‘One or two,’ Chase said, standing up with both hands full of papers. ‘Come to think of it, make that twenty or thirty. Joe and Stan Feltzer are still checking them out. I had to take Casey to the doctor this morning. Looks like I’m going to be a father.’
‘Accident?’ Stryker grinned.
Chase shook his head. ‘No – but a surprise. I didn’t even know I was pregnant.’
‘Give Casey my congratulations. And Jake . . .’ Chase looked up from sorting the files. ‘Get someone else to hold the baby during the Christening.’
‘You bet,’ Jake laughed.
Stryker closed the door and waited for the next crash. When it didn’t come, he started back to his desk, whereupon there was a sound of rending fabric. He didn’t turn around, just raised an eyebrow at Tos, who stood up slightly to look through the glass door.
‘Captain Klotzman’s dress uniform, just back from the dry cleaners,’ Tos said. ‘It was hanging—’
‘Spare me,’ Stryker said. He stood and thought, then turned to Neilson. ‘Okay – if Ned is still in court, then you and Dana go down to City Hall and see what you can dig up on the ownership and backing of the French Street mission.’
‘Great,’ Neilson enthused, looking at Dana and nodding. ‘We’ll find it, whatever it is, right?’
‘Sure,’ she said, in a dull voice. He glanced at her in surprise, but she didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I have all the Washington listings in my briefcase – all we need to find is one name, a person or a company or anything – and it will give us an edge we can start to peel back.’
‘Good.’ He kept watching her, wondering what was wrong. She had been silent ever since she and Stryker had returned, staring out of the window and taking no part in the conversation. He could feel the tension in her clear across the room. ‘What do you think it is?’ Neilson asked Stryker. He tore his eyes from Dana. ‘I mean, what do you think the connection is?’
‘I’m still not convinced that there is a connection.’ Stryker was walking around the office again, back and forth, back and forth, but never near the window, where Dana stood looking out at the building opposite, an extremely dull edifice that offered no visual stimulation whatsoever. She seemed to find it fascinating. ‘I think Hawthorne was killed for some other reason altogether, but until we figure out what it is, we might as well pursue Dana’s line. Okay?’
‘Okay by me.’ Neilson was delighted with the prospect of an afternoon in Dana Marchant’s company. As he recalled, Municipal Records were housed in long, dark corridors and small, isolated rooms. Who knows, who knows? he thought to himself, watching her. This could be Harvey Neilson’s lucky day. She was beautiful, she was single, and something had obviously gotten under her skin. Whatever it was, he had the afternoon to make it better. He knew a dozen ways.
Stryker turned to Tos, who had been watching him closely. ‘Problem?’
‘No,’ Tos said, raising his hands in mock defence. ‘No problem here. How about you?’
‘I’m fine, for crying out loud. I’d be even better if you’d stop staring at me. What makes you think there’s anything wrong with me? I even ate a salad for lunch – happy?’
‘Thrilled,’ Tos said, drily.
‘Okay, you and me, we go down to French Street again. Rivera is down there, and he might have something for us.’
‘Fine.’
Stryker turned to Neilson. ‘Did Ned say how long he thought he’d be in court?’
Neilson shook his head. ‘Nope. He says he sat there all morning, but they got tied up with other witnesses – something about Bronkowsky’s drug connections – and now they might not even get to him this afternoon, but he has to hang around just in case.’
‘Who’s Bronkowsky?’ Dana asked.
‘One of the big boys here in Grantham,’ Stryker said. ‘Has his fingers in a lot of pies, and what he doesn’t like he spits out. His last rejected item was a set of twins named Clancy who had been on his payroll, but accepted an outside assignment – to bump off Bronkowsky himself.’
‘Who gave them the assignment?’ she asked.
‘Nobody knows for sure, since they’re now very dead themselves and not saying much. Guesses range from his wife, who has been playing around but hates to let go of his money, to a couple of up and coming rivals who would very much like to take over some of his business interests. Bronkowsky is a very rich man.’
‘Taxes?’
