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

by Gregory Ashe

And it was a lie. One-hundred percent a lie.

  “You told me he was going to see someone, you told me he—”

  Hazard turned, and Somers recognized the classic, shut-your-mouth look on his face.

  “I’m going to insist that Chief Cravens take you in for questioning, Mr. Hazard,” Thompson laid an ugly stress on the title. “And, of course, photograph your hands, collect DNA evidence from under your nails, match—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Hazard said. “This is bullshit. This is a smokescreen.” He held up his hands. “What the hell are you going to photograph? My fucking manicure? I’m out of here; if you want to bring me in, send a patrol car. And an arrest warrant.”

  “Calm down, Mr. Hazard,” Cravens said, hovering an inch above her seat, both hands planted on the desk. “Calm down and get back here.” She blew out a breath. “As of this moment, all three of you are off the Hoffmeister case. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  “Because of this bullshit?” Hazard said.

  “Because of this horseshit?” Dulac said at almost the same time.

  “Chief,” Somers said, “we need to look into this. An attack on a suspect is worrisome, but it’s not reason to close the investigation. And Emery’s right: without evidence, you can’t treat him like he’s guilty. In fact, this might be the break we’ve been waiting for.”

  “That’s right, Chief,” Dulac said. “We’ll canvass the trailers, see if anybody can corroborate what happened out there. There might be some security cameras—”

  Cravens flinched.

  “Thank you, Detective,” Thompson said, and the braids went click-click-click. “That’s the perfect segue. Chief, if you don’t mind?”

  For a moment, it seemed like Cravens might shake her head. Then she sighed and clicked the mouse. On the computer, a video began to play: footage from a security camera. The footage was black and white, an infrared capture Somers guessed, because the quality was still good. It captured a broad angle of a street; based on the framing of the video, Somers thought it was a display-window security measure. The video rolled forward.

  “What are we—” Dulac began.

  He fell silent as the first car drove onto the screen: Hoffmeister in his sedan. Next came the green Chevy pickup. In Hoffmeister’s story, the green Chevy had chased him to Hazard and Somers’s house, where the someone had fired off a few shots, supposedly trying to kill him. On the neighbor’s security feed, though, they had seen the Chevy following closely but without any apparent haste, giving away Hoffmeister’s lie. This video showed the same coordinated movement, not the panicked chase that Hoffmeister had described.

  The only difference was that, from this angle, the camera captured the Chevy’s driver: Harold Lloyd.

  Somers threw a quick glance at his boyfriend; Hazard was pale, made paler by wavy, dark hair and eyes like straw ready to burn.

  “This doesn’t—” Dulac started.

  “This shows several things,” Thompson said. Click-click-click. “First, it shows that the shooting my client is accused of participating in was actually perpetrated by a police officer. Officer Lloyd, is that correct?”

  No one answered.

  “Second, it shows that Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Hoffmeister were working together. Third, it shows that my client was in no way involved.” Click-click-click. This next part, Somers knew, was the show stopper. “Based on what I’ve seen and on how the department has handled this investigation, I can only believe that the department has known the entire time that Officers Hoffmeister and Lloyd were attempting to create the illusion of a threat, most likely to discredit or complicate the ongoing criminal trial that Officer Hoffmeister was involved in. I’ve heard a little about how Officer Hoffmeister treated Officer Lloyd; it’s a small step to believe that they fought again, more recently, and Officer Lloyd saw his opportunity to get rid of a partner who had belittled and denigrated him for years. It seems clear that the department has been working together to cover for their colleague.” For the first time, she smiled. “Gentlemen, I’ve already called the FBI, and they’re going to rip you up the asshole like tissue paper. If there’s any further action against my client, I’ll drag each and every one of you into so many civil suits, you’ll be paying lawyer fees with your Social Security.” Her smile brightened like steel. “And I’ll have the FBI on you again for a hate crime.”

  Then she stood and left.

