Code Four

by Colin Conway

  He’d meant what he said. If Earl Ellis and every single one of his network of street dealers had to go free in order to nail Garrett, that was a trade he was willing to make. It was distasteful, and it went against the grain for him, but as a necessary evil, he knew he could stomach it. What he couldn’t allow was for Garrett to escape justice.

  “Detective?”

  Clint turned toward the voice. The DOJ investigator, Curado, stood a few feet away. He scowled. “What do you want?”

  “To interview you,” Curado said congenially. “Unless you’re still in the middle of that interrogation.”

  “No, but I am busy. Like I told you before, I have case work.”

  “I appreciate that,” Curado said. “But I have a job to do as well, and today that includes interviewing you.”

  “Later,” Clint said.

  “I go back to Washington this afternoon. There is no later.”

  Clint grunted. This was Washington but leave it to a fed to use shorthand for the nation’s capital. Of course, Curado would think the world revolved around that seat of power. He was a cog in that machine, after all.

  “Detective, I don’t mean to be difficult, but this is happening now. We can talk together like professionals, or I can go down the hall and get your chief involved, but—”

  “Oh, by all means, don’t bring my daddy into the situation,” Clint snarled. “He might decide to ground me.”

  Curado looked at him. Clint could see the frustration clearly tearing at the edges of the fed’s calm demeanor. “Detective…”

  “Fine,” Clint snapped. He rose from his chair, closing his case file. He slid open the desk drawer and put it inside, taking care to lock the drawer. Curado looked on with mild fascination. “Come with me.”

  He led Curado through the bullpen and to the row of interview rooms. He chose number four again and held the door open for Curado. The lawyer stepped inside, and Clint followed. The two of them sat across from each other at the small table. Clint waited, saying nothing.

  “Do you want a union representative?” Curado asked.

  Clint snorted. “Why? They’re in bed with the brass and have been for years.”

  “You have the right.”

  “I don’t need one.”

  “How about Captain Farrell, then?”

  Clint’s eyes narrowed. Did Curado know something? “Why would I want the brass in here if I don’t even want a union rep?”

  Curado shrugged. “He offered, so I thought I’d ask.”

  He offered? Clint forced himself to maintain a constant expression, but the revelation disturbed him. Once again, Farrell thought he was being crafty when all he was really doing was endangering the entire operation.

  You can’t trust the brass. Either they were out to get you, or they were incompetent. Either way, it represented a danger for him.

  “So no rep, and no Farrell?” Curado asked.

  Clint gave him a short shake of his head.

  “That’s fine,” Curado said. “I prefer it this way. No white shirts, no lawyers, just be the two of us.”

  “Aren’t you a lawyer?” Clint asked snidely.

  Curado held up his hand in surrender. “Technically, yes. But most of my work is very similar to yours, Detective.”

  Clint didn’t reply, but a thought sprang to mind.

  You are nothing like me.

  “So it’s my hope,” Curado continued, “that in an informal situation like this, no bosses around, you and I can have a meaningful conversation.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “I think you do.”

  “All that confirms is that you think in the same head-up-ass way as every other fed I’ve encountered in my career.”

  “Every single one?” Curado countered. “Not a single good cop in the bunch?”

  Clint hesitated. He’d actually come across more than one federal officer who was a good investigator, both from the FBI and DEA. He’d even had an agent from BATFE who had been the best of the bunch. She’d been the reason Clint’s own aspect of that particular case broke open. But he wasn’t going to tell Curado that. The man wasn’t a real fed any more than the rats in Internal Affairs were real cops.

  “I respect the work you do here at the local level,” Curado went on. “I’d appreciate it if you respected the work my colleagues and I do at the federal level. Let’s keep it real.”

  “Real?” Clint scoffed. “That’s rich.”

  “I’m being sincere.”

  “That’s what you want me to think.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Clint pointed at Curado’s identification badge where it was clipped to the lawyer’s jacket lapel. “There’s the truth,” he said.

  Curado followed Clint’s gesture to the badge. “All right,” he said. “Yes, I work for the Department of Justice. I realize that can lead to a contentious relationship at times, but—”

  “That’s because you go looking for corruption and don’t stop until you find some, even if you have to twist the facts to get it.”

  “You don’t think police corruption exists?”

  “I know it does. But not to the degree your agency thinks it does. And certainly not to the degree that the federal government itself is corrupt. But you don’t care about that, do you?”

  Curado frowned slightly. “All due respect, Detective, you don’t know anything about me.”

  “True enough,” Clint conceded. “But all due respect, I know your kind.”

  Curado’s brows went up. “My kind? You mean brown people?”

  Clint let out a snort. “Son, please. Don’t try to play the color card with me. Besides, your identification card says Esteban, doesn’t it? But you call yourself Steve. Doesn’t sound to me like you’re too concerned about being in touch with your roots.”

  Curado’s jaw set. “I’m like anyone else of color in this country. I do what I can to make my way. It isn’t always easy.”

