them to bring up Dono. I’d have guessed the next round of questioning.

  “Grandpa had multiple falls,” the detective continued. “One of which sent our poor baby here to foster care. Boo hoo. Surprising they didn’t keep you in the system for good, instead of throwing you back into the lion’s den.”

  That had been the path I’d been on. A life shuffling between overtaxed foster families. But social workers could be bribed as readily as any underpaid government employee. Dono had found a way to get me home.

  Podraski pointed at my chest. “Bet your granddaddy taught you some stuff about B&E, didn’t he? In between fondling you at night, I mean. That why you went into the Army? To get away from that sick freak?”

  Get them scared, get them angry, get them talking. I pretended I was holding an ace-high straight and willing Podraski to throw in his chips.

  “Maybe you liked it,” he said. “Maybe you want to go to jail, get another taste of that.”

  A sharp knock at the door made Rick jump. He stuck his head out and the desk officer murmured in his ear. The Fed’s expression fell in surprise. He left the room without another word.

  “Just between you and me,” Podraski said, once the door was closed. “You kill a lot of guys?”

  He sat a little crooked in his chair, the result of the piece pressing into his back. If he’d been at his desk or in his car, he would have removed it for comfort.

  “Were you good at it?” he continued. “Maybe I’ve got you wrong. Maybe you’re a stone-ass motherfucker. That what you are?”

  I denied him the tough-guy stare he was so clearly expecting.

  “Okay. Silent Sam. Stay quiet and take the fall. Nobody’s gonna pay you for it.”

  The door opened and Rick came back in. Followed by a familiar face.

  Familiar, if not entirely friendly. John Guerin, SPD.

  “Shaw,” he said, nodding at me. He still had the mustache, which was a shade darker than his prematurely white hair. In his glasses and crisp dress shirt he looked less conspicuously like a cop than either of the other two men. More like a very intense bonds trader. I guessed a lot of crooks were fooled by that, until it was too late.

  “Detective,” I said.

  “Lieutenant,” he corrected.

  “Congratulations.”

  “What the fuck is this?” Podraski said.

  “I’ve had the same question, Sergeant Podraski,” said Guerin, “ever since I got your call yesterday asking for background on Mr. Shaw here. You didn’t give me much context. Then I catch wind that two of our patrolmen ran into you in Bitter Lake a few nights ago, where you were conducting what they were told was a routine interview.”

  “You’re out of line. This is a state matter.”

  “So you said over the phone. I called Captain Fisher in District Two just to make sure we were coordinating our efforts effectively. He told me he wasn’t familiar with this particular joint operation, but that he was sure you’d be in contact with our North Precinct soon, so they could understand why you were conducting investigations in SPD’s yard.”

  Podraski looked like he was about to retort before Rick the Fed cut him off.

  “This isn’t worth your time, Lieutenant.” He waved a hand. “Or the trouble it will bring.”

  “See, now that could be interpreted as a threat,” Guerin said. “I wouldn’t want to get the wrong impression. Why don’t we leave Mr. Shaw here and make sure we’re all on the same page.”

>   He held the door open. After a moment they acquiesced and left the room.

  “Don’t suppose you can get them to take these off?” I nodded to the handcuffs behind my back.

  “I’m not sure you don’t belong in them,” Guerin said, and he closed the door.

  I might see the sky again today after all. I didn’t know what kind of jurisdictional dance Guerin was doing, but it was clear enough that Podraski and Rick had overreached somehow.

  But right this minute, I had nothing but time. I thought back to the schematic I’d seen of the Markham security system, how the alarms on the cryobank worked, and the controlled burn safeguards for the bank’s contents. I rehearsed each step in my mind and considered contingencies. A lot was riding on Hollis and Willard. And Elana. I’d found a role for her to play after all.

  Two hours, I decided. That was how much time I would need before going anywhere near Ceres’s cryo chamber. An hour to access the utility shed on the roof, then another hour of work there before I dared to go inside the building itself.

