With both chairs already occupied, Reed moved to the table against the wall and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. He stared back as all three seemed to measure him, waiting for someone else to open up the discussion.
In a move that didn’t surprise Reed in the slightest, Brandt took the floor.
“I want to pull you from this case,” she said, the words flat, her voice honed of any trace of femininity. “Your captain seems to think that would be hasty. You have three minutes to explain why you should stay.”
The air slid from Reed’s lungs as his mouth fell open. He instantly felt his wet hair begin to itch as blood rushed to his scalp, sweat appearing on his upper lip.
“You called me in here this morning to tell me I’m being punted?”
Nobody in the room moved, or made an attempt to answer the question.
“Two minutes and fifty seconds.”
Reed opened and closed his mouth twice as he looked at her perched on the edge of her seat, a tiny flicker of rage welling within him. As the Chief of Police, it was well known that she had the authority to assign cases and had on many occasions. The fact that half the precinct was now working the Near East Side murders proved that.
This though, calling him first thing in the morning and making him beg for a case, was too much.
“Why the hell would you pull me off now?” Reed asked, hostility apparent in his tone.
“Two and a half minutes,” Brandt said, raising her voice to match his own.
Breaking eye contact, Reed glanced over to Grimes, who remained behind his desk, his fingers laced over his stomach. The scowl on his face was a little deeper than usual, but otherwise there was no reaction at all.
“I knew it,” Brandt said, shifting her attention back to Grimes, “this high school gym teacher you’ve assigned the case to is out of his league. I’m bringing in the big boys.”
The backhanded comment at his appearance coupled with the blatant questioning of his capability brought the feeling of indignation higher in Reed’s chest, pressing down on his torso so hard he had to force air in and out. The sound of his breathing echoed through the room as he pushed his hips against the table, dropping his hands by his side, both curled into fists.
“I’m not even going to dignify this little charade you’re trying to play with an answer,” Reed asked, heat flushing his features, his voice just south of a yell. “I am an experienced detective with this department and I don’t have to beg for cases.
“I will tell you this though, in the last twenty-four hours I’ve made more progress working with a dog than your damn big boys will make in a week. I know this case, and I know these streets, and I know for a fact I will catch the sonuvabitch doing this.”
For so long Reed had felt pinned up, forcing himself to bite his tongue. Lashing back at Iaconelli and Bishop the night before had felt good, but this was on an entirely different level. Months had passed of his feeling repressed, going through the motions, not sure of himself or his abilities.
Now, that feeling was gone.
The looks on the faces of both Brandt and Dade bore that he was walking a fine line between confidence and insubordination.
At the moment, he didn’t much care.
He inched forward another half step, far enough away not to be threatening, but close enough to make Brandt look up at him.
“How much time do I have now?”
The flinty veneer of the chief’s face broke just a bit as her lips parted, a muted sound passing over them. She stared at him a long moment, not saying a word.
“That’s what I thought,” Reed said.
In the background, the sound of Billie barking from the parking lot could be heard, no doubt a reaction to the sudden explosion from Reed. For a moment he fought back a smirk before turning and exiting the room.
Nobody said a thing as he left.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Less than four miles separated the 8th Precinct from the Columbus department headquarters, an easy drive through the pre-rush hour streets of downtown. The entire ride Reed sped with both hands gripping the steering wheel, twisting it so tight shreds of rubber peeled away, dropping onto his jeans.
In the backseat Billie paced back and forth, an animal in perpetual motion, feeding off the change in Reed.
Both were ready for movement, springs that had been coiled tighter and tighter, ready to burst forward at the first available target.
Eight minutes after leaving the 8th, Reed pulled to a stop outside the headquarters. Different in every way from his home precinct, it was a sprawling structure made entirely of grey stone, resembling the kind of thing he once saw on a class trip to Washington D.C.
Standing three stories tall, an arched rotunda rose from the middle of it, a flag pole extended high, the colors already flying for the day. Across the street pale sunlight reflected off the Olentangy River, early morning joggers dotting the landscape.
Eschewing the visitor lot a story underground, Reed pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the street. He knew his police issue plates would be enough to keep him from getting a ticket in the metered space, climbing straight out and clipping the short leash onto Billie.
He had made the mistake of leaving her behind once already on the morning, he wouldn’t do so again.
Side by side they jaywalked across Marconi Street to the front of the building, falling in with a steady flow of foot traffic. At the front door Reed flashed his badge to the guard on duty who barely noticed it, instead focusing on Billie as he waved them through.
The front door opened up into the main of the rotunda, an enormous circular space with hallways shooting off in various directions. Filling them were scads of people in both uniforms and suits, all holding coffee, their gazes aimed down at the floor.
Using a directory affixed to the wall, Reed determined they were headed to the second floor, the first floor reserved for administrative personnel, the top for ranking officers.
