And Every Man Has to Die rcc-4

by Frank Zafiro

  Once again he saw the flash of anger in her eyes and the set of her jaw. He found himself liking this new wife of Ivan more and more, even if she might be difficult.

  “We argued,” she said. “He hit me. The neighbor called. Now you know everything.”

  Val leaned back in his chair, considering. Then he said, “Not everything. Where is the package now? Do the police have it?”

  “No. I hid it before I answered the door.”

  “Where was Ivan?”

  “He left as soon as we saw the car in the back lot.” She pointed at the smoky glass window on the other side of the living room. “He had to hide on the third floor until the police were out of the hallway. But they found him, because the officer told me that they were taking him to jail.”

  Val removed his lighter and stared down at it. “He may have charges to face because he fought with the police,” he said quietly, “but I suspect he will face no charges for striking his wife. Am I right?”

  Elena drew herself up in her seat. “I did not call the police. I will not cooperate.”

  “Excellent,” Val said. “Now, bring me the packages.”

  Elena stood and left the room. Val glanced at Pavel and made a gun with his thumb and forefinger. Pavel nodded in understanding. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small.25 auto. It wasn’t a very powerful gun, but it would do the job if Elena decided to come back with anything other than Ivan’s packages.

  Val heard some rustling in the bedroom, then the sliding sound of a drawer being opened and slammed shut. Elena reappeared in the kitchen with two parcels. One was the shape of a small brick, wrapped tightly in brown paper. The other was a white cloth bag tinged with oil marks. She dropped both on the table. The brown paper brick made a heavy, slapping thud. The bag gave out a metallic rattle.

  Val didn’t bother to check the packages. They would be right or he would return to deal with Elena Cherny. She knew this and would not be foolish enough to double-cross him. Instead he asked, “Do you have a grocery bag?”

  Elena stared at him a moment, then turned toward the counter. She motioned for Pavel to step aside, then opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a brown paper bag. She put it onto the table next to the two packages.

  “Open the bag,” Val instructed.

  Elena clenched her jaw but said nothing. She took hold of the paper bag and gave it a single, violent downward shake to open it, then set it on the table. She placed both packages inside the bag and pushed it toward Val.

  Val rose from his seat. He closed the bag carefully and rolled the top down. He handed the bag to Pavel, who had slipped the gun back into his pocket as soon as Elena arrived with the packages.

  “Don’t forget to talk to your neighbor,” Val said to Elena.

  “I will take care of it.”

  Val nodded, then turned and left the apartment. Pavel trailed behind him, the brown paper grocery bag clutched in his hand.

  TWO

  Saturday, July 12th

  2058 hours

  Graveyard Shift

  Officer Thomas Chisolm sat quietly at the Adam Sector roll call table. The large conference room had three tables, one for each of the three sectors. Adam and Baker covered the north side of River City, while Charlie sector covered the more affluent, usually quieter south side. A lectern, currently empty, stood at the head of the tables. Rows upon rows of mailboxes perched on the back wall like pigeon nests, some bare and others stuffed with paperwork that might date back as far as the assigned officer’s rookie year.

  He glanced up from his own timeworn hands to the woman seated across from him. She was new to the platoon and tonight was her first shift. Her blue nametag, designating her as a probationer, read B.J. Carson. Chisolm knew it stood for “Billie Jo,” but wondered how much adolescent ribbing she’d suffered as a result of those unfortunate initials.

  Carson seemed to sense his glance. She flashed Chisolm a shy smile. He saw strains of confidence in that smile, but he recognized other traits, too. Traits he wasn’t entirely comfortable with in a new cop, whether he saw them in a man or a woman. She was worried about proving herself.

  Chisolm’s own rookie campaign was eighteen years in the past, though he could recall that rite of passage in great detail. Of course, it had been different for him than most new cops these days. He’d walked in with significant military experience, including his two tours in Vietnam with Special Forces. Police work wasn’t a tremendous adaptation for him, whereas most of the rookies he saw coming on now had to transition from civilian life into the quasi-military world of police work.