  “The FBI?” Dulac said. “The fucking FBI? What the fuck is—”

  “Be quiet,” Cravens snapped. She looked like she wanted to rest her head in her hands; she looked like she wanted a shotgun. “The FBI aren’t just going to be taking a look at the department; they’re going to be taking over the Hoffmeister case. There’s no way past it now. Pack up everything you have and get it ready; they’ll be here in a day or two, I’d guess. Monday at the latest. And God help us when they start looking at the shit that’s been happening in this town.”

  “Chief,” Hazard said, “you’re being simplistic.”

  Somers groaned.

  “Even if that video footage is showing the truth, the fact that Hoffmeister and Lloyd were doing something weird doesn’t clear Wesley for the murder.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “It’s simple logic.”

  “That’s enough, Detective.” Cravens flushed. “I mean, Mr. Hazard. That’s enough. We’re—”

  “This case isn’t closed. My investigation last night proved that Wesley had a motive to kill Hoffmeister. Hoffmeister was blackmailing him. Whether his lawyer likes it or not, he’s still the prime suspect, now with a substantial motive. And his alibi for the night before Hoffmeister’s death doesn’t hold, he—”

  “Your part in this is officially terminated, Mr. Hazard. If we need you on a future case, we’ll contact you.”

  “You don’t want to fight her on this; fine. I’ll fight her. If we can just get Wesley’s movements yesterday—”

  “He was at church,” Cravens snapped. “In a meeting with the Hyssop Branch’s executive board. From ten until noon. And then they went to lunch. He couldn’t have done it; now drop it.”

  “Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Hazard said. “Just because he—”

  “Get out of my stationhouse before I have you dragged out, Mr. Hazard.”

  “They say roll over,” Hazard said, “and you roll over. They say sit, you sit. They say fetch, you fetch.”

  Cravens grabbed her phone, shouting, “Get me some officers in here, please.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Somers said, getting to his feet and grabbing Hazard’s arm. “Will you act like a goddamn adult, please?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he dragged Hazard out of Cravens’s office, past the civilian staff and officers who stood in tableau, watching the whole performance, until they were outside. Outside, even in the late morning sunlight, December tasted like wet cigarette butts and moldering leaves. Somers shivered, but he didn’t let go of Hazard’s arm.

  Dulac had followed them, and he paced up and down the sidewalk. “This is horseshit.” He waved his arms, and the sun made his watch catch fire. “This is bullshit.”

  “Let go,” Hazard said quietly.

  Somers tightened his grip.

  “John, I said, let go.”

  “I don’t want you—”

  “I’m not going to do anything stupid. Cravens can pull you off the case; she can’t pull me off it. Wesley did this. Hoffmeister was blackmailing him; they fought. The next day, Wesley came back and killed him.”

  “He was at church—”

  “I don’t know how he did it, John, but he did. Please let go.”

  After a moment, Somers peeled his fingers away.

  “This is your fault,” Dulac said, whirling on them, a finger leveled at Hazard. “Your fucking fault. Somers told you not to go fucking around with our case.”

  “Drop it, Gray,” Somers said.

  “But you couldn’t,
right? You had to be Emery fucking Hazard. You had to charge in like it’s the fucking Wild West—”

  “Stop it. Shut up and walk away.”

  “—and blow everything to fucking hell. We were building a solid case, man, and you’ve got such a giant fucking ego that when the detective in charge of the case, the guy who’s still real police, the one who managed to hold on to his fucking badge—”

  Hazard threw a punch, but Somers was faster; the fist whistled through empty air. Grabbing Dulac by the jacket, Somers shoved him toward the station, forcing Dulac to scramble to keep his footing.

  “Say that again,” Hazard was saying, pressing in behind Somers, reaching past him to grab Dulac. “Say that again, you fucking shit.”

  “You selfish, stupid asshole, you fucked the whole thing up,” Dulac was screaming, trying to throw punches while his feet worked double time to keep him from falling.

  “Jesus Christ, Ree,” Somers said, letting go of Dulac with one hand just long enough to reach back and jostle Hazard. “Get the fuck off me, all right? Don’t make things fucking worse.”

  But that had been a mistake, because Dulac wriggled free, spinning out of his jacket and coming around Somers.

