The Detective Megapack

by Various Writers

  The Baronet glanced keenly at the man with the black pearl, and then quickly at his watch. The smile disappeared from his lips, and his face was set in stern and forbidding lines.

  “And may I know,” he asked icily, “what was the object of your plot!”

  “A most worthy one,” the other retorted. “Our object was to keep you from advocating the expenditure of many millions of the people’s money upon more battleships. In a word, we have been working together to prevent you from passing the Navy Increase Bill.”

  Sir Andrew’s face bloomed with brilliant color. His body shook with suppressed emotion.

  “My dear sir!” he cried, “you should spend more time at the House and less at your Club. The Navy Bill was brought up on its third reading at eight o’clock this evening. I spoke for three hours in its favor. My only reason for wishing to return again to the House to-night was to sup on the terrace with my old friend, Admiral Simons; for my work at the House was completed five hours ago, when the Navy Increase Bill was passed by an overwhelming majority.”

  The Baronet rose and bowed. “I have to thank you, sir,” he said, “for a most interesting evening.”

  The American shoved the wine-card which Joseph had given him toward the gentleman with the black pearl.

  “You sign it,” he said.

  OFFICER DOWN, by Robert J. Mendenhall

  I shift my position and nearly pass out as my bullet-shattered shoulder scrapes against the cold concrete. The stairwell is dark and rancid with the stench of old urine and rotten food. The icy chill intensifies the reek, taunting my boiling stomach. Daring it not to purge.

  Each frantic breath slams into the vapor cloud of the one before it. My fingers are hot pokers and so numb I can’t feel the trigger. I look down at the Glock to reassure myself I’m still holding it.

  And I don’t know what’s more excruciating—the fire in my shoulder or the thought of my partner, up there in the alley, sprawled flat on his back in a steaming pool of his own blood.

  “You out there, Wade? You still alive?”

  The deep, sand-paper voice echoes in the cramped alleyway. Where is he? Crouched behind a rusty dumpster? Down another stairwell? Somewhere above me on a fire escape? Or behind one of those grimy windows draped on the inside with sun-bleached newspaper?

  “What the hell are you doing, Antoine?” I shout back with a voice so high and tight it can’t be my own. But it is. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why?”

  Antoine DeLee is a short, black man in his thirties, but to look at him you would think he’s a decade or more beyond that. He’s a coarse man with pitted skin and Brillo hair. DeLee is a product of the streets, but he isn’t a banger. He’s his own man and runs his own things his own way. And the gangs stay out of his way.

  “You got the fuckin’ balls to ask me that? You set me up, motha fucka.”

  He punctuates the accusation with three rounds fired so close together they could have come from a full auto. The slugs ricochet off the iron fire escape above me, clanging like church bells. I curl into a tight ball as dirty chips of black paint sprinkle over me.

  I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I shriek back, the pain in my shoulder making me light-headed and cotton-mouthed.

  “I trusted you, Wade. I fuckin’ trusted you.”

  My eyes are watering now as the molten iron in my shoulder seeps down the sinews of my left arm. There’s not a lot of blood. I don’t think there’s an exit would, so the bullet is still inside me. He must be using a forty cal or a nine. If he would have hit me with a forty-five slug, my shoulder would be a stump right now.

  My stomach starts to churn. My head swims. I can’t seem to…stay awake…I can’t…

  * * * *

  “Wake up, Jace,” Mary whispered, shaking me until I rolled over.

  “Leave me alone, Mare.”

  “Ssssh. Dad’s home and he’s got his new rookie with him. C’mon.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after two. C’mon, let’s go take a look.”

  “Forget it, Mare. You take a look. I’m goin’ back ta sleep.”

  Mary ripped the blanket off me and padded from my room, her soft giggles the only sound she made. Why she liked to spy on the old man when he brought his trainees home, I never understood. It was a game for her. But she had my blanket so I could either freeze or go after her. I grumbled and slid out of bed.

