by Davis Bunn
Homicide was the most tightly knit team in the force and the worst division for any outsider to stake her territory. The work’s finality and risk made for bonds that didn’t sit well with outsiders, particularly those using the division to weasel their way higher. But for reasons D’Amico could not fully explain, he suspected Bernstein was something else entirely.
Though D’Amico came from generations of cops, he was not old school. He did not hold with those who were hostile to the idea of Bernstein simply because she was a cop of the female variety. D’Amico ignored the grousing and did his own checking. He learned Bernstein had fought hard for Homicide and gained the slot against the wishes of both the chief and the mayor. When she arrived, Bernstein proved to be both ambitious and driven. She was abrasive, demanding, and pushed as hard as any male boss Lucas had ever known. Lucas was still not certain what he thought of Major Hannah Bernstein.
He knocked on the chief’s door and entered. Bernstein did not look up from the file she had opened on her desk. “Have a seat. No, not there. Plant yourself in the corner.”
Lucas pulled a chair over by the window, where he could see both the division chief and whoever was going to be roasted. “Who’s on the firing line today?”
She responded with a question of her own. “You see today’s paper?”
“No chance.”
“They gave the local section’s entire front page to an interview with the Kelly kid. The way he talked about his mother made me want to weep.” She turned a page in the file. “Until I heard he was paying us a visit.”
“Matt Kelly is here?”
“Downstairs.” Bernstein slapped over another page. “This had better not be somebody’s twisted idea of humor.”
“Sorry, Chief. I’m not following.”
She continued to peruse the Kelly casebook. “How’s Clarence doing?”
Clarence Bledsoe was D’Amico’s partner. “Worse. The doctors are talking pneumonia.”
“You have actually seen him?”
“Yes, Chief. I visited my partner. He’s not shirking.”
“Just asking.” Bernstein was in her late forties and was very attractive in a sharply angled manner. Her hair was going prematurely gray, but this only added to her allure as far as D’Amico was concerned. She tended to wear business suits of the mix-and-match variety, all of them high quality. Today it was charcoal and navy and tight enough to show the lady spent some serious time in the gym. “How long has Clarence been off, a week?”
“Five days. And he is very sick.”
“We’re understaffed, as you well know. What does the doctor say?”
“Give it a rest.”
She came up for a glare.
“You asked what the doctor said. I’m telling you. Rest.”
“Don’t get smart with me.” She returned her attention to the file. “Either the Kelly husband or wife play around?”
“Not that I’ve uncovered. Megan Kelly was strong in the Mount Vernon church.”
She studied him. “That’s where you go, right? Is there a conflict of interest here?”
“She and June were pals. I knew her enough to say hello. End of story.” When Bernstein resumed her reading, D’Amico added, “At the funeral I had a word with Vic Wright, runs a full-contact karate joint in Tenth Ward. Used to do patrol with D.C. cops. Vic had a good word for Matt Kelly.”
“That means precisely nothing to me. Not this morning.” She picked up the phone, punched a number, and said, “Okay. Send the Kelly kid up. And tell Dorcas I’m ready for her.”
When she slammed the phone down, D’Amico asked, “Why is Kelly here to see you and not me?”
“The things I have to put up with in this job, you would not believe. I have had calls from the mayor, the chief, and the governor’s office. I’m surprised the president of the United States hasn’t buzzed me on this little item.” At a knock on the door, Bernstein barked, “Inside!”
“Major Bernstein?”
“That’s right.” She pointed at a spot on the floor directly in front of her desk. Her gaze remained upon the case file. “You already know Detective D’Amico.”
Kelly limped slightly as he approached the desk. Lucas found himself straightening slightly. Even in his wounded state, the kid carried a high-octane energy. Tension and something more. Which was remarkable. Because all he showed the world was bland.
