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

by Gregory Ashe

  “But nobody did,” Somers said, pulling into the station lot. “And before he left, Andy-Jack made sure Hoffmeister was standing on the chair, noose tight around his neck, so that Hoffmeister couldn’t go anywhere. One wrong step, and Hoffmeister would hang himself. All he could do was stand there while Andy-Jack drove home, cleaned up, and made it to court on time. All he had to do was sit there and make sure everyone saw him.”

  “That’s what the bailiff told Dulac. Andy-Jack sat there and played on his phone. Sure, why wouldn’t he? He was bored; they were waiting for Hoffmeister. At some point, Andy-Jack opened an app, activated the smart plug, and murdered Hoffmeister from across town.”

  “You’re a genius,” Somers said, pulling up in front of the station’s front doors.

  “If I were a genius, I’d have figured it out earlier.” Then Hazard felt a wave of suspicion. “Why aren’t you parking the car?”

  “Ree.”

  “No. No fucking way. I solved this case.”

  “Yes, you did. And now we’re going to finish it the right way. Officially. With warrants and subpoenas. With physical evidence. Every box checked, everything tight, so there’s no way he can wiggle out of it down the line.”

  “Fine.”

  “Ree, you’re staying here. You’re going to type up your report. You’re going to write down everything you figured out.”

  “I won’t get in your way. I won’t even talk.” Hazard hated the sound of his voice; he hated how much he wanted this.

  Somers smiled. “I know. But it’s better this way; if you think about it, you know it’s better this way too.”

  It was better; Hazard knew it was better. He had a shadow now, in part from the events at the Haverford, in part from being dragged through the mud by Wesley’s lawyer. But knowing that Somers was right didn’t make Hazard feel any less shitty.

  Popping open the door, Hazard got out of the car.

  “I’ll call when I’ve got updates,” Somers said.

  “Yeah,” Hazard said. And then, hearing the weirdness of it, knowing he’d regret it if he didn’t, he said, “Be careful.”

  “Always,” Somers said with a grin. “Watch out for papercuts.”

  “Fuck. You.”

  But Hazard felt a little bit better when he slammed the door, which was probably the whole point.

  Inside the station, Hazard settled in at Somers’s workstation, logged on as a guest, and opened a new document. He typed everything about the case; he was making his report as a consultant and as a private detective, so he traced the full route of his inquiry, including missteps following Savanna Twilight and Wesley. Hazard didn’t like admitting that the pastor was innocent, but that was mostly because he didn’t like the pastor.

  As he typed, snickers and poorly-muffled chuckles nipped at the edge of his awareness. Finally he looked up.

  Patrick Foley and his cousin, the KC asshole—Kelly?—were standing by the coffee. One of the two dumb Irish fucks had spilled, and smoke leaked up from between the carafe and the warming plate.

  “No wonder this place always stinks,” Hazard said, meeting Foley’s gaze first and then Kelly’s. “Can you two asshats piss in a straight line, or is that even harder than pouring coffee?”

  “Jesus, Hazard,” Foley said. “Got a bug up your butt because your boyfriend left you at daycare?”

  “He probably likes a bug up his butt,” Kelly said with a sneer.

  Distaste flicked across Foley’s face, and the emotion surprised Hazard. Maybe even Foley had limits.

  “It’s almost noon,” Hazard said, glancing at the clock and then back at the two officers. “And it’s a workday. Shouldn’t you be drunk and fucking another cousin?”

  “Fuck off,” Foley said with a laugh.

  But Kelly took a step forward. “That’s a big mouth.”

  “Let it go,” Foley said.

  “You’ve got a lot to say with such a big mouth.”

  “Lay off already.”

  Hazard waited.

  As Kelly came closer, the uniformed officer used every play in the straight-boy handbook: head high, an ugly twist to his mouth, shoulders back, chest swelling. He had his hands in fists, and when he walked, he added a tiny shake at the end like a dog throwing off water. He wanted a fight, which wasn’t anything new to Hazard. What surprised Hazard was that Kelly wanted it here and now.

  Pushing back his chair, Hazard stood and shook off his coat, letting it slide to the floor.

