And Every Man Has to Die rcc-4

by Frank Zafiro

  Battaglia grazed the veteran officer’s shoulder, but Chisolm let him pass without responding to the challenge. He watched Battaglia stalk away. The creaking sound of his leather equipment punctuated each step.

  Chisolm tried to relax his clenched jaw. Frustration chewed at him.

  That could have gone better.

  2041 hours

  Valeriy Romanov sat in the passenger seat of the gold Honda parked in Sergey’s driveway. He pulled his cell phone away from his ear and pushed the cancel button. He drew a line through the third name on his list. Then he dialed the last name on the list.

  Sergey stood in the kitchen window, staring out at him. Val nodded to say that all was well. Sergey didn’t return the gesture.

  The telephone rang several times before a woman picked up. “Fuck you want?” she asked in a drunken slur.

  “Put Krueger on phone,” Val said in a cold voice.

  “Who’s this?”

  “I speak to Krueger,” Val said.

  There was a jostling noise, then a sleepy male voice answered. “It’s your dime,” he said. “Talk.”

  “Krueger,” Val said. “Do you know who is calling you?”

  Krueger started to answer, then paused. He cleared his throat and asked, “Uh, is this my, uh, new partner?”

  “Da,” Val said. “And I want for you listen very careful. You will do a thing for me. I will explain exactly what and when. You are for to listen.”

  2059 hours

  Officer B.J. Carson hurried into the drill hall. Being late to roll call and being the rookie were two things that did not go together. Especially on graveyard.

  She burst through the swinging door to find all three platoon tables full of her coworkers. Most glanced up when she came in. Some looked away, but a couple of the male officers let their gazes linger appraisingly. A few of the assembled group looked up at the clock out of habit.

  One minute to spare, thought Carson, but she glanced at the clock to make sure it was still synced with her wristwatch.

  It clicked over to 2100 as she slid into the rookie chair, which she had started to think of as hers. Across from her, Battaglia did not look up from the intelligence flyer. Chisolm gave her an unreadable look that made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t at all like the looks Kahn sometimes fired her way, which were obvious leers or overtures. In fact, although she was nervous around Chisolm, it wasn’t him that made her nervous. It had more to do with his status as the veteran on the platoon and being a near legend on the department. What Chisolm thought of someone was usually echoed by most other graveyard cops.

  Maybe that was the key. Maybe she needed to show Chisolm that she was a good cop, like Katie said. But Katie hadn’t suggested the Chisolm part. Just the good cop part.

  Lieutenant Saylor strode through the drill hall door. The chatter from all three tables fell off, then stopped as he stepped up to the lectern. Saylor read the information on the hot board, which consisted of two new stolen vehicles and a subject wanted by Detective Finch for a pair of stabbings downtown. Then he turned things over to the platoon sergeants.

  “I only have a couple of items,” Sergeant Shen told them. “First up, we’re still tasked with relieving day shift on the babysitting detail with the feds.” He looked over at Carson. “Officer Carson, you’re up.”

  Carson flushed for a moment, wondering if her near tardiness was the reason. “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  “Head up to the Quality Inn on Division,” Shen told her. “Room 420.”

  She nodded.

  Kahn chuckled and muttered something about her turn in the barrel, but no one acknowledged him.

  Shen continued. “Second up, on that stabbing suspect-”

  Battaglia cleared his throat. “Uh, Sarge?”

  Shen stopped. “Yes?”

  Battaglia glanced at Carson, then at Chisolm. “I’ll take that babysitting detail.”

  Shen’s expression did not change, but there was a question in his eyes. Carson could understand why. No one wanted to babysit prisoners or witnesses. It wasn’t real police work. Most cops, her included, thought that details like that sucked.

  She felt the eyes of the platoon flick from Battaglia to her. She could almost hear the collective eyebrows go up.

  Great, she thought. Why don’t you just announce it to the world that we’re screwing?