  He shook his head at Curado. “Try being a black man in a city that’s ninety percent white. Then have a go at policing that ninety percent for nineteen years. You do that and then maybe I’ll listen to your race concerns. Until then, stow it.”

  He and Curado stared at each other from across the table. Clint could see a quiet fury brewing in the lawyer’s eyes now. All trace of friendliness was gone. That suited Clint fine.

  Finally, in a tight voice, Curado said, “What can I do to convince you to answer a few questions for me, Detective?”

  “Get a court order.”

  Curado exhaled in frustration. “You’re not doing your department any favors.”

  “That’s between me and my department. Are we done here?”

  Curado stared at him for a few moments longer. Then he said, “Yes. We’re finished.” He stood up.

  Clint remained seated.

  “Goodbye, Detective.” Curado didn’t offer his hand.

  Clint said nothing.

  After a moment, Curado left the interview room. Clint listened to him go but didn’t follow him with his gaze. He waited about a minute, then rose and headed back to his desk. It wouldn’t surprise him if Curado was already complaining in Lieutenant Flowers’s office, but he didn’t worry about it. He knew the feds couldn’t compel him to talk without a court order, and he didn’t care if that upset Curado and his pals. By the time they brought any revenge to bear on the department, the Garrett situation would be resolved.

  As Clint approached his desk, he saw Detective Marty Hill standing in front of it, staring down at some paperwork spread below him on the desktop.

  For the first time in a very long while, a cold trickle of dread found its way into Clint’s chest.

  Hill either heard or sensed his approach. He wheeled around, a single piece of paper in his hand. His usually friendly face was twisted in uncustomary rage and his eyes bore into Clint’s.

  “I heard you made a trip to Liberty Lake PD,” Hill snarled.

  “You broke into
my desk?” Clint said weakly.

  Hill ignored his complaint. “They fast-tracked the bullet Rogers brought them, since it was used in a cop’s death. Straight to the front of the line. But you knew they’d do that, didn’t you?”

  “I can explain.”

  “Explain what? That the bullet someone shot Butch Talbott with somehow came from the same gun as the bullet we took out of Ernesto Ocampo’s brain?” Hill’s voice shook with anger. “I’ve been sitting at my desk since I got these results, trying to make sense out of it. I remember that day at the Ocampo scene. You were assigned to help me and Hollander, but you were acting weird. You ran off to do god knows what and then you lied to me about it. I thought that was just you being you.”

  “Marty…”

  “Shut up, Ward.” Hill glared at him. “I called over to Liberty Lake and talked to that detective. He told me it was you who told him to request the bullet analysis on the Talbott bullet. That was the last straw. I knew you were hiding something. I just didn’t know what it was, at least until I pried open your desk drawer.”

  He held up the piece of paper in his fingers.

  “Now I know!” he barked.

  Clint could see the single sheet of paper from where he stood. It was the photomontage he’d created for Nona Henry to look at, to see if she could identify who she saw going into and out of Ernesto Ocampo’s home around the time of the shootings. She’d been certain of her identification, circling the picture of Tyler Garrett with her wavering hand.

  “Is this for real?” Hill demanded. “Your witness ID’d Garrett?”

  Clint nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  Hill let his arm drop to his side. “Unbelievable.”

  “Marty, now that you know, I can explain it all to you. You can help—”

  “Help?” Hill shook his head. “You don’t get it. I’ve got an unsolved quadruple homicide. A fucking quad! And all along, you’ve had the answer. You’ve just been sitting on it. Why?”

  Clint paused, suddenly aware that it was likely other detectives could hear this exchange. Finally, he said, “At the time, it was the only decision I could make.”

  Hill rolled his eyes. “So you just decided to tank my case?”

  “I know it’s hard to understand, but it was the right decision.”

  “Says who? You?” Hill shook his head savagely. “I am sick to death of your always-gotta-be-right, honey badger, on-the-spectrum bullshit!”

  Clint absorbed the insult, hoping that Marty’s rage would expend itself and that they could talk rationally. Once Hill knew everything, Clint was sure he’d help close out the case. His, and Clint’s. “We can make this work,” Clint said evenly. “First, we—”

  “We? There is no we in this situation. You made that decision already.” Hill stabbed a finger at Clint. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “I’m going to the prosecutor and getting a warrant for Tyler Garrett. Then I’m going to the chief. After that, I’ll stop by Internal Affairs, and let them deal with your lying ass.”

  Hill turned around, scooping up Clint’s file from the desk.

  “That’s mine,” Clint said.

  “It’s mine now,” Hill snapped. “All of it should have been mine two years ago.”

  “Marty, I need that file.”

  “Fuck you, Ward.”

  Marty turned and stomped away.

  Clint remained standing a few feet away from his desk. The empty desk drawer stood open. He remembered how easily he’d managed to get into Marty’s desk just a couple of days ago. He never should have left his paperwork so vulnerable.

  That didn’t matter now. What mattered was that the red button had been pushed. The missiles were launched. He only had a short time left before impact.

  Clint stepped to his desk and picked up his phone.