  It would be getting dark outside now. My spare minutes were burning fast.

  The door opened. Podraski came in, tossed a gallon Ziploc with my personal effects in it on the table, and removed my handcuffs. Then he left again, leaving the door open.

  I pocketed my things. Bilal hadn’t tried to call me while my phones were in police hands, which was a minor blessing. A state trooper waited for me just outside the room. “That way,” he said, pointing toward the exit at the far end of the cubicle farm. I obliged.

  My two hosts, Rick and Podraski, had vanished somewhere, along with Guerin. Passing by a conference room, I heard voices, fragments of overlapping sentences dueling in anger—that’s not what I—hang on a damned minute—might wind up like Santora with—

  It would be poking the bear to intrude. But I was too curious about the whole episode, not least why they had suddenly let me go without booking me. I opened the door and stuck my head in.

  Podraski and the Fed stood in close and what looked like intense conversation with another man in a blue suit and conservative tie. A much better suit than Rick’s, just as Rick’s had been better than Podraski’s. His suit and the professional styling of his silvered brown hair added up to brass. Rick the Fed’s boss, maybe, or someone even higher up the chain.

  All three men turned. The combined force of their surprised glares almost made me grin. Instead, I said, “Sorry, wrong door,” and vamoosed.

  Guerin was waiting in the lobby. I was feeling like a relay baton, passed from one cop to the next.

  “How’d you know I was here?” I said as we left the building and followed the entrance roundabout to the station lot. A brilliant stripe of magenta filled the western sky, backlighting the hills between the station and the airport just beyond. Far-off jet engines combined into a constant whispery moan.

  “Friends. After Podraski called me yesterday, digging into your sordid history, I was curious. Then more so once I learned he was running some job on Seattle turf. I asked a contact of mine in WSP dispatch to watch for your name. Podraski may play loose with jurisdictions but he’s not an idiot. Before they pulled you over, he called it in.”

  I grasped what Guerin meant. I had a family background and military record that would make any cop extra vigilant. If I’d turned out to be some trigger-happy head case, maybe even left Podraski and Rick the Fed dead at the scene, at least their compatriots would know who was responsible.

  “Guess I owe you some thanks,” I said.

  “Save your gratitude. Tell me what you were doing in Bitter Lake.”

  “Question is, What do they think I was doing in Bitter Lake? They seemed convinced somebody hired me to be there.”

  “They don’t know you like I do. You work for yourself.” His eyes narrowed behind the rimless glasses. “Like your grandfather.”

  “And they didn’t book me,” I said, looking back at the patrol station. “They could have held me for at least a day and done their best to put me through the ringer if they’d gone through with putting me on the record. That strike you as weird?”

  “Whatever you’re chasing, drop it,” said Guerin. “It will not end well.”

  “Who’s the Fed?” I said. “FBI?”

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing I mean. I won’t be around next time to stir up shit.”

  “They warned you off, too,” I said, realizing. “How does that happen?”

  He exhaled, a soft whisper of breath out of his nose. On Guerin, that might have been a shout.

  “Okay,” I said, raising a hand to signal a truce. “Let’s trust each other. I’ll tell you why I might have had reason to be in Bitter Lake, and you tell me what kind of minefield I’ve apparently wandered into.”

  “Your problem, Shaw, is that you imagine you’re my equal. Podraski and me, we’re cops. You’re a repeat offender, with no fixed income or residence. And even that assessment is generous.”

  “What if my answer changes your mind? About trusting me?”

  “Only one way to find out. Talk.”

  “Thirteen Coins. Tomorrow. I’ll call you with the time.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Best I can do. I have a hot date tonight.”

  Guerin frowned. He knew I wasn’t lying when I offered to share information. He also knew I wouldn’t be pushed into doing so sooner than I wanted to.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t make me hunt you down.”

  Enough people were doing that already. “Deal.”

  “I feel sorry for the girl.” He walked away.

