The attorney reached for her, then dropped his arms back to his sides. “If you hadn’t been involved with me, Rachel, you might not have gotten in over your head. Someone else might have pointed out the dangers to you, or at the very least, tried to shield your identity from the other officers.” A crack of thunder rang out, and Atwater stopped speaking. A few moments later, he continued, “I should have assigned one of our investigators to watch your house from the second you decided to press charges against Grant Cummings. If I had, the sick bastard wouldn’t have been able to get his hands on you.”
“It’s okay,” Rachel said.
“How can you say that?” he said, unable to let go of his guilt. “You’re about to be arrested.”
“It’s funny,” she said, “but I’m not really afraid. Right now I feel good. I can’t explain it exactly, but I feel almost peaceful in a way.”
“I’m going to get you off,” Atwater said, “even if it costs me my position at the agency.”
They were separated by several feet. The rain was coming down now in transparent sheets. Rachel took a step toward him and then stopped. Atwater did the same. When they were face to face, she rested her forehead against his chest. “Hold me,” she said, taking his arms and placing them around her waist.
They stood still, their bodies like statues. Rachel finally raised her head, grabbing onto his wet hair and pulling him closer. “You came to me at just the right time,” she whispered. “You came when I needed you.”
“Oh, Rachel,” he said, overcome with emotion. He wanted to tell her that he had needed her, too, that his life had lost meaning. He had gone through the motions, told himself he was content. In reality he had been lonely, his life empty outside of his work.
Rachel had already slipped out of his arms, though, and was jogging through the rain to the back of the house. She turned around and waved at him through the glass doors, then disappeared.
c h a p t e r
TWENTY-NINE
Ted Harriman reported for duty early Tuesday night, wanting to speak to Captain Edgar Madison before he left the station. Due to budget cutbacks, they no longer had a captain assigned to the graveyard watch, and Madison generally left the building around eight. Standing in the door to his office, Harriman said, “Can you spare a few moments?”
“I was about to leave,” Madison told him. “What’s going on, Ted?”
Harriman stepped into the office, then looked behind him. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d feel better if we spoke with the door closed.”
“Fine,” Madison said, watching as Harriman closed the door and took a seat in one of the chairs facing his desk.
Because there were only a few African-Americans in the department, Edgar Madison and Ted Harriman regularly socialized outside of the department. On Thursday evenings, they bowled in a league together, and every month or so they would go out to dinner with their wives. “I think you have a major problem on your hands,” Harriman said. “The things Rachel Simmons has been saying may be true. You know I’m not one to speak out against my fellow officers—”
“Spit it out, Ted,” Madison said, knowing Harriman was a straight shooter.
“Cummings is a bad actor,” he told him. “I didn’t see him use the Hillmont boy as a shield, but I wouldn’t put it past him. And I don’t believe Rachel shot him.”
“When you say Cummings is a bad actor, exactly what are you referring to?”
“Got a few hours?” Harriman said, grimacing. “He’s stolen arrests right out from under me. Happened again just the other night. And Townsend, Hitchcock, and Ratso are charter members of Grant’s little gang. Nick Miller is one of the ringleaders as well. I guess you could say Cummings runs the watch the same way he runs the parties.”
Madison leaned back in his chair. Chief Bates was still recovering from gallbladder surgery. He was not scheduled to return to work until the following week. The deputy chief, Clinton Dowd, was buried under a mountain of paperwork, having taken on the chief’s duties during his absence. The chief had been communicating with Madison by phone, though, and had assigned the captain the task of investigating Grant Cummings shooting, along with the allegations Rachel had made about the Majestic Theater incident. “What makes you think Rachel is innocent?”
“Around the time Grant was shot,” Harriman explained, “I was parked outside the back door to the station. I remained in the car for about fifteen minutes finishing one of my reports. If Rachel left through the back of the station after she shot Cummings like Ramone said, why didn’t I see her?”
“Maybe you looked away for a moment,” the captain answered. “You said you were working on a report.”
“That’s what I originally told myself,” Harriman said. “The hinges on the back door are rusted from the rains we had last month, though. Every time someone opens the door, it makes an irritating sound. Even if I looked away for a moment, my window was down and I would have heard the door making all that racket.”
“If Rachel didn’t shoot him,” Madison said, “who did?”
“I have no idea,” Harriman said, shaking his head. “Something else happened that I think you should know about. I saw Ramone carrying a large package out of the station the other night. I asked him what it was, and he told me it was evidence he was taking to the crime lab. The problem is, the watch had just started. Even if Ratso had picked up some kind of evidence from the night before, why didn’t he take it straight to the crime lab?”
Madison contemplated his friend’s statements for a long time. “You might be onto something,” he said. “How big was this package?”
“About four times the size of a briefcase,” Harriman said. “If I remember correctly, it was wrapped in newsprint.”
“I’ll look into it,” Madison said. He would have to call his wife and tell her he wouldn’t be coming home until later. The information Harriman had told him was critical. Once he confirmed his intentions with the chief, he would start with Nick Miller and work his way down. “Thanks for coming forward, Ted. If you stumble across anything else, let me know immediately.”
