by Davis Bunn
And it hit him.
Matt pulled Pecard’s number from the FBI analysis sheet. When the man came on the line, Matt said, “The things that were stolen and the things that were damaged. One from each room.”
Pecard gave a moment’s hesitation in response, all the reward Matt figured he would ever get from this guy. “Yes?”
“So the bomb was not the killer’s only message.” Moving forward with confidence from having gotten the first part right. “He spent a lot of time going through the house. Leaving us a message. We need to find out what that message was.”
There was another longish pause, then, “I want to see the bomb fragments the police gathered. You will find them in their evidence lockup. I should imagine that access is severely restricted.”
“I don’t know—”
“Make it happen, Mr. Kelly. I will meet you there at five.”
When Officer Consuela Morales had finished her trainee period at Western and discovered she was assigned to Division One, her feet did not touch earth for a week. Nowadays, though, going to work meant shouldering a hundred-ton load. She was reduced to looking back in fondness on her early days as a cop—all six months of them. Knowing that was probably all she would ever have.
Division One fronted Baltimore Street and occupied space reclaimed from the notorious Block. The Block was Baltimore’s badland, a strip of sleaze and organized crime and semilegal prostitution and clubs that specialized in degradation. There was still a Block, shaved down to a half-dozen clubs along a fifty-yard strip of grime and jaded lust. But with the Division One police station as their new neighbor and cop cars patrolling its length every few minutes, the Block was effectively neutered.
Division One handled crime from Fells Point to the Harbor District and Cherry Hills. But what made Division One even more appealing to Connie was the tunnel. An elevated concrete platform ran from Division One to headquarters, which fronted Fayette and City Hall. The tunnel was her passage to the big time. TAC. Violent Crimes. The Organized Crime Unit. And the pinnacle of city police work, Homicide. All standing just fifty meters away, beyond two sets of heavy steel doors. Beckoning. Waiting. There for her to claim.
Connie pulled her SUV into the fenced-in lot and went through her windup. She unlocked the carry-case and slipped on her belt, gun, collapsible baton, Taser, and radio. As if she was actually going to go be a cop. Going through the morning motions had once been an adrenaline rush. Now the last five minutes to roll call stretched out in a torturous stupor.
“Hey, Morales. How’s the arm?”
She faced one of the cops from the previous day’s incident. “I’m good to go, Brodski.”
“I stopped by the hospital on the way over. They’re sending Jamie home tomorrow. Day after at the latest.”
“That’s great news.”
“Yeah, the bullet missed the bone and sailed clean through. He’ll be on light duty for a couple of months, but they think he’ll be okay.”
She didn’t mean to, but the words came out bitter. “Jamie would die pulling desk.”
The other cop had the decency to wince. “Tell me.”
Every shift had one officer assigned desk duty. That officer handled the phone and foot traffic and a lot of mindless paperwork. Every lost poodle, angry neighbor, mishandled garbage bag, and nonviolent squabble landed there. The desk was normally handled by an officer assigned light duty, or an older officer approaching retirement, or someone being hauled before IA whose powers of arrest had been withdrawn.
Connie had pulled desk every day since her public run-in with the lieutenant. It was killing her.
Brodski said, “Jamie asked me to say thanks.”
“Hey, just doing my job. It felt pretty good too.”
Brodski shifted his feet. “I’ve been hanging out here waiting for you. Word is, me and Miles are up for a medal.”
Miles was the other cop who chased down the gazelle. “That’s great, Brodski.” Then the reason for his hangdog expression struck hard. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Technically, you weren’t on patrol duty. So you can’t be rewarded for handling a crime you weren’t supposed to be called out on.”
She flung her shoulder bag onto the ground. “That’s it. I’m done.”
“Just hold on a second, okay? I’ve been waiting for you because Miles and me, we told the lieutenant we wouldn’t take the medal. It was your call. You’re the one who saved Jamie’s life.”
Acid bit the back of her eyeballs. “Take the medal.”
“No, Connie, it’s not—”
“Tell Miles. How often do the good guys win?” She stooped over for her bag. Straightening took forever. She felt a million years old. “You both should take it and run.”
“What’s going down in here, it ain’t right. I just want you to know. Most of the other guys are feeling really low about it, you know.”
“Thanks, Brodski. But I’m all done here. Hands has finally beat me.”
“You can’t quit on us. You’re a good cop.”
She hustled for the entrance and slammed through the doors and said to nobody in particular, “Yeah. I am, aren’t I.”
“Are what?”
It took a moment to realize she was facing the homicide detective from yesterday. “You want a piece of me too, Rabbi?”
The guy had a surprisingly gentle smile. “Protocol says you need a little more time on the job to be using my nickname.”
“Yeah, well, on some other day I might care.” She tried to shoulder by. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for roll call.”
“I’ve already cleared you with the sergeant,” D’Amico replied. “You and I need to have a word.”
She was about to object when Lieutenant Calfo stormed out of the duty room. He fisted a crumpled sheet in D’Amico’s face. “What is this?”
D’Amico did not back up. “Read it and weep, Hands.”
