by Jack Quaid
One of the networks had a reporter standing on the curb on State Street.
‘. . . The traffic is at a standstill, and those who have chosen to abandon their vehicles are having parking-infringement notices with fines in excess of two hundred dollars placed on their windshields. In many cases, with the occupants still inside . . .’
Fiona muted the television. ‘This doesn’t look good.’
‘This is a stupid problem to have.’ Mackler pointed at her. ‘Get on television, rescind all those fines, and reassure the public that nobody is going to take advantage of this situation.’
‘The press want to know what’s going on. We need to give them something. Otherwise, they’re going to keep putting to air stories like that until they have something of substance to report.’
‘We don’t want this to jeopardise our reputation,’ Ronald Grey said. ‘We need the press on our side right now.’
‘He’s right,’ Fiona added. ‘I’ve been monitoring our Twitter feed and it’s not very positive.’
Jones pulled the radio from his ear. ‘Twitter?’
O’Conner’s old face twisted. ‘What the shit is a Twitter?’
‘Get me some fresh clothes,’ Mackler said, ‘and call a press conference for sixty minutes’ time.’
Fiona and half her senior staff rushed out of the room.
O’Conner pushed his body from the wall. ‘Do you think that appearing on television is the best thing right now?’
‘If we’re going to navigate through this crisis, we’re going to need the public on our side. We communicate with them through the media.’
O’Conner shifted his eyes toward Jones. ‘How do you weigh in on this, kid? They’re your kin.’
Jones thought it over as fast as he could. ‘It doesn’t feel right to me.’
Before things could get heated between Mackler, O’Conner, and Jones, out in the main floor of IA there was a lot of yelling that increased very quickly and then, just as quickly, faded.
‘What the hell is going on out there?’ Mackler asked.
Jones followed her out of the office. Every cop in the room was on their feet. Some stood on tables, others on chairs, and somewhere, someone yelled: ‘Hands up! HANDS UP!’
The panic within Jones grew with each step as he neared the front of the group. Cops with their service weapons out formed a semicircle at the elevator doors.
Jones pushed through and saw the man at the center of all the attention: Angus Sullivan.
He gave Jones a half smile. ‘Hi?’
Sullivan was flexi-cuffed to the table in interview room one of IA. It was eight by four, with one table, two chairs, and cream walls with scuff marks around the edges. Plastic handcuffs were now the department norm, being cheaper and more sanitary than their stainless-steel counterparts, but to Sullivan, they were a joke. He still had a badge when they were rolled out, and every cop had had to test them to see if they could be broken. Only two men in the department were strong enough to snap the plastic: Dave Jenson and Angus Sullivan. Jenson had died of cancer four years ago. That made Sullivan the reigning champ.
He stared through the two-way glass and wondered how many people were on the other side. He closed his eyes, leaned back, and enjoyed the quiet. His body was busted from the beating and still in shock from the car crash. Fifteen hours of being on edge had torn his nerves to pieces and clouded his mind. He tried to slow his breathing and calm down but couldn’t stop the shaking in his hand.
Jim Jones came through the door. He looked like shit. Clammy, pale, clothes soiled and creased. He pulled up a chair. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Cigarettes, painkillers, a pardon for all my crimes?’
Jones threw a nod toward the two-way mirror, and a moment later, Lopez walked through the door with a glass of water and some Aspirin in her hand.
Jones waited for her to leave before he started. ‘Where are my family?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We have three hours and fifteen minutes to find them.’ Jones wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned forward. ‘Which means you have ten minutes to tell me everything you know.’
Sullivan gave him the highlights.
Hogan, Deacon, and God had busted him out of prison.
They wanted him to crack Patrick Wilson’s safe.
They wanted files to blackmail Jones with. There weren’t any.
Their plan B: to kidnap his family.
Sullivan had tried to call Jones.
He was found out.
Beaten.
Escaped.
