by Amy Lane
“I don’t know,” Galen said, moving in anyway. “The way you’re talking to yourself, my life might be in danger.”
Ellery smiled. Galen had pretty much pried his way into the firm after he and Henry had come knocking on the door, asking for help. He’d been new in town, and he’d needed to pass the bar in California in order to practice law, and Ellery had the feeling that in spite of being very much in love with his porn-mogul boyfriend, he’d been a little lonely.
Well, most of Ellery’s friends now were people he’d gained from knowing Jackson, so Ellery could relate. It was nice to have a peer to talk to, someone who thought like you did without apology and who got the ins and outs of the job.
“You’re safe,” he said. “But this woman’s boyfriend, on the other hand….”
“Deserves dire things?” Galen inquired delicately.
“Oh my God, yes. I can get her off the charges pretty easily, I think, but I want to put a stipulation that I’ll only do it if she gets a restraining order and moves back in with her parents. This asshole is bad news.”
“Mm.” Galen nodded. “You can’t fix their lives.”
“If they would listen to my advice, maybe I could,” Ellery grumbled, and Galen’s wicked laughter was a panacea to his wounds.
“Well, yes, but then we’re not so awesome at fixing our own lives, so why would they be?”
Ellery was about ready to retort “Speak for yourself!” but then he remembered Galen was speaking for himself. He’d made his share of mistakes—and owned up to them.
“It would just be so much easier,” Ellery said instead, “if we could fix some of the things that were really broken.”
“Like what?” Galen had tilted his head to indicate he was listening. Really listening.
“Like this assumption that women and minorities are disposable,” Ellery ruminated, thinking about Ty Townsend and the woman in the case on his desk.
“If you’re thinking about Ty Townsend, that’s been bothering me too.”
Ellery looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you and Jackson have been running on the theory that Ty was targeted because of his race, but I’ve been thinking about what Jade said, and she was right.”
Ellery’s eyes widened. “She usually is,” he said. “Explain.”
“Well, yes, the setup was obvious. Someone aimed those two cops at Ty and said ‘Get the Black guy!’ And that is institutionalized racism, and it’s deplorable. But the person who aimed the cops—Ziggy, and oh my God, why that name?—what was the motive again?”
“We think he was using Ty as a distraction,” Ellery said, rubbing his chin with one finger. “That if the cops were at that party, they wouldn’t be anywhere else?”
“Now that could be very true, but why this kid. Because Ty Townsend has prospects. Ty Townsend is not a disposable kid, is he?”
Ellery frowned. “They wanted Ty out of the picture for another reason?”
“Yes. And I’m not saying the distraction thing isn’t a factor too. Has Jackson figured out where they should have been yet?”
“No,” Ellery said. “I think it’s on his list.”
“Well, I’ve had AJ print out the entire roster of police calls for that night, and besides a dog barking and some asshole setting off what people think are explosives in his garage on the far side of town, there is nothing in the entire city that caught people’s attention besides that party.”
“So whatever it was, it must have flown under the radar pretty far,” Ellery said. “And if it was that far under the radar, why—”
“Why call attention to it with the distraction. Yes.” Galen nodded. “So you may have to revise the theory for that one. And there’s one more thing.”
Ellery nodded, thoroughly intrigued. “Go on.”
“When AJ was looking for police calls, he started with the live feed from just this moment.”
Ellery’s eyes widened. “And…?”
“And weren’t our boys supposed to visit Capitol Valley High today?”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. There were shots fired about ten minutes ago.”
Ellery was already on his feet when his phone practically tried to buzz across the table. He scooped it up off the desk, his heart dropping out of his chest in relief when he saw who was calling.
“Goddammit, Jackson!”
“I’m fine. Keep your socks on.” Jackson sounded a little out of breath but, as he said, fine.
“I’m on my way,” Ellery said into the phone, and then he glared at Galen. “You and me,” he said succinctly, “are going to have to have a little talk about burying the motherfucking lede.”