Captain Madison, Sergeant Nick Miller, and two lieutenants were assembled in the conference room at the police station at 10:15 Tuesday evening.
Captain Madison was seated at the head of the table, addressing the men. “Chief Bates feels with the intense media interest Simmons has generated, it’s better for him to remain on the sidelines until he officially returns to work next week. If the allegations this woman has made turn out to be valid, the chief’s afraid the City Council may ask for his resignation.”
“I don’t think it’s going to go that far,” Miller said. “If Rachel hadn’t shot Cummings, we might be in some deep shit. No one’s going to believe all this crap she said on television once we bust her for attempted murder.”
The captain leveled a finger at him. “You’re the one in deep shit, Miller. Didn’t you know Grant Cummings was a rogue cop? Can’t you control the men who work under you?”
“My men haven’t done anything wrong,” Miller lied, his shoulder twitching with nervous energy.
“What about the Hillmont matter? Did you try to intimidate Rachel Simmons into doctoring up her report?”
“Of course not,” he said.
“How come her report isn’t on file?” Madison asked, his voice a deep baritone. “I looked through all the crime reports on the Majestic shooting prior to this meeting. What happened to Simmons’s report?”
“I don’t know,” Miller said, pulling his collar away from his neck. “I guess she never got around to finishing it.”
“You guess?” the captain barked, leaning forward over the table. “Her report should have been turned in at the end of the watch. It’s department policy.”
“Hey,” Miller said, throwing up his hands, “what can I tell you? Shit happens.”
“Were you involved in the incident at the beach?” Madison continued.
“I was there,” the sergeant answere
d, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead. “Nothing happened. Captain. I swear.”
“Grant Cummings didn’t try to rape her?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “We were all drinking. Rachel seemed to be having a good time. Then all of a sudden she just went ballistic. Sometimes alcohol affects people the wrong way.”
Madison tipped his chair back until the legs came off the floor, his double chin resting on his chest. The two lieutenants studied Nick Miller. “Mike Atwater informed me that Simmons asked the dispatcher to call me out a few nights back,” he said. “I was never informed of that request. He said the woman was in trouble, and the other officers on her watch refused to respond for backup. Is this true?”
“I didn’t know this was going to be an inquisition,” Miller said, squirming under Madison’s hot glare.
“Answer the question,” Madison said, pressing his fingers to his temples.
“I didn’t see a need to get you out of bed at five o’clock in the morning,” Miller said quickly. “The situation was under control. There was nothing for you to do. Anyway, my people didn’t fail to respond when Simmons called for backup. They were tied up on legitimate calls. They got there as soon as they could.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The broad just panicked, okay? She didn’t belong in a uniform. Look at the last performance evaluation I did on her if you don’t believe me. You guys hire these ditzy women and expect us to turn them into competent officers. With this chick, it was too much of a stretch.”
Madison pressed on. “Why didn’t you inform Internal Affairs of the missing drug money? They weren’t aware of the situation until Atwater called and told them.”
“I-I didn’t…” Miller stopped stammering. He hadn’t known LA had been informed of the missing money. He wasn’t prepared.
Madison waited in stony silence.
“Okay,” the sergeant said, his uniform soaked in perspiration. “We’re not even certain that money was ever there, okay? No one saw it but Rachel Simmons. Why open a can of worms? I didn’t want the department’s reputation to be sullied in the media.”
Another bout of silence ensued, the air thick with tension. “The performance review you submitted on this woman was out of line,” Edgar Madison told him. “I reviewed Officer Simmons’s personnel jacket today. I’ve also spoken to several of our top detectives. They consider Simmons an excellent candidate for advancement. Her reports are some of the finest in the department. They’re concise, well-written, and extensively detailed.”
“Sure, she can write,” Miller said. “All women can write. That doesn’t mean she can perform in the field, though. She’s not a detective. She’s a patrol officer.”
Madison picked some reports off the table and flipped through them. “Why was this woman’s name not submitted for a commendation after the homicide on Maple Avenue?”
“Excuse me,” Miller said, jerking his head back. “She fucked up the case, that’s why. She entered the house without a warrant. Tony Mancini thinks there’s a possibility that everything we pulled out of that house will be excluded.”
“Humph,” Madison said, squaring his shoulders, “as I see it. Officer Simmons bravely defended herself against a knife-wielding suspect, a murderer to be precise. When one of our people performs an act of heroism, we generally like to reward them publicly, let the community know the good work we do.” He pinned Miller with his eyes. “I’ve decided to suspend you pending further investigation of these allegations.”
“You can’t do that,” Miller said, leaping to his feet.
“It’s only temporary,” Madison said. “We have to take action, don’t you see? The public will demand it. By early next week, the feds will be crawling all over this place. Everything Chief Bates has tried to do for this department will be destroyed.”
“As long as I get paid,” Miller said, snickering nervously. “Hey, I know you’ve got to play along with Rachel’s little games. As long as I know you guys are behind me, I won’t make waves. All we have to do is hang tough until this shit blows over. We’re a team, right?”
