by Jack Quaid
Internal Affairs was busy: cops on the phones, cops on the net. A young detective, Rowan, who Lopez knew from her brief stint in uniform, climbed to his feet, buried a phone in his chest to silence it, and called out a dead-end lead. A loud voice was still the quickest way to pass on information.
The air conditioner had packed it in two days ago and, with the sun on the rise outside, the floor was already feeling stuffy and wet. Lopez moved across it, and when she reached Jones’s office door, she knocked, although the door was open and the office was full of people briefing the chief.
Mackler spied her through all the sweaty shirts and waved her to the front of the desk. Lopez pushed through, trying not to lose her grip on the pages in her hand.
Jones, leaning against the wall, was surprised to see her. ‘When did you get back?’
‘This morning,’ Lopez said. Having just dug through his personal files, she felt guilty.
‘Do you have any information?’ Mackler asked.
Lopez nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Mackler sent everybody out, and the office door closed; only Lopez, the chief, and Jones remained.
Mackler leaned back in her chair and placed a finger on the tip of her chin. ‘Well, Officer, what do you have?’
Lopez shot a quick glance at Jones. ‘The information I have is the result of only a couple of hours’ work.’
‘We understand that,’ Mackler said. ‘We’re all working under tight deadlines, so can you please get to the point?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lopez said. ‘The question of whether Jim Jones stole Monique Jones when she was an infant . . .’
Jones pushed himself away from the wall. ‘I told you . . .’
‘Yes, you told me,’ Mackler said. ‘Don’t look so hurt, and don’t pretend to be naïve. To manage this situation, I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with. You would have done the same.’
Jones leaned back against the wall, muttered something under his breath, and motioned for Lopez to continue.
‘Given the time constraints, I focused my inquiries on two areas. First, any and all paperwork on Monique Jones, from her birth until now. Second, any on Nina Walters, who Campbell claims is Monique’s birth mother.’ Lopez shuffled through her notes and pulled out photocopies, which she laid on the desk. ‘That’s Monique Jones’s birth certificate, medical records, and immunization charts.’ She laid more pages on the desk. ‘These are her school enrollment forms and school reports up until last quarter. Everything is legitimate.’
‘What of Nina Walters?’ Mackler asked.
‘Nina Walters was a heroin addict. Her husband was also. He died of an overdose and, close on ten years ago, Nina cleaned herself up, and is currently working as a receptionist at a gym. I spoke to her on the telephone; she refutes Campbell’s claims and is happy to make a statement if we need her to.’ Lopez gave a quick glance at Jones, who looked glad she had found only good news. Then she shifted her attention back to the chief. ‘I have found no evidence whatsoever supporting Campbell’s claims that Jim stole Monique when she was a child.’
Mackler was silent for a moment, then nodded. ‘Good, good. Nice work. Stick around. Things may just get a bit dicey around here.’
Chapter Thirty Two
Sullivan didn’t like the way Sarah looked at him. There was anger and pain in her eyes and, beneath that, disappointment. God had tended to her wound, bandaged up her fist, stopped the bleeding and pumped her full of painkillers. She wouldn’t die from the experience, but she wouldn’t mentally recover from it either.
Sullivan never had any trouble with violent acts, either witnessing one or being the cause of one. He never had any trouble beating some poor prick to a pulp, or burying the muzzle of a gun in someone’s stomach and pulling the trigger. He didn’t enjoy it; he did what had to be done, and every decision was taken based on logic over emotion. He tried to justify this latest act to himself and, in his mind, he could. He needed to get Sarah and Monique to safety. He couldn’t do that with a bullet in his head, and he couldn’t avoid a bullet in his head without taking her finger. Logically, he had done the right thing. But when Sarah Jones stared at him from across the room, he couldn’t help but think twice.
The elevator rattled; it was on the move. Everybody stiffened as they watched the numbers above the door go down to the basement and back up again.
God and Hogan unholstered their weapons, trained their sights on the elevator doors, and took a step forward.
