by Jack Quaid
‘Mo Everingham.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘My lawyer.’
The room and the bullshit were too much. Sullivan had to get out. The air wasn’t so fresh out in the hall either, but it was better than the smell of body odor, cheap aftershave, and confusion.
He left.
Sullivan was halfway back to his desk when the uniform he’d asked to run the plate stepped to him with a handful of stapled pages. ‘The information you requested, Detective.’
Sullivan thumbed through the first couple of pages: driving record, rap sheet, and address for the owner of the piece-of-shit Ford from the SD footage.
Chapter Eleven
The vehicle was registered to an Alison Allen.
DOB: 28/03/1986
HAIR COLOR: Red
EYE COLOR: Green
PARENTS: Deceased
OCCUPATION: Unknown
Her sheet told more of the story and nothing unique. Six counts of shoplifting, one count of solicitation.
Her Californian bungalow sat at the bend of a street in what used to be a fashionable suburb. Sullivan parked a hundred feet away with the rear of his car facing Alison’s rented dump. Tilting the rearview mirror so he could see the house, he climbed into the back seat and waited.
He was heading into his fifth straight hour of staring into the ten-inch mirror when there was finally some movement. A clunker of a Ford pulled into the driveway, and it was the same one from the Merc’s SD footage. Smoke pumped from the exhaust, engulfing the entire rear end. Through the haze, a petite woman in Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots, and sporting a head of bright-red hair climbed out and ran into the house. A few moments later, she bounced out again, back into the Ford, and pulled out into the street. Sullivan climbed over the front seat, cranked up the engine, and followed.
She was a good driver, legal. Kept to the limit. Gave way when she was meant to and never ran a light. She pulled into a fast food joint and grabbed a bite before heading over to the free clinic in Dearborn where she waltzed through the front door like a regular; given that none of the junkies that decorated the front steps bothered her, she probably was. An hour later, she left and was back on the road.
It was getting late. Shadows stretched out over the city, and within a few blocks, everything was black. Neon lights began to flicker on, and the streets were slowly filling with those who preyed on the weak and valuable. Sullivan followed the Ford down a series of streets where every other house was vacant, covered with graffiti, or a burnt-out shell. Some of the streetlights flickered, others didn’t work at all.
The traffic thinned. Sullivan flicked off his headlights and cut his speed by half. The Ford moved farther ahead and almost disappeared. Then, its taillights brightened as she rolled to a stop outside an all-night service station. Climbing out, Alison ran across the road and into an alley. Sullivan pulled into the station and sidled up to the pump with a good view of the alley.
Alison Allen swung her hips from side to side as she strutted toward an idling Commodore. She climbed inside. Brushed her hair behind her ears, took the gum from her mouth, and blew the guy behind the wheel.
It was Con Taylor.
Chapter Twelve
He dug around in the trunk and found a tape recorder and a primitive wire that Sullivan latched onto the pocket of his jeans. He hit record and moved down the alley.
Con Taylor’s eyes were closed with his head aimed to the roof. Alison Allen had a face full of balls. Neither of them saw him coming. Sullivan ripped open the driver’s side door, grabbed Taylor by the collar, and dumped him on the concrete face-first. He came up with one hand yanking at his pants and the other going for his shoulder holster.
Sullivan was faster. ‘I’d think twice about that,’ he said and took aim at his skull.
A flicker of recognition flashed across Taylor’s face. ‘Jesus, Sullivan. The fuck you doing?’
The passenger door opened and Alison stumbled out, her arms around her body for warmth. She avoided looking Sullivan in the eye.
‘Go home, sweetheart,’ he said.
A couple of moments after, her footsteps disappeared out of the alley and the echo of a busted engine faded into the night.
‘You scared the shit out of me,’ Taylor said climbing to his feet and lighting a cigarette.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Agitated and anxious. It was a different Con Taylor from the one Sullivan had seen earlier today. He was drug fucked, but his habit wasn’t a twenty-four-hour thing yet.