  Chapter 42

  Ray Zielinski sat in the same small conference room where he’d met Dale Thomas earlier in the week. He’d briefly considered having the union president with him for this but rejected the idea. Thomas didn’t seem too interested in helping him these days. Either way, he hoped this upcoming meeting went better than that one had, but he doubted it.

  Through the open door, he saw Captain Farrell walk by in the hallway with a cup of coffee. The man’s head was lowered and he shuffled with the same weariness that Zielinski felt. He had an idea what was weighing on the captain’s mind. He wondered if it were possible that, when everything came out, he might fare better than Farrell did. He doubted that, too.

  Farrell passed out of his field of vision. Zielinski listened to his footsteps until they stopped suddenly.

  “God damn it,” Farrell cursed.

  Zielinski pursed his lips. What was that about? Then he heard someone else ask if Farrell was all right. The captain’s answer sounded forced, as if his voice were stretched thin.

  What is going on with that guy?

  Zielinski listened in fascination to the conversation, straining to hear each word. He figured out quickly enough that the other man was one of the DOJ investigators. The way Farrell spoke to him made the captain seem guilty as hell. He wasn’t even casual in the way he asked what the investigators were doing. Instead, he sounded worried. His excuses were feeble and his explanations lame.

  When he heard his own name mentioned, Zielinski perked up further, but nothing of consequence was said. He found it interesting to hear that they were interviewing Jun Yang, though. He wondered what insight she might have. He’d learned from Clint that Farrell had put her on the team to spy on Garrett. He’d also tried to use Officer Gary Stone in that role.

  Zielinski remembered Stone’s crumpled body in the entryway of a shitty house up in Hillyard. He was glad that he never got close enough to see the damage the shotgun did to the officer’s face. That was the result of Farrell’s plan. He’d messed that up, and now he was up the hall, making more mistakes. Zielinski felt a strange urge to run out of the conference room to stop the captain from talking.

  You’re only making it worse!

  He didn’t have to, though. The conversation finished, and a few moments later, he saw a Hispanic man stride past the conference room toward the Investigative Division.

  Good luck, Ward.

  Another minute passed before he heard more footsteps and a woman came through the door. She was tan, with short blonde hair and long eyelashes. Zielinski could see in her eyes that she meant business.

  Game on.

  “I’m Danielle Watson,” the woman said, extending her hand. “Department of Justice.”

  Zielinski took her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “Ray Zielinski.”

  “Thanks for making the time for me,” Watson said, sliding into the seat next to him. Zielinski caught a waft of her perfume. It was expensive and heady. She set her file on the table in front of her but didn’t open it. “I’ll try to make this quick and painless.”

  “Like dental work,” Zielinski joked darkly.

  Watson gave him a parade float smile. “Let’s get something straight right away, shall we?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve been to Internal Affairs. I know your situation. I have the reports here.” Watson tapped her folder.

  “Okay,” Zielinski said, drawing out the final syllable. “How’d you get that?”

  Watson smirked. “We’re Justice. Now, Officer Zielinski, I’m not saying you might be inclined to be less than cooperative with our inquiry, but I will say that cooperation would probably go a long way toward helping you out with your IA situation.”

  Zielinski digested her words, but they didn’t make sense to him. How would helping DOJ do anything for him in Internal Affairs? He doubted Chief Baumgartner gave a shit what the feds thought about disciplining his own officers. If anything, cooperating might hurt his standing with the chief.

  Watson was staring at him, so he said, “I understand.”

  “Good.” Watson flipped open her file halfway, shielding
his view of the contents. “You were the first officer on scene when Officer Garrett shot Todd Trotter?”

  “I was.”

  “Did you notice anything concerning?”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  Zielinski hesitated. He had noticed something, almost right away. It was the first troubling piece of evidence that eventually led him to where he was sitting now. But he didn’t know if he should share that with her. Then he realized it was already part of the official report, so he forged ahead.

  “His dash camera hadn’t been activated.”

  “That concerned you.”

  He shrugged. “I thought it was odd.”

  “Was it purposeful?”

  “I have no way of knowing that.”

  “What else about that case concerned you?”

  “I had nothing else to do with that case.”

  “No official duties whatsoever?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “How about from afar? What concerns did you develop while watching things play out?”

  Zielinski rubbed his mouth. “I suppose I just hoped everything worked out for the best.”

  “For who?”

  “Everybody.”

  Watson gave him a knowing look. “You’re not that naïve, are you, Officer?”

  Zielinski didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t.

  After a few moments, Watson glanced back down at her file. “All right, moving on then. You arrested City Councilman Dennis Hahn for attempted suicide?”

  “No.”

  She cocked her head at him. “That’s not what the record says.”

  “Then the record is wrong.”

  “You didn’t take Mr. Hahn into custody and transport him to the hospital?”

  “I did,” Zielinski said. “But it wasn’t an arrest. Attempted suicide isn’t against the law.”

  Watson pursed her lips. “Are you being purposefully difficult?”

  “No. I’m just trying to be accurate. I didn’t arrest him for attempted suicide. I contacted him and took him to the hospital for evaluation.”