The doors opened. It was Pierce and May, wearing a couple of blend-in business suits.
‘Damn it,’ May said, pointing to the guns in the boys’ hands. ‘Drop in for a visit and this is how they treat yer.’
Everyone chilled out.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ Pierce said. ‘The traffic was all jammed up.’
What Pierce and May had been doing for the past couple of hours was anyone’s guess. But Sullivan was certain their ten years in undercover had been put to good use.
‘How’s things on this end?’
‘Going to plan,’ Campbell said with a shrug. ‘More or less.’
‘Well,’ May said, taking a look at Sarah and her bloody fist. ‘Adapt or die.’
Pierce headed over to the only table on the office floor. ‘I’ve got to get this suit off.’
He dumped all the miscellaneous shit he had in his pockets onto the desk.
Wallet.
Coins.
Glock.
Magazine.
And a cell phone.
Pierce now stood in his underwear. ‘Where’s my stuff?’
Hogan tossed an old Tigers bag to him, and he started to get dressed while he talked shit with Deacon and Horse about the mess the CBD was in.
Sullivan wasn’t interested in the conversation. His eyes had homed in on Pierce’s cell sitting on the table.
Sullivan clocked the room: Campbell squatted in front of the television and surfed for Jones’s confession, and God stood guard over Sarah and Monique, while Horse packed each of his explosives into Styrofoam boxes.
Sullivan climbed to his feet and headed toward the elevator. His pace was neither fast nor slow. He was working very hard at looking casual. He neared the table and, as he passed, quietly scooped Pierce’s cell into his pocket and kept on moving.
Deacon looked over Pierce’s shoulder at Sullivan. ‘Where are you headed?’
Campbell’s attention shifted from the television.
‘To wash the blood off my hands,’ Sullivan said as he pushed the button to call the elevator.
‘There’s some bottled water over there in the corner,’ Campbell called out and swung his arm over to point to it. ‘Use that.’
‘Doesn’t sound very sanitary.’
‘You’re not changing your tampon. Use the bottled stuff.’
Sullivan shrugged, to make it look like he didn’t give a shit.
Campbell turned his attention back to the television, and the unit resumed talking rubbish. As casually as he had walked to the elevator, Sullivan made his way to the bag with the water, pulled out a bottle, poured some water on the floor to look like he was washing his hands, then took out Pierce’s phone, punched in the numbers, and waited.
‘Hey,’ Pierce said casually. ‘Where’s my phone?’
Shit.
Sullivan ended the call, and the phone went back into his pocket. He splashed some water over his hands.
May looked under the table. ‘Seriously, fellas, it was right here.’ He sifted through the rest of his stuff.
The unit swapped glances, and they all came to the same conclusion at the same time.
All four of them looked Sullivan’s way, and he knew he was fucked.
Four guns pushed in on him.
He took a step back. Hit glass.
They had reverted to being cops, and Sullivan was a perp.
‘Hands up.’
‘Don’t move.’
‘Don’t you move!’
The lot of it.
>
They took his weapon.
Sullivan did as he was told, although he wasn’t happy about it.
When all the yelling stopped, Campbell joined the party. ‘What seems to be the problem, Officers?’
‘He swiped my cell,’ Pierce said.
‘Fuckin’ knew it,’ Deacon spat. ‘Fucking knew he was a rat bastard.’
Campbell shifted his attention to Sullivan. ‘Now, did you take his cell?’ he asked, as if they were a couple of school kids who had been caught fighting in the yard.
‘I don’t know what he’s talking about,’ Sullivan said.
‘That’s bullshit! That’s fucking bullshit.’
‘Pierce,’ Sullivan said, ‘I’ve had a gutful of the way you’ve been speaking to me.’
Pierce took a step forward to have a go at Sullivan, but Campbell held his hand up and said, ‘Hold it, hold it, hold it. Are you sure, Pierce, that maybe you just didn’t leave it someplace else, the bathroom or maybe the car?’