‘They tried – he has some good fronts and some even better accountants. No, they have to get him on this one, and the DA is working hard. Trouble is, he’s a little strapped for evidence, thanks to a dirty cop named Leary who knows the answers but has to be kept off the stand.’
‘But if he knows the answers . . .’
‘He knows a lot of other stuff, too,’ Tos put in. ‘Stuff that would louse up this particular case but good – as well as opening up several cans of worms the Department would like to keep sealed and on the shelf. He threatens to spill it all if he’s called – and if he’s called, the defence attorney will give him every opportunity to do just that, in order to take the attention of the jury off his client.’
‘Why doesn’t the defence attorney just call him?’
‘Because the DA subpoenaed him for the prosecution. You can’t do both sides.’
‘He could call him as a hostile witness.’
‘That would give the DA a chance to cross-examine him on the Clancy killings. I think it’s called a Mexican stand-off. So he goes to court and sits there – but nobody says a word to him.’
‘But that’s—’
‘Expedient,’ Stryker said, repressively. ‘We like to clean up our own messes without benefit of media. Maybe they do things differently in Washington.’
‘That’s where the art was perfected,’ Dana said. ‘We have canned worms, too.’
Stryker started to put on his leather jacket, then thought better of it and threw it over his chair, choosing instead the soft tweed that Kate had bought him for Christmas. It would remind him of her every time he looked down. He thought being reminded of Kate would be a good idea at the moment. He wondered what she was doing – which was definitely not a good idea. Damn all Englishmen, anyway.
‘Was Leary in court?’ he asked Neilson.
‘Ned said he left about half-way through the morning. I don’t know why the bastard sits there day after day, he knows he’s never going to get called. Ned said things lightened up considerably once he went out.’
‘The spectre at the feast,’ Stryker said, reaching for his old tweed cap and pulling it down over his eyes.
‘Hey–you’re under arrest!’ Neilson said. Stryker scowled at him, and Neilson gave him a dumb grin. ‘That’s the kind of cap the killer wears,’ he said.
‘My cap is only guilty of dandruff,’ Stryker said. ‘Anything else is purely coincidental. Coming?’
Tos rose from his chair and joined Stryker. ‘What kind of salad?’ he asked the smaller man, as they went out the door. ‘What else did you have?’
Neilson looked over at Dana. ‘It’s a nice day and about a ten-minute walk to City Hall. Or would you rather drive?’
She dragged her eyes away from the fascinating blank face of the building opposite and looked at him. He was clean and neat and very attractive in his way. He was probably a bastard, though – they all were, weren’t they? Did it matter? Probably not.
‘Let’s walk,’ she said. ‘You can tell me your life story on the way.’
Neilson was startled, but game. ‘You got it,’ he grinned.
THIRTEEN
‘There he is.’
‘That’s not him.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘Oh, come on . . .’ Tos squinted at the shabby figure lurching along French Street, with its torn overcoat flapping around its ankles, matted filthy hair, and several days’ growth of bea
rd Under the coat were several ragged sweaters and a pair of enormous trousers held up with a length of clothes-line. ‘That’s not Mike Rivera. I know Mike Rivera. I partnered him for six months just after we got out of training.’
The pathetic figure turned and made a filthy gesture at their car as they passed, shouting an obscenity after them. Stryker drove on for about a block, then turned into an alley and cut the engine. ‘It is,’ he said.
‘Never.’
After a few minutes the shabby figure appeared beside Tos’s door and rapped on the window. Tos rolled it down and then pulled back as the figure leered in at him showing blackened teeth and exuding a strong odour of cheap gin. ‘Hiya, wop,’ the figure said.
‘My God,’ Toscarelli said. ‘You little spic bastard – that’s a hell of an outfit.’
‘My mother knitted it for me,’ Rivera grinned.
Tos grinned back. ‘She does good work.’
Stryker leaned forward to peer around his partner’s bulk. ‘How’s it going, Mike? Got anything for us?’