  “Are you sure?” Shen asked. “It’s her turn.”

  “Yeah,” Battaglia answered. He cleared his throat again and then cast a dark look toward Chisolm. “I’m not feeling so hot tonight. Sitting around watching TV is probably just what I need.”

  Shen studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “All right. Officer Battaglia will cover the detail with the FBI.” He looked back at Carson. “It looks like routine patrol for you tonight, Officer Carson.”

  “Think you can handle that?” Kahn rumbled.

  Carson nodded, not caring if it was interpreted as an answer to the sergeant or the abrasive Kahn. She had an unsettled feeling in her stomach. Something was going on.

  Shen continued with roll call, then dismissed the team with his customary “Be safe.” Battaglia rose first and walked straight out of the drill hall. As badly as she wanted to talk with him, she wasn’t about to go running after him. That would set even more tongues wagging.

  Instead she gathered her patrol bag and headed down to the basement sally port with the rest of the group.

  2112 hours

  Sergey opened the door before Val had a chance to knock.

  “You have made the calls?” he asked.

  Val nodded. “Everything is in place. I am going now to finish it.”

  “Who are you taking?”

  “Yuri will drive. Black Ivan will accompany me inside.”

  Sergey nodded. Then he said, “I am coming with you.”

  Val frowned. “That is too dangerous.”

  “Life is dangerous,” Sergey snorted derisively.

  “This is an unnecessary risk,” Val said. “Ivan and I can take care of matters.”

  Sergey smiled darkly. “No doubt. But I think people need to hear how it was Sergey who traveled to the hotel room where the traitor hid. That Sergey fired the gun that ended the man’s life.”

  “You have ordered it,” Val said. “And it was your reward that brought the information forward. That will be enough.”

  “No,” Sergey said. “No, Valeriy Aleksandrovich, I don’t think so. It might be enough for business as usual. But it isn’t enough for the legend.”

  “Legend?” Val asked.

  “People don’t follow men,” Sergey said. “They follow great men. And every great man has a legend about him. This will be an important piece of my legend here in America.”

  You are a fool, Val thought. That will be your legend.

  Val’s frown turned into a grimace. “It is a risk, that is all. But you know best.”

  “Best that you do not forget that,” Sergey told him. “Now, let’s go.”

  2117 hours

  Chisolm walked down the stairs behind B.J. Carson, watching her ponytail bounce and bob with each step.

  Should he talk to her? Would it do any good?

  He tried to remember what it was like to be a rookie. He’d come on the job already battle-tested from the jungles of Vietnam, so it was different for him. The closest thing to it, probably, was his early days in the military. Had someone pulled him aside?

  Chisolm smiled slightly. Hell, when he entered Special Forces, it felt like Captain Mack Greene pulled him aside every day with some sort of wisdom or another.

  But police work was different than war. In some ways, it was harder, more limiting. But the prospect of getting your ass shot off didn’t happen quite as frequently as in combat, either.

  So what do you say to a rookie today? If it was a man, he could use the tried and true warning about the two things that get most cops in trouble-booze and broads. Or as he heard it more often put, “A wine glass and a woman’s ass.” />
  It didn’t really matter how you put it, though. The important thing was that someone warn the newer cops about the pitfalls they faced in their upcoming careers. Not just what the bad guys did or what the administration might try to do, but what stupid things cops did to themselves.

  The cluster of graveyard troops reached the basement sally port and stepped out through the double doors. A ragged line of patrol cars filled the center lane. Swing shift officers exited the vehicles, collecting their bags of gear and trudging away, while graveyarders jockeyed to get the lowest mileage vehicles.

  Battaglia made straight for the first available car. He threw his bag into the trunk, got in, and drove out of the sally port without inspecting the vehicle or checking the lights or the shotgun.

