“Don’t touch me,” I said quietly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Thomas, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” I took in another breath, balled up my fists. “And I know you mean well. But you don’t know what it was like, and you don’t know the things that I did. So don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault.” I stepped toward her and she stepped back. The defiance in her eyes flickered. “I’m not a nice guy, Mary, you understand me? You were right to tell me to get lost before. This . . . swapping-stories shit, this talking, I can’t do it. I thought I could. Thought it might be a relief or whatever, but it’s just more pain and I can’t stand it anymore. So please, go back to your apartment and just leave me the hell alone.”
I turned around and walked away then. Quickly, while the blood thumping in my ears was loud enough to drown out everything else. When I got home I went into the yard and even though I knew what I would find I had to look all the same.
The money was gone.
It was a late one last night. I can smell it in the air.
Rookie seems pretty fresh, though; he obviously wasn’t invited to Boys’ Night Out. I wonder where they went. Tubby doesn’t look like he’s shaved this morning, so I’m guessing he slept in. Either that, or the guy never learned how to do it properly. Cumstain’s the worst, though. Asshole’s got a black eye.
“What happened to you?” I ask him.
He glowers at me over his coffee, says he’ll ask the questions. Out the corner of my eye I see Rookie smile as he exits the room. It bolsters me a little, and I lean forward across the table and give an exaggerated sniff, then tell him he smells like dick so I’m guessing he ended up pulling some cock in a skirt who liked it rough, and Cumstain bangs his coffee down so hard on the table it slops over the sides and the bastard goes and burns himself and I squeal with laughter.
Then Cumstain ups and leaves and I get to enjoy my morning coffee in peace. When he returns he’s got a damp dishcloth wrapped around his hand and a look in his black eye that says, Try it. So I say nothing and he starts up the recorder then reaches for his coffee but the cup’s already empty because I drank it when he was out of the room.
Afterwards Rookie takes me back down to my cell. I wonder if he’s going to stay and chat.
They’ve stopped giving me the special treatment now. No more takeout, no more radio. No more natural light, even—someone has bolted a sheet of metal over the window and I bet I can guess who. They must think I’m dragging my feet. Must think I’m keeping some of the good bits back, which of course I am. I’d have to be a Grade A moron to give up what I’ve got without that signed agreement in my hands. It’s on its way, they say, whenever I ask. Has the FBI never heard of a scanner? I say back. Is the Director walking it down here himself?
Rookie uncuffs me—small silver key, but there’s a bunch on his chain. Kid even keeps his car keys on there too. He slips them into his pocket. He looks like he’s going to say something, like he’s finally going to strike up a conversation, but then doesn’t. The door opens at the top of the stairs and I recognize the shoes as they pad down.
“Smells like dick!” I yell through the bars and Cumstain’s face is dark when it finally comes into view.
He jerks his thumb at Rookie. Poor kid is too scared to even glance at me as he leaves, takes the stairs three at a time. Few seconds later it’s just me and him and the bars between us. I bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet for a bit as he glares at me, then I walk over to the window and point at the metal grate.
“Was this you?” I ask. “’Cause”—and I stick my nose right up against the metal and sniff—“’cause you know what it smells like?”
Cumstain says nothing, just reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. I know what’s coming next. Spotted the baton in his right hand when he came in. He says I’ve had this coming a while now, and I tell him I’m surprised it’s taken this long.
The bars roll back and Cumstain steps into the cell with wide eyes and I don’t even try and stop him.
Chapter Thirty
Needless to say, I woke up Sunday morning feeling pretty shitty.
The rain had continued throughout the night. Lying in bed I could hear it. The metal gutters sang. Drops of the stuff collecting on my window. I rolled onto my side and stared at the grey light. Its anemic glow filling the room.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d said to Mary the night before. How I’d lost it. She was the first person who had genuinely tried to help me—who’d been prepared to wait until I was ready to talk and then listen when I was—and I’d pushed her away. I didn’t know how to fix that.
Not that it would matter for much longer anyhow. It was coming up on a full day now since Bob and his team had started combing the Catterson residence. They were going to find those photographs. Now that Mansfield had the money, maybe it didn’t matter anymore.
I rolled out of bed and saw the picture of Rachel propped up on my nightstand. I reached over and flipped her facedown. I couldn’t look at her. Not today. Not after last night.
I showered in lukewarm water. The water heater was on the fritz and I hadn’t got around to dealing with it yet.
I didn’t want to think about Mary. So I focused on Simon instead. As I dressed, I wondered whether Morricone would be waiting for me when I got to work. I didn’t need to go in today, but what else was I going to do? Pulling the collar of my raincoat around me as I dashed to the car, I tried to think if there was any way I could get out from under the pile of shit I was building around myself. Confessing was an option, sure, only I’d given that a shot last night and woken up feeling even worse than usual—and I usually drank a half-bottle of something before going to sleep.
I thought back to what Simon had said, and that’s when it hit me. So hard it made me stop. In the street, in the rain, standing staring at my Impala. The photos aren’t in the house, he’d said, and suddenly all I could see was the red Nissan parked outside.
