Police Brutality (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 2)

by Gregory Ashe

  “This is good, right?” the words were out before he could stop them.

  “What?”

  “This, right here. This is good. It’s really, really good.”

  “The shopping list?”

  “Yeah, that shopping list is amazing. No, dummy. Us. We’re great.” And he couldn’t stop, again, the question that came after: “Right?”

  “Yes. With a few exceptions, we’re statistically above average by several standard deviations.”

  “Uh huh. That’s not what I—wait, what exceptions?”

  Hazard wore one of those tiny, Emery Hazard smiles. “I think we have less in our joint checking than the average American.”

  “Oh,” Somers said, trying to laugh and raking fingers through his hair. “Right.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. No, that’s not right. I don’t know; something. I feel different about us lately.”

  Sliding pen and paper aside, Hazard said, “Different?” It was the sound of steel being drawn.

  “Not bad. Good, actually. But different. I don’t know, I just—I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Hazard slid the paper back and picked up the pen. “Do you need more of those cotton-tipped swabs for cleaning out your ear wax?”

  Somers felt something dangerously close to a giggle try to work its way out of him. He put his hand over Hazard’s, forcing the pen down. “I mean, I’m trying to say, my feelings for you are growing. I know I was kind of flippant the first time I brought this up. And then, the other night, at Noah and Rebeca’s, I made that stupid joke. So I guess I’m wondering . . .”

  “What?”

  “How you’re feeling. About me, I mean. And where this is going.”

  “I love you. You know I love you. I don’t understand what you’re asking; I don’t want this to change, ever.”

  “Oh my God, you big dope. I’m trying to ask if you think we’ll ever get married, if we’ll have more kids, if you even want those things.”

  Hazard didn’t move; over his shoulder, Somers watched the clock. 5:59 changed to 6:00.

  “Of course I want to marry you,” Hazard said, back stiff, voice stiff, like he was reading for a play with all of Emery Hazard’s natural acting talent. He slid his hand out from under Somers’s, picked up the plates, and carried them to the sink.

  “Well, this is romantic,” Somers said, turning to watch as Hazard scraped the plates clean and rinsed them in the sink. “Is that all?”

  “I’m ok with having more kids.”

  “Anything else you want to say?”

  “That’s what you asked me.”

  “Sure, but I thought, since we’re being so straightforward about things, maybe you want to tell me how you feel about the cable bill. Or you want to discuss annual interest rates for CDs. Or your preference of encyclopedia.”

  “Wikipedia,” Hazard said, drying his hands. “Encyclopædia Britannica misses out on the advantages of crowd-sourcing information. And we talked about the cable bill seventeen days ago and we both agreed that—”

  “Oh my God.” Somers pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until purple spots swam under the pressure. “Of course you want to marry me. You’re ok with having more kids.”

  “Did you want me to say no?”

  Let it go, Somers told himself. You know how he is; you know him better than maybe anyone. So let it go.

  But the hurt was too fresh, too shocking. “I didn’t want you to sound like you were giving me the results of a cholesterol screening.”

  Hazard paused, hands buried in the terrycloth towel. “I think I want to talk to the accountant, though. Depending on how things go with the agency, it might make sense to wait a little while.”

  “I wasn’t planning on tomorrow.”

  “The first few years, while I’m still running at a loss, it might make more sense to file as single instead of married.”

  Somers stood up. He gripped the back of the chair, his knuckles popping out white against the back of his hand. “I need to go upstairs. I’m going to have a bath or something.”

  “What’s going on with you? Your jaw is tight, and you look—”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  Somers turned, heading for the stairs, but the doorbell interrupted him. He thought, briefly, of letting Hazard get it, but then he changed course. When he answered the door, he was surprised to see Hoffmeister there.

  “Hey, Somers. Is Hazard here? I’m sorry to bother you at home, but something—”

  “What’s going on?” Hazard stood at the end of the hall, dishtowel over his shoulder. “You need something?”