“There were no casualties at the scene,” Galen replied mildly.
“That doesn’t mean there’s not blood on the ground!” Ellery took off through the door. “Jackson, stay put—”
“As it turns out, we sort of have to,” Jackson said, just as Galen pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, his voice sharp enough to actually slow Ellery down.
“What?” he demanded, pretty much from both of them.
And as Jackson’s voice registered on the phone, Galen held up a picture that had obviously been texted to him by Henry.
“Somebody shot up John’s goddamned car.”
Ellery scrubbed at his face with his hand. “Oh my God.”
“I swear to God,” Jackson said earnestly, “neither of us was in it at the time.”
Ellery’s heart was thundering in his ears. “You’re going to give me a heart attack,” he said, totally and completely serious.
“Well, if you could hold off until you pick us up?” Jackson said, voice conciliatory. “Henry would take it as a personal favor.”
Ellery ran his hand through his hair, breaking the gel that held it back and not caring.
“Ten minutes,” he said, thinking about traffic. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Ellery,” Jackson replied with uncharacteristic humility. “We appreciate it.”
Ellery’s eyes narrowed. “Jackson, is there anything else I should kn—”
“The paramedics should be done stitching up my ass by the time you get here.”
And that’s when Ellery hung up on him.
“Jade,” he said, his voice high and tight with tension. “Jade, did you drive today?”
“Yes…?” She obviously knew something was up.
“Could you, perchance, give Galen a ride home if we’re not back by six?”
“Sure.” Jade took a breath. “He’s all right?”
And Ellery had to mirror her, or he was going to explode. “He said he’s getting stitches from the EMTs on scene.”
“Of course he is.” She nodded. “It’s been nice, these last months, not having to worry. Guess that can’t last forever.”
Her look of sincere sympathy actually helped him pull himself together.
“Hey,” he said. “This time he told me before I had to see the bandages. That’s progress.”
And her surprised smile did the rest. “Damn, it’s practically a whole new Jackson! But he’s still bleeding a little, which I guess is okay, because we loved the old one too.”
And Ellery laughed, the band around his chest loosening enough for him to hear the exact echo of words he’d said to Jackson not more than two weeks earlier.
“Yes, we did. Both of them. I’m going to go pick them up and see where we go from here.” He paused and then turned back into his office. “And I’m going to take a minute to get my briefcase, just in case it’s home.”
Well, it was three in the afternoon. By the time they were done with the police, who knew?
THE EMERGENCY vehicles were still there in force. As well as, Ellery was happy to see, a forensics team.
Jackson was leaning over the back of the ambulance, posterior out, as an EMT—this one a dark-haired, thirtyish woman of Asian descent—finished taping a bandage to t
he outside of his upper thigh, with a little bit of tape on the buttcheek. He was still wearing what was left of a brand-new pair of cargo shorts. The back of them were shredded and covered with blood, as was the lower part of Jackson’s leg and his tennis shoe.
They had, indeed, been stitching up his ass.
Two uniformed officers were talking to him while the EMT worked, both in their late fifties, an African American woman with some iron in her hair and a lot in her spine, and a paunchy white man with hair the color of rusty ginger.
“So all you have on this guy is he was wearing cleats?” the woman—her nametag said Fetzer—was saying.
“With mud on them, like he’d just come from the football field,” Jackson said patiently, as though he was repeating himself. “We’ve gone over this.”
“We’ve gone over this with your agenda, young man, but we don’t know anything for sure.”
Jackson grimaced. “Okay, so that’s fair. My partner was just interviewing Baldwin Schroeder, one of the assistant coaches of the football team, for the same investigation we talked about yesterday. I was talking to Mrs. Eccleston, the social studies teacher. Henry came into the room, we bitched at each other like we do, and then there were bullets coming through the windows.”
“And you decided to jump out the window unarmed and confront the guy or girl shooting,” said the man, Hardison, sounding doubtful.