‘Fuck no! Search him, search him.’
‘Yeah’s and ‘Do it’s and other forms of agreement came from the gallery.
‘Would you mind?’ Campbell said.
‘Of course I mind,’ Sullivan said. He looked to the others. ‘And if anyone puts a hand on me, I’ll break their nose.’
Deacon had had enough. ‘I’ll fucking search him, then.’ He holstered his weapon, took a step.
Sullivan threw a left jab and broke his nose.
The guns came up, and so did Sullivan’s hands, ready for a fight.
Deacon held his face. Blood poured through his knuckles.
‘Christ, Sullivan. You broke his bloody nose,’ Campbell said as he crouched down to have a look.
‘I said I would.’
Pierce sighed, lowered his weapon. ‘Where the hell is my phone?
‘Well, I don’t know, Pierce. Have you tried to call the thing?’ Campbell said.
‘No,’ he said sheepishly as he holstered his weapon.
‘How about giving that a go, huh?’
Hogan took out his phone, and Pierce told him the number.
They waited silently.
They stared Sullivan down.
He swallowed hard. His fists clenched.
E V E R Y B O D Y W A I T E D
The cell in his pocket rang.
He was in all kinds of deep shit.
Sullivan swung. He got off a left-right-hook combo, but after that, his punches were wild, and wherever they hit, they did little damage. The unit collapsed on him like it was the Rodney King beating. All Sullivan saw was boots and the concrete floor. Then he blacked out and didn’t see anything.
Chapter Thirty Three
The beating must have gone on without him because when Sullivan came to, he was sore in places he didn’t remember being whacked, the throbbing pain an echo of what he’d missed.
The unit looked as if they were out of breath. Dishing out a beating does that to some guys. Deacon held his bloody nose, May rubbed his knuckles, and the rest of the guys had their hands on their knees and were catching air.
Campbell squatted over Sullivan and gave him a crooked smile.
‘How did I do?’ Sullivan asked.
‘It just wasn’t your night, kid.’ Campbell lit two cigarettes and slipped one into Sullivan’s mouth. ‘How much do they know?’
‘Enough.’
‘Do they know where we are?’
Sullivan leaned against the glass window. Took a drag and lied. ‘Yes.’
May and Pierce mumbled under their breath.
Deacon said, ‘You piece of fucking shit.’
Campbell ignored the bitching and moaning, and kept his eyes on Sullivan. ‘Now, here I was thinking you were one of the boys. I just don’t get it; these are the same pricks that done you over, ruined your life, and threw you in jail. If anyone was on our side, I thought it would be you.’
Sullivan took the cigarette from his lips and wiggled a loose tooth. ‘It wasn’t those cops. It was Justice.’
Campbell flicked his cigarette and climbed to his feet. ‘Well, you’re fucked now.’ He turned to his crew. ‘Take him to the dog food factory in Ferndale. Have the chows deal with him.’
‘Fuck that,’ Deacon said. ‘Let’s just do him here.’
Campbell shook his head.
‘Why?’
‘Sullivan, what do you weigh?’ Campbell asked.
He shrugged. ‘Two forty?’
Campbell looked back at Deacon. ‘Do you fancy carrying two hundred and forty pounds of dead weight out of this building?’
Deacon grumbled, ‘I guess not.’
Campbell pointed to Hogan and May. ‘Go do the deed.’
They looked pissed at the assignment.
‘Everyone else, this location is burnt. Let’s bump out.’
Hogan and May pulled Sullivan to his feet. His legs were weak, and he was wobbly on them. It took a few steps for him to walk normally.
The elevator arrived, and flanked by Hogan and May, he stepped into the steel box. As the doors closed, Sullivan saw Sarah and Monique. On both their faces, hope was nothing more than a faded memory.
Chapter Thirty Four
They made Sullivan drive.
