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

by Gregory Ashe

  “Yes, but—” Hazard stopped. “God damn it.”

  “Hold on,” Dulac said, pushing himself up in excitement. “I got this. I got this. Um. He’s, like, oh crap, hold on. He’s like Hoffmeister’s long-lost brother, maybe. Oh fuck. Or they were gay and banging each other. So he knows Hoffmeister’s dirty secret and he—”

  “No, we already did that one,” Somers said.

  “Be quiet,” Hazard said to Dulac. To Somers, he said, “Actually, Hoffmeister didn’t point me toward him.” Somers raised an eyebrow, and Hazard felt the heat rise in his face again. “He mentioned Andy-Jack. He said something about him; he said that at first he had thought Andy-Jack had been behind everything. And then he said he didn’t think so anymore. I asked him why, and all he would say was that he had ‘changed his mind.’ As though a grown man who’s spent time reaching a logical conclusion would ever need to change his mind.”

  “Dear Lord,” Somers said to himself, scrubbing his face. “What have I gotten myself into?” Then, before Hazard could respond, he said, “Why did you spend so much time on Andy-Jack?”

  “Because he was the most likely suspect. At least, until I met him.”

  “I got you, man,” Dulac said, holding out his fist for a bump. “Solid choice.”

  Hazard ignored him. As more of his conversation with Hoffmeister was coming back to him, he remembered something that made his stomach drop. “This wasn’t a suicide.”

  “I thought we’d—” Somers said.

  “No, it was seventy-percent likely a murder, but it wasn’t definite until now.” Hazard blew out a breath. “I forgot something until right now. A note.”

  “What note?”

  “It’s probably in Hoffmeister’s house; he showed it to Peterson, and Peterson tried to lift prints and couldn’t get anything off it. I guess he gave it back because Hoffmeister had it with him when he hired me. It said something like: The Only Way To Peace Is A Rope. Lots of initial capitals.”

  “All right,” Somers said. “And now we have a link: whoever was threatening Hoffmeister, messing with him, harassing him: that’s our killer. Unless we want to say there were two parties, and they were both interested in hanging him.”

  “No,” Hazard said. “Ockham’s razor, the simplest—”

  “I know, Ree. I was just—never mind. Where do we start?”

  “The pastor,” Hazard said.

  “You think he did this?”

  “I think it’s highly likely. And I don’t like secrets; I want to know what that son of a bitch is hiding.”

  “And he made you mad.”

  “And he made me really fucking mad, and I’m looking forward to kicking in his door with a warrant in hand.”

  Somers sighed. “Dulac, why don’t you sit on Andy-Jack just in case?”

  “I can take the other one. That antifa babe, what’s her name? I got it.”

  “No, just find where Andy-Jack’s been over the last twenty-four hours, and then keep an eye on him. Pull in some of the uniform guys if you need to.”

  “Uh, yeah. Right. Because, you’re like, senior partner. So yeah. I’ll do that. And, like, it was totally boss watching you own Emery’s ass a few minutes ago. Like. Hot. And inspirational. And kind of, like, you’re my mentor, so—”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Hazard said.

  Dulac kept his gaze fixed on Somers, but a blush rose behind the freckles. “I just mean, since we’re partners, maybe you and I should go talk to the pastor. And the consultant, I mean, Emery, he can watch Andy-Jack.”

  “No fucking way,” Hazard said, grabbing Somers’s arm and steering him towards the car.

  On his feet, Dulac called, “Somers? You want to meet up in a little bit? We can switch, and Emery can stay at Andy-Jack’s and—”

  “Go do your fucking job,” Hazard called back.

  “He’s right,” Somers said, who was offering surprisingly little resistance as Hazard dragged him across the street. “He and I are partners.”

  “That,” Hazard said as he shoved Somers into the Mustang and loomed over him, his big frame blocking out the sun. A Hazard-clipse. “Is a fucking technicality.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DECEMBER 19

  WEDNESDAY

  3:12 PM

  THEY DROVE PAST THE FLOPHOUSE where Savanna Twilight had listed her residence on the bail form, but nobody answered the door when Hazard knocked. When he got back to the car, he said, “I told you.”