  Mary was in the dark hallway kneeling behind the banister, peering down between the rails. I dropped down next to her, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted up to us. I could see the old man downstairs sitting at the dining room table. His collar was open and the clip of his tie hung through the top button hole. The three silver sergeant stripes on his arms almost glowed against the navy blue uniform shirt. And each time he moved, the dining room light glinted off the badge on his chest. I never got tired of seeing him in his uniform.

  Mom walked around him and laid a plate on the table in front of him. She wore that pink robe that felt like a towel. It was tied tight and hung all the way down to her matching slippers. I always said it made her look like a grandma. Her hair was messed up from sleep.

  “Thanks, Hon,” the old man said and lifted a sandwich-half to his mouth. Mom patted his shoulders from behind his chair and forced a smile.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something, Roy?” she asked to a part of the table that was out of sight. I could feel Mary tense.

  “No, thanks, ma’am,” a voice said. It was a young voice. Older than mine, but way younger than the old man’s. And not very deep. An average voice. I wasn’t impressed. But Mary was. I could tell by the way she pressed her face against the rails.

  “Okay. Well, then. You both be safe out there.” She bent over the old man’s shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. She said something into his ear that I couldn’t hear. But I could guess. Mom hated the old man’s job. She hated it the most when he worked overnight. He nodded.

  “Night, Tom,” she said.

  “Night, Abby,” he said between bites.

  I pulled my blanket from Mary and we scrambled back to our rooms as Mom climbed the stairs. I eased the door closed and slipped back into my bed, rolled over, and tried to fall back asleep. But I couldn’t. I stared at the ceiling and strained to hear the muffled conversation from downstairs.

  Most of the kids at school thought cops were creeps. Most of the kids at school thought I was a creep because my dad was a cop. But I didn’t care what they thought. I had seen my old man pull a woman out of a burning car. And he wasn’t even on duty. He was a hero. And I wanted to be a hero too. I wanted to be just like him.

  I heard a chair slide back on the hardwood floor, then another. I threw the covers back and dropped out of my bed. I was out the door and back at the railing in a second and, no surprise, found Mary already there.

  The dining room light went out and we watched them make their way through the hallway. The rookie’s footsteps were heavy, unpracticed. The old man’s were light and sure. The rookie came into the light of the hallway and I heard Mary take in a breath. But I didn’t see him—my focus was on the old man.

  The rookie opened the front door and lumbered out. The old man grasped the knob and pulled it behind him as he reached for the hallway light switch. But before he doused the light, he turned. He looked up at us—at me. It was just a nod and a slight smile, but it lit me up even as the hallway light went out.

  We knelt there for long, silent minutes, Mary and me. Each of us lost in our own personal thoughts. How long Mom had been behind us, I didn’t know.

  “Go to bed now, kids,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She stared at the door for a moment, then turned and disappeared into her empty bedroom.

  Mary and I said nothing to each other; we just went back to our own rooms. I climbed underneath my covers and quickly drifted off to sleep, wondering what the old m
an would be doing all night. And dreaming what it would be like to be there with him.

  * * * *

  My eyes open slowly, allowing the blackness to dissipate and the fog to dissolve and the bitter wind of consciousness to arouse me.

  “…Wade? I said are you fuckin’ dead?”

  I don’t answer him. If he thinks I’m dead, he might just…just go away. It’s a ludicrous thought, I know. Maybe he’ll just get the hell out of here and forget about me and Roy. DeLee certainly isn’t worried about someone calling 911. Not in this neighborhood. Not even in broad daylight. They don’t even cry for help when it happens to themselves. They know no one will help. No one will even call for help.

  We’re on our own, me and Roy. If he’s still alive.

  My legs are numb, deep down into the marrow. And yet, my shoulder is a ball of molten iron, burning and throbbing. Bile teases its way up my throat, but I choke it back down. I smell its acid in my sinuses.