  On the street, a forest-green, Chevy truck rolled slowly along the block. It was old, Somers thought. Maybe thirty years since it left the lot. Rust pitted the wheel wells, and the rear bumper sagged a few inches on the right. The passenger window rolled down.

  Awareness burst through Somers, followed by a sharp spike of fear.

  “John—” Hazard shouted.

  Somers was already grabbing Hoffmeister, dragging him to the floor, shouting, “Get down,” again and again like it was a prayer.

  They hit the floor as the first pop of gunfire came from the street; above Somers, the bullet punched into the front door. Wood dust and splinters puffed in the air.

  Two more shots sounded in the street; the front door splintered again. Hoffmeister was shouting something, trying to get to his feet, but Somers held him down. Then tires squealed, and the momentary silence on the street was broken by doors swinging open, voices demanding answers.

  Somers looked up, his first thought to check that Hazard was ok.

  He started swearing.

  Hazard was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DECEMBER 17

  MONDAY

  6:16 PM

  HAZARD WAS MOVING AFTER THE FIRST SHOT, racing toward the garage. He grabbed the spare set of keys for Somers’s Mustang, slammed the garage door opener, and dove into the driver’s seat. As soon as the car could clear the door, Hazard punched the gas and flew back into the street.

  The Mustang drove like a dream. Power thrummed under Hazard, the force of the acceleration pressing him against the seat. Somers had chosen well, as always. Hazard was starting to regret the fit of martyrdom that had prompted him to buy a minivan against all of Somers’s objections.

  Ahead, the fleeing truck had already dwindled to a pair of red taillights. In part of Hazard’s mind, it was hard to believe this was happening: at their house, on a quiet, residential street in the middle of a quiet, residential neighborhood. He had heard the shot and seen the door splinter, fragments flying around Somers. But the assholes in the truck weren’t going to get away with putting Hazard’s home and family in danger.

  Hazard laid on the gas, and the Mustang launched forward. The truck was turning, always turning, cutting along side streets, alleys, racing engines accelerating and straining at the corners. Wahredua’s rush hour, such as it was, had passed, and the city’s streets were mostly empty. But more than once, the truck hurtled through a busy intersection against a red light, and horns blared and rubber squealed as other drivers tried to avoid an accident.

  This was how it had started with Mikey Grames and Hollace Walker, Hazard thought. The cowardly gunshots from a distance. The high-speed pursuit of a truck. Following Hollace into the Haverford, where he had laid traps. Hazard remembered the July sun on his back, the smell of his sweat and brick dust, the pain in his arms as he dragged himself up a slope of debris. He remembered the rotten, wet-carpet smell of the building. The windows that framed him against the light, turning the hallways into a shooting gallery. He remembered the long fall into darkness, and Somers catching him.

  The taillights swam in front of Hazard, as though the whole world had gone underwater. He blinked, trying to steady his vision, but he couldn’t get enough air; his lungs burned, and the sound of his hyperventilating fil
led the Mustang. He was shaking bad enough that the Mustang swerved between the white lines.

  It only took a few moments to regain control. He knew how to get past all of this, how to box it up and turn the key and lock it down. First he had to regulate his breathing, which in turn regulated his heart rate, which in turn regulated the unsteadiness in his hands. He wasn’t in the Haverford; this wasn’t the same kind of pursuit. Months ago, Hollace Walker had been driving a white truck. White, not green. And the chase had taken place during the day, not at night. In summer, not winter. It wasn’t the same at all. The Mustang’s wheels straightened out. Some of the red haze cleared.

  But he’d lost ground, letting the truck pull ahead, and then the truck cut toward the river.

  By the time Hazard reached the turn, the green Chevy was gone, vanished into the steady traffic of Market Street.

  Hazard sat there for a moment, settling the last of the shakes. Then he turned around and went home.

  “Are you all right?” Somers asked when he walked into the kitchen, the garage door rattling down behind him.

  “Fine. You?”