  Chisolm noticed Carson cast a concerned look after Battaglia’s car as it sped up the ramp. He definitely needed to talk to her. Not here, though. Not after the way Battaglia reacted in the locker room, and at roll call. No, he’d wait until after the initial rush of calls on their shift tapered off, then ask Carson to coffee. That’d be the best way to go about it.

  Satisfied with his decision, Chisolm headed toward an empty car near the front of the line, ready to take on whatever River City had to offer.

  2204 hours

  Carson cruised through West Central with her windows down. A variety of smells floated through her police car as she patrolled the neighborhood: latent barbecues, motor oil, freshly cut grass, dog shit, and the musty smell from poorly maintained houses. A real potpourri for the nasal passage.

  She tried to focus on the things outside her open window, but her thoughts kept coming back to one thing. Battaglia.

  She needed to break it off with him, she knew. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was charming and said all of the things that made her feel good. But he was married.

  What the hell am I thinking? And why do I always end up in relationships like this?

  Her mind raced back through the catalogue of wrong men. Her best friend’s boyfriend. True, he wasn’t married, but it happened before he really stopped being her best friend’s boyfriend. Her poli-sci professor. Married. Then the assistant manager at the Bon Marche, also married. His wife had even invited her over for Christmas one year when she found out that Carson wasn’t able to go back to Wyoming for the holidays. That had been awkward.

  At every stop she found herself falling into situations with married men. She used to call it bad luck, but one thing that she learned at the police academy was how to apply critical thinking. And critical thinking clearly told her that a trend like this wasn’t simply bad luck. There was more to it. But what?

  She ignored the question. Instead she wondered if maybe it was different with Batts. Maybe she’d only taken up with him because she was a still a rookie.

  “That’s stupid,” she whispered to no one. There was a big difference between being accepted as a fellow officer and gaining Battaglia’s acceptance by sleeping with him. Carson shook her head at herself. No, that wasn’t it.

  Be honest.

  She sighed. Whatever it was that drew her to married men, she could examine it at greater length sometime later. Right now, she had to decide how to handle Battaglia.

  Would he really leave his wife, as he hinted in her bedroom, wrapped up in her legs in the early morning hours? Was she really something special, like he told her? Or was she really just the opposite? Something to be used, like a tissue, then thrown away?

  Carson swallowed. All her life she’d felt like the tissue. Maybe this time, though, it was different. Maybe Batts was true love.

  “Charlie-147 and Charlie-148 for a fight call,” squawked the radio. She glanced down, surprised at hearing the south side dispatcher’s voice. Then she realized she had the radio set to scan both frequencies.

  “Charlie-147.”

  “48.”

  “Charlie-147 and -148, start for Liberty Park. A crowd of seven to ten black males are engaged in a large fight. The complainant reports seeing bottles and baseball bats.”

  Carson flipped a U-turn. North side was uncharacteristically quiet, so she decided to go help the south officers. If nothing else, it would it give her something to think about. And maybe a chance to prove something.

  As she reached for her microphone, the north side dispatcher barked out her call sign. Carson jumped. Then she grabbed the microphone and answered up.

  “Also for Baker-124,” the dispatcher continued, “we have a fight at Dutch Jake Park between an unknown number of Hispanic males. Caller says it may be gang members involved. Unknown weapons.”

  “Copy,” Carson said. She flipped another U-turn and headed down Broadway, her heart racing.

  2206 hours

  Chisolm dropped down Alberta Street, heading for West Central to back Carson and Baker-124, Matt Westboard, if they needed it. He heard Sully answer up. A moment later, Kahn’s gruff voice announced he was going to the fight call as well.

  Chisolm left his radio mike on the hook. He’d leave the air open for one of the responding units in case the fight was still hot when they arrived on scene. A lot of fight calls were pretty much over by the time dispatch was able to get the information out, but you never knew.

  “Adam-112,”came the dispatcher’s voice.

  Chisolm reached out and depressed the mike button without removing it from the holder. “Twelve,” he hollered.