The lieutenant flushed. “You got no right, calling me that.”
“Hey, I’d love to stand here all day, talking about an officer’s rights.” D’Amico placed soft emphasis on the last word. “But we’ve got homicides to solve.”
The lieutenant was so angry that the hand gripping the papers trembled. “You know what the other officers think of Morales? She’s the division’s number one hump.”
There was little worse a cop could be called by a fellow officer. A hump was cop-speak for an officer who fell apart under stress. They let fear take control. They fumbled their weapon or discharged it badly. They imperiled everyone around them. To have a hump arrive on backup was worse than facing the danger alone.
D’Amico replied, “Interesting word to use for somebody who saved an officer’s life yesterday, Hands.”
“Connie Morales wasn’t authorized to be out at all.” The lieutenant was shouting now. “That girl is trouble.”
D’Amico remained calmly unscathed. “Yeah, well, I’d say this officer is my problem now.” D’Amico took Connie by the arm and steered her around. “Get out of my face, Hands.”
Connie let D’Amico lead her past the duty room because she was too numb to object. The entrance was full of astonished faces. A tall black officer, Miles, gave her a grin and a thumbs-up.
The lieutenant realized he was the object of an entire squad’s attention. “You’re promoting her because she’s disrespectful?”
“I’m just trying to further a good cop’s career, Hands.” D’Amico pushed through the doors leading to the tunnel. “That’s a critical responsibility for every senior officer, remember?”
They were in the elevator. Riding to the seventh. Connie realized the detective had said something to her. “Excuse me?”
“Your name. Morales,” D’Amico repeated. “Is that Latino?”
“My folks were both born in this country. My father’s family is Colombian.” She felt so weak she wanted to lean against the wall. But she wouldn’t. Not on her life. “My mom’s folks are from Buenos Aires.”
D’Amico gravely accepted the information. “Me, I’m your typical Baltimore mongrel. Father half Neapolitan, half Pugliese. Mother pure Polish. But at least they were all Catholic. Then I went and married a black Irish, a Protestant. Mother carried the shame to her grave. This is our floor.”
He ushered her out and past the case board. “You’ve been here before, right?”
“Sure. The standard rookie tour.” She couldn’t take a thing in. “I hooked up with another group so I could go through twice.”
“Right. So you know we work on two shifts, not the three of patrol. Nobody checks you in and out. If you’re not pulling your weight, the lieutenant will let you know. Everybody working homicide is basically expected to live and sleep their job.”
She was mortally ashamed to feel a burning trace down one cheek. The hand that wiped the wet away was shaking so hard she almost missed her face.
D’Amico pretended not to notice. “The division chief is Major Bernstein. That’s her office behind the glass doors there. She ought to be a captain. But the city administration did away with that rank. Captains were civil service, which meant they could only be promoted up through the ranks. The city wanted to make all division chiefs political appointees, which most senior officers consider political garbage. But they didn’t ask our opinion. Bernstein is one of these new deputy majors. Around here we call them mini-majors. Just don’t ever let the chief hear you say that.”
Connie clutched her satchel to her chest in order to have something to do with her hands. She was getting struck by waves that left her wanting to break down and sob, then it would pass, and they’d be another ten feet or so through their stroll down the bull pen’s central aisle. Blanking out for a second or two, then coming back around.
“The lieutenants and sergeants have their offices around those two walls.” Detectives who staffed the cubicles glanced up, scored her with tight cop looks, nodded to D’Amico, and went back to whatever they were doing. “Admin, evidence, and interview rooms behind those doors. Cold case and redrum on the other side of the elevators. Redrum is murder spelled backward. It’s our word for cases tied to serious drug busts, the ones we share with Organized Crime and ATF, DEA, FBI. Or we would, if we were on speaking terms. Which we’re not. You know about that, right?”
“I’ve heard.” She could scarcely manage a whisper.
“This way.” He led her into a narrow hallway branching off the bull pen. Four cubicles, half the size of those occupied by detectives, fronted the corridor. “Soon as I clear it with the major, this will be your new home. She’s at a meeting with the deputy commissioner. I got the lieutenant to sign off in her absence, so we’re provisionally cool.” He gently nudged her into the cubicle. “This section is known as Homicide Ops. It’s responsible for chasing down evidence, contacting the labs, coordinating with TAC on a bust, basically anything the detective you’re assigned to work with needs doing.”
She just stared at him. Like the utterly green rookie she was. Speechless.
“You’ll also work with problem witnesses. We get a lot of those. People who’re scared or threatened and don’t want to show up for trial. And you’ll be passed over to Organized Crime sometimes, particularly on kidnapping and extortion cases.”
D’Amico settled himself comfortably against the side wall. He might as well have been discussing the weather. “Don’t think this is an automatic pass to the first team, Morales. TAC detectives are considered Homicide’s farm team. Any who want to apply would get first pass whenever a slot opens here. But you do your job and make your mark, people are going to notice. If I were you, I’d start on the detective exam soon as you’ve got in the time.”