  “It was worth a shot,” Somers said. “The pastor has a job, a home, a congregation. I don’t think he’s going anywhere. Savanna Twilight, on the other hand, seems to have disappeared.”

  “Unless the pastor took the money from the collection plate, booked a flight to Bora Bora, and vanished after killing a cop last night.”

  Shrugging, Somers steered them back into the street. “Then we’ll extradite him. French Polynesia has an extradition treaty with the U.S.”

  Hazard flipped him off and settled back into the seat.

  “See,” Somers said, “extradition is when one government—”

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” Hazard growled.

  When they got to The Hyssop Branch, the church felt emptier than usual. It took Hazard a few minutes to realize why: the playground was empty; preschool was over. They went inside the building, and as they were passing through the lobby, speakers screeched inside the main room where services were held—he imagined they called it the sanctuary, or something like that. Hazard backtracked and pulled open the door.

  Instead of a traditional layout, this room was built more like a megaplex theater: risers of comfortable seating that went out and up. At the center, a surprisingly small stage stood under banks of lights. Right then, a group of clean-cut musicians was running a sound check while somebody in the control booth played with settings on the lights. Most of the kids in the band couldn’t have been past twenty.

  They hadn’t noticed Hazard and Somers yet; one of them was jiggering something on an electric guitar, while two more moved an amplifier, and another was pacing, his long legs eating up the stage.

  “Ask them?” Somers said.

  “Christ, not if we can help it.”

  They left the musicians, and Hazard led them back to the administrative section of the church, where he had found Wesley before. This time, though, Jamie’s desk was empty, and the door to Wesley’s office was shut. Hazard tried the door; it was locked.

  “Check her desk,” he told Somers.

  Somers raised an eyebrow, but he turned toward the desk. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Hazard waited until his boyfriend’s back was turned, got out his ring of bump keys, and worked them in the cheap, commercial lock until the door wobbled open. He rapped on the door.

  Somers turned, holding up a calendar he’d been reading. His eyebrow went up again.

  With a shrug, Hazard said, “Guess the door didn’t catch.”

  “Gee. That’s lucky.”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  “And I’ll wait here. Like good police.”

  Hazard flipped him off again because sometimes Somers just deserved it.

  Inside, the office was as Hazard remembered, only now with the faint smell of old upholstery—from the chair he had brought as a peace offering, he guessed. He worked Wesley’s desk quickly, going through the drawers, finding all the usual assortment of office supplies and professional paperwork. He found some new stuff too: a card in the trash, the front covered with hearts, the inside covered in a looping, ballooning script that Hazard associated with eighth-grade girls, all of it spelling out some spectacularly bad love poetry—he assumed this was from Jamie, who was obviously carrying a torch for the pastor. He also found paperclips shaped like a cross, which he guessed was supposed to add a religious flair to the normally secular business of bundling documents; mileage records—Hazard scanned these and was surprised to see
regular visits to Paradise Valley addresses; he wondered what a trans man was doing preaching to the people who wanted him dead and dragged behind a Silverado—and a file full of housing allowance receipts. After comparing the addresses, he grabbed an old one, figuring it wouldn’t be missed, and left the office.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “The chili cook off is next week,” Somers said, wagging the calendar, “which I think you should enter. And they’ve got a daddy-daughter dance you might want to take Evie to.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ve got his address.”

  As Somers replaced the calendar, he said, “Why is that stupid?”

  “I don’t like any of my chili recipes. And you always complain they’re too ‘chili,’ which I think you think is a pun on chilly, but it isn’t.”

  “But they sound the same,” Somers said, “and the meanings are different, and when you use one word in place of another and the sound is as important as the change in meaning—”

  “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  “—you’ve got a pun.”

  They left the Christian rock group still working in the main room/sanctuary/whatever the hell they called it, with one of the musicians—Hazard guessed it was the nervy pacer—screaming, “Well, get your head out of your fucking ass, Jeremy, and play the riff right.”