Sullivan lowered his weapon, kept it close.
Taylor’s voice sounded as if somebody had given it the once-over with a sander. ‘What do you want, man?’
‘How about the fifteen million, for a start.’
‘What the shit are you talking about?’
‘Where were you between four and seven this morning?’
‘Fuck you,’ he spat, making an awkward attempt to get back into his car. Sullivan pulled him back.
‘Where were you?’
‘At home in bed.’
‘Alone?’
‘Nah, with my wife.’
‘Will Trisha back you up after I tell her about Alison?’
They both knew the answer.
‘I know Alison’s car was a spotter.’
‘Go fucking arrest her, then.’
‘She wasn’t driving. You were too stupid or too lazy to go and steal a clean car, so you used hers.’
Instantly, Taylor sobered up. He planted his feet and locked onto Sullivan with a hard stare.
‘Prove it.’
‘I can.’
‘With your little SD footage?’ He patted himself down. ‘Yeah, I’m not too sure where I left that. You know how it is: evidence gets lost all the time.’
Sullivan felt the hum of the tape recorder against his leg.
‘That’s not all I’ve got.’
‘We’ve all got some dirt.’ Taylor lit another cigarette off the butt of his last. ‘What do they expect? I can’t even pay my bills; none of us fucking can. We’re all getting the big fuck.’ Spit flew from his mouth. ‘Tell me you don’t have something going on the side.’ Sullivan shook his head, and Taylor dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Well, you’re fucked in the head, then.’
It was starting to drizzle. The rain formed a wall of mist between them.
‘What do you think you’re going to do now?’
‘We go in. You come clean about what you’ve done and who you’ve done it with.’
‘Fuck you. I ain’t going anywhere.’
Sullivan tightened his grip on his weapon. ‘Yeah, you are.’
Taylor paced. ‘We’re everywhere, you idiot. We’re junior officers. We’re senior badges. We’re inspectors, and we’re in every department. We run this department, and who are you? Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m the guy who does his job.’
Taylor sized him up. ‘You take me in, and Hailstrum will bury you.’
‘With your thumb and finger, take out your weapon,’ Sullivan said.
‘You don’t have the balls.’ Sullivan smirked.
‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe not.’
Taylor shifted his weight, dropped his shoulder.
Sullivan shot him twice.
Chapter Thirteen
Smoke drifted from the barrel, past Sullivan’s scratched badge, and faded into night. Sirens in the distance bounced off empty buildings and echoed for miles around. Then came the prowlers and the uniforms; they cordoned off the alley with tape at either end and stood as silhouetted guards. Homicide detectives walked the scene. Primary information, chain of events: what the fuck happened. To them, Sullivan didn’t exist. He couldn’t be spoken to, questioned without a rep or lawyer present. As it was, Sullivan wasn’t feeling too chatty.
Scene photographers lit up the area in bursts of light that lasted only a fraction but left the negative of murder scorched into the memories of those who watched. When the floodlig
hts were erected, there was no escaping the scene. A Homicide dick slid on a pair of Ray-Bans while another with latex gloves took all the care in the world to pull back Taylor’s coat. His service weapon sat snug and holstered. The dick looked to his partner, shook his head, and they both looked to Sullivan. Neither of them were impressed.
Anybody who shifts their weight the way Taylor had is going for a weapon. It took a decade of working the street for Sullivan to gain that half-second drop on him. He was twenty-two the first time he’d killed someone. The Frederick Douglass projects. Ecstasy lab. Sullivan was first through the door. Shotgun in his face. His training had kicked in, and the shooter was dead before Sullivan could think about anything. It was a good kill. Clean and justified. They said it would get easier over time; it never did, and in the years that followed, with each killing, it only got worse. He remembered their names and faces. He thought about their families, friends, girlfriends, and children. Justified or not, killing is killing, and it never got easier.
Rain fell from the sky in heavy drops, taking away the evidence in small increments.
A junior hovered over Taylor’s body. ‘Hey, check this out.’