‘I think maybe. It’s nothing definite yet, but I got a feeling about this Cot place. Some of the people there are not so bad-off as they make out, you know? Their dirt doesn’t go much deeper than mine does. I think the place is being used for something, but I haven’t cracked it yet. I have to get closer in. I’m a new face, they’re being careful, maybe a day or two more. Maybe a week, if it’s something they’re really protecting. You know? Takes time.’
‘We leave it to you,’ Stryker said. ‘But if you come up with anything, get it to us pronto, yeah? Especially if it’s anything connected with something called Abiding Light.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I got all that,’ Mike said, impatiently. ‘I’m working on it, okay?’ He glanced up the alley and then suddenly fell backward against a skip. ‘Hey – what the hell! Leave me alone!’
Stryker glanced in the mirror. ‘Friends coming – make it quick.’
In a flash Toscarelli had the door opened and was out, grabbing a fistful of Rivera’s filthy coat and shaking him like a dog shakes a rat. ‘You scummy little bastard!’ he shouted into Rivera’s face. ‘Next time be careful who you mouth off to, right? You understand me? You got that?’
‘Lay off Lay off!’
Down at the mouth of the alley several disreputable characters had joined the first man, who had taken three steps into the alley, seen the car and Rivera, and had stopped to stare.
‘I got a mind to teach you a lesson, you piece of shit!’ Tos yelled.
‘Leamme, leamme alone!’ Rivera squealed. ‘I done nothin’, I din’ mean nothin’, leamme go!’
‘Son of a bitching little scumbag!’ Tos yelled, and with a sweep of his hand he knocked Rivera up and over the edge of the skip. There was a thud as Rivera’s well-padded figure hit the bottom inside. ‘That’s where you belong!’ He made a show of dusting his hands, then turned toward the mouth of the alley. ‘Anybody else got any smart remarks about my mother?’ He made a menacing step toward them, and they scattered. ‘Bums!’ he bellowed after them.
He turned back and started to get into the car. ‘You all right in there, Rivera?’ he asked, sotto voce.
Rivera’s voice reverberated dismally within the metallic confines of the skip. ‘Yeah. Wonderful.’
Tos chuckled, and got into the car. Stryker gunned the engine. They sped out of the alley and turned with a squeal of tyres toward a better neighbourhood.
‘How is it that Mike works this thing of his?’ Tos asked. ‘Nobody seems to know the details. And how come we got him on this?’
‘We haven’t, exactly,’ Stryker said. ‘We just sort of got added to his list. He’s been down here on and off for the past six months, undercover, working up a character. Some new approach they’re letting him develop. He comes, he goes, the others get used to him being around, and they open up. He’s dropped some pretty good stuff in – more reliable than using snitches because he knows how to ask and how to listen. It’s on a year’s trial. At the moment he’s trying to “dry out” at the Cot.’
‘Must play hell with his home life,’ Tos reflected.
‘I hear he hasn’t got one, any more. His wife divorced him after their boy got killed. I’m not sure whether she blamed him or the Department or what – she was a cop, too, she should have known as well as anyone how these things happen. Mike coped with it, she didn’t. She left, he stayed on – and I guess she couldn’t stand that. Anyway, since then Rivera has put everything into the job. Real gung-ho, I hear. His loss, our gain.’
‘Sort of like Merrilee Trask,’ Tos said. ‘Except I presume he hasn’t been beating people up.’
‘The reverse, from the look of him. I hope he thinks it’s worth it.’
‘Would you?’ Tos asked.
Stryker thought about it. ‘I don’t think so. I’m not that dedicated.’
‘Not since Kate came along, you mean?’ Tos asked, slyly.
‘I guess so.’
They drove on a few blocks in silence. Tos glanced sideways at his friend and partner, then ventured to speak again. ‘That Dana is really something, isn’t she?’
‘You, too?’
‘Sure, why not? I’m human, I’m normal, I’m available.’
‘I thought you and Liz Olson had a thing going.’
‘Off and on, sure, but I haven’t signed the pledge or bought the ring or anything. Not like you.’
Stryker kept his eyes on the road, slowed for a stop sign, then drove on. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Tos shrugged, over-casually. ‘Anybody can be tempted.’