Bypassing the elevators for the stairs, together he and Billie ascended to the second floor and found the office they were looking for, a pair of glass double doors in the center of the building welcoming them in. On the frosted panels were the words COLUMBUS POLICE DEPARTMENT - GANG UNIT, all etched on with uniform height and thickness.
The front desk sat empty as they entered, a glance to the clock on the wall showing it was still just shortly after seven. With Billie pressed against his leg he leaned across and confirmed the computer had not yet been started for the day before raising a hand to his mouth and calling, “Hello?”
Movement sounded from the back as a moment later a middle-aged man with sandy brown hair and a matching mustache emerged. Standing a few inches shorter than Reed he was dressed in jeans and a sports coat, wiping his hands on a paper towel.
“Hello,” he said, a single word relaying the exhaustion Reed knew most middle-management police officers were perpetually under. “Detective Mattox?”
“Yes, sir,” Reed said, making sure to clear any lingering hostility from his voice. He had a feeling it would be a long time before it left his system, though he needed to be sure not to level any at others, especially someone whose help he needed.
“Sergeant Brooks Morris,” the man said, shaking Reed’s hand and looking down at Billie. He regarded her a long moment before asking, “Belgian?”
“She is,” Reed said, his eyebrows rising a bit in surprise. “You K-9?”
“In a previous life,” Morris replied. “Never seen one all black before. Good looking girl you’ve got there, must scare the hell out of perps.”
For the first time in days a smile hit Reed’s face as he nodded. “Yes, that she sure does.”
“Come on back,” Morris said, waving a hand at him. “I apologize for the early hour, but I’m in task force meetings most of the day.”
“Not at all,” Reed said, “just appreciate you making the time.”
He followed Morris into a small, square office with w
indows on one wall and a standard pattern of government issue furniture filling the space. A desk, chair, computer, book case sat on one side, a couple of chairs and a small table on the other.
Different arrangement than Grimes’s office, but the same allotment of goods.
“So, what can I do for you this morning, Detective?” Morris asked, lowering himself into his seat.
Across from him Reed did the same, Billie going flat to her stomach as well. Reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt Reed extracted a color printout of the image on Edwin Mentor’s arm, passing it across the desk.
“I know you’ve got a ticking clock, so I’ll get right to it. You know that murder at Midwestern Paper the other night?”
Morris winced as he accepted the paper, the thick folds in it keeping it bent at an odd angle. “Yeah?”
“Well, it’s starting to have all the earmarks of a serial. More just like it, praying every second that I don’t get a fourth.”
The wince remained in place as Morris stared at him, not yet having looked down at the paper. “And you suspect gang activity?”
Reed raised his right hand and laid it flat on edge, wagging it at Morris, his face scrunched up. “Possibly? I’ve got a lead on something that I strongly suspect of at least affiliation, but I can’t be certain.”
“And that’s why you asked to see me?”
“It is,” Reed said, motioning to the picture still grasped in Morris’s hand a few inches above the desk. “That insignia has been found on the forearms of all three victims so far. I ran it through the system last night, but nothing came back.”
The explanation was a slight exaggeration of the truth, though close enough Reed felt reasonably certain sharing it.
Smoothing the paper down flat, Morris leaned forward and stared at it a long moment before shaking his head. “Can’t say it looks familiar, but I’m sure you can imagine how many of these cross my desk in a given year.”
“Probably more than either of us would want to admit,” Reed said.
“Not just probably,” Morris corrected, pushing himself back upright in his chair. “And certainly more than the guys upstairs would ever confess to.”
A reflexive smirk slid from Reed as he thought of his encounter that morning with Brandt, though he remained quiet.
“That’s part of why this task force was put together,” Morris said, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and folding his hands in his lap. “These groups are popping up and dissolving faster than we can track. One day, a handful of guys get together, design a logo, start knocking out crimes like they’re a damn small business start-up.
“A year later they decide they’ve had their fill, go back to whatever life it was they were living beforehand.”
Reed nodded, not so much surprised at the sheer volume of such occurrences but at the sudden disbandment of them.
“So just like that, they fall apart?”
“Just like that,” Morris said. “Usually happens when one of two things occur. First, they finish whatever it was they set out to do. That’s not as common, as more likely they get a taste of success and keep going. Few ever just stop.
“The second, which is the complete flip side, is something happens to divert them the opposite direction. Somebody gets hurt, gets pinched, gets shot.”
“The proverbial scared straight,” Reed said, his gaze shifting to the window, thinking of everything he’d just been told.
“Exactly,” Morris said.
If whatever group this emblem belonged to fit the profile Morris was describing, it made sense. Reed had seen ample sign of the major outfits in the area before, plastered onto every flat surface in The Bottoms in various shades of spray paint.
Until the day before, never once had he seen the script K.