He left out the part of the story where he cut Sarah Jones’s ring finger off.
Jones quickly took notes and continued to write for a couple of moments after Sullivan had finished speaking. He put the lid on his pen, the pen in his pocket, took a breath, and looked at Sullivan.
Then he left the room.
Sullivan relaxed. There would be a more in-depth debriefing later on, but for now, he could rest.
Chapter Thirty Six
It took a moment for Jones’s eyes to adjust to the darkness of the observation room. He expected it to be full of Mackler’s staff and assistants but only she and O’Conner were there.
‘I want to bring Sullivan on board,’ he said.
Mackler’s face twisted. ‘On board what?’
‘The investigation.’
She laughed. ‘God, no!’
‘We wouldn’t be anywhere without him.’ Jones counted on his fingers. ‘The initial phone call, the tip-off at the Westin. All that intel came from Sullivan.’
‘I don’t trust a word he says,’ Mackler replied. ‘He could be in on it.’
‘Then he turned himself in?’
‘Misinformation,’ she said. ‘Look, he’s a criminal. Last time he was on the street, seventeen people were killed.’
‘They were dirty cops.’
‘He’s a criminal!’
‘He used to be one of us,’ Jones pleaded. ‘He believes in the same things we believe in.’
Mackler stood and buttoned her jacket. ‘But he doesn’t care how he achieves them.’ She put a comforting hand on Jones’s shoulder. ‘The way Angus Sullivan does things is not the perception of the DPD we’re trying to build.’
‘I know what we’re trying to build. Because I’ve built it. Our way of doing things now is not getting the job done.’
Mackler headed for the door, put her hand on the knob. ‘Stay the course, and we’ll get through this.’ She stepped out of the room, and a shard of light blasted in and disappeared with the closing door.
O’Conner stretched out his lower back. ‘A man once told me that sometimes a little violence is not a bad thing.’
‘Patrick Wilson said that.’
O’Conner nodded and shifted his weight to see the ex-cop/criminal through the two-way. ‘I’ve known Sullivan since he was fifteen years old. Everything you’ve said about him is true. He’s a cop at heart, and he’ll do whatever it takes to do the right thing. Then, on the other hand, everything the chief said about him is true as well. He hates rules and can be a violent mongrel.’ He looked over his shoulder at Jones. ‘To get the job done, sometimes you need a little mongrel.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘You’re trying to save your family, and the chief is preparing for a press conference. Do you still have Mayor Adams’s ear?’
Jones nodded.
O’Conner smiled, exposing his yellow teeth. ‘Go over her head.’
Chapter Thirty Seven
Jones took a patrol car, hit the sirens and lights, and pulled out into the street. The city was a car park, filled with vehicles pushed bumper to bumper and drivers who had given up on letting the engines idle and shut their machines down. He mounted the footpath and, in addition to the sirens and lights, slammed his hand on the horn and held it there for the duration of the drive.
Fifteen minutes later, he was on Woodward Avenue and at the offices of Mayor Adams. He had to check
his sidearm at the front desk but, once he cleared security, he limped quickly to the elevator and spammed the button.
Jones stepped out of the elevator and into a typical government-department reception area. Adams’s assistant, Josie, had tried to bring some color into the place, with a few plants and flowers that had since yellowed and drooped.
‘Is he in?’ Jones asked.
Josie picked up the phone, whispered into it, and then told him to go right in.
The office was large and had been furnished with money and taste. Oriental rugs, a couple of couches, a wide-screen TV, and out of the window, a view of the city. Adams sat on the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up. The news was replaying three-hour-old crime-scene footage.