  “Cool it, Conor,” Foley snapped. “That shit doesn’t fly here.”

  Kelly was past listening to him, though; the ugly little twist to his mouth was a smile, Hazard realized. Bullies never changed.

  The door to Cravens’s office opened, and she stuck her head out. “Mr. Hazard?”

  He didn’t look away from Kelly. “Yes, Chief?”

  A moment passed. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, Chief.”

  “Officer Kelly?”

  “Nothing.” A hard beat passed before he added, “Chief.”

  “Officer Foley?”

  “Just a misunderstanding,” the big, red-headed cop answered. “Kelly and I are about to take a walk.”

  “See that you do. And no more misunderstandings in my department; am I clear?”

  “Of course, Chief.”

  “Officer Kelly?”

  “Yeah.” Another of those silences like a slap. “Chief.”

  Hazard cut his eyes toward Cravens and caught the indecision on her face; to chase down the hint of insubordination in Kelly now, or wait and see if it was a fluke. Then Cravens’s face closed, the decision made.

  “Mr. Hazard, I just wanted to let you know that they’ve gotten a warrant.”

  “I thought you wanted to wait for the FBI.”

  “I’d rather have physical evidence first,” she said, and then she shut the door.

  Hazard didn’t stoop to retrieve his coat; he didn’t sit. He turned his attention back to Kelly and took long, deep breaths, filling his lungs with as much oxygen as possible. He hadn’t had a brawl, a real one, in months. Just the thought of it made him feel young, loose. Chromatic specks floated in his vision.

  “I did some years in the Marines,” Kelly said.

  Hazard waited.

  “Spent some time in Afghanistan.”

  “I didn’t realize this was story time.”

  “You go far enough back in that country, all the way to its puckered little asshole, and you see things you won’t ever forget.”

  “I was going to let you off with a bloody nose. Now I think I’ll break your jaw, just so I don’t have to hear you talk.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Foley said, grabbing Kelly’s arm and dragging him—trying to drag him—toward the door. “You two ever watch anything that wasn’t John Wayne?”

  Kelly resisted, forcing Foley to fight for every inch of vinyl flooring. Then Kelly grinned, shaking himself all over, and laughed again. “You know what they used to say, before they dropped us in Iraq?”

  “I thought it was Afghanistan.”

  “They’d say, ‘It’s harder for the wives.’” The grin grew into a smirk. “Guess you know, now. Nothing to do but douche your little pussy while the men do all the work.”

  Blood rushed into Hazard’s face, and he took a step forward.

  But Foley was faster; his face was almost as red as his hair. He kicked the back of Kelly’s knee, and Kelly went down. The only thing that kept him from hitting the floor was Foley’s grip on his jacket.

  “Yeah?” Foley said. “Were they talking about that Savers bag you jerk off into?”

  Then, grabbing Kelly by the belt and the shoulder, the big redhead bum-rushed him toward the edge of the bullpen, letting go at the last minute so that Kelly’s legs churned mindlessly and carried him through the gate, where he toppled and hit the floor.

  “What a fucking asshole,” Foley said.

  “Ye
ah,” Hazard said.

  “I’ll get him out of here.”

  “Yeah.”

  Cravens’s door opened. “What’s going on out here?”

  “Officer Kelly slipped,” Foley said, stomping across the bullpen. He grabbed Kelly, who was still trying to get to his feet, and stiff-armed him toward the door. “We’re going to make sure his thick head isn’t cracked.”

  From the doorway, Cravens watched until they left, and then her gaze drifted to Hazard. Then she shut the door again.

  Hazard was sweating, hot stinging drops, bruiser sweats. He collected his coat and sat at the computer. For a while, he tried to understand what had happened. Not Kelly—Hazard had met enough homophobic assholes in his life to recognize one. No, he was trying to figure out what had happened with Foley. Somers might have understood; Hazard had no fucking idea.

  Then, when Hazard’s thoughts had run in a carousel for long enough, he turned back to the computer and resumed typing his report.

  Darkness crouched over the station; street lights popped on like a kid flicking a Bic.

  Hazard prowled the staff kitchen and ate two crullers and half