  The two punches connected almost simultaneously: Dulac’s low, catching Hazard in the gut; Hazard’s high, snapping against Dulac’s nose. Hazard hunched over, exhaling from the sudden loss of breath. Dulac sat down hard, hands over his face. Blood streamed from under his fingers.

  “Holy fuck,” he said through his cupped hands.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Somers said, grabbing Hazard’s arm and dragging him in a circle so they faced the street. Then he pushed him toward the asphalt. “Go the fuck home. Go to your fucking office. Just get the fuck out of here, all right?”

  “Domerd,” Dulac said behind them, his tone full of what sounded like childlike wonder. “He broke my node.”

  Hazard growled something and marched toward the street, and Somers turned back to his dumbass partner.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  DECEMBER 20

  THURSDAY

  12:59 PM

  HAZARD DROVE HOME, PARKED the minivan, and sat behind the wheel with the driver’s door open. His hand hurt. A lot, actually. He sat there, breathing in the smell of old lawn clippings, motor oil, the toxically sweet perfume of gasoline. He imagined a house built of matchsticks. He breathed out. He imagined the way it would go up in a flash. Then, for a while, he imagined punching Dulac in his stupid, freckled face again and again.

  After a while, the ache in his hand dragged him out of the car and into the house. The fridge was empty aside from a take-out container of pork fried rice, two weeks old, and beer. A bottle of Guinness sounded good; for twenty seconds, maybe thirty, he stood there with his forehead against the refrigerated plastic, cold air waterfalling down the front of him, and then he shut the door. A bottle of Guinness sounded a little too good at that particular moment.

  In the freezer, he found three ice cubes, a frozen ribeye, and a half carton of cookies and cream. He kicked the freezer shut. His hand was fucking killing him.

  He went back to the garage. Got back in the Odyssey. He drove to the Savers; all he wanted was a fucking bag of fucking frozen peas for his fucking hand. Was that so much to ask?

  Apparently. In this universe.

  He parked and went inside the grocery store, but instead of heading straight to the frozen vegetables, he grabbed a cart and steered it, one-handed, through the produce section. He wasn’t really looking at anything. He grabbed things at random. He grabbed grapes. He grabbed tomatoes. He piled two five-pound bags of potatoes in the cart. And then he stood in front of the salad crisper section, staring at a million pre-packaged kits, the kind that you just open the bag, then open the smaller bag of croutons, the smaller bag of pumpkin seeds, the smaller bag of dressing. He stood there, replaying everything from the last week, every minute, every movement from the moment Hoffmeister walked into his office to the satisfying crunch of his knuckles against Dulac’s nose.

  This is your fault.

  He startled at the clarity of the thought, picked up a Caesar salad to cover the movement, tossed it in one hand as though he could determine something about it from its heft. He put it back.

  —got such a giant fucking ego—

  He grabbed another one, something with dried cranberries. He put it back.

  Wesley. He knew he could find a way to catch him. He knew it. But he didn’t know what it was.

  He found himself staring at another bagged salad in his hand, a brand he didn’t recognize, and fought a wave of disgust at himself. He shoved it back into place, studied the contents of the cart, and fought a second wave. Green tomatoes. Grapes that had almost shriveled to raisins. The potatoes were fine, but he had no fucking idea what to do with potatoes. He roamed the produce section again, putting everything back.

  He was settling the second bag of potatoes when he heard the breathy whoosh of the automated doors. Training and reflex made him check who had come in behind him.

  Mitchell Martin swung forward on his crutches.

  For Hazard, it wasn’t as though the world had dropped out from under him. It was just a small section of the world. Just his gut, really. And it didn’t drop. It plummeted.

  He turned the cart and pushed it away from the doors.

  “Emery? Emery!”

  He went faster. The front right wheel was misaligned, and the cart wobbled. When Hazard least expected it, it would veer right. A part of him knew how he must look; the rest of him didn’t care. He pushed toward the refrigerated cases of meat at the back of the store.

  “Hey, Emery, hold on.”

  It was entirely plausible that Hazard hadn’t heard him. It was a big store.