The mayor could never be called smooth. He was short and bookish and moved awkwardly, as if his clothes were a size too small. He was about as athletic as fast food, and there was more than enough footage of him on YouTube tripping over his own feet, but whenever he did (which was often), he could laugh at himself, and the people liked that. Adams prided himself on being the smartest guy in the room, and most of the time, he was. His library was one of the biggest private collections of books in the country, and he often bragged that he had read every one. A private-school education and overbearing parents had led him to become a Rhodes scholar, a lawyer, a politician, and then mayor. He had only been in office six months when the corruption scandal had hit three years before, and along with Jim Jones, he made a promise to the Detroit people that the state would have a clean police force. The ‘Cleanout’ had made both their careers.
He thumbed at the television news report. ‘What the hell is going on, Jim? The chief’s office has been giving me the run-around all morning.’
‘Sarah and Monique have been taken,’ Jones said.
Adams slid off the table and looked from Jones to the TV and back again. ‘By who?’
‘Hailstrum.’
‘Patrick Wilson is dead.’
‘Patrick Wilson wasn’t Hailstrum.’
Adams sat in the chair behind his desk, and his face crumpled. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Almost.’
‘What do they want?’
‘A confession and a resignation. Mine.’
‘Confession to what?’
‘Being corrupt. They want me to say I kidnapped Monique when she was a baby.’
‘What?’
‘They want to expose me as being corrupt. They want me to say I’m as bad as all those scumbags we put away. If I stole a baby, what else did I do?’
The news was clearly overwhelming to Adams.
Jones continued, ‘They sent me . . . they cut off Sarah’s finger, and sent it to me.’
Adams pulled the glasses from his round face. He had questions, lots of them, but what was on the television in front of him was a constant reminder that there was no time for that now. He put his glasses back on and looked at Jones.
‘How long have you got?’
‘Two hours.’
‘What can I do?’
‘I need Angus Sullivan to work the case with me.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘He has the knowledge and experience to—’
‘We can’t take him out of prison for—’
‘He’s already out. He’s been helping us up until now.’
Adams leaned back in his chair. A look crossed his face; it wasn’t surprise, it was annoyance.
‘There wasn’t much time to keep you in the loop, sir.’
‘Do I want to know?’
‘Probably not.’
Adams stood again, stepped to the window, and looked at the view. ‘Mackler said no, didn’t she?’ He turned to face Jones. ‘That’s why you’re here.’
‘Right now, she’s preparing for a press conference, and I’m trying to find my family.’
‘This is a bad position you’re putting me in. We can’t condemn Sullivan’s actions, then endorse them when we need him.’
Jones stepped forward. ‘We may not have a choice.’
Chapter Thirty Eight
The door opened, and Jim Jones stepped through. He cut Sullivan’s flexicuffs and leaned back in his chair. ‘How would you like to be a cop again, just for today?’ There was a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he already knew the answer.
‘No,’ Sullivan said. ‘I don’t think so.’
The words took a moment to register with Jones. ‘I’m offering you a chance. To finally find Hailstrum, the real Hailstrum. I thought you would have jumped at it.’
Sullivan held his hand out; it was shaking. ‘It’s been doing that for the last half an hour. I don’t want to get your family killed.’
Jones drew his gaze from Sullivan’s hand to his eyes. ‘The cops here now are all academics. Mackler pushed anyone with any experience out to make way for her new educated police force. They don’t have the balls for something like this.’ Jones leaned forward and spoke in a tone that the microphone in the corner of the room would have trouble picking up. ‘I need you.’
Sullivan’s face softened, then he smiled and shook his head. ‘You can’t walk straight, I can’t stop my hands from shaking, and we’re the best chance the DPD’s got?’
Chapter Thirty Nine
Sullivan cleaned himself up and borrowed some clothes from a rookie who was about his build. Jeans, AC/DC T-shirt, and a leather jacket. An ambo cleaned up his cuts and told him to go to the hospital. They found a middle ground, with her giving him a bottle of painkillers for what she suspected to be a cracked rib and various other forms of damage.
Jones collected him, and as they headed across the main floor of Ethical Standards, people stopped talking and stared at Sullivan with disgust and hatred in their eyes.