  Somers waved off the question. He pointed to Hoffmeister, whose sallow face was a thundercloud. “He wanted to go after them too.”

  “That was stupid,” Hazard said. “I lost them at Market Street. They got too far ahead of me, and the traffic was thick enough for them to disappear.”

  “They got ahead of you in that Chevy?” Hoffmeister asked with disgust. “And you were driving a Mustang?”

  Hazard shrugged, but his face heated. Somers must have realized the truth, a part of it anyway, because he turned on Hoffmeister and said, “Want to tell us what this is about?”

  “I want to talk to Hazard. He’s my employee.”

  “That’s a very fucking poor way of phrasing it,” Hazard said. “You showed up at my house, just in time to almost get my—” The word boyfriend caught in his throat; it sounded so shitty, so penny ante, after Somers had just finished telling Hazard what he wanted. “—John shot. So start talking.”

  “They’ve been following me all day.”

  “You came to my office today. You hired me today.”

  “I know that.”

  “Were they following you then?”

  “Yes.” Hoffmeister sagged and wiped his forehead; he looked old, and the shakes working through him as adrenaline wore off made him look older. “Do you have a beer, for Christ’s sake?”

  Hazard got a Bud Lite and a Guinness. When Hoffmeister made a face and, after a moment, pointed to the Bud Lite, Hazard opened the bottle and gave it to him. He opened his Guinness and took a long drink; he was shaking too, and he needed to get past it, fast.

  “I guess I didn’t know they were following me then,” Hoffmeister said. “I mean, I would have said something if I’d known. But I spotted them after, when I went to lunch with Lloyd. And then, I saw them when Lloyd was driving me home.”

  “Lloyd drives you home?” Somers said.

  “Only until this shit clears,” Hoffmeister snapped, a blush staining his cheeks. “So you can ask Lloyd about it; he saw that goddamn truck. And then they were there, sitting outside my house for hours. I called Peterson. You know what that ni—”

  “Careful,” Hazard said in a low voice.

  “He told me he’d come take a look when he had a minute. Jesus Christ. When he had a fucking minute. Can you believe that? Like my life isn’t in danger. Like I’m not about to get capped.”

  “Capped?” Somers said. “Have you been watching 90s gangster movies?”

  “Fuck off, Somers. You’re not even fucking part of this, ok? You’re only here because your boyfriend said you could stay. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure I should stay. Fat lot of fucking help you’ve been, Hazard. Fucking fine way to earn a thousand bucks: cash my check, sit back, and watch those Ozark Volunteer assholes gun me down.”

  “I haven’t cashed your check; you asked me to hold it. On top of that, I’ve been working your case less than eight hours, and I’m not convinced Andy-Jack Strout or any of the Volunteers want you dead. Not right away, that is. Tell me why you think the Ozark Volunteers are behind this.”

  Hoffmeister’s mouth worked soundlessly, and he gestured toward the front of the house with his beer. He looked like a styrofoam fish. “The fucking truck. Do I have to draw you a fucking picture? The truck, that shitty, country-boy truck. Jesus Christ, is this the kind of fucking detective work you do now? No wonder you’re off the force. No wonder you’ve got a shit office. You’ve lost it, Hazard, you’ve totally lost it. You might have had it once. You closed some good cases. But you’re a fucking joke, now.” Hoffmeister stood, pounded the rest of the beer, and dropped the empty; it rolled across the table, heading for the edge, before Somers caught it. “I want my money back,” Hoffmeister said. “You can have your fucking eight hours of it, fine. But I want it back.”

  “Anyone can buy an old truck. Anyone can borrow one. Steal one, for that matter. The truck had no license plates. I saw the driver’s outline, but the darkness made it impossible to pick out details. A man, I think, although that’s mostly a guess, so I’m not committed to it.”

  For a long moment, Hoffmeister chewed his nail. “It could have been a woman? Like that bitch that got up on stage? Or that tranny pastor—”

  “That’s strike fucking two,” Hazard said. “One more, and I’ll dump your ass in the street and give you back your money.”