“Can you tell me,” Reed asked, shifting his attention back to face forward, “is there anywhere that image might be stored outside of the general system? Maybe someone undercover or something be keeping it off the books?”
A long moment passed as Morris stared across at him before the left corner of his mouth turned upward in a weary smile.
“I honestly wish it were that easy, but the truth is I could have saved you trip this morning. If it isn’t in the general database, we don’t have it.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The old man had said late afternoon, but the Boat Man didn’t have that kind of time to wait. Already he had put his plans on hold for a day, a pause that could potentially undo everything he had worked so hard for.
In the months that led up to the commencement of action, there was no predetermined time frame. It could have started in April or August, rain or shine, weekday or weekend. The only thing of paramount importance was that once the initial strike was made, once dominos started to fall, they must do so with speed and precision.
The damage to his blade was a fluke accident that was unforeseeable. It had cost him a precious day, one that could have sent his targets into hiding, disappearing into obscurity or raising their security to a level that would have ensured the Boat Man’s mission became a kamikaze run.
His observations the night before had showed they either hadn’t yet put together the connection or had failed to give their enemy his proper due.
Either way, he couldn’t risk waiting any longer and letting them come to their senses.
The bell above the door to the Japanese man’s shop rang once as the Boat Man stepped inside, the scent of incense engulfing him. It was so strong it brought a sheen of moisture to his eyes as he turned away, moving down the first aisle, feigning interest at the items on the shelf as the man rang up an elderly couple at the front counter.
The Boat Man could hear them talking as he pretended to browse packets of dried spices, knowing each one by name, all reminders of a life he once knew.
Would never know again.
Tucked away in the back of the store he waited until he heard the bell a second time before traversing up through the second aisle, the old man standing at the front counter, both hands pressed into the glass, waiting for him.
He wore a dour expression as he watched the Boat Man approach, shaking his head.
“Nintai ha iwa o mo toosu,” he said in his native tongue, his voice conveying his age, the grave nature of the words he was reciting.
The Boat Man felt his eyebrows come together as he reached the front counter, resting his wrists on the edge of it. “Meaning?”
“Patience will pierce even a rock,” he replied. “Japanese proverb.”
It was plain what the old man was trying to say, but the Boat Man had no interest in hearing it. He had a plan to complete, a promise to fulfill. Either the old man could help with that, or he could get out of the way and let the Boat Man find somebody that could.
“Ain’t nobody got time for that,” the Boat Man replied. “Sweet Brown.”
A moment passed as the two stood off from each other, neither blinking, the sweet smoke of burning incense rising between them.
“Is it done?” the Boat Man asked, trying to mask the anxiousness, the anticipation in his tone.
Still the old man remained frozen a long moment before stepping back and bending at the waist. The Boat Man fought the urge to lean forward for a better look, waiting until the old man emerged, the ken sword stretched across the same green cloth.
The air caught in the Boat Man’s chest as he looked down at it, the notch now indecipherable in the polished steel. He felt his heart beat increase as he leaned forward, wanting so desperately to run his fingertips along the gleaming blade, to feel and know it was whole once more.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his attention aimed downward. “You do good work, sir.”
Remaining a step back from the case, the old man bowed forward a few inches at the waist, turning his head in acceptance of the praise.
“You are welcome.”
Sliding his hand forward and wrapping his fingers around the base of the weapon, the Boat Man hefted it up
ward. He extended it to arm’s length and looked down the extent of it, the design as straight and true as the moment it had first arrived to him.
Every fiber in his body wanted to twist the blade through the air, turning it in a slicing pattern, already envisioning his targets, his plans for the evening now complete.
Digging into the pocket of his pants, he extracted a large roll of cash and placed it on the table, the implication obvious that it was all in appreciation for work well done.
“I do not know where you got this sword or what purpose it truly serves,” the old man said, “but it was an honor to work on it. I only hope I did it justice.”
A cruel smile stretched across the Boat Man’s face as he slid the sword back into its scabbard, slinging it across his back.
The meting of justice had only just begun.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Something didn’t sit right with Reed. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, more a conglomeration of a lot of different comments and misshapen facts that were aligned in a jumble in his mind. At this point, given the kind of information he’d gleaned out in the last day, things should be coming together. The finish line itself might not be in sight yet, but he should at least be seeing the connective threads that tied things to one another.
Thus far, that wasn’t happening. Instead, the pile of mismatched facts was getting bigger.
Added to the mix just that morning was the discussion with Morris. There was apparently no mention of whatever group the tattoo on the victims belonged to anywhere in the Gang Task Force system, yet somehow they had done something bad enough to earn the spite of someone in the community.
A full day of digging through the precinct records had also turned up blank on the insignia. It was as if it didn’t exist, or somehow had never once surfaced on the radar of law enforcement in the area.
In a space as small as The Bottoms, that seemed almost impossible.
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