School of Fish

by Amy Lane

  “Sergio Ivanov,” Hardison said quickly, “we’re on it.”

  “And if you can get me the name of Lindstrom’s CI, I need to hear it. Any info at all. Because they were manipulated away from something by this guy, and it would be helpful to know what.”

  He blew out a breath, and his phone started buzzing. He checked it and saw Henry with: Where the fuck are you? She’s going to ask me to be this baby’s godfather and then deliver it on my feet if you don’t get me out of here!

  “That’s all I can think of for now,” Jackson said, his mouth twisting up. Thank God for his punk-ass partner who was not going to let him take things too seriously. “Now we gotta go. Our next stop is the jail, and we can not let Tage Dobrevk down.”

  “Isn’t Tage a Swedish name?” Fetzer asked.

  Jackson blinked hard. “You know, that’ll be the first thing I ask him,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve got my number. If you can get Chambers up to speed, do that. God, you guys—there’s a line where incompetence gets criminal, and you all are riding it hard, aren’t you?”

  “Fuck you too,” Fetzer muttered, but the words lacked heat, and he saluted her behind his back as he walked away.

  HE FOUND Henry surrounded by cops, all of them looking hopefully at him for ice cream. Lucky for Henry, he’d bought a small ice chest and filled it with Popsicles, as well as the desk sergeant’s cookies and cream.

  Henry gave out the last of the free Popsicles, and the crowd thinned out, leaving an almost tearful Sergeant Kensington forever in their debt.

  “Oh my God,” she gushed to Henry. “You have no idea. That was the nicest thing anyone has done for me in… I absolutely can’t remember. I can’t even tell you how much I needed that.”

  Henry grinned at her and winked. “My sister was pregnant in August. I was told I was lucky I was deployed, because the family isn’t sure how they survived.”

  Kensington laughed, but Jackson’s heart gave a little ping. Henry’s family had pretty much disowned him when he’d come out, and that was before they realized he’d been engaged in an abusive relationship with his sister’s husband. Watching him put a little good ol’ boy in his voice for this nice woman who’d done them a favor made Jackson a little proud of his baby PI. When they’d met, Henry wouldn’t have been able to do that.

  “Well, ice cream helps,” Sergeant Kensington said. “Please let me know what I can do to return the favor.”

  Jackson thought about all those people excited about ice cream and how this woman should have been a little spoiled by her team long before two scruffy PIs came in looking for something. This place had a morale problem. Fetzer and Hardison were promising, but morale was raised by everybody.

  “Are you in charge of sending flowers?” he asked abruptly. “Like if someone’s sick or hurt or something?”

  Kensington frowned. “I’m not sure if anyone is. The captain—”

  “Captain Green?” That’s who had been in charge the year before. He’d promised changes after Jackson and Ellery had busted a corrupt officer in his force, but Jackson had been skeptical.

  “Captain Green’s on medical leave,” Kensington told them. “We’ve got an interim here, Captain Carlton.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Well, you’ve got a detective in the hospital. Do what you can to rally around him, okay?”

  She looked shocked. “Oh my God. Who?”

  And Jackson had to say it again before he and Henry left, practically at a run because they were getting close to being late.

  “AUGH!” JACKSON muttered. “I don’t know if they were crooked, but God their communication sucked ass!”

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “My unit in Iraq was a lot tighter than that.”

  “It’s new people. New, shifting in, uncertain. It’s… they need some fucking leadership there. It’s making me crazy.”

  “You need to let it go,” Henry said as they got to the car. “You absolutely can’t solve everything in one day.”

  “Oughtta be a fucking law,” Jackson grumbled. “God, it’s like I took that time off and the department fell to shit without me, which is stupid because I’ve only been here a handful of times since last year!”

  “Except that’s any sort of system,” Henry explained patiently. “There’s always new people, there’s always uncertainty, and there’s always people who will make it in under the wire. Do you know why you know about this problem right now?”

  Jackson slid into the vehicle and squinted at Henry in confusion. “Because we caught a case.”