Matt Kelly was just as Lucas remembered, only more so. He stood before the desk, parade rest. Up close the burn on his temple was red– der, angrier. The way his short blond hair had been shaved away from the burn made his mild expression even more bizarre. His green eyes were unclouded, his chin slightly cleft, his features carved from stone-colored flesh. Whatever Kelly did to stay in shape, he did it a lot.
Bernstein did not offer Kelly a chair. “I’m seeing you because I have been so ordered. But I have no intention of making room within my department for the feds’ poster boy.”
D’Amico caught the kid’s flash of irritation, there and gone so fast it might never have happened. Matt Kelly didn’t like any reference to his looks. Which was odd enough for D’Amico to make a mental note.
Bernstein leaned back in her chair. Crossed her arms. Gave him a full-on glare. The kid held up well. He remained at parade rest, staring at a point just above the major’s forehead. Ready to wait forever.
The standoff was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come!”
Dorcas entered. “You wanted to see me, Chief?”
“Matt Kelly, meet Dorcas Schaeffer. Dorcas handles our records from the floor below this one.” To Dorcas, “You find him a spot?”
“All set up.” Dorcas was attractive in a warm and motherly fashion. Dark red hair tumbled over her shoulders. Fine bones. Well-padded frame. Merry eyes with more than a hint of steel. Dorcas was married to a sergeant in the Western district. But this did not keep her from giving the kid a speculative once-over. “You’ll like it down there, Kelly. No phone, no window, everybody ordered to ignore you except me.”
Bernstein told Dorcas, “Go see about getting Kelly a temporary pass.” When she departed, Bernstein went on, “As far as the outside world is concerned, that corner of Records is now officially part of Homicide. Complain all you like. But that’s as close as you’re coming to my team.”
Matt Kelly maintained a bland calmness. But he also did not give ground. “What was the right-wing extremist claim based on?”
Bernstein turned up the flame. “You’re questioning a police investigation?”
“The press received this information from two sources. I know that much. One was a deputy mayor, right? The other a senior officer within the police force.”
Bernstein hated anybody taking the offensive in her office. “How dare you suggest I should divulge confidential sources in an ongoing investigation!”
“All I want to know is, is this normal procedure? To feed the press such information before a suspect is actually identified?”
She stared at him. D’Amico was intrigued as well. Other than the scarred temple, the kid actually seemed fire resistant. Bernstein demanded, “Who are you?”
The kid gave her question no attention whatsoever. “Would the press normally hear such information from two senior sources?”
D’Amico decided it was time to step in. “Nothing is normal about this case. We have a candidate for the United States Senate targeted four weeks before the election.”
Matt shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
D’Amico was intrigued. “Exactly what part of this investigation are you questioning?”
Bernstein liked losing control of the flow even less. “This is not the issue under discussion here!”
Matt Kelly remained not so much calm as Teflon-coated. “I am asking how right-wing extremists got identified. And I am wondering whether my father was the intended victim.”
Bernstein leveled her finger across the desk. “You. Out.”
“All I want to know is what evidence—”
&nbs
p; “Now.”
When Matt Kelly had departed, she said to the door, “Do you believe this kid?”
“He was asking some good questions, Chief.”
“He’s a fed.”
“Kelly’s right. There’s no hard evidence to suggest any fanatic was behind it.”
She did not give him the argument he half-expected. Instead, “You know how it goes the same as me. We don’t have a suspect, so the guys taking public heat choose whichever option suits their purposes and let it slip to their connection with the press.”
“Just the same.” D’Amico was staring at where Kelly had stood. “Did you see where Kelly graduated first in his class at the Colorado Police Academy?”
Bernstein hesitated in the process of turning the page. “Yes.”
“CPA is where we send our TAC team for training.” TAC was what the Baltimore police called their SWAT team. “Duke Law with honors. Clerked for a state supreme court justice. And he commanded the color guard at the FLETSE rollout. This kid is something.”
“That changes nothing. He’s fed, he’s a member of the victim’s family, and he is officially not welcome.” She signed a worksheet and opened her next file. “Your job is to find a way for us to show him the door.”