I sped down the wet roads. My wipers working double time to keep the windshield clear. My raincoat on the back seat; a sodden mess. The heater was on full blast but I barely felt it. If Bob had been working on the house, he might not have gotten to the car yet. I ran through the preliminary forensic process in my head. Tried to work out whether I could still make it.
They would have taped off the driveway at the same time as the house. Nobody would be allowed near the vehicle. Preservation of evidence was always the first step.
Photographs would come next. Exterior and interior.
Finally, they would have moved to detection. DNA, fingerprints, other trace evidence. Exterior surfaces would be checked for latent prints. Side mirrors, door handles, hood, trunk, roof-support posts, gas-tank cover—everything. Inside they’d focus on the steering wheel, rearview mirror, the windows and window handles, the handbrake, the glovebox, the seatbelt buckles. Any place a person might be reasonably expected to touch. They’d collect hair and fiber evidence with a vacuum system.
By my guess, that process would take the best part of a day. I doubted Bob would do it himself; he’d be too busy coordinating the house. A car was easier, more self-contained. One of his team would do it. They might be slower. Regardless, if they’d started yesterday morning, then they’d probably finished with the preliminary investigation.
Once that was done they’d move on to stage two. Towing the vehicle to the station. Well-covered and secure, safe from the weather. This would be where they’d really go to town on it. A systematic search of every inch of the vehicle. Taking the interior apart, piece by piece. Anything of interest would get a numbered placard. More photographs. All things considered, I figured they’d start on that today.
I arrived at the station and parked in my usual spot. Pulling my coat on, I ran through the rain to the secure garage. It wasn’t that early, but it was Cooper. I was banking on whoever was due to look over the car running late.
I slid open
the large steel doors and slipped inside. I glanced around. The place wasn’t big, maybe large enough to fit a couple cars. A small office at the far end that led into the station. The window thankfully dark.
Without the overhead lights on, the garage was nearly pitch-black. I turned on a penlight I carry and scanned the room. There, in the corner, stood the Nissan. 248-UGN. I breathed out a sigh of relief.
I hung my raincoat on a chair, traded it for the white lab variety, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Wrapped my shoes in plastic, too. Last thing I needed was to leave a fresh trace.
I hurried over to the car. It was unlocked. Pulling open the door, I climbed into the driver’s seat.
Glovebox.
Cup holders.
Door storage.
Nothing.
I glanced at my watch. I’d been there for nearly ten minutes and it was already after nine. I glanced at the office window. Someone could turn up at any moment. Thinking, I ran my hands over the dashboard and around the sides of the seats. I checked for rips in the fabric, front and back. I popped the trunk and lifted the spare tire.
Nothing.
It was nine fifteen.
I was sweating. I wiped at my forehead with a gloved hand. There was a noise and when I looked up I saw a light flickering on in the office. I clicked off my little flashlight.
“Shit,” I hissed quietly. “Alright, Simon. Where did you put it?”
I slid back into the driver’s seat. One eye on the shadows moving around behind the mottled glass.
“Come on, come on,” I whispered to myself. “Somewhere you could reach fast if you needed to. Somewhere you could hide it in a hurry.”
In desperation, I leaned forward to feel the carpet by my feet. Patted my palm around until I felt it.
A slight lip in the material.
I dug my fingers underneath it and gently prized it up.
The office door opening. I could hear voices now. Male. A conversation, someone laughing. The garage was still in darkness but any second that would change.
My fingers were on the hard floor of the chassis. I scrabbled around frantically. And there, nestled in between, was a small envelope. I pulled it out and ripped it open. Spilled a stack of negatives into my palm.
Rolling back the carpet, I clambered out. Clicked the door shut softly. Reached my raincoat just as the overhead halogen bulbs started to ping, slid through the main doors as they burst to life.
Back outside, I hurried through the parking lot. I snapped off the gloves and shoe covers as I pushed through the station’s entrance. Threw the plastic into the trash. Reached my chair and collapsed into it. Time to see what he really had.
I pulled out the negatives and started checking each one.
There were over a dozen photographs. All of them of the van heist. All of them of me and Joe. In our ridiculous masks, our shotguns raised. I saw myself smacking Casey square in the jaw. Watched us burning the car, masks off. My face lit up in the flames as I collected my bundles of cash. My stomach flipped a little as I went through them all. Our entire adventure, captured for anyone to see.
I leaned back in my chair just in time to see Morricone striding toward me. I stuffed the negatives back into the envelope. As he got close, I could tell he was pissed. I tried a smile.
“Morning, sir.”
“My office,” he said. “Now.”
I stood up so fast I nearly flipped the chair. Slid the envelope into my pocket and followed him up the stairs. By the time we reached his office, my palms were slick with sweat.
Mansfield was waiting inside.
“Oh,” I said.
“Morning, Detective,” she said.
She was sitting on a chair at the side of the room. Didn’t bother getting up to greet me.