  Henry nodded. “Because there are checks in the system. So don’t get your panties in a knot. You can’t fix everything.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes. “You are taking the fun out of my world,” he groused. “Nobody at the fucking hospital!”

  “And you did fix that,” Henry told him. “God, were there not any kittens in trees for you to find?”

  Jackson couldn’t help a small smile, but he wasn’t going to let Henry talk him out of his irritation. Fetzer and Hardison were both good cops, and they deserved better than Lindstrom and Craft.

  But then, so did kids like Tage Dobrevk.

  Jackson had Henry drop him off in front of the jail, telling him to go get their favorite nurses pizza and buffalo wings and check on Sean.

  “You sure I can’t see you interview the kid?” Henry asked, and Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I wouldn’t mind you there,” he said honestly, “but until I know Kryzynski’s okay….”

  Henry caught that and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. Buddy check. It’s all good.”

  Jackson grimaced. “It’s not like I do anything spectacular. I mean, there’s secret arcane words and a few passes with a wand, but you can pick that up on YouTube.”

  “Ha-ha. Fine. Whatever.”

  “Besides,” Jackson said reluctantly, “it’s rough, seeing kids in jail.”

  Henry grunted. “Yeah, I get that.”

  Jackson shook his head. “No, man, it’s really rough.” He shuddered. “But it’s worse seeing them dead, so I gotta get a move on.”

  He slid out of the car and into the lengthening shadows of late-afternoon August.

  The jail facility in Sacramento was recently renovated and not nearly as squat as the PD’s office. White granite, with some graceful curves to the architecture and a stretch of lawn out front, Jackson imagined it was probably a comfort to family members visiting that it didn’t look like the dank cells of the Spanish Inquisition, but that didn’t make it a picnic either.

  After submitting to a wanding and a pat down at the entrance, Jackson showed his ID and gave his name to the admitting officer, who escorted him down the hall to the conference rooms. Ellery was already there with the ADA, the stunningly beautiful and knife-edged deadly Siren Herrera.

  A guard stood in one corner of the room, arms crossed disapprovingly, and next to Ellery at the table was a barely grown teenager in an oversized orange jumpsuit, staring ahead with giant gray shell-shocked eyes. One side of his otherwise paste-white face was black and blue, and his eye on that side was brick red. He was shaking even as he sat.

  “Mr. Rivers,” Herrera said, nodding to Jackson.

  Jackson nodded back and then pulled his chair on the other side of Tage. “Hey, kid,” he said softly.

  Tage actually looked at him, his eyes growing wider and shinier as he did. “Jackson?” he whispered.

  “Yeah. How’s Sascha?”

  Tage’s lower lip trembled, and he cast a watery look at Herrera. “I….”

  “Ms. Herrera,” Ellery said, his voice hard. “We need a few moments alone to confer with Mr. Dobrevk. You have my paperwork on not trying him as an adult, on setting bail, and on keeping him in the infirmary until he’s transported immediately out of here.”

  Herrera nodded. “You do—”

  “I’ve also given you a motion to dismiss because there was no evidence—none—that my client was even capable of the murder he’s acc
used of.”

  “Lieutenant Chambers felt like there was enough evidence—”

  “Lieutenant Chambers didn’t know what she was looking at,” Jackson interceded. “Her two beat cops were there, they briefed her on the scene, and she looked at Tage and said, ‘He’s here, he must have done it.’ There is nothing to indicate this arrest can stand up in court, and if we put the first officers on the scene up on the stand, they’ll tell a jury exactly that.”

  Herrera’s eye twitched. “They were the first on scene?” she asked, her voice squeaking.

  “Yes. Chambers was called in because of the severity of the crime.”

  Herrera closed her eyes. “I hate you guys,” she muttered. “If this was in the PD’s office, they would have pled this down by now!”

  “Well, we got the same police report you got,” Jackson said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “What didn’t you see?”