  “Fuck,” Hoffmeister said, drawing the nail from his mouth again. “A guy can say fuck-all these days, you know that?”

  “Why did you come here?” Hazard asked. “Tonight. Right now.”

  “I—”

  “We talked about this, about going out alone. You told me Lloyd was driving you.”

  “Driving me to and from work, asshole. He’s not my babysitter, all right? And I’m not afraid of going out on my own.”

  Hazard folded his arms.

  “Fine. Fine,” Hoffmeister said a second time, one arm making a windmilling motion. “I bugged out. Are you happy? Those bastards were sitting in the street, watching me, waiting for me, probably laughing at me. I watched them too, for a while. I wanted them to know I knew.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Hazard said.

  “After a while, I got sick of looking at them. I closed the blinds. I watched some TV.”

  “And had a few drinks,” Somers said.

  “A couple, yeah. What’s the matter?”

  Somers just shrugged.

  “I thought I heard something. One of those assholes prowling around the house, maybe. So I got my service weapon and started checking doors and windows.”

  “Then you called the police, right?” Hazard said. “You told them someone was trying to break into your house. Then you barricaded yourself in your bedroom, just like you know you should have, and waited for them to show up.”

  “I already called them, Hazard. Peterson basically told me to fuck myself. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction again.”

  “But if someone was trying to get into—” Somers began.

  “They’d moved the truck,” Hoffmeister said. “I saw it out the kitchen window. It was idling in the alley—putting out lots of exhaust, the cold and the alley lights making it easy to see. One of them was still behind the wheel. Then I heard somebody trying the back door.” He worried his nail for another moment. “I bugged, like I said. I knew they weren’t out in front, so I tore ass and got to my car. They came whipping around the corner as I was driving away.” He glanced in the direction of the shot-up front door. “I thought I lost them.”

  That, Hazard guessed, was as close to an apology as he was going to get.

  “Give us a minute,” Hazard said, grabbing Somers and steering him out of the room.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Hoffmeister called after them. “Jerk off while I’m waiting?”

  “That’s a nightmare,” Somers said as Hazard
guided him down the hall and into a spare bedroom. “I’m serious, Ree. That guy is a nightmare. You working with him is a nightmare.”

  “Apparently I’m not working with him. I’m working for him. You heard him; I’m his employee.”

  “Bull. Shit.”

  “I’m going to check out his place.”

  “All right. Let me get—”

  “No, just me, ok? Whatever is going on, Hoffmeister is acting weird about other police being involved.”

  “He doesn’t like Peterson because he’s a racist asshole.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s all.”

  “Maybe.”

  Somers frowned. “You think there’s something else? Like, Cravens has got somebody pulling her strings again?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just weird. It’s weird that Cravens isn’t taking him more seriously.”

  “This should tell us, right? I mean, if Cravens blows off an attempted shooting, we’ll know something’s really wrong.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour, maybe two. We’re just going to clear the house, and then I’ll look around.”

  “You’re just going to make sure a house doesn’t have any bad guys waiting to shoot you and Hoffmeister, and I’m supposed to sit here and play house. Did I get it right?”

  “Perfectly. Can you do something for me?”

  “Yeah, what? Dust everything for the white glove inspection?”

  “First, find out if that crazy woman from the tree lighting is still in custody. Then you could call the shooting in; get someone out here to take a statement, get the police looking for that green Chevy.”

  Another, sharper frown passed over Somers’s face, and he made the call.

  “No,” Somers said after he hung up. “She made bail tonight. Posted it herself.”

  “After hanging out in that cell for almost twenty-four hours?”

  “My guess: someone transferred the money into her account.”

  “Shit, so she’s crazy and back on the streets.” Hazard shook his head. “All right.” He kissed his boyfriend. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Somers nodded.

  Hazard took a few minutes getting ready, gathering gear and dressing for the cold. After collecting Hoffmeister from the kitchen, he headed for the garage.