  What the hell was DeLee doing here anyway? Dispatch had told us the caller had some information on a drug buy—

  Dispatch. Shit—my portable radio. I can call for help.

  I shift my weight slowly, not wanting to pop my head over the top of the stairwell. Trying not to make any noise. I set the Glock down on the pavement and reach my good hand under my parka. My Motorola should be on my left hip, clipped to my belt. But—nothing. I feel the belt as far around my waist as I can but only find the back of the clip, broken off and stuck between my belt and pants.

  Shit. The portable must have broken loose when I tumbled down the stairs. Shit!

  I snatch up the pistol and hold it close to my chest. I screw my eyes shut. I try to get control of my breathing. But I can’t slow it down, and I can’t stop myself from hyperventilating and I feel the apprehension grow and I feel the panic swell and I feel the frenzy and it makes me dizzy and…

  and…

  * * * *

  “…Officer Jason Wade.”

  I marched straight across the stage, proud and sharp in my navy-blues. My black, low-quarter shoes were like mirrors and you could cut paper with the creases in my uniform trousers. The silver name plate glistened over my right pocket; the embossed shield—my badge—sparkled over my left. My department tie bar was perfectly centered between the third and fourth buttons of my navy blue uniform shirt, holding the navy tie precisely in place. The polished, silver “PD” pins were angled exactly on my collar points. I was a police academy poster boy.

  I stopped three steps in front of the academy commandant and executed a crisp right-face. He held out my diploma. I took it with my left hand and gave him a firm handshake with my right. He said nothing. There wasn’t time. Not with a hundred other cadets behind me waiting for their sheepskins.

  I released his grip, snapped a salute so sharp you could hear the rush of air behind it, dropped it clean, pivoted left, and marched Patton-like off stage.

  The old man was there in the front row in his class “A” dress uniform, the golden lieutenant bars on his shoulders catching the light and scattering it. I glanced down at him as I passed, heading toward the cadet seating area in the academy auditorium. He said nothing but his eyes told me everything. He was proud of me for following the family tradition. Proud of me for graduating top of my class. Proud of me.

  Roy sat next to him in civilian clothes with Mary and their daughter Zoë. He gave me a curt nod. Roy was like a big brother to me. Had been since the old man had been his Field Training Officer. He was a good decade older than me, but for whatever reasons, we had connected.

  I winked at Zoë, who giggled and wiggled her pretty little fingers. Mary’s face was blank, her eyes down-cast and disappointed. She didn’t look at me.

  Mom, of course, wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected her to come, not with how she felt about the department and law enforcement in general. She remarried last year. No, she wouldn’t come anywhere near here; not even for me. I broke her heart when I declared my major in Criminal Justice. I broke her spirit when I passed all the police applicant tests.

  I took my seat as other names were called and looked over at Mary, hoping to catch her glance. She sat in stone silence, her eyes fixed on the foot of the stage, but not really seeing it. She ignored me. Ignored Roy, Even ignored Zoë. Like Mom, Mary had come to despise the job. Mary’s fascination waned as she grew older and saw how the long hours and nights the old man spent away affected Mom. She hated how Mom stayed awake at night, her anxiety barely concealed. Mary hated the old man’s battle with booze. And she hated their arguments. Toward the end, Mary hated the apathy and the coldness and finally, the destruction of our family. The job did that, she was convinced.

  And yet, despite all that, Mary had fallen in love with Officer Roy Bauer and had married herself right into the job. Was she angry with me for following our father into the family business? Or herself for being unable to escape from it?

  She didn’t look at me.

  But Roy did.

  And the look on his face puzzled me. His smile was forced, his eyes guarded. He looked…wounded.

  And then he looked away.

  * * * *

  Mary’s face forms in my thoughts and it captures my breath, taming it with its apathy. Controlling it with its disillusionment. Slowing it with its utter sadness.

  I feel the sweat on my brow and shiver as it chills in the icy air. The ammonia stench of urine is stronger now and I know from the warmth spreading over my thighs that it’s mine.