  Herrera glared at him, and then glared at Ellery. “Where’s the other guy? I liked him better.”

  Ellery raised his eyebrows. “The other guy is training. Wait until he gets his wheels off. He’ll be just as obnoxious, trust me.”

  She snorted. “Look, we can’t just let the kid out of jail after he’s been charged.”

  Jackson stared at her. “Of course you can. That’s why there’s such a thing as dropping charges.” He glanced at Ellery. “Look, we’ve got how much longer here?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” the guard said behind them.

  “Could you go outside and argue with her?” Jackson begged. “Me and Tage will stay here and chat.” He looked at Tage and nodded. “He knows I’m not his lawyer, and nothing we say here is confidential.”

  Tage blinked and shuddered. “I understand.”

  Herrera let out a long breath. “God. Nothing’s easy with you two, is it?”

  “I keep telling you,” Ellery said mildly. “If Arizona kicks a case to you with our names on it, it’s going to be a pain in the ass that she’s tired of dealing with. Just kick the case downhill.”

  Herrera’s eyes sharpened. “That’s making an awfully big assumption about me,” she said. “I care if I’m prosecuting a guilty person or not.”

  “Then stop complaining,” Ellery said simply, and then he stood, gesturing toward the door. “And now, if we can give Jackson some time with the victim—”

  “Accused,” Herrera snapped.

  “He had a concussion,” Ellery told her. “Oh my God, Siren, you need to start reading the police reports with a better eye for detail.”

  “I really fucking do,” she murmured as they left, and Jackson grinned. Well, even good students had to learn the same lesson once or twice. When the door shut behind them, Jackson turned toward Tage.

  “How you holding up?” he asked quietly.

  Tage’s lower lip started the full-on wobble. “Sascha called his friends in prison, and word got here. They’ve been protecting me mostly, but….” He squeezed his eyes shut, and Jackson took in the damage to his face.

  “Nobody’s there twenty-four seven,” he said softly.

  Tage nodded, entire body shaking. “I don’t know what to do,” he breathed.

  Jackson leaned his head closer to hear, and the guard behind him—a giant slab of beef with a ruddy face and thinning brown hair—said, “Sit back, please. We need to see space between you and the prisoner at all times.”

  Jackson nodded at the guard and pulled back. “Okay, buddy, I’m going to tell you what we think happened, and then you can blink twice if I’m right, how’s that?”

  Tage stared at him. “What you think happened? Isn’t that why I’m here? Because the cops think they know what happened?”

  “Yeah,” Jackson said. “But they don’t know what I know, so listen up.”

  “Yes,” Tage said, voice limp and dead. “Go on.”

  “What I think happened is that No Neck and Ziggy were in your laundry room when some bad men came to your apartment building. You were actually doing laundry because you’re a good kid, and the police report says there was a basket of laundry scattered on the floor and covered in No Neck’s blood. So you get down there, see that Ziggy has actually taken a switchblade to No Neck’s throat, and you stare at him, shocked. While you’re staring, someone comes up behind you and knocks you on the head, hard. You go down, and you don’t wake up until you’re surrounded by cops and there’s a dead body next to you. How am I doing so far?”

  “I don’t know this Ziggy,” Tage said, his voice showing uncertainty—and maybe a little hope. “But otherwise, I’m very impressed.”

  “Good,” Jackson said, nodding. He looked at the guard. “I’m reaching for my phone.” The guard nodded and watched while Jackson pulled it out and summoned Ziggy’s picture. He showed it to the guard and then showed it to Tage. “This is Ziggy.”

  It was like he got hit by lightning. Tage’s face went from pasty to green, and he let out a little whimper.

  “That,” Jackson said, tucking his phone back in his pocket, “was Ziggy.”

  “I can’t,” Tage said, shuddering. “I can’t tell—”

  Jackson shook his head. “Not going to make you,” he said. “Let me finish your story.”

  Tage nodded weakly.