“Chief—”
Bernstein started on another file. “You’ve got two days.”
Matt shared the elevator with a pair of homicide detectives. The cops gave him a smirking inspection, probably checking for new burns. Matt responded with his standard calm and glanced at his watch. Waiting for the chief’s summons had put him very late for the day’s political event. His father would be livid. Matt pretended not to hear the detectives’ quiet laughter as he exited at lobby level. He had to find some way around Bernstein and her banishment.
Dorcas Schaeffer and a female cop stood by the guard’s station as he approached. The guard was big-boned and overweight and street-scarred. “This the fed you were telling me about?”
“Matt Kelly.”
“Okay, Kelly. Step on that yellow line there so I can take your photo.” As Matt moved over, the guard asked Dorcas, “Two weeks do?”
“Bernstein says he won’t be around long enough to print and tag.”
The female cop stood well back, watching him intently. Jet-black hair and eyes contrasted sharply with pale skin and lips only a shade warmer. Her hair was impatiently short, her beauty balanced with nononsense directness. Her nametag read “Morales.”
Matt asked, “Do I know you?”
She and Dorcas exchanged glances. “Not exactly.”
Dorcas said, “Matt Kelly, Connie Morales.”
The guard had an expression from beyond time and a voice to match. “You take a bullet, Kelly?”
“Bomb fragment.”
“Shotgun’s what put me down here, riding desk. Just another place to count down the days ’til I pull my pin.”
Something in the guard’s words pinched Connie Morales’s face up tight. She said to Matt, “More likely you got hit by part of that brick wall.”
Matt swallowed hard. “You were there?”
“Second on the scene.” Connie Morales had a Latino’s almond eyes and pronounced cheekbones, but her English was mid-Atlantic Anglo. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
For the first time that day, Matt had to struggle to maintain his facade. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“I don’t think so.”
The guard broke in, “You were a cop; Dorcas got that right?”
“Two years.”
Dorcas asked, “What, you didn’t like the hours?”
“I loved everything about police work. From day one I was always headed for something in this field.”
A response flickered down deep in Connie Morales’s dark gaze. The guard said, “So now you’re a fibbie.”
“State Department Intelligence.”
“Never heard of that one.” The guard withdrew the pass from the laminating machine, checked the edges, pulled a neck-cord from a box, and handed both over. “You’re good to go, Kelly.”
“Here’s the deal,” Dorcas said. “Chief Bernstein wants you out.”
“I’d have thought the Baltimore police department would be happy to have federal support in a case that’s growing colder by the day.”
The guard actually laughed. “Man, are you ever new.”
Dorcas pointed at the ceiling overhead. “Records is on sixth. You’re assigned an empty cubicle for as long as you care to park yourself. Wear your pass at all times. And stay out of Homicide.”
Before him, the metal detector gaped like the entrance to purgatory. Matt made a process of threading the cord through his pass. “Is there a gym around here?”
The guard replied, “The one upstairs ain’t nothing to speak of. Free weights and bad air is all. What you looking for?”
“Leg machines.”
“Take a left out the doors and go up two blocks to Education and Training. ENT used to be out by the Ravens camp. They moved it downtown last year, gave us new space for prints and processing. Gym there’s real nice. The TAC officers use it all the time.”
“Thanks.” Matt saw the rejection in the female cop’s gaze, but had to ask anyway. “Could I just talk to you about—”
“Soon as Chief Bernstein gives the okay.” Her voice contained a thousand-pound weight, impossible to shift. “Happy to oblige.”
Matt left the parking lot across from police headquarters and headed for the decrepit waterfront sector known as Harbortown. His car was a BMW 750i, seven years old with less than twelve thousand miles on the clock. When Matt’s father had started his campaign for the United States Senate the previous spring, he had asked Matt’s mother to get rid of her Beemer and buy something American. This from a man who had just spent three hundred thousand dollars on a campaign bus. Matt knew because his mother had told him. Megan Kelly had given her beloved Beemer to her son. When Matt’s father had complained, Megan told him that she had sold it. Which she had: for a dollar.