  “That seems about right for Christian rock,” Somers muttered as they pushed out of the building.

  In the car, they drove the half mile to the address on the housing allowance receipt. It was an aging townhome with a straggly poinsettia in one window, the brown tips of the leaves curling away from the glass. When they got out of the car, Somers offered a mock salute and jogged around the side of the house. Neither of them had had to say a word.

  Hazard counted twenty beats and hammered on the door. It rattled in the frame. He counted out twenty again and hammered some more. This time, it felt like the whole house was shaking. Hazard liked the feeling. They might get this whole thing sewn up today; they might—

  When the door opened, Hazard let out a groan.

  Jamie stood there, dressed in a slinky red dress that hit her at mid-thigh. Artificial red fur trimmed the dress. Hazard wanted to guess that it was meant to be seductive, a kind of combination sexy-Santa’s-sleigh-girl and negligee. On Jamie, however, the effect was ruined. Her hair still looked like an Irish Setter in need of a good brushing, and an enormous stain—judging by the color and the flecks of chocolate, he thought maybe mint chocolate chip ice cream—spread across one shoulder.

  “He’s not here,” Jamie said and shut the door.

  Hazard got his foot inside just in time. He leaned into the door, forcing her back by inches, until she stumbled and they both were inside. The townhouse matched Hazard’s expectations: motley furniture, obviously assembled from rummage sales and flea markets; a few lithograph prints, religious, one that broke the trend with an abstract of reds and whites in broad, vertical strokes. The place smelled like boiled potatoes.

  “Sit,” Hazard said, pushing Jamie toward a loveseat with scruffy houndstooth upholstery.

  As soon as her ass hit the cushion, Jamie started to howl.

  “Good Christ,” Hazard growled as he stalked through the main floor of the house: living room, kitchen, and half bath. Somers stood on the back porch, jiggling the handle on the sliding glass door, and Hazard flipped the lock for him.

  “Cold,” Somers said, rubbing his arms as he stayed out on the porch. He cocked his head at the sound of Jamie’s howling. “Is she hurt?”

  Hazard gave him a disgusted look.

  “Just your usual affability.”

  “That’s a pretty big word,” Hazard snapped as he made his way to the stairs. “Was it printed on a Starburst wrapper?”

  Grinning, Somers waved his middle finger like it was the American flag.

  Hazard had just started up the stairs, taking the first two in one step, when a voice called down, “What’s going on? Jamie? What’s wrong?”

  “Come on out, Wesley,” Hazard shouted. “Nice and slow.”

  A long pause followed. Then: “For fuck’s sake. Fine. I’m coming out.”

  “Not very appropriate language for a religious man,” Hazard said to no one in particular.

  “Like you have room to talk,” Somers called from the back porch.

  “Fuck off.”

  “See?”

  At the top of the stairs, a door creaked open, and Hazard waited for any sign that Wesley might be thinking about something stupid. But the pastor emerged with his hands held up, shuffling to the top of the stairs. He wore baggy jeans, a simple white tee, and a half-dozen thin gold chains, like some sort of wannabe rapper. His face was covered in bruises and abrasions.

  “Come right the fuck down,” Hazard said. “Let’s talk about last night.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  DECEMBER 19

  WEDNESDAY

  4:06 PM

  HAZARD KEPT HIS EYES ON Wesley as the pastor made his way down the stairs, but neither Wesley nor Jamie tried anything funny. Wesley kept his hands up and clear, and Jamie panted on the houndstooth loveseat, toppling over from how hard she was breathing and then righting herself and then toppling over again.

  “Take a seat,” Hazard said.

  “Hi, Wesley,” Somers called from the porch. “Mind if I come in?”

  “I told him not to,” Jamie said, pointing at Hazard. “I told him you weren’t here.”

  “It’s ok, Jamie.”

  “No, I told him. I told him and he came in anyway.”