  Jackson continued. “So, you wake up, and you’re horrified because that kid almost had his head cut off, and while you start babbling, which is perfectly understandable, your father comes down. And he looks at you, and you know something’s wrong. And he starts to wail ‘My son, my only son!’ and you realize your brother and sister have been taken. Probably by Ziggy’s pals, which you didn’t know about because you were out cold. How you doing?”

  Tage slow blinked. And then quick blinked. And then kept blinking until Jackson held up a hand. “I’m going to take that as yes.”

  Tage actually nodded his head.

  “Now, do you know where your brother and sister are?”

  Tage shook his head no.

  “Do your parents?”

  Tage lifted one shoulder, and Jackson got it.

  “They might, but they’re afraid, so they’re not talking.”

  Tage nodded again.

  “Okay. So, if we let you out of jail, will you and your family be safer or less safe than they are now?”

  Tage’s hands were cuffed to the table in front of him through a bolted-down bar, and at Jackson’s words, he simply laid his head between his arms and cried.

  Jackson looked at the guard, who shook his head no. No touching the prisoner. His body actually shook with the need to comfort.

  “Please,” he begged. “This kid—he doesn’t belong here.”

  “None of them do,” the guard said flatly.

  Jackson tasted bile. He got it. He’d met some guys who would have used that gesture of comfort to disembowel Jackson and then rip their hands out of the handcuffs to get away. Jail, prison, these were ugly places where ugly things were done, and not everyone he and Ellery defended was innocent.

  But this kid was.

  “Kid,” Jackson said, keeping his voice low. “We’re going to do everything we can to get you out of here. We’re going to do everything we can to keep your family safe. But I need to know something—anything—that will help us find your brother and sister, that will help back up your story. What was No Neck doing there? His house was at least a half mile away. Can you at least tell me that?”

  Tage turned his head and blinked at him. “He has family in the apartment complex,” he said gruffly. “His uncle’s family.” He shuddered, his chin crumpling. “It is not a good place, their apartment.”

  Jackson nodded. He got that. Some of the apartments in midtown were like that: solid, working-class families in one unit, gangsters-R-us in the next. A complex like Tage’s—the kind with two-story clusters of apartments spaced closely around the apartment grounds, a pool in the middle, and laundry rooms in every cluster—wouldn’t have security footage. The laundry room itself was a small white-tiled affair with six machi
nes total and two chairs and a folding table as the barest amenities. According to the crime scene photos, Tage had been found in the center aisle, right next to No Neck, except Tage had been breathing.

  “A name, Tage. Something to go on. The police have nothing but that the beat cops don’t think you did it.”

  “Siderov,” Tage whispered, so quietly Jackson could barely hear him. He glanced at the guard, who was listening intently, eyes narrowed.

  “We’re going to try to get you off,” Jackson said, as though repeating Tage’s word. “Are you sure you can’t remember anything else?”

  Tage shook his head, but in that same tone of voice he said one word, one that made Jackson’s blood run cold.

  Jackson breathed out carefully through his nose and without looking at the guard, said, “Don’t worry, we won’t bother your father. He’s dealing with enough already.”

  Tage closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. “Thank you,” he said, this time loud enough to hear.

  At that moment, Ellery and Siren Herrera walked back in. Herrera looked torn. The brown eyes that fell on Tage were not without sympathy. Ellery looked furious, a spot of color on each pale cheek.

  Jackson gave him a bland smile and said, “Counselor, can I have your legal pad?”

  Ellery frowned but handed the folio over without hesitation. “Wha—”

  Jackson raised an eyebrow at him, which was all he needed. Then he wrote—left-handed, hand curved over his pen—two words. He handed the folio back to Ellery, who did a slow blink and then gestured to Herrera, and they left again.

  “Tage,” Jackson said. “This is important. If we get you someplace safe, whether it’s in the jail or in protective custody, I need you to do me a huge favor.”

  Tage sat up a little and wiped his face on his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Don’t talk to anybody. Not police, not friends, not even Sascha, although I think he wants only what’s best for your family. Can you do that for me?”