by Chuck Logan
Then Harry came back out on the deck and said, "Okay, what it is—I'm leaving the hammer so you can knock the rail apart and get out. And I saw the clipboard in the truck, with Mouse's handwriting on it. Don't tell Mouse what's going on between us here, 'cause then I won't help you."
Broker decided to give another push. "You're just loaded, running your mouth. You don't know shit."
Harry raised his hand and tapped his forehead. "Ah, psychol
ogy. Sorry." He held up the handcuff key. "Look—I'll leave this in the mailbox. I'll call you tomorrow. Meanwhile, you find out if the dead priest deserved it."
"Deserved it?"
"Yeah, like Dolman. He deserved it." Harry walked to the patio door, turned, and hefted the hammer. "See, if the Saint's doing God's work, as it were, I don't see any reason to interfere."
Harry extended the hammer. "This is between you and me, right?"
"You and me," Broker said.
Harry tossed the hammer. Broker snatched it cleanly with his right hand.
Then Harry said, "Course if the priest is clean and the Saint ain't doing God's work, then we'll . . . see. I ain't really decided yet." He reached in his front pocket, eased something out and held it in his fist, and said, "On the other hand . . ." Harry raised his closed hand palm down and opened his fingers.
The bullet clinked on the deck between Broker's shoes. It was about the length and diameter of his ring finger. Harry turned and disappeared through the patio door.
Broker listened to Harry leave the house, get in the truck, start it, and drive away. His knuckles tightened around the slick hammer haft, dripping sweat. He drew a bead on the piece of wood that held him prisoner and swung.
It took a minute to smash the stout redwood strut from the deck rail. Broker slipped the cuff off the shattered wood, snatched up the bullet, got to his feet, went in the house and down the basement stairs.
Harry had left the second gun safe open. Broker looked in the safe to confirm what he already knew: Harry's favorite long black rifle was missing.
Chapter Twelve
Broker got out of the cab and paid the driver. Then he took a moment to compose himself, run his hand down his sweat-soaked shirt, tuck in the anger and humiliation. He rubbed the red raw marks on his left wrist, tested the lump behind his ear for blood and found none.
He glanced around. The world looked deceptively unchanged. Except now Harry was seriously out there in it. Broker knew the stories about drunks who blacked out and continued to function like sleepwalkers for days, operating on pure reflexes.
Broker squeezed the thick .338 round in his pocket. Harry had some pretty advanced reflexes. As he walked toward the law enforcement compound, LEC, for short, he considered the unique potential for havoc in Harry, the blacked-out sniper. Well, John would be happy now that Harry was on board, as it were.
He buzzed himself through the security door with his ID card. Then he buzzed into Investigations and looked around for Mouse.
"He had to go to court," Lymon Greene said. "What do you need?"
"A car. I had some trouble with my truck," Broker said.
"Sure, let's go down to the motor pool," Lymon said. On the way out the door he stopped and took a set of keys from a cabinet and tossed them to Broker.
They walked down several staircases and some corridors and came out in an underground garage. Lymon led him to a tan unmarked Crown Victoria and said, deadpan, "Harry's car."
"Great," Broker said. He immediately opened the trunk, saw the first-aid kit, some equipment related to processing traffic accidents, a Kevlar vest, and what he was looking for: the .12-gauge Ithaca pump shotgun and two boxes of .00 buckshot.
"So how'd it go with Harry?" Lymon asked.
"Harry's just fine. Look. You got the church keys?" Lymon nodded that he did. "Okay, I want to see the church and then talk to this witness. So call him and tell him I'm coming," Broker said.
"Sure. I was just curious. What did John mean, we don't want to play guns with Harry . . . ?"
Broker stepped closer and placed his hand on Lymon's shoulder. "Lymon, pal, let's take a little history test. Who was Carlos Hathcock?"
"Don't play games, I asked you a straight question."
"All right. I'll tell you. Hathcock, like Harry, was a marine sniper. Ninety-two confirmed kills in Vietnam."
"I don't really get around to the History Channel that much. Too many Geritol commercials."
"Harry had forty-five kills. But then Harry was only there half as long as Hathcock," Broker said.
The jaw muscles maneuvered around under Lymon's smooth skin, but he decided not to say anything.
Broker said, "Okay, look—you gotta help me here. I'm real limited when it comes to small talk, paperwork, and offices. You follow me?"
A complex coolness descended on Lymon's handsome face; part inexperience, part age, some implicit racial baggage. Broker, smarting from his encounter with Harry, didn't give a shit.
"Okay, I get it; I'm in a movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Clint Eastwood. I've heard about you, you know," Lymon said.
Broker studied the younger man. "Yeah?"