Domino Sugar was the sole survivor of what once had been a waterfront complex producing goods and money three shifts a day. “Sweet Times,” Baltimore had called the 1940s. American Sugar’s first refinery had anchored the Patapsco River industrial estate. Farther north had risen Bethlehem Steel’s largest mill. The Martin company took that steel and rolled out fourteen fighter planes a day. They both competed for labor with the Baltimore shipyards, which in their heyday employed one hundred and thirty thousand people. Beyond them rose McCormick’s drying kilns. Matt’s mother used to talk about how the spices woke her every morning the wind blew off the bay. Now Matt drove through a cemetery of lost industrial might.
Domino Sugar was a stubborn monolith surrounded by steel relics and weed-infested shadows. When Matt pulled up, his father was exiting a warehouse as big as an airplane hangar. Paul Kelly shook hands with hard, solid people who punched the clock for a living. Matt sta– tioned himself across the voluminous parking lot next to the campaign entourage and waited.
Paul Kelly walked over, waved to the last departing official, then said around his smile, “This is how you live up to your end of a bargain?”
“I got held up at police headquarters, Pop. I’m sorry.”
“We’re not in the apologies business. This is about winning. You’ve heard that word before, right?”
Sol hovered by his candidate’s side. “Steady, Paul, it’s no big deal.”
Paul Kelly kept aim on his son. “One event per day. Your terms, not mine or Sol’s. Yours. And the event had to be in Baltimore’s four counties region. So we line you up for high-profile events, places we expect national coverage. Not only do you show up late, but I’m confronted this morning with press Sol did not authorize.”
Matt did not bother to hide his surprise. “The paper wrote something?”
Sol looked extremely uncomfortable. “They gave you the entire front page of the local section. You haven’t seen it?”
“I figured i
t was a wash. The reporter didn’t take a single note the entire time we talked.”
“She probably taped.” Sol was not concerned with the mechanics. “Matt, it’s important that everything to do with the press go through me.”
“What did she write?”
“What . . . It was mostly about your mother. Well written, actually.”
“I don’t understand. You’re giving me a hard time over a good article?”
Paul Kelly closed the distance between himself and his son. “Your mother wanted us to win. That’s what we’re talking about here.”
“Paul, come on.” Sol tugged futilely on the candidate’s sleeve. “We’re attracting the wrong sort of attention.”
Matt asked softly, “Did one of your cronies in the mayor’s office plant the story about right-wing fanatics setting the bomb?”
The skin around the candidate’s eyes and mouth tightened to parchment. “We’ve come back from six points behind to eight ahead. Do you have any idea how important that is?”
“Absolutely, Pop.” Matt took slim pleasure in how his voice revealed none of the emotions roiling beneath the surface. “I rank that one notch below finding out who actually killed my mother.”
Officer Consuela Morales did not sign out a car because she needed wheels. She took the car because she needed to remind herself she was still a cop. No matter what the sergeant said or the lieutenant thought. At least she was a cop until she handed in her badge. Which, given the world’s current state, might well be tomorrow.
The garage’s duty officer looked like he wanted to deny her the ride. He knew, of course. All of Division One knew. She had dissed the lieutenant and was a marked target. But her record was too clean for the lieutenant, a prehistoric relic with a bad case of the grabbies, to fire her outright.
So Connie was reduced to taking what she thought of as the AA job route. One day at a time. This on a job she had formerly considered her one and only.
The duty officer refused to meet her eye as he shoved the clipboard through the cage. “Sign at the bottom.”
Connie saw the car she’d been assigned and wanted to argue. But she held back. She had become extremely good at stifling rage. She caught the keys he tossed at her and stomped away.