I hadn’t been in Morricone’s office before. It was nice; looked out over the main area. Big bay window that let in the light.
The captain closed the door behind us and took a seat at his desk. I didn’t want to be the only one standing so I pulled out a chair and fell into it.
“What’s this about?” I asked. Disdain masking my nerves.
Morricone looked at me and folded his long arms. “I understand you’re somewhat acquainted with Detective Mansfield.”
“Somewhat.”
“I want to make it clear that she’s here at my request.”
“Alright.”
“She’s been assisting me on a rather . . . sensitive investigation.”
I blinked. “You’re building a case against Joe, aren’t you.”
Morricone nodded. “That’s right. And Thomas, we need your help.”
“I don’t understand. What is it you think he’s done?”
Mansfield explained.
It had begun in the east. Omaha, six months previous. A DEA bust that nabbed seventeen drug dealers and nearly five million in narcotics and cash combined. The kind of operation that makes the main page of the local papers, maybe even plays lead in the nightly news. KFAB talk radio, frontline reporting on the war on drugs. Photographs of some bald guy in a flak jacket standing in front of a table creaking with white powder.
Of the seventeen arrests, one was twenty-three-year-old Connor Feltman. Mansfield had a picture of him, and she slid it across Morricone’s desk. A pimple-faced kid who looked like he was about to shit himself. Feltman ended up informing on just about everyone he knew to save his own skin. If his own grandmother had inhaled back at Woodstock, she’d have been right up there with the crack addicts and gangbangers.
But Feltman happened to be a pretty well-connected little shit, and two of the names he gave rubbed the right people the wrong way. The first was Demyan Marchenko, a Ukrainian national who moved over to the US a few years earlier. Hooked in with a drug cartel operating out of Omaha, started running drugs and guns from Eastern Europe throughout the state. Used a handful of farms outside Cooper to store product.
I’d heard some of this already. Watched Mansfield as she reached into her folder for a second photograph, laid it out next to Connor Feltman’s. Recognition must have been on my face, because she leaned in just enough to let me know she’d seen it. Poker had never been my strong suit.
“You know him,” she told me.
“Yeah,” I said. “What did you say his name was?”
“Marchenko. Demyan Marchenko. How do you know him, Thomas?”
“Well, I don’t know him.”
“But you’ve seen him.”
I’d seen him. I reached over and tugged the photograph toward me.
“This is out of date,” I said. “His hair is shorter now, and black.”
“You sure it’s him?”
“I’m sure,” I said, and stared at the same eyes that had tracked me through a haze of cigarette smoke. Cold and grey like a February morning. I spun the picture around and tapped at the man’s half-smirk. “He was missing the same tooth. Front row, upper right.”
“When did you see him?”
“Couple days ago. He was in the parking lot outside.”
Mansfield and Morricone shared a look. The captain loomed across his desk.
“What was he doing here?” he asked me.
“He was meeting Joe,” I said.
Morricone fell silent, his face dark. Mansfield opened her folder, pulled out a third photograph and a smile to go with it.
“Detective Joe Finch,” she said, and placed his picture next to the two already laid out. “The second name that Feltman gave up, and the man you’re going to help us catch.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Mansfield laid it out for me, nice and clear. Wear a wire. Get him on tape. I interrupted her before she asked me to do the right thing.
“Save me the pitch,” I said. “We all know I’ve heard it before.”
Mansfield clammed up. Leaned back and crossed her short legs.
Morricone cleared his throat, said, “Thomas, the Nebraska State Police have been working this for the last four months. Believe me, no
one in this room wants to set officers against each other. But Joe Finch is a dirty cop, and I will not have a dirty cop working in my station, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now Detective Mansfield’s remit is the Omaha cartel. Internal makeup, future deals, location of product. If Demyan Marchenko is in Cooper then there’s a reason for it. Joe is our way into all of this.”
“And I’m your way to Joe.”
“Exactly.”
“Is this an order?”
The captain sighed. “If it has to be.”
Mansfield leaned forward. “We think Joe was involved in the attack on the police transport.”
“I didn’t come to Cooper so I could set up another one of my colleagues.”
“You think DC is the only place with dirty cops?”
I got to my feet. “Do you have any idea what happens to informers? You expect me to have any sort of career here when this is done?”
“I’m not here to make friends, Detective.”
I turned and headed for the door. Mansfield called after me.
“Where are you going, Thomas?”
“To do my job.”
I was three steps into the corridor when I heard the door open behind me and the sound of heels clicking. I stopped at the top of the stairs and turned. Mansfield was glaring at me.
“You know you’re damn lucky I didn’t drop you in it back there,” she said.
“What stopped you?”
“I’m not interested in you, Thomas. I never have been. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a spineless waste of my time. I want your partner and I want Marchenko.”
“You burn me now, you lose your shot.”
“So our interests are aligned. Briefly.”
“Where’s the money?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“And if I help you? What happens then? You drop the cash onto Morricone’s desk on your way out the door?”
“You want to talk about immunity, we can talk about immunity.”
Welcome to Cooper Page 15