by Colin Conway
Zielinski avoided eye contact, glancing up at the TV. “What I’m supposed to do? I’m not a detective.”
Clint scoffed. “Detective is a title. You know how to investigate.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Zielinski turned and met Clint’s gaze. “I’m on suspension.”
“Which means you have free time.”
“It also means I don’t have any police authority. So don’t ask me to do something I can’t.”
Clint stared at him, his expression strange. He reached for his seltzer and took a slow sip. When he finished, he put the glass down heavily. He inhaled as if to speak, then paused to think for a moment. Finally, he spoke, his words sounding as they were forced from his lips.
“Ray, I need your help.”
Zielinski stopped. Wardell Clint, the Honey Badger, had just admitted to needing help. He couldn’t be certain, but he was willing to bet those words had never come out of Clint’s mouth before.
Clint seemed uncomfortable, but he pressed on. “There isn’t enough time for me to do everything I need to do before the DOJ main event arrives. It’s going to be tricky enough with their little scouts poking around the department over the next few days.”
“You need my help,” Zielinski repeated, still surprised.
Clint said nothing. He stared at him, waiting.
Zielinski pushed aside his surprise and thought about it. Then he shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Same difference.”
“There’s a big difference between can’t and won’t,” Clint insisted.
Zielinski pressed his lips together in frustration. “Fine. I can’t because I’ve got work some days, and besides, I’m suspended. I won’t do anything to make my situation worse. I’m probably going to get fired as it is.”
“Probably,” Clint agreed.
“Oh, thanks, Ward.” Zielinski rolled his eyes and slapped the bar. Pamela looked up in mild surprise, saw nothing of interest, and looked away. “That’s what I need to hear right now.”
“The truth, you mean?”
Zielinski didn’t answer. He returned his gaze to the television, pointedly not acknowledging Clint.
“And my name is Wardell,” Clint said. “You know this.”
“Well, then, fuck you, Ward.”
Clint didn’t seem surprised or put off by the reply. He sat quietly for a while, sipping his club soda and waiting. Zielinski knew it was an interrogation tactic. Silence was a powerful tool, something people often felt compelled to fill. He’d used it himself on occasion during interviews on patrol. He wasn’t going to let it work on him now, though. He stared defiantly at the screen while the judge ruled in favor of the plaintiff and the defendant had an orchestrated meltdown.
Minutes went by. Clint finished his drink and pushed the glass away from him but made no move to get up from the stool. In a low voice, he finally said, “Butch Talbott. Justin Pomeroy. Gary Stone. And those are just the cops whose deaths he’s responsible for. There’s at least another seven or eight civilians on the list, depending on how you want to count.”
Zielinski didn’t answer.
Clint rose from his seat. “But you enjoy your beer, Ray.”
Zielinski snapped his head toward Clint and growled, “You don’t think I want to help? I’m suspended, okay? I can’t risk it.”
“I don’t need you to do anything risky.”
Zielinski hesitated. “No?”
“No,” Clint said.
“Then what, Ward?”
“Wardell,” Clint corrected.
Zielinski stared at him, saying nothing, his jaw set.
Clint stared back for a moment, then relented. “I need you to watch a house.”
Chapter 13
Édelie Durand lifted her glass of wine to examine the smudge of lipstick on the rim. Her thumb rubbed across it as she thought about her husband back in D.C.
When they were out somewhere, he would make a big act of sipping from her wine glass. He would always put his mouth directly over her lipstick mark. The first time he ever did it, she accused him of stealing a drink. He defended himself by claiming he was only stealing a left-behind kiss. After that moment, it became a game—a ritual, almost—whenever she left lipstick on the rim of a wine glass.
She missed him tonight.
Earlier, they had talked for a few minutes via Skype on her laptop. She’d ordered room service and planned to eat while they caught up on the day’s events. Unfortunately, Roland was tired and needed to end the call early. After that, she found she’d lost her appetite and left her meal untouched before eventually joining her team downstairs at the bar.
Durand looked up as the waitress arrived with Danielle Watson’s whiskey and Esteban Curado’s beer. She quickly handed them off and disappeared deeper into the lounge. The three of them were in The Peacock Room of The Davenport Hotel. It was a fancier hotel then she had imagined they would have been booked. But she didn’t handle the travel responsibilities for her department and, therefore, needn’t worry about the rental rates of different hotels in different cities. It wasn’t her bailiwick. No, hers was to find malfeasance and wrongdoing wherever she was pointed.
If it existed.
From speakers hidden somewhere, a song she’d never heard ended and another one started. It was something she recalled her father liking. She listened to it for a moment and struggled to name the song and its singer. The voice was familiar. Her head bounced along with the gentle beat. A small smile creased her lips when the chorus hit—“Nobody Wants You When You’re Down and Out”—and she remembered Bobby Womack.
She was thankful for the brief musical interruption and the trip down memory lane.
But there was still work today. She rubbed her thumb once more across her lipstick mark and allowed herself a final thought of Roland. Then she turned away from her glass to face her team.