  “I’m getting a report of a strong-arm robbery at Mission and Hamilton. Caller claims that three skinheads attacked her and took her purse. Suspects are still in the area. I’ll start you a south side unit to back. Mission and Hamilton.”

  “Copy,” he yelled into the microphone. He hung a left on Wellesley and put on his lights and siren.

  “Welcome to the circus, ladies and gents,” he muttered. “All three rings.”

  2207 hours

  Valeriy Romanov removed the small earphone and turned off the police scanner. He looked over at Sergey in the seat next to him.

  “All three diversions are in place,” he told his boss. “The police are running around like puppies chasing their own tails, all far away from this end of the city.”

  Sergey nodded. “Good. With luck, Oleg will be dead soon.”

  “Not luck,” Val said. “We will make it happen.”

  Sergey smiled. “Ah, Valeriy. I know you plan well. And you carry out your plans even better. But even the best plans need some measure of luck to succeed.”

  Val didn’t reply. Instead, he caught Yuri’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

  As Yuri pulled out of the grocery store parking lot and drove north on Division, Val pulled on a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves. From a paper shopping bag on the floor he removed the.44 Magnum. He felt the heft of the large-caliber revolver, rocking it in his hand almost lovingly. Then he extended the handle of the gun to Sergey.

  Sergey didn’t move. “No, my brother. You will be my hand here. Bring me the traitor alive or leave him in a pool of his own blood.”

  Val withdrew the gun, mildly surprised. For all his blustering, it turned out Sergey had lost his taste for the dirty work. His insistence on coming and being the one to pull the trigger was just one more way for him to exert his authority over Val.

  Plans. Always plans within plans.

  “You honor me,” Val said. He slipped a speed loader into the pocket of his jacket and held the.44 in his lap. Val looked out through the windshield. Two blocks ahead of them was a large hotel sign.

  2208 hours

  Carson rolled up on Dutch Jake park with her headlights darked out. All was silent. She reached for her microphone to report that the fight was over and the suspects gone. Out of the darkness, a voice rang out.

  “?Chinga tu madre, puto!”

  She swung her gaze left. A half block from the park, a pair of young males were shoving each other. Carson hit her overhead lights and accelerated toward them.

  As soon as the lights came on, the pair rabbited away in oppos
ite directions. Carson reached for her radio mike.

  “Adam-128, I’ve got two subjects running from me. We’re about a block south of the park.” B.J. Carson’s voice was slightly elevated.

  Chisolm clenched his jaw but kept driving. There were three other units headed her way, all of which were closer than he was. He had to continue to his call. There was a robbery victim there and the bad guys were still supposed to be in the neighborhood.

  Still, it went against his every instinct not to back up another cop when it was obvious his help was needed. The victim he was going to help was probably fine. And the suspects were likely long gone.

  Probably this or probably that. You’ve got your mission, soldier.

  He pushed his accelerator down just a little more.

  Anthony Battaglia sat in the hard desk chair in the hotel room, shaking his head. What he had figured would be a shit detail was turning out to be just what he needed-a vacation from his problems.

  Oleg Tretiak sat across from him, studying the two cards in his hands. He looked up at Battaglia inquisitively. “These cards only mine?”

  “Yeah,” Battaglia said. “Just yours. And these”-he pointed to his own two hole cards-“are only mine.”

  “Okay,” the Russian said, nodding. “Ponimayu. I understand.”

  Battaglia smiled. He didn’t think the Russian quite understood Texas hold ’em yet, but he seemed to be getting the bluffing part down. He doubted that whatever Tretiak was holding would beat his pocket aces.

  He flicked out three cards into the center of the table. “These are cards we can both use,” he said. Then he flipped them over. An eight of spades, three of hearts, and jack of diamonds showed.

  Tretiak nodded, his eyes studying the face-up cards. “Which one I use?” he asked.

  “All of them,” Battaglia said. “Or any of them.”