Sullivan stepped forward with the murder detectives. The junior waved a light over Taylor’s wrist, illuminating the number seven. Clubs, strippers, whorehouses: it could have been the entry stamp to a hundred off-the-map joints. It wasn’t so much a clue but a needle in a haystack.
From behind the floodlights, Sullivan watched a figure limp before him. Even before he saw his face, he knew the silhouette belonged to Jim Jones from Internal Affairs.
‘It’s been a big day for you, hasn’t it?’ he said.
‘And to think I didn’t even put in for overtime,’ Sullivan said. ‘Are you here to take me in?’
‘No. Not yet,’ he said and dipped his eyes to Taylor’s corpse. ‘Somehow I think you and I are interested in chasing up the same type of leads.’
‘Are you looking to get your face in the paper again?’
‘I’m just looking to bury dirty cops.’
‘Hey,’ a voice called from behind them. It was Rayburn. He pointed to Jones with a stubby finger. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
Jones was used to it. He shifted his gaze back to Sullivan. ‘We’ll talk soon.’
‘Not without his fuckin’ rep he won’t.’ Rayburn put a hand around Sullivan’s arm. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
They headed out of the alley, into the street where Sullivan could see the service station attendant being questioned by Garcia, Cooper, and Warren, probably chasing a surveillance tape. Sullivan had seen a camera but seriously doubted it was operational.
They passed a couple of boarded-up shopfronts and slowed to a stop, far enough away from anyone with big ears.
Rayburn lit a cigarette. Sullivan went for his. Empty. He tossed the pack.
‘Here.’ Rayburn handed him his deck, and Sullivan lit up. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Taylor was in on the armored truck job.’
Rayburn leaned against some plywood in place of where a window used to be. ‘I find that hard to believe. I’ve known him…’ He struggled to find the words. ‘Christ, I don’t even know how long.’
‘SD card from the Merc: it showed a spotter. After the crew left, it pulled out. The tag was registered to a piece of ass Taylor was banging on the side. Alison Allen. I followed her to him, and he didn’t like it too much.’ Sullivan looked up and down the street, then fixed his gaze on Rayburn. ‘Did you know?’
‘What? Fuck, no. I knew about the drinking, the whoring, but nothing like this.’ He rubbed his tired face. ‘Twelve people are dead. Thirteen, including him. Are you sure? I mean, with something like this you need to be absolutely, positively as sure as sure can be.’
Sullivan dug his fingers into his jeans pocket and pulled out the tape recorder. For just under ten minutes, Rayburn paced the footpath, chain-smoking cigarettes with the tape recorder pushed to his ear. His face contorted at different moments with what he heard, and when it was over, he didn’t say anything for a long time. He just leaned against the wall and stared at the cracked concrete by his feet.
‘You need to be taken into protective custody,’ he eventually came out with.
Sullivan took the recording from Rayburn and slipped it in his pocket. ‘I don’t need protection.’
He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and paced. ‘Don’t be an idiot. This is bad. Real fucking bad. Cops pulling jobs. Cops killing citizens. Cops killing cops.’ Rayburn pointed down the alley to the badges working the scene. ‘Taylor couldn’t have been alone. You think they’ll give a fuck that you’re a cop? They’re cops. You won’t last ten minutes out on the street.’ He shifted his gaze back to Sullivan, nodded at his service weapon. ‘Is that it?’
‘Uh huh.’
Rayburn pulled out an evidence bag, and with a flick of his wrist, it opened. ‘Put it in.’ Sullivan hesitated until Rayburn pulled a second piece from the waistband of his trousers and handed it over. ‘Take my backup.’
Sullivan dropped his service weapon inside and palmed Rayburn’s backup. He checked the rounds: Loaded.
Chapter Fourteen
Twenty minutes into the ride, and nobody had said a word. Warren drove at a steady, cautious speed. Every once in a while, he’d shoot a glance in the rearview mirror, his gaze meeting Sullivan’s for a moment before shifting away as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Sullivan was in the back seat, sandwiched between Garcia and Cooper. Garcia had bad breath and Cooper had body odor. There wasn’t anything Sullivan could do about either. Rayburn sat up front in the passenger seat and stretched out. They were on their way to a safe house out in Highland Park.