Madison said, “The suspension will be without pay.”
“What about Simmons?” Miller shouted, flying into a rage. “She shot one of my men. Why am I taking all this heat? I didn’t shoot anyone.”
“Grant Cummings is dirtier than hell. Miller,” Madison barked. “Not only that, you’ve got a thief on your watch. Fifty grand is not small change. If you’d done your job correctly, you would have seen these problems and helped us to rid ourselves of these rotten apples. That’s what being in a supervisory capacity is all about.”
“This is a crock of shit.” Miller ripped his badge off his uniform, hurling it at the captain. They were making him the sacrificial lamb, and he refused to take it lying down. In only a matter of weeks, he was scheduled to take the lieutenant’s exam.
“Your service revolver,” the captain said, plucking the badge out of his lap and placing it in his pocket.
Yanking his gun out of his holster, Miller slammed it down on the table. “Can I go now?”
Madison nodded, watching as Miller walked out the door of the conference room. Nick Miller would be the first of many. Every officer involved would have to be terminated. If they acted swiftly, Chief Bates had told him, they might be able to regain the confidence of the community. If not, Madison was certain his head would roll along with the rest of them.
After removing his personal effects from his metal desk, Nick Miller advised the dispatcher to call Jimmy Townsend and Fred Ramone on the radio and have them meet him in the police parking lot. It was 11:20, and the two men had already cleared the station.
Approximately fifteen minutes later, the two officers pulled alongside Miller’s Honda Civic and got out of their cars, speaking to him through the open window. “What’s going on?” Townsend said. Ratso stood beside him.
“They suspended me without pay,” Miller said, still; reeling in disbelief. “I need those pictures.”
“What pictures?” Townsend said.
“The ones Ratso took at the beach that day,” he said, glaring at the dark-skinned man. “Grant was supposed to give me the proofs, along with the negatives. He never did. I can’t have them floating around.”
“I don’t have them,” Ratso said. “I gave all the pictures to Grant as soon as I got them developed.”
“You piece of dog shit,” Miller hissed, trying to grab Ratso through the window. “I want those pictures. If I don’t destroy them, I’ll end up in jail. Rachel will claim I tried to rape her along with Grant.” .
“They weren’t so bad, Sarge,” Ratso said, stepping back out of the sergeant’s reach. “All you were doing was playing with her tits.”
“This woman is poison,” Miller said, cracking his knuckles. “I curse the day she was hired, let me tell you. That’s the problem with fucking women. You never know what they’re going to do, when they’re going to start running off at the mouth. Both of you are going to get shitcanned too, you know? It’s only a matter of time.”
Ratso didn’t believe what he was hearing. How could there still be a problem? Why would anyone believe Rachel after what he had told them? “Grant will take care of it,” he said. “He will not allow them to fire me, not after I saved his life.”
Both of the other men laughed. “You’re a moron, Ratso,” Townsend said. “Grant can’t walk. What’s he going to do? Get out of his hospital bed and run over Rachel with his wheelchair? The gig is up, man. We blew it. Wait till my wife hears I’m about to lose my job. Without a paycheck, she’ll toss me out on my ear.”
“Of course,” Sergeant Miller said, arching an eyebrow, “we still might have time to stop this. The engine pushing our lives over the cliff is Rachel Simmons. If she disappeared, all of our problems might go away with her. Get my drift?”
Townsend understood immediately. Ratso, however, was a little slow. “Where would she go?”
“I told you he was a moron,�
� Townsend told Miller. “Go back to work, Ratso. I’ll explain everything later.”
Ratso dropped his head. When he raised his eyes, the look on his face was frightening. “I’m not a moron. If you want Rachel to disappear, I’ll be glad to kill her for you.”
Sergeant Miller choked on a toothpick. Townsend looked as if he had seen a ghost. For a long time, no one spoke.
Finally Ratso went on, “I’ve killed before. It was a long time ago. In Pakistan, things are different than they are in this country. There are many people. Life does not have as great a value. People sometimes have to kill to stay alive.”
“Ah,” Townsend said, as if Ratso’s little speech explained everything. He’d always thought the man was Italian. The revelation that he was from Pakistan was almost as shocking as his statement that he had killed someone. “If you don’t mind me asking, who exactly did you kill?”
“He’s full of shit,” Miller said. “What about that incident last year, Ratso? You choked, man. You couldn’t pull the trigger. If Grant hadn’t stepped in, that asshole would have killed you.”
“That was different,” Ratso said. “I didn’t choke. I waited too long to fire. I wanted to make certain the gun was sighted correctly.”
“Who did you kill, huh?” Townsend said, chuckling. “Are you sure you didn’t step on a cockroach, Ratso?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Ratso said, walking back to his police car.
c h a p t e r
THIRTY
At 6:20 Wednesday morning, Carrie was feeding Joe his breakfast at the kitchen table. “You could sleep until eight,” she told him. “You don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn.”
“I don’t want eggs,” Joe said, banging his spoon on the table. “I want Froot Loops.”
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