  My throat is so tight the ache snakes down to my sternum and coils up my brain stem. I can’t think. Why can’t I think? Why am I here sitting in a puddle of my own piss while Roy is up there in a pool of his own bl—

  I hear footsteps echoing down the alley. They’re slow and deliberate and heavy. My eyes throb from behind. He’s coming.

  He’s coming to kill me…

  But why?

  DeLee stops. Christ, can he hear my heartbeat? Can he see my breath? Is he above me?

  My finger tightens on the trigger and I brace myself.

  And then I hear a voice. It’s weak, but it’s Roy. Suddenly my throat is open, my eyes are clear. I see Mary’s face in my thoughts again, still sad, still lost. He’s alive, Mare. And I’m going to bring him home to you.

  “L-l-look, Antoine,” Roy says. I’ve never heard him sound so weak. So afraid. Just keep him talking buddy. Keep him distracted. I grit my teeth and shift to a kneeling position, careful to keep my head below the top of the stairwell. “I-i-it’s not what you think…”

  “And what the fuck do I think, Bauer? Do I think it was someone else who told the Disciples I was gunnin’ for ’em?”

  “Antoine, I don’t know—”

  The shot catches me by surprise and I flinch even as Roy cries out.

  * * * *

  The cork shot from the bottle and spiraled to the floor, a frothy tail of champagne snaking behind it. We laughed and they pushed their flutes into the foam. I poured into as many as I could, but I splashed more out of the glasses than in.

  Roy stepped in when the last glass had been topped off and draped his arm over my shoulder. I could smell the hard stuff on his breath.

  “A toast,” he said a bit thickly, jerking his glass in the air. “Officer Jason “Kid” Wade…” I winced at the nickname. Only Roy had ever called me Kid. At first it was annoying. Then endearing. Then annoying again. Now—

  “No, make that Detective Third Grade Jason Wade. Five years on the job, and already in the Bureau. Took me over ten.” The laughter waned. “But what the hell, he’s proven himself, right?”

  No one was laughing now. The silence that followed was long and caked with uneasiness. I had lived under the shadow of my father and his influence since I first hit the street. I was Thomas Wade’s son. The Captain’s boy and I had it dicked. It seemed like I got all the sweet deals. The best beats. The newest squads. The most experienced partners.

  Oh, I got all those things, all right. But the truth was that beats
were assigned by rotation and the newest squads replaced the oldest ones and I just happened to get lucky with partners. But it certainly seemed like my old man was greasing it for me.

  But getting into the Bureau was me, all me. I maxed the detective exam. I aced the orals. My arrest record was right up there and my court conviction rate was in the top percentile. My disciplinary record was spotless. I qualified as Expert on both handguns and assault rifles.

  Yes, it was true that I barely had the minimum time-in-service. But for graduating at the top of my academy class I had drawn a Letter of Commendation from One Police Plaza. That, and one Honorable Mention and two Department Commendations in my personnel jacket, had offset my lack of time on the job.

  I made the Bureau on my own merits, not because I had a China-man. I made the Bureau on professionalism, not nepotism.

  Why couldn’t Roy see that?

  I tensed, not knowing what he was going to say next, waiting for the drunken tirade about how he was the better cop but I was the golden boy. Instead, he said nothing. He just stared over my shoulder and I turned to see what he was looking at.

  Mary stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, a familiar look on her face. It was the same expression I had seen at my graduation and countless times since. Disappointment and loss. And perhaps a bit of shame? She turned her back on us and angled into the kitchen, out of sight.

  Roy took his arm from my shoulder and smiled meekly at the small gathering of friends. “Here’s to you, Kid,” he said. “I hope I make Detective-One before you do.” He chuckled and downed the last of his glass, and we all chuckled back, relieved at the lighter tone.

  Roy said nothing to me the rest of the night.

  * * * *

  “Jesus! Jesus!” Roy screams.