  In Chisolm’s mind, it was a good thing if a new recruit wanted to prove himself. That was how he eventually fit in-by proving he could do this job. There were a lot of areas where the new guy was required to prove himself, too. Snagging calls for service, writing a ton of paper, and showing that he could talk to all kinds of people in all kinds of situations were all on that list. The final exam, though, was being willing to jump into a fight when it happened. Prove you could hold your mud when things got dirty.

  Wanting to prove yourself, to Chisolm, was a good thing. Worrying about being able to was quite another. And he saw a little bit of that in B.J. Carson.

  He flashed back to the last recruit he’d trained who didn’t have what it took to be a cop. Four years ago, he tried to teach Maurice Payne what he needed to know in order to make it on the streets, but he’d ultimately failed. Payne could do the softer side of the job, but failed utterly when it came to pressure or violence. Even though it took another training officer to sign off on Chisolm’s evaluation-thanks to that self-righteous prick, Lieutenant Alan Hart-the department eventually let Payne go. Chisolm took very little joy in seeing that happen, and none of it at the expense of Payne. He hoped the young man landed on his feet somewhere more appropriate for his skill set. The satisfaction for Chisolm was in showing the arrogant Lieutenant Hart that he’d been right, in spite of the shiny gold bar that Hart wore on his collar.

  Since training Payne, none of the recruits that rode in Chisolm’s car had failed to make probation, a fact of which he was quite proud. More than that, he hoped that he instilled in this new, younger breed of cop what it meant to enter law enforcement. Almost all of them were untested by warfare and some hadn’t even suffered some of life’s hard knocks. Yet Chisolm had to teach them how to be a warrior in peacetime, which was one of the most difficult jobs in the world.

  Chisolm didn’t avert his eyes from Carson after her shy smile, but she averted hers. She was a beautiful woman. It might have made some things in life easier for her up to now. If anything, though, now it was going to make things more difficult for her rather than less. From the cops and the criminals.

  Chisolm’s gaze shifted to Anthony Battaglia. Batts was watching Carson. His face was mostly expressionless, but Chisolm detected the faintest bit of hunger in the Italian’s dark eyes.

  Battaglia seemed to sense Chisolm’s attention. He turned his eyes to the older officer and tipped him a wink. “Another night beatin’ down crime. Right, Tom?”

  Chisolm nodded. “You said it.”

  Battaglia flashed him a toothy grin. “Fuckin’ scumbags won’t know what hit ’em.”

  That forced a smile to Chisolm’s lips. “Probably not.”

  “You know it,” Battaglia said. He turned to O’Sullivan. “Hey, asshole, are you done with that yet?”

  “If I was done, lad,” Sully shot back, “I would nae be looking at it anymore.”

  “You know, you’re not supposed move your lips when you read,” Battaglia observed, his thick Brooklyn accent clashing with Sully’s Irish lilt.

  “Like you know anyt’ing about reading.”

  “I know it takes you for-fuckin’-evah.”

  “Oh, fer the love of Saint Francis,” Sully sighed. He slid the binder across the table toward Battaglia. “Here. All you want to do is look at the pictures anyway.”

  “Ohh, yeahhhh,” Battaglia said, smiling bro
adly. He flipped open the flyer and peered down in mock lust. “Ooh, hot. You know, methamphetamine really does wonders for a woman’s looks.”

  “Aye,” Sully replied. “Vitamin M is the new wonder drug.”

  Chisolm watched the exchange silently. It was nearly the same every night. Sometimes, if veteran officer James Kahn was in a grumpy mood, he might berate the two of them for their antics, but that usually only fueled their act. Once in a while Katie MacLeod got involved in their exchanges. Chisolm smiled. In most cases she bested the both of them at their own game, something that Chisolm believed only made the brothers like her even more.

  Katie. Chisolm noticed her seat was empty. He assumed that she’d taken a vacation day, since it wasn’t her regular day off.

  The only other person missing from the table was Matt Westboard. The quiet, solid officer was on his days off.