  “Hey, wait up a minute.”

  Hazard fought, lost, looked back. Mitchell was trying to catch up. On crutches.

  Sudden resistance and a jangle made Hazard jerk his head forward; he had clipped a revolving stand of mixed nuts, and now it wobbled. He kept going, the cart chirping and veering and wobbling.

  At the frozen chicken breasts, he cut left, heading for the far corner of the store, keeping himself at a brisk walk, at a pace that looked marginally self-respecting. The clinical part of his mind, the part that he normally prioritized, observed that he was behaving like an animal in flight, that he was about to corner himself. The rest of him, hot and panting, told that cold little fraction to shut the fuck up.

  The fluorescent tubes overhead poured long, glistening pools of light on the linoleum. Hazard raced the cart through them. Seafood on the right. Canned soup on the left. Canned soup gave way to booze, and Hazard had a brief, wonderful vision of jinking down the aisle, grabbing a bottle of Smirnoff, and downing the whole thing. Right there. He’d probably die, but at least he wouldn’t die sober. His brain was moving too fast to do the calculation exactly, just a rough estimate, a blood alcohol of .4, .45, at his weight, maybe twenty drinks, maybe one bottle wouldn’t be enough—and then it was too late, he was still skating over the light-slick linoleum, passing the bakery. Fresh-baked bread perfumed the air; gooey butter cakes were stacked on a table. Maybe he could crawl behind the display.

  He slowed the cart; he was being ridiculous. He regulated his breathing, and after a minute, his heartbeat slowed. It wasn’t like him to panic, but first the fight with Thompson and Cravens, then the skirmish with Dulac, then standing there, holding the bagged salad, trying not to fall apart—and then Mitchell. Mitchell on his crutches. Mitchell, the living reminder of how Emery Hazard had been too slow, too stupid, and let two men get killed and another be brutally injured.

  He made himself count to ninety by the gooey butter cakes. Then, wrapping his hands around the cart’s handle, he started down the freezer cases, looking for peas. He’d buy the damn peas, go back to the damn house, ice his damn hand, and drink a damn beer. So much for keeping his shit together.

  Ha
zard loaded a bag of peas into the cart. He considered it. Then, since he assumed he’d punch a few more assholes over the next few months, he added ten more. He headed to the end of the aisle, slowing the cart near the last freezer case. Assuming Mitchell followed the route that the majority of grocery shoppers used—the one designed by corporate executives and high-priced consultants that put milk at the farthest back corner of the store, requiring shoppers to run a gauntlet of sales and discounts—he would most likely be somewhere near the meat department now. Far enough back in the store, Hazard judged, that he could get to the self-checkout and escape before Mitchell spotted him again. He nudged the cart forward.

  Mitchell was braced on his crutches at the mouth of the next aisle; he looked like he was comparing ice creams. His head came up at the sound of the cart, and he looked over. A huge smile brightened his face.

  “Hey, Emery. I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  DECEMBER 20

  THURSDAY

  1:27 PM

  SOMERS PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE BEEN grateful that Wahredua Regional’s emergency room had a slow day, but mostly he just felt pissed off. As soon as he’d walked Dulac into the ER, nurses and doctors had been falling over themselves to take care of the freckled detective. Dulac took it all with his usual laughs and charm without ever once explaining how he’d gotten his nose broken. In surprisingly short order, Dulac’s nose was packed and splinted, and Somers and Dulac were left alone in one of the examination rooms.

  “Take your time,” one of the nurses said, her gaze moving from Somers to Dulac. “We’ll be right outside.”

  “Dude,” Dulac said.

  “Keep your head back.”

  “Dude.”

  Somers reached out and caught Dulac under the chin, forcing him to face the ceiling.

  “Dude, he broke my nose.”

  Somers sighed. Maybe they needed police officers somewhere else. Maybe they needed them in a small English country town, where nothing bad ever happened. Except, based on everything he’d seen and read, those little country towns were full of murders and blackmail and all the rest. Good luck being a priest or a gardener or a little old lady. Your whole life was solving murders in those towns.