‘Not everybody gives in to it.’
‘Sure. And not everybody gets so goddamn crabby about it.’
Stryker clenched his jaw. ‘Observant bastard, aren’t you?’
‘I am a professional detective of some years’ experience,’ Tos said, smugly. ‘Also I know you like a brother. You and Kate are having problems, right? That’s why you didn’t go to England with her.’
‘She doesn’t want to marry a cop.’
‘Who does?’
‘Other cops – sometimes.’
‘Isn’t any better that way – Rivera’s wife was a cop, wasn’t she? That didn’t work. Butterfield married a cop, Schuster married a cop, they all busted up. It’s not the kind of job you have, it’s the kind of person you are. Or aren’t.’
‘I like you better when you stick to telling me what I should eat,’ Stryker said. ‘When you get married or set up house with someone, then I’ll listen to your advice to the lovelorn.’
‘I’m also available for consultation on interior decoration, travel, investments, and the removal of warts,’ Tos said.
‘I need some coffee,’ Stryker said. ‘Call in a break for us, will you? What about the Robin Hood on Greenfield?’
‘Okay – I like their bran muffins. They use those big raisins in them,’ Tos said, reaching for the radio to notify their destination to Despatch.
The bran muffins were apparently up to scratch, for Tos ate four, scowling at Stryker’s choice of a cinnamon jelly doughnut, but saying nothing about it aloud. They said very little, in fact, but sat avoiding one another’s eyes, absorbed in their individual thoughts, taking stock. A pause in the day’s occupation.
When they emerged into the car park at the side of the restaurant, there was a slight chill in the breeze, and cloud had built up from the north. It looked like spring would be a little short this year. Toscarelli went around to the passenger side and got in, but Stryker stood beside his open door, gazing up at the sky.
The first shot was low.
It caught him in the left shoulder, throwing him against the door. The hinges protested, but their metallic groan was lost in his shout of pain.
‘What the hell, Jack?’ asked Toscarelli from inside the car, because he hadn’t heard the distant r
eport, and only saw Stryker lose his balance as he cried out.
Then he saw the blood.
‘Jesus!’ He reached for the radio handset. The second bullet shattered the rear window but never made it to the windscreen.
Toscarelli’s head deflected it.
Stryker, who was sliding down the door and clutching his shoulder, saw the impact – saw the flying chips of bone and the blood. He screamed ‘No!’ in rage and protest as Tos was flung forward against the dashboard and then fell back on the seat, his face unrecognisable under the flooding mask of blood.
There were no more shots.
‘Tos . . . Tos . . .’ He called to his partner, but saw nothing, heard nothing that said warmth, breath, life. He lifted himself from the ground and worked his way across the seat under the steering wheel, reaching out with the hand that still worked, feeling the blood sliding down the one that hung uselessly by his side. It tickled as it ran between the hairs of his arm. It didn’t seem right that it should tickle when everything else was hurting. He touched Tos, briefly, then found the coiled plastic lead, followed it, and pulled the handset from under his partner’s motionless body. He pressed the button to transmit.
‘Code nine – officer down. Robin Hood Grill, Greenfield Road near Telegraph. Code nine, Code nine,’ he said into the microphone. There was a crackle, a tinny voice from the speaker underneath the dashboard, a sound of questions he was having trouble understanding. He was in between a rock and a hard place, between shock and pain, between anger and despair, and things were difficult there. He drew a breath, fighting the pain, and screamed into the handset.
‘OFFICER DOWN!’
Someone was choking, someone was sobbing, and he hoped it wasn’t him but he had a terrible feeling it was because he couldn’t see Tos very well now. It was as if he were watching television, and the picture was bad, kept wavering, kept threatening to disappear altogether. The big man was just lying there, with the blood pouring down his face and dripping off his nose and chin – already there was a big puddle on the floor. The blood just kept on coming, the puddle was just getting bigger and bigger, and nobody was doing anything about it. It was a disgrace. Somebody should do something about it. He pressed the button on the handset again.
Backlash Page 10