  Chisolm returned his gaze to his own hands. Every day, he took stock of the men and women at the table around him. It was a habit he’d learned from his commanding officer in Vietnam, Captain Mack Greene. “Know your people,” the grizzled Green Beret leader told him repeatedly. “And know them again every single day.”

  Of course, they weren’t technically Chisolm’s people. He didn’t command them. He was one of them. Sergeant Shen ran the platoon and Lieutenant Saylor commanded the shift. Even so, as an eighteen-year vet who remained on graveyard shift by choice, Chisolm knew that a lot of the team members looked to him for leadership. And he would not disappoint. Ever.

  That was his burden in life, and he knew it. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted such a responsibility, but rather that he knew he could handle it. Not many others could, even among his fellow cops. So it fell to him to do so. He had the knowledge and the experience.

  The door to the roll call room swung open. Lieutenant Robert Saylor led the way in, the red clipboard full of announcements tucked under his arm. Sergeant Miyamoto Shen followed behind him and took a seat at the head of the Adam Sector table. His gaze swept the table, his features impassive.

  “Listen up,” Lieutenant Saylor rumbled from the lectern. He waited for a moment until the chatter dwindled to silence. “There’s a couple of new stolens on the board tonight,” he began, rattling off the license plates of the stolen vehicles. Then he flicked the page. “Let’s do some prowl checks at the River City Arena over the next few nights. The circus is coming to town and our Criminal Intelligence Unit believes that the animal rights groups might be active in some form of protest.”

  “Hell,” Kahn muttered, “the circus is in town all year. It’s down on mahogany row, starting in the chief’s office.”

  Saylor glanced up from the hot board, fixing his eyes on Kahn. “Did you have something to add?” he asked.

  Kahn cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Do the intel guys have anything more specific than that?”

  Saylor shook his head. “Just what I read.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  Saylor smiled slightly. “I’ll forward your dissatisfaction, Officer Kahn. I’m sure they’ll be happy for the feedback.”

  Kahn shrugged. “I doubt they could figure it out, sir.”

  A general rumble of low laughter filled the room. Chisolm smiled himself. He’d had more than his fair share of issues with intelligence units, beginning with the frequently inaccurate ramblings of military intelligence during the war.

  Saylor didn’t reply right away. Then he said, “I’m sure they’ll get their cryptologists on it right away. Meanwhile, it actually makes some sense that these animal rights whack jobs might try something funny at the arena while the circus is in town, so let’s give it some frequent drive-bys, huh?”

  Kahn nodded.

  Saylor moved on. “We have a new member of the graveyard team tonight, over in Adam Sector.” He swept his hand toward that table. “Officer Carson, would you mind standing up?”

  Carson’s cheeks blossomed with a tinge of red. She pushed a long lock of hair behind her ear and stood.

  “Welcome to the shift, Officer,” Saylor said, putting his hands together in a light clap. The rest of the assembled officers followed suit, resembling a lackluster golf clap after a routine putt. Chisolm also heard a mild, murmuring undercurrent that he recognized as half a dozen male officers making comments on her figure that her police uniform and gear couldn’t hide. Or her initials.

  “Thanks,” Carson said, then hurriedly sat down, no doubt aware of the appraisal.

  Saylor set the hot board down on the lectern. “That’s it for new announcements. Does anyone have anything for the shift?” Saylor waited a moment, then turned the meeting over to the sergeants at their respective tables.

  Sergeant Shen addressed the Adam Sector table. “I’d also like to welcome Officer Carson. She’s going to finish up her probationary year on our team now that she’s finished with the training car. I’m sure you all remember her from when she was assigned to Officer MacLeod.”

  “Let’s hope she’s learned something since then,” Battaglia joked.

  Carson appeared momentarily stricken, though she tried hard to hide it.

  “I’m sure she has,” Shen said with a light smile. “That was her first rotation in the training car, wasn’t it? Fresh out of the academy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Carson said. “I was brand new.”

  “It didn’t show,” Battaglia said, his voice full of sarcasm. He winked at Carson and smiled. Her features softened once she realized he was teasing her.