  Patting her arm, Wesley made soothing noises. When he spoke to Somers, though, there was nothing soothing in his voice. “Detective, I want this man arrested for forcing his way into my home. I don’t know if it’s considered trespassing or breaking and entering or what, but I want him arrested and I want him taken away.”

  “All right,” Somers said.

  “What?” Hazard said, turning on his boyfriend.

  “What?” Wesley said. “I mean, good.”

  “We could do that,” Somers said, stepping into the kitchen and drawing the sliding glass door shut behind him. “You’ll have to come down to the station with me to press charges, of course. And—sorry to say this—but we’ll need to ask you some questions as well. After all, it looks like you might have been in an altercation with Mr. Hazard.” Somers traced the air around his own face, suggesting the cuts and scrapes on Wesley’s. “You’ll probably have to wait a while at my desk; there’s a lot of foot traffic through that area, so you’ll see some of your congregants. That’s a good thing, right? You won’t get bored. And then we’ll snap some pictures, ask our questions, and make sure we have a really clear understanding of where you’ve been over the last few days. Just in case there’s a pattern here. In case Mr. Hazard has been harassing you.”

  Wesley stared at Somers, obviously trapped between the idea of being exposed in a small town with his face turned into hamburger and the short-lived pleasure of punishing Hazard for coming into his home.

  “Or,” Somers said, “we could talk here. We could decide if there’s any reason to press charges. Probably get everything cleared up, just the three of us, right now.”

  “No,” Jamie said, flouncing up so quickly that the sleigh girl dress gave Hazard a quick and vivid impression of Strawberry Shortcake underwear. “Get out of here. You’re mean to Wesley. And you’re mean to me. I want you to get out of here.”

  “Jamie,” Wesley said, “maybe you should go home.”

  “No,” she said, snatching up his hand and pressing it to the ice-cream stain over her shoulder; she looked like she was trying to get the hand over her bosom, but Wesley was resisting. Frantically. “We’re in love. We don’t care what anybody else thinks. We love each other, and we’re perfect for each other. And we’re happy.”

  “Jamie,” Wesley said, getting his hand free, his face drawn with unhappiness. “Jamie, that’s not h
ow it is. You know it’s not. We’ve talked about this.”

  “Well,” Jamie huffed, her eyes flitting to Hazard and Somers and then back to Wesley. “You just—you didn’t want me to—”

  “No,” Wesley said. “We’re friends. I’ve told you that. You should go home, Jamie. Right now. And think about if you want to be my friend—just my friend—or if it’s better that we don’t see each other at all.”

  Jamie wobbled on heels trimmed with the same artificial fur as her dress. Then, whirling around, she screamed at Hazard, “I hate you. You ruined everything!”

  With a few more wobbling steps, she was out the front door, leaving it hanging open behind her. Wesley scrubbed his face, sighed again, and shut the door. Then he set the lock. At Hazard’s look, he said, “Sometimes she decides she wants more of a show. That was really only a rehearsal; she’ll want to come back and take it all from the top.”

  Some of the confusion must have showed on Hazard’s face because Somers said, “She knows you’re not interested in her, but she likes the fantasy.”

  “And the drama,” Wesley said, settling back onto the houndstooth loveseat. “Everything on TV has drama now. Big, explosive fights. Sexy make-up scenes afterwards. Jamie’s got a passion for daytime television. For her, I think that’s as real as life gets.”

  Hazard frowned. “So the church hired her as, what, some kind of charity case?”

  “What do you want, Mr. Hazard? I’ll be honest: I’d rather have this conversation here, given the options Detective Somerset laid out. But I think I’ve made my feelings about you perfectly clear. I want this to be the last time you bother me, or I will press harassment charges or whatever the hell they’re called. I’ll hire the best lawyers I can to get you to leave me alone.”

  “Tell us about last night,” Somers said.

  As usual, somehow Somers had pinpointed the weak link. Wesley jerked upright at the words, his jaw loose and trembling. The quiff of ginger hair was limp today, free of product and drooping down over his forehead. Then he started to cry.