"Sure. You know how, after nine-eleven, there was all that talk on TV about the CIA not having unsavory types on their payroll who could penetrate terrorist networks. That's kind of like you, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"Yeah." Lymon carefully twisted his lips along a fine line of irony. "You're what they call Human Intelligence."
Broker tapped Lymon on the chest. "Meet me at the church."
He drove through town in Harry's car, catching traces of Harry's aftershave wafting off the fabric upholstery. His head throbbed, and the air-conditioning, cranked on full, hadn't taken hold yet. The heat squatted on the day, pressing down. And pushing up. You could almost feel the humidity summoning the crabgrass and burdock up into gaps and voids. The toughest weeds had green muscle enough to crack the heavy slabs of city sidewalk.
Like murder maybe. Just waiting for the right climate to rear up and bust through. Broker pictured this big nasty weed bursting right out of Harry's chest.
He was losing his distance. He was personalizing it. Damn, it was hot.
After a wrong turn, Broker found the church. There was no good place to die violently, but St. Martin's, abandoned and overgrown, would be way down on anybody's list. The cops had kept the scene quiet. There was no stark yellow crime scene bunting to advertise what had happened here.
Just Lymon Greene, who waited at the entrance looking like a deacon in his gray suit, shined shoes, white shirt, and quiet maroon tie. He stood next to a scrawled, six-pointed pentacle graffiti vandals had sprayed in black on the flagstones in front of the door.
As Broker approached, Lymon moved to unlock the door and said, "There's a small rectory around back where Moros lived; you want . . ."
"Wait," Broker said and nodded toward the rundown house across a vacant lot from the church. A scruffy broad-shouldered man sat in the shade of the narrow porch. Watching.
"Is that Tardee?" Broker asked.
"That's him; he's waiting on you," Lymon said.
"Okay, open it up," Broker said. Lymon opened the heavy wooden door. Broker inspected the lock. It would fasten when he pulled the door closed. He didn't need the keys to lock up.
"Thanks," Broker said. "Now I want to be alone."
Lymon began to say something like, Why the hell did you bring me out here? But he thought better of it and went toward his car. "I'll be back at the office," he called over his shoulder.
Broker had brought Lymon out in the heat so Tardee could see them together. It would help establish that he was a cop—because he was traveling a little light in the credentials department. Because, you moron, you let Harry take your badge and gun.
Broker watched Lymon's blue Crown Vic lurch away down the unpaved street. Then he turned, studied the arched stone entryway, and stepped into the church. The raw limestone, old oak, and coarse stained glass closed around him. The
temperature dropped. It was cool like a mausoleum. Or a morgue.
He walked into the dank interior and found his way to the confessional. The crime techs from the BCA lab had left both doors wedged open.
First he looked into the penitent chamber and saw the kneeling rest, the shattered wooden grille through which the penitent would announce himself to the priest.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
God's work. That's what Harry had said. Was the Saint doing God's work?
If pushed on the subject, Broker considered himself a serious but skeptical pilgrim who traveled without a declared belief in God. His eyes traveled over the altar, the old-world statues and pageantry. The roots of this power went back to imperial Rome; absolutely the longest-running show in the world. It occurred to him that if he were seriously trying to find God, he sure wouldn't start in a building some men had built.
Whatever.
He moved a few steps and looked into the priest's side of the confessional booth. A misshapen tape outline described where Victor Moros had lain in death. The bloodstain still looked damp in the middle. That was the humidity. Neither sweat nor blood were drying as they should.
Harry was right. Broker had never acquired the investigator's instinct to absorb telling detail from a crime scene. But even he could see the direction of bullets through the shattered wood grille, the bits scattered into the room. The killer had fired through the screen. The killer had been talking to the priest.
This was no burglary gone bad. This was personal. Or psychotic.
His eyes settled on the bloody carpet and the abstract taped image of the dead priest. So did you deserve it? Broker pushed sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and felt a throb of pain originate in the bump behind his ear and radiate through his head like a thought that Harry had put there.
The hell with this. Better to talk to the living.
He walked out, pulled the door shut behind him, went through a side gate in the sagging wrought-iron fence, and crossed a vacant lot snarled with weeds and wildflowers. Ray Tardee's house was a single-story wood-frame 1890s shotgun; living room, kitchen, bedroom.
Tardee sat in a slant of shadow on his front porch sipping a can of Pig's Eye.
He was in his midfifties, big shouldered, with not much belly. He wore a leg brace on his right foot, and even on this very hot day he wore motorcycle boots, grimy jeans, and a stained T-shirt from which the sleeves had been sliced out. His thick fingers and palms were intricately whorled in black lines, cured and callused in grease and gasoline.
Closer in, Tardee had shaggy brown hair, wispy mustache, and chin whiskers. The fading eagle, anchor, and globe of a Marine Corps tattoo graced his left forearm, and he wore a thunderbird beadwork wristband below the tattoo that suggested some Native American action in his confused bloodlines. Unmoving, he watched Broker come up his overgrown sidewalk.