They were in the middle of some idle chatter. When they noticed her watching, they stopped their conversation.
She set her glass down on the table in front of her and asked, “How did the tours with the captains go?”
From her left, Watson snorted. “Priceless. Like two bickering children forced to play together by their parents.”
Durand glanced to Curado. “You didn’t walk them separately?”
He shook his head. “Dani thought it better to keep them together.”
“They were at each other almost immediately,” Watson added. “I wasn’t sure we’d have a chance to see that again. I think it proved to be the right thing to do.”
“You could have gotten a head start on building individual rapport,” Durand said.
Watson shook her head. “You don’t understand, Edie. There’s something going on with those two—”
“Bad blood,” Curado confirmed.
Dani pointed at her counterpart. “And you agree, right? It was worth seeing them together?”
Curado nodded. “There’s definitely something between those two. Something deep.”
“Any idea why that is?” Durand asked.
“Maybe they used to fuck,” Watson suggested.
Durand flinched at her subordinate’s use of the expletive.
“Whatever it is,” Watson said, “Hatcher definitely has an ax to grind.”
“And Farrell,” Curado said, “he seemed frazzled. Almost—”
Watson leaned forward. “Don’t you dare say he’s henpecked, Esteban.”
Curado’s face flattened. “I wasn’t going to say that. And it’s Steve.”
Ignoring the squabbling of her subordinates, Durand said, “While we were in the conference room, I saw the reactions of the captains. She seemed to be enjoying my conversation with the chief.”
“Oh, and he loved you,” Watson said with a chuckle. “When he left the room, he almost did it at a full run.”
Curado fought an eye roll, stopping it at about halfway, but Durand still noticed it. He asked, “How was your mee
ting with the mayor?”
“Informative.”
“How so?” he asked, scooching to the edge of his chair.
“The mayor doesn’t take responsibility for anything,” Durand said. “Everything is the fault of someone else.”
“So we’ve got an absence of leadership?”
Durand shrugged. “Maybe in city hall. He wants to be a sunny day leader. Claim all sorts of wins, but when the chips are down, he shifts the blame to someone else.”
“Baumgartner?” Watson asked.
“Mostly. But he pushed some to a former chief of staff. I’d like to find out who that was. He even tried to put some on Gary Stone.”
“The dead officer?” Curado asked.
Durand nodded.
“He’s the mayor,” Watson said. “The buck should stop with him. Isn’t that what they say?”
“Sikes wouldn’t agree to that,” Durand said. “He’s the type of guy that if the chief was getting a medal, he’d be right there with his arm around his shoulders. He’s also the type of guy that would shove the chief and his medal under a bus to save his own career.”
“I wonder how much loyalty Baumgartner has for a guy like that,” Curado said.
“Probably not much,” Watson said, “which means the chief might be prone to make decisions outside department policy.”
Durand studied Watson for a moment. When she turned to Curado, he only shrugged.
A blonde woman in her mid-thirties approached the group. She wore slacks and a light-colored blouse. Over her left shoulder was a low-slung purse. “Excuse me.”
The three of them turned to her, but only Durand responded. “Yes?”
“Are you with the Department of Justice?”
Durand’s eyes slid to Watson then Curado. She slowly stood and her attorneys rose with her.
“What’s this about?”
Durand tensed when the woman reached into her purse. She only relaxed once the woman pulled out a notebook and a pen. Paperclipped to the cover of the notebook was a business card.
“Kelly Davis.” The woman handed the small card to Durand.
“You’re a reporter?”
“Word is you’re here to lay the groundwork for a consent decree.”
“No comment,” Durand said.
“But will you confirm that you’re with the Department of Justice?”
Durand read the card once more then held it out for the reporter. “I’m not confirming anything.”
“You’re not denying it, though.”
“Good day, Ms. Davis.”
Kelly Davis studied Durand for a moment then closed her notebook. She dropped it in her purse. “Keep the card,” she said. “You might want to give me a call.”
“I highly doubt it.”
Davis nodded to Curado and Watson then left the lounge. The three of them remained standing until they saw her exit the hotel lobby.
Watson chuckled as she retook her seat and picked up her drink. “That department definitely has a leak in its security.”
Curado said, “Could have been city hall. Edie went there to meet the mayor. Maybe one of his staff did it.”
“And maybe the mayor himself did,” Watson said and lifted her drink in salute.
Durand tossed the card on the table. “Doesn’t matter,” she said as she picked up her wine glass. “Let’s talk about the plan for tomorrow.”
Both of her subordinates faced her.
“We’ve only got three days, so let’s maximize our time. We’ll make this a top-down process but allow for some freedom to deviate. Dani, I want you to interview the chief.”
Watson’s brow furrowed. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Durand again studied the lipstick mark. It was only a faint hint of a smudge now that she had rubbed it so many times. “He’s all about respect. I’d imagine that goes for the chain of command, too. Let’s see how he responds to you interviewing him.”
“Might get his back up,” Curado said.