“Whoever was shooting wasn’t that bright,” Jackson retorted.
“And how do you know that?”
“Well, for one thing, they were shooting from the ground level. The portable is elevated about three feet. It’s why you need a ramp up to the door. That’s a lousy shot. The angle is what saved our lives. For another, after we dropped to the floor, they started shooting through the door. Now, on the one hand, that might get the teacher in the corner, but she’s got this five-hundred-pound metal Army surplus desk, boxes of books and copy paper, and file cabinets surrounding her, so that’s a hard shot to make when you’re not firing blind. And this bozo fires into the door. Well, the teacher’s a smart cookie. They offered to put Jesus lights in her ceiling—”
“What?” Fetzer said, almost like she was compelled.
“Skylights. It’s like shining the light of God down on whatever student sits under the light. So, you know, Jesus lights. Anyway, she asked for a steel-reinforced door instead, because she’s had kids try to take her room apart and thought it would be more practical.”
“Than a skylight in Sacramento in August?” Fetzer said, eyes wide. “Yeah, I can see that. Poor kids getting cooked like bugs. Anyway, so there’s a steel-reinforced door….”
“And the asshole keeps shooting into it. I waited until he emptied his clip, waved something in front of the window to make sure he didn’t have a buddy on the other side of the portable, and hopped out the window.”
The EMT at his side spoke up. “Hopped is an overstatement. You apparently sliced yourself out the window. But you’re good to go now, sir. You begged not to go to the hospital. I pulled up your chart like you asked and saw the order, so my partner called in some antibiotics and some painkillers.” She handed him a small slip of paper. “Get this filled from the pharmacy of your choice, and be sure to see a doctor if the pain persists or you pop your stitches.” Her voice went dry. “It’s that second one you probably have to worry about.”
Jackson grimaced and straightened. “Thank you. I’m obliged.”
She returned his medical card and shook her head. “You know, that thing looks really worn. Maybe you should try to minimize your risk or something. That’s a pretty high price to pay to spot a cleat with some mud on it.”
It was painful watching him try not to roll his eyes. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said dryly and then turned to the two police officers. “So you see what I mean? Whoever shooting wasn’t that bright, and they didn’t have a clear objective other than to stop what was going on in that classroom. And I’m telling you, other than my partner eating lunch, it wasn’t that exciting.”
“What made that exciting?” asked Fetzer.
“He’d been whining about lunch on the way over. This way I knew he’d stop whining. That excites me.”
Hardison let out a snort, and Fetzer looked around, her eyes falling on Ellery. Ellery took the cue and moved closer. He didn’t reach out and touch Jackson, as much as he wanted to, and Jackson’s gentle tap on his arm was more than he could have asked for.
“Fine, Counselor,” he said softly. He looked over his shoulder where Henry and a short, round, middle-aged woman with a bad dye job were talking to another pair of officers. “So’s Henry, and so’s Mrs. Eccleston.” Jackson grimaced. “But I think maybe you and me should spend part of tomorrow helping that poor woman move to another room. She’s got kids coming in on Thursday, and a lot of her posters got shot to shit.” He paused and then looked at the cops. “That’s another thing. It was a handgun—Berretta, Walther PK—something small. Not an AK or anything meant to spray bullets. This was a one-shot-at-a-time gun, which means it takes some skill, and this shooter didn’t have any.”
“Lucky for you,” Fetzer said. “I take it this is the lawyer you work for?”
“Ellery Cramer.” Ellery held out cards to both officers, who each took one. “And I take it you’ve spoken with Jackson about this matter before?”
“We actually looked up the beat of the two people you asked about,” Fetzer said softly, giving Ellery a sideways look. “There weren’t any obvious calls that night, but….” She gave a gentle snort. “There’s a couple of empty buildings—a big-bulk hardware store and a grocery store—on a big lot. It’s on the same patrol area as your party. It hit me kind of funny. When that was our beat, we checked that place six times a night because there was almost always something hinky going on there. But going back over the logs, with the party bust and the paperwork, there was almost a two-hour gap patrolling that area—and Lindstrom and Craft only hit the place every other shift. I think maybe we should check that out.”