It had been two nights since Sullivan last slept, and he was wide awake with his body running on nothing more than adrenaline and fear. Sullivan stared through the windshield as the streets blurred past. Not too long ago, the whole area was its own city of industry, made up of rows of factories that pumped out useless products nobody needed. Now it sat dormant.
Rayburn leaned forward and pushed in the cigarette lighter. When it popped out and he raised it to light his cigarette, Sullivan could just make out the mark on his wrist in the glowing coil. It was a stamp.
The number seven.
The same number-seven stamp that Con Taylor had on his wrist.
And it was then, right then that Sullivan figured out that these sons of bitches weren’t taking him to a safehouse.
Rayburn sensed his mistake even as he made it. He turned, saw it all over Sullivan’s face. He went for his weapon. His gut got in the way.
Sullivan rammed his elbow into Garcia’s throat. Head flung back. His back arched. A scream shoved into an angered moan.
Garcia, weapon behind him. Struggled to reach. Gave up. Threw a jab to Sullivan’s ribs. Let out a yell. Another jab. He heard a crack.
Rayburn, weapon in hand. Swung Sullivan’s way. He lifted his knee to chin. Catapulted forward. Rammed Rayburn’s gun hand to the dashboard. Pushed it there. Held it.
Sullivan pulled his weapon and rammed it under Garcia’s chin. Pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
CLICK.
CLICK.
No firing pin.
Shit!
Rayburn gave him a dud.
The vehicle swerved. Warren pulled his gun. He swung it over the seat and fired.
The rear window shattered.
Sullivan went deaf as glass showered over him.
Garcia jabbed Sullivan’s broken ribs.
Rayburn was slipping free of Sullivan’s boot.
Cooper pried at Sullivan’s elbow.
Warren took aim again. His eyes darted between Sullivan and the road. Sullivan and the road.
Warren pulled the hammer back. The blast came. A muzzle flash scorched Sullivan’s leg, but the bullet, that buried itself in the back seat.
Sullivan took a fistful of Cooper’s hair. Rammed his head through the p
assenger window. Broke Garcia’s nose with an elbow and climbed through the shattered rear window onto the trunk.
The rain, the speed, and his age collided. Sullivan came off the back and slapped the wet concrete.
The vehicle came to a sliding stop.
Sullivan’s body screamed in pain. Everything told him to stay down. To give up. To roll into a ball and let them end it.
Car doors opened and closed.
He gasped for air. His ribs tightened. He peeled himself of the concrete, and Sullivan disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
They were out there.
Sullivan could hear their footsteps and muffled whispers. He stayed in the shadows and held his breath. A thump echoed through his body with each beat of his heart. His scorched leg ached; his hands shook.
Eyes closed, Sullivan took a breath, then another and another after that. Slowly his hands steadied, his mind cleared.
It took him forty-five minutes to travel three blocks. He was almost within sight of the main street. Gas stations, bars, people. Witnesses.
Then he heard the hammer pull back.
Very slowly, Sullivan looked over his shoulder and saw Garcia with his blaster in his hand and the dangerous end pointed his way. Garcia should have put him down right there. Scared, dumb, who knew, but he hesitated.
‘Turn around,’ he said.
Sullivan did.
‘Walk,’ he said.
Sullivan did.
Garcia trailed behind. Every so often, their steps would fall out of sync and the barrel of his Beretta would push into the back of Sullivan’s spine.
They reached the end of the block and came to the sedan with the shot-out window. The trunk popped open. Keyless entry.
Garcia jabbed the back of Sullivan’s head with his gun and said, ‘Get in.’
‘There doesn’t look like there’s much room in there,’ Sullivan said.
‘That sounds more like a Sullivan problem than a Garcia problem.’