  And so it begins, Chisolm thought. Every new cop put up with the ruthless teasing, so that was nothing new. But he sensed something more in Battaglia’s jest. Something more along the lines of James Kahn’s barely concealed lust. He filed his concern away, determined to watch and wait.

  “How is Katie?” Sully asked.

  Chisolm’s ears pricked up.

  “She’s out of the hospital,” Shen replied, “and resting at home.”

  “Hospital?” Chisolm snapped. “What happened?”

  Shen raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t hear?”

  “I was off yesterday.”

  Shen nodded. “She got into a fight with a guy on a DV call over at the Delilah apartments. They fell down the stairs during his arrest. Her ankle was broken.”

  Chisolm scowled. Why was she in there without any backup?

  “Ah, tell the story right, Sarge,” Sully said, dropping his faux accent. “She didn’t just get into a fight. She kicked this guy’s ass.”

  “Big Russian guy,” Battaglia added.

  Sully nodded. “Yeah. Huge guy. And she took care of his business by herself.”

  “Where were you two jokers?” Kahn asked snidely.

  Sully waved his comment away. “We were upstairs at the apartment. The guy was trying to sneak out of the apartment building when Katie found him. She really-”

  “How bad’s the ankle?” Chisolm interrupted.

  Shen shrugged. “The doctor said that the swelling would have to go down some more before they could determine whether it would require an operation or not. It was broken in two places.”

  “So she’s out for a while,” Chisolm concluded.

  “Six to eight weeks, minimum.” Shen motioned at Carson. “That’s why we got Officer Carson here instead of swing shift snagging her.”

  “Good trade,” muttered Kahn.

  Chisolm shot him a dark look, but the veteran officer ignored him.

  “Anyway, that’s all I have tonight,” Shen said. “If no one else has anything, let’s hit the street.”

  There was a pause that no one filled. After a few moments, the officers collectively pushed their chairs back and filed out of the room, headed to the basement where swing shift would probably be waiting with their cars.

  Chisolm fumed as he picked up his patrol bag in the hallway and swung it onto his shoulder. Maybe Sully and Batts should have been with MacLeod and maybe not, but Kahn’s comment was completely out of line. Making a derisive comment about MacLeod o
r anyone else in Adam Sector was bad for morale and divisive for the platoon. Moreover, in making that comparison to MacLeod, Kahn put pressure on Carson to somehow measure up to a veteran officer. And he was pretty sure that something about both officers being women was lurking in the undercurrent of Kahn’s comment, though he hadn’t come out and said it. Kahn’s use for a woman diminished to zero if he couldn’t sleep with her.

  As far as Chisolm was concerned, Kahn was a complete asshole, even if he was a good cop.

  He pushed the thoughts aside as he checked his car into service and rolled out of the basement. Instead he focused his mind on the mission ahead, which was, as Battaglia colorfully put it, beating down crime.

  2209 hours

  Valeriy pulled his green BMW into the nearly empty elementary school parking lot. He spotted Evgeniy’s Honda Prelude among the few cars in the lot. It was easy enough, since it was the only car with the cherry coal of cigarette glowing inside. Val glided along the driver’s side, stopping once their windows were lined up.

  “Is it done?” he asked, getting straight to business.

  Evgeniy nodded as he let out a long, steady stream of smoke.

  “No trouble?”

  “No trouble. Everyone was gone. It was easy as cake.”

  “Pie,” Val corrected, reaching for a cigarette of his own. He slid the Marlboro between his lips and struck his Soviet Zippo. “In America, they say ‘easy as pie,’ Evgeniy.”

  The other man shrugged. “Maybe I am not so American.”

  Val drew in a deep lungful of smoke and let it billow out. “Perhaps not. But everything is ready to go?”

  Evgeniy nodded. “As I said. Is all finished.”

  “Did you use a remote trigger?”

  Evgeniy shook his head. “I put it on a timer.”

  Val frowned. “That isn’t as reliable.”

  “No, not as much as a manual trigger, but it is safer for us. And I wired two, so there is a contingency in case one fails.” Evgeniy took another drag. He blew the smoke onto the glowing end of his cigarette, contemplating the redness. “Who could imagine it would come to this, my friend?”