Ellery nodded. “We think that besides being a distraction, there might have been something about Ty specifically that made our scumbags want to get him out of the way.”
“Gambling,” Jackson said, surprising him. Jackson nodded to Henry. “Henry was interviewing a coach—”
“Baldwin Schroeder,” Fetzer said. “You gave us that name when we got here. He was out on the practice field when the shots were fired. We have him on film.” She sniffed. “The person we have on film firing badly into that portable building was wearing baggy sweats and a hoodie over the face. And cleats, like you said. We followed the dirt off the cleats into the quad, but—”
“It had all been stomped off by then,” Jackson said glumly. “Yeah. I saw.”
“We know you saw,” Fetzer said. She gave Jackson a pointed look. “That’s when your damned blood trail stopped.”
“Well, did you see where hoodie guy went?” Jackson asked, clearly uncomfortable with the mention.
She shook her head. “You saw that overhang over the lunch area? The cameras don’t get the wall back there. It’s a blind spot. The shooter ran in that direction and disappeared. We’ve got people looking at camera footage, but they’ve got two or three student functions going on there—swim team, cheerleading, student government. Kids were running around all over the back of that building. All the shooter had to do was ditch the hoodie. Are you sure you don’t remember anything else?”
Jackson closed his eyes and thought carefully. “They’ll ditch the cleats too,” he said. “I don’t think they fit.”
Fetzer and Hardison were both standing, heads tilted.
“What makes you say that?” Hardison asked.
“They were too loud, like they were clopping because they were too big,” he answered. “I had to hop out the window and run down the length of the portable. Someone younger, and not injured, would have been long gone. I shouldn’t have even spotted a cleat going around that corner. But I did, a
nd mud usually takes a lot of working to get knocked off like that. I really think he was wearing someone else’s cleats. Maybe ask the football players if their shoes disappeared during break or something.”
“Were they even football cleats?” Fetzer asked. “There was a rec-league soccer team using the upper field for practice too.”
Jackson grimaced. “Well,” he said, “you guys have more suspects to interview!” He swallowed then, rapidly, and Ellery noticed that he was awfully pale and had grown paler as they stood. “I’d show them pictures of Ziggy Ivanov if I were you, but it probably wasn’t him.”
“What are you going to be doing?” Fetzer asked.
“We should get you home,” Ellery said, and Jackson shook his head.
“No, we need to talk to Ty Townsend about a few things. Like I said, I think we know why he was targeted for that drug bust. We also need to talk to a vice detective. Those pills with the little butterflies on them—”
Fetzer and Hardison both groaned. “We didn’t get to that,” Fetzer apologized.
“We’re sorry,” Hardison echoed. “We got busy with running the police activity on Lindstrom and Craft’s beat.”
“And it’s not like you don’t have your own beat to patrol,” Jackson said, with what Ellery thought was a lot of grace for his usual style. “But I need some answers. Those pills sound very specifically branded, and if someone knows where they’re coming from, besides Dima Siderov—”
Fetzer and Hardison both straightened like they’d been pinched. “Where did you hear that name?” they asked, almost in tandem.
Jackson flickered a glance at Ellery. Ellery stepped in, not liking Jackson’s color at all but recognizing that they needed to have this conversation first.
“That’s immaterial,” Ellery said. “But we’ve heard it. And the drugs involved in the Townsend bust sound specifically branded, like Jackson said. If we knew which outfit they were coming from, we would have one more bit of evidence with which to get Townsend off, without involving Dobrevk in his defense.”
“Is that kid safe?” Fetzer asked. “We heard he was in protective custody and the charges had been dropped, and that sounds good, but you never know for sure.”