Hogan sat next to him. May sat behind them, and Sullivan could feel the barrel of his Glock push into the back of the seat, and there was no way for him to sit comfortably. Still, it was better than riding in the trunk.
The traffic was shit. Bumper to bumper. The lights would change, one car would escape through them, and then they would change back to red and everybody would get frustrated again. Horns were sounded long past the stage they’d made their point. Morning-radio DJs struggled with keeping their listeners up to date with news of the mess at the Westin hotel. The bullshit being broadcast ranged from it having been a terrorist attack, to there having been a celebrity death, and for each wild story, experts were wheeled in to give their opinions on matters that were completely irrelevant to the true events.
Sullivan slowed at a red light and shifted his eyes to Hogan. He was staring out of the window, head bopping to the song on the radio. Sullivan dropped his gaze; Hogan wasn’t wearing a seat belt. The light changed and Sullivan pulled away. A block later, he tilted the rearview mirror.
May pushed the Glock further into the back of the seat. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just trying to drive safe,’ Sullivan said, tilting it back.
May wasn’t wearing his seat belt either.
Sullivan was.
His foot pushed on the accelerator.
The engine growled.
30
40
His hands turned the wheel. Pulled the vehicle onto the empty lane.
‘What the hell are you doing!?’ Hogan shouted.
60
70
80
‘Pull over!’ May yelled.
100
Sullivan gripped the wheel.
Clenched his jaw.
Hogan and May struggled to pull their seat belts on.
Too late.
Sullivan yanked the wheel. The vehicle skidded across a gap in the traffic and slammed into a parked car.
Hogan went through the windshield, flew twenty feet in the air, and skidded another fifteen or so on the concrete, a trail of blood in his wake. May was thrown around the inside of the vehicle like he was in a pinball machine. His journey ended under the dashboard of the passenger seat, his body folded over itself in the wrong direction.
Sullivan’s hand found the seat belt and unclipped the latch. He felt woozy, disorientated and, with his eyes open, nauseated, so he kept them closed and felt his way out of the car.
Stumbled into the road.
Prised open his eyes: it was bright.
Sullivan took a couple of painful breaths and then used the wreck of a car to pull himself to his feet. People gathered to help but he pushed past them and disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Thirty Five
Jim Jones watched the clock. He had three hours and twenty-seven minutes to meet Campbell’s demands.
Mackler had taken over his office. Badges rotated through the door, gave their updates, listened to their orders, and returned to whatever desk they had commandeered on the main floor. Working Internal Affairs, Jones was used to being disliked. Used to cops talking behind his back. It was even a point of pride for him that he was doing his job, and he thought that anyone who didn’t believe in a clean department had something to hide. But now, as low-level badges and senior officials passed in and out of the office, they looked at him in a different way. It was with respect.
He had made the tough decisions. He had stood firmly behind his convictions, in every press release and public appearance he had made in the past three years.
‘Clean police—no matter the cost.’
He kept telling himself that what he had done was right. He kept telling himself that he would get them back. And that he would do it the right way. But, in his heart, he wasn’t so sure.
Jones sat by the window with a radio pushed to his ear, listened to the police chatter, and waited for anything out of the ordinary. Scared patrons were still being discovered in the cupboards and wardrobes of the Westin. There was mayhem all across the city, including a car accident on Flemington Road that an ambulance was fighting traffic to reach, but nothing that pointed to Campbell.
The pressure didn’t rattle Mackler; she bounced between the clean-up at the Westin and the hunt for Campbell without so much as a misstep on either one. It was as if she and her staff had trained for a crisis such as this and were in some way enjoying all the professional mayhem.
‘What!’ Mackler exclaimed. She stood with enough force to make the chair roll back and hit the wall behind her.
Jones had missed the majority of the conversation until that point.
‘It’s on the television right now,’ said Fiona Templeton, PR: twenty-seven, blonde, in a business suit and heels. She had prepped Jones for press conferences in the past; she was good at what she did and knew it. She picked up the remote and turned on the television.