"You Ray Tardee?" Broker called out.
"Sorry. I'm the fucking sphinx. I ain't suppose to talk to nobody about nothin'," Tardee said.
"Broker, Washington County Investigations. We just called you."
Tardee put down his beer can and folded his arms across his chest. "The sheriff said I ain't suppose to talk to nobody about nothin', and that's exactly what I'm doing," Tardee repeated.
"Right. Sheriff Eisenhower told me; but he's out of town, so right now you're talking to me."
"All right. Let's see some picture ID."
So Broker took out the brand-new ID that Harry had neglected to take off him. Tardee scanned it and grumbled, "Yeah, okay; I saw you at the church with that Selby Avenue Sioux."
Tardee studied Broker to see if he picked up on the racial slur. Broker got it. Back in the old days, before gentrification, when Broker had walked a beat in St. Paul, Selby Avenue was the main drag of the black ghetto.
"You got enough skin to get on a tribal roll?" Broker asked.
Tardee squinted.
"Ojibwa?" Broker asked.
"Net Lake."
Broker nodded. Net Lake was a poor rez, not blessed with gaming revenue. "Tough shit for you, no casino," Broker said as he came up on the porch and sat casually on the rail. "So did you know the priest?"
Tardee shrugged. "Mexican guy. He wasn't from around here. I saw him in the yard once, putting down sod. I told him it was the wrong time of year to lay sod, that September would be better for the roots to take."
"You talk about anything else?"
"Yeah, he said it was hot. I agreed."
"And that's it?"
"Pretty much. I already been over this." Tardee slipped his hand into his back jeans pocket and pulled out a business card. "With . . . Lie-mond Greene. Investigator." Tardee grinned, showing decayed teeth. "Kinda makes you believe in progress, don't it?"
"Say again?" Broker asked.
"Lymon Greene is progress, see. I asked him where he grew up. In fucking Golden Valley west of Minneapolis. He's a new one on me. I've known some splivs, in the cities and in the crotch. But Lymon, he's my first square black guy."
"Square, huh? Not hip like you and me?"
"There it is."
Broker endured a moment of sun-induced dementia. Suddenly,
he didn't want to be here. "Like for instance, Lymon would never rough somebody up, you know, just because they're a lowlife piece of shit. He probably never even says the word shit, huh?"
They regarded each other like natural enemies, and their eyes agreed it was too hot to pursue it. Tardee shifted his feet. "You know, the sheriff and I had this talk about this little situation I got coming up."
Broker raised his face and took another long drink of too much sun. Working the deals was high on the list of reasons he had quit police work; herding the rats through the sewers with sticks and carrots, keeping them out of sight.
Broker blinked and shook his head again. "Yeah, that was real smart, Ray; selling a bag of grass to an undercover cop."
Ray scratched his belly and grumbled, "Shit, man, it was selfdefense; that fuckin' undercover narc was on his knees begging. Dude was undoing my belt."
"Sheriff says you got priors. You're over the line. That's a commit to prison."
"Fuckin' guidelines," Ray said.
"Yeah, but maybe we can get them to go for a departure from the guidelines."
"The sheriff didn't say maybe. He said be quiet about the woman in the Saints jacket going in the church, and he'd get me a deal."
"What I want to know is, could it have been a guy dressed like a woman?" Broker said.
"She looked like Robin Williams," Tardee said.
"What?"
"Yeah, remember that movie Mrs. Doubtfire, where he dressed up in that padded costume and the wigs and shit? That's exactly what she looked like. A fucking shim."
"Shim?"
"A she and a him. An in-between."
"How tall?"
"Too tall. About five eleven, but walking funny, like a kid in high heels. Like she was in built-up shoes. And, ah, she had a big ass."
"How so?"
"Too big. I'm good on asses, but I'm better on pussy. See, I got hit in the war, and they put this steel plate in my head." Ray thumped his skull. "Ever since, I got no sense of smell whatever; I can eat anything." Ray grinned broadly and let his tongue loll inside his smile.
"I'm impressed. So was there anything about her big ass that was distinctive?"
Ray grinned. "Yeah, it was too big for the rest of her. And she didn't move like someone who had a big ass. She moved like someone who had a pillow stuffed in the seat of her drawers."
"So it could have been a guy dressed up like a girl?"
"Could of been, but probably not, unless you really want it to be," Tardee said carefully.
Broker let it go; he was getting personal again, trying to make it be Harry. He thanked Tardee and left the broken porch. As he walked toward the car, he heard Tardee whistling behind him. He was a good whistler. The Fat Tuesday lilt of "When the Saints Go Marching In" was unmista
kable.
Chapter Thirteen