  Renny’s FastPass was close enough for me to jog back. The run blew off some excess energy from being trapped in the stifling interview room. And it gave me room to reset my mind toward Ceres Biotech. Two more hours before I was due to meet up with Hollis and Willard. I could just make it.

  Back on the top parking level, I made sure I was alone and ducked under the Nissan to retrieve my rucksack. At least the owners hadn’t returned and driven it home with them. That would have been the last nail in my coffin.

  I paid my ticket at the machine and pulled out of the FastPass lot, only to realize how close that comparison had been. The lot lay directly across from a cemetery.

  My Dodge pickup was old, without any hands-free phone functions or Bluetooth or even a CD player. I waited until the next light to call Hollis.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  I didn’t want to tell Hollis I’d been arrested. He got edgy enough before a job.

  “I need a license-plate check,” I said. “Silver Acura TL, probably owned by a guy in federal law enforcement. First name Rick, unless he was bullshitting me.” I read Hollis the number of Rick the Fed’s car.

  “FBI? Is this some other horrible problem for us to handle before tonight?”

  “Nothing to do with Bilal. I think this team might be on to Sean Burke.”

  “Ah. Well.” Hollis hesitated. What does one say when talking to a friend about a possible-father-and-probable-hired-killer? “Personal information will be restricted from DMV if he’s federal law. Our friend Panni might have the right access. But he might not be around until after the holiday.”

  I said that was fine. We had more pressing concerns. Like surviving Bilal Nath long enough to see the new year.

  But back on the highway, my brain wouldn’t stop chewing on what had just happened. A weird kind of catch-and-release, with Rick and Podraski hauling me in only to change their minds at the last minute. Was that solely Guerin’s doing? Or had something else prompted them to cut me loose?

  The superior who’d been reaming the two cops had looked familiar. A little overly groomed, too. Like he spent time with the media. A slick suit. Athletic, but in the way that a youngish CEO might be fit, thanks to diligent personal trainers and nutritionists rather than pursuing any sport.

  Then it hit me where I’d seen him before. On television. The slick guy was one of the candidates for governor in the recall electio
n. I couldn’t remember his name, but knew he was some kind of federal attorney. Holy shit.

  It made for easy arithmetic. Federal prosecutors plus special agents plus state detectives added up to major trouble for Sean Burke. And anyone dumb enough to be close to him.

  Junior Year, Part Three

  I waited until Mr. Grennon, coach for the Watson Paladins’ not so lauded baseball team, was deep in conversation with the batter on deck about reading the slider or some shit like that before I leaned out from under the bleachers to tap Davey in the back of the head with a thrown pebble.

  He whipped around. When he spotted me skulking, he had a hard time not cracking up as he meandered to take a seat in front of me. It was a preseason workout, nominally voluntary. None of the players carried themselves with the intensity of real practice. Recent rain had turned the baseball diamond into clay. It smelled like I imagined a newly turned farmer’s field would, all loam and earthworms.

  “I got your message,” I said. “What’s up?”

  Instead of answering, Davey just grinned wider and looked off to right field. Past the fence, Singer Boeman and his pack were hanging by their twin Pontiacs. First time I’d seen that bunch in over a year. They were spread out. Watching cars leave the lot, and the students drift out of the main entrance.

  “Those morons,” Davey said, scraping dirt out of his cleats. “What the hell are they doing here? They graduated. Or almost.”

  Leaving school had lost them their pissant revenue stream. Singer himself had tagged me as a kid who could probably keep his mouth shut during my freshman year. He’d sidled up, all chill, asking if I wanted to buy a little somethin’ for me or maybe to share with my friends. I hadn’t.

  Later that first semester, Singer had made me a different offer. To deliver a bag for him and keep ten bucks as my fee. I’d almost laughed, his approach was so lame. He was at least bright enough not to make a big thing of it when I turned him down a second time. No point in making an enemy when your whole business model relied on being approachable.

  Colten Gulas had started hanging with Singer’s group the next year. And then Singer and most of his buds graduated. Maybe Colten had become their go-between for Watson High.