‘I guess they’re not big AC/DC fans,’ Sullivan said.
‘Most of these people spent the better part of a year building the case to put you behind bars.’
Sullivan looked at their disapproving faces. ‘They did a good job.’
There were a dozen cops jammed into Jones’s office, and they quietened as soon as he entered. They were his inner circle, his go-to guys.
Sullivan thumbed at the people in front of him. ‘Who are they?’
Jones began introductions.
Sullivan cut him off. ‘Get them out of here.’
‘What?’
‘Your family have been kidnapped by rogue cops.’ He motioned to the rest of the room. ‘Except for O’Conner and Lopez, I don’t know who the fuck these people are.’
They all took silent offense and looked to Jones for an answer.
‘All right, get out of here, go,’ he said grudgingly.
The room emptied. Jones turned on his good leg. ‘First things bloody first, you answer to me. You are here as an adviser only; you won’t lay a hand on any suspects we bring in, and you certainly won’t be armed. We need to do everything by the book. Are we clear?’
‘Clear,’ Sullivan grunted. His eyes swung over to O’Conner, ‘Shit, O’Conner, I thought you were dead.’
‘Fuck you,’ the old man said with a smile and a gentle pat on Sullivan’s arm. ‘Good to have you back.’
Jones pointed at the clock. ‘We have two and a half hours to find Sarah and Monique. Or two and a half hours before I confess and resign on TV.’
‘It won’t matter what you say on television,’ Sullivan said. ‘Campbell’s going to kill them anyway.’
‘Then we need to find them first,’ O’Conner said.
The door swung open, and the chief stood in the doorway with an iPhone in one hand, the other making a fist. ‘You go over my head?’ she spat. ‘To the mayor?’
‘I’m just doing what I think is best for my family.’
‘We all are.’ She looked at Sullivan, with a gaze so scalding it was as if he had just taken a shit on the rug. Then she pointed to Jones. ‘Keep him in line, or I’ll make sure you’re in the cell next to him.’
‘I’m just trying to get my family back.’
‘The entire police department are trying to get them back. Make sure you don’t get them killed,’ she said. The door slammed behind her, and the sound bounced around the walls of the office for a couple of seconds.
Jones nodded and looked to Lopez. ‘Bring Sullivan up to speed.’
Lopez pointed to the files sprawled on the desk. ‘These are the personnel files on every person you mentioned who took part in the kidnapping this morning. We’ve cross-referenced them every which way, but nothing sticks out. Until yesterday, every one of them was known to be a solid, clean cop.’
‘Every cop is a clean cop,’ O’Conner said. ‘Up until they’re not.’
They pulled up chairs and began reading. Sullivan stared at the files. He shifted a couple around with his fingertips. ‘It all sounds like bullshit to me. What do they gain from discrediting Jones?’
‘Destroy his credibility, destroy the DPD’s?’ Lopez said. ‘Put all those corrupt cops back on the street?’
‘But what do they gain, personally?’
‘Revenge,’ O’Conner said.
Sullivan paced the floor. His old cop mind was coming out of retirement. ‘That’s what I thought. Then, back at the safe house in King Street, I saw Horse—’
‘Con Gracie,’ Lopez said, pulling out his file. ‘Bomb squad?’
‘Why have a guy like that on your crew if it’s blackmail and kidnapping? And why have him preparing C4 charges? There’s a bigger picture here we’re not seeing.’
‘There may be,’ Jones said. ‘But the only picture we need to be looking at is where they are right at this very moment. Pick up a file and start reading.’
‘Don’t think small, think big.’
‘I don’t care!’ Jones snapped. ‘I just want to know where my family are right now. If you’re on board with that, great. If not, you can go back to a holding cell.’
They stared at each other. Then Sullivan pulled up a chair, sat on it, and picked up a file. After the first three or four sentences of dry police reports, letters of recommendation, and incident sheets, his mind started to wander to small details he may have missed.