“Maybe,” Durand said, “but maybe it keeps him on his heels. At least at the start. Everything is about getting them off balance. If there’s something they’re hiding, that’s when it’ll come out. Understand?”
Danielle Watson glanced to Curado then back to her supervisor. “Yeah. Okay.”
“In the conference room, I didn’t ask about the status of Garrett’s ambush investigation.”
“I noticed that,” Watson said.
“But I want you to bring it up. Be prepared, though. He might have gotten a warning from the mayor about the topic. I asked His Honor about it, and he looked like he’d seen a ghost, but he was quick to move on to a subject he liked better.”
“Which was?”
“How to save his skin.”
“Ugh.”
Durand faced Curado. “And Steve, you’ll interview Captain Farrell.”
He nodded.
She sipped her wine. “You said he appeared frazzled.”
“Having never met the man, I’m guessing, of course.” Curado took a drink of his beer and wiped his lip. “But I can’t see a guy behaving like that, giving off those kinds of signals, and rising to captain. Has to be something new. Something recent.”
“Then I want you to be his friend,” Durand said. “His best friend, if you have to. But I want you to find out what has gotten the man so upset that he’s about to jump out of his skin. Maybe it’s personal, but if it’s not…”
“Got it,” Curado said.
“That means you’ll be talking to Hatcher?” Watson asked.
The Bobby Womack song was over, and she couldn’t place the new one. She knew she’d heard it before. It was from the mid-seventies, she believed. Another sad song about missing love by moments. She hadn’t missed love. She found it, held it, treasured it. But she was about to lose it forever and there was not a damn thing she could do about it. She looked to Watson who stared expectantly at her. “Hmm?”
“Hatcher,” she said. “You’ll talk with her?”
“You said the woman has an ax to grind.”
“I did.”
“Then I’ll be her grindstone,” Durand muttered.
Watson laughed and held up her drink. “To finding the dirt.”
Curado lowered his drink. “Why would we toast that? We should be hoping we don’t find anything.”
“Are you kidding?” Watson snapped. “This is what we do.”
“No,” Curado said. “We’re here to ensure the department is complying with the law. If they do that without us hammering them, that’s a win for the city. It should be a win for us.”
“The win for us is rooting out corruption.”
“If it’s there,” Curado insisted.
Watson took a healthy sip of her whisky. “Don’t be so offended, Esteban. Power corrupts. It’s human nature. The fact that some cops get corrupted by power doesn’t make them evil, it makes them human.”
“Most cops don’t get corrupted, Danielle. That’s my point. Most of them do the job with honor. Like my brother does.”
“And like my father did,” Watson bristled, though Durand wondered how much of it was from the point Curado made or from him using her full name. “They’re not the reason we exist. We exist because not everyone does the job that way. Police culture—”
“Is mostly positive,” Curado interrupted. “Aside from a few big cities.”
Watson laughed at that. “This is one instance where I can say size really doesn’t matter. You don’t think there’s corruption in small town America? That’s naïve.”
“You say that because you see corruption everywhere.”
“I see what is there. I don’t wear blinders.”
As her subordinates continued to argue, Édelie Durand tuned them out. Slowly, she leaned her head back to the edge of her chair and looked up toward the ceiling. She struggled to remember the name of the song. Durand closed her eyes and tried to hear the singer over the noise in the bar.
Jesus, she really wished she cou
ld remember the name of the song.
Chapter 14
The white Audi was parked in the driveway again.
The driveway of his house.
Garrett dropped his gaze, anger brewing in his chest. Technically, per the court, it was her house now. But since he was the one making the fucking mortgage payment on it, he believed he still had the right to consider it his.
He wasn’t stupid, though. He knew how the law worked. Over the years, he had arrested enough idiots who thought they were smarter than some divorce judge. None of them were.
It didn’t mean he had to like it.
He worked, fought, or bled for everything inside that house. That included her.
His eyes returned to the Audi. It was the third night in a row that the car was there. Parked on his side of the driveway, no less. Like it belonged there.
An unpleasant thought occurred to him.
It might have been there longer than three nights in a row. He only discovered the car three nights ago. He tried to recall the last time he was by the house in the evening. Weeks, maybe. A month?
He found the car when a bout of melancholy struck, and he decided to drive by the house late at night. A bit of nostalgia had hit him in the heart, and he wanted to check on her and the kids. He used to do it when they were together. Often swinging by late at night for a drive through the silent neighborhood with his patrol car. He never let her know. He only wanted to protect his family. It was a private way for him to show his love.
Back when they were still the Garretts.
Back when everything was still perfect.
When he first saw that car in his driveway, he didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe she’d gotten a new ride and didn’t tell him. That seemed plausible. She’d been secretive lately. Holding stuff back. Now, he knew why.
She didn’t get a new car. She got a new lover.
A gray-haired white man named William Cardwell.
No. William Jefferson Cardwell.
A fag name if there ever was one. Except that fag was sticking it to his ex-wife. The mother of his children.
Fourteen years older than her.
Did she have daddy issues? He wondered about that. If so, he never noticed them before.