She wanted to throw her arms around his neck. Instead, she spoke with a voice that was two octaves lower than normal. “I owe you, Rabbi. Big-time.”
D’Amico gave an easy shrug. “What say you take a while, get yourself settled in. Soon as the major arrives and gives us the green light, we’ll go fight us some crime.”
When Matt entered headquarters, the officer at the front desk greeted him with, “Yo, Kelly. How’s the leg?”
“Okay, thanks.”
“That was some move you made, going after an armed robber with your bare fists.” The guy had an astonishingly ugly grin, all yellow teeth and caverns. “Bet it gives you the sweats, now that it’s over.”
It probably would, if only Matt could separate that from his nightmares over the blast. “I must’ve jerked awake a dozen times last night.”
“Tell me ’bout it.” He picked up the phone. “D’Amico says I was to call ahead. But you can go straight on up.”
“Thanks.”
As Matt passed through the metal detector, the cop added, “Looks to me like there’s some changes coming down.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go upstairs; have a look for yourself; tell me I’m not right.”
D’Amico met him at the elevator, accepted the FBI report, and led Matt back to his cubicle. The detective pulled a second chair from across the hall, told Matt to have a seat, and gave the pages a careful read. He sat and pulled at his lip for a second. “This is good and not good.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t get me wrong. The information here is vital. But the timing—”
A voice called out, “D’Amico!”
“Back here.”
“You wanted to know when the chief arrived.”
“Be there in ten.”
“Roger that.”
The detective waved the pages at Matt. “Is this everything?”
“No.” Matt told him about the meeting with Pecard, and what he had learned. D’Amico studied him a moment longer. “That was a good move, going out to see the guy personally.”
“Bannister suggested it.”
“You ever work a homicide while you were with Vail PD?”
“Follow-up only. Biggest bust I made was a kid stealing skis.”
He nodded slowly. “I got to tell you, this is the first solid evidence we’ve seen in a while.”
“Pecard wants to come in and take a look at the bomb’s remains this afternoon.”
“Does he now.” D’Amico crossed his arms. “He tell you what was going down between the feds and Baltimore police?”
“Bannister did that.”
“Bannister’s the new SAC over at Homeland?”
“Yes.”
D’Amico rose to his feet. “I’ll need to run this by the chief. Come on, let me show you around.”
The bull pen was split down the middle by a solid wall of elevators and interview chambers. Major Bernstein’s office, her two aides, and the senior lieutenant occupied one outer wall. Sergeants and admin staff flanked two other walls. The final exterior side contained interview and holding chambers and a conference room.
The odor within Homicide was as pungent as it was subtle, an electric mix of old cordite and gun oil and sweat and tension. D’Amico walked him by the active cases board and explained how it was broken down. “The cases written in blue mean a cop was involved in the shooting. Those investigations we share with IA.”
Matt fingered a tiny pin stuck into the board beside one name and asked, “What’s this for?”
D’Amico’s voice didn’t change a notch as he replied, “It means an officer was shot and killed.”
Matt tracked down the seven rows, representing the sergeants and their active caseloads. There were a lot of empty pinholes in the plastic board.
Their tour over, D’Amico pointed him into a chair by the chief’s outer office. “Wait here.”
The shouting started about two minutes later.
The homicide chief’s office was separated from the detective bull pen by a cheap wall of Plexiglas. The mobile wall had been somebody’s lousy idea for saving money and preserving future flexibility. Matt sat with his back to the wall and overlooked the bull pen. Heads appeared now and then over the partitions, glancing his way, smirking the message that it was better
him than them. Matt could not tell what Bernstein was saying. But the chief’s rage vibrated the wall.
“Hello, Skippy.” Connie leaned against the wall next to him. “Here to watch me crash and burn?”
Matt replied, “What’s going on in there isn’t about you.”
“I wish that were true.” She winced at the next verbal barrage. “You’re looking at the quickest homicide career in history. Here and gone in three hours. Just the same, I wanted to say thanks for backing me up yesterday at the hospital. You don’t know what that meant.”
“Enough to have you stop calling me Skippy?”
“Maybe not that much.”
“How about dinner sometime?”
The response came with the easy speed of constant practice. “That’s probably not a good idea.”
“No. I suppose you’re right.”
She almost managed a smile. “A fighter you’re not.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He had a thousand reasons for letting it go, especially all the pretty faces in his past. Even so. “My father is invited to the owner’s skybox for the football game Sunday. I can bring somebody if I want.”
“A lot of girls would love nothing better than an afternoon in the Ring of Power. That’s what they call the skybox level. But my place in life is two decks down.”
“You’re a Ravens fan?”
“Season tickets, baby. Go birds.”
D’Amico opened the door. “Okay, Kelly. Inside.”
Connie rose with Matt and asked, “Is it time for me to go pack, Rabbi?”
“Not just yet.” He motioned Matt forward. “Let’s go.”
Two assistants, one male and one female, manned computer stations in the chief’s outer office. They offered Matt amused sympathy as Bernstein barked through her open door, “Front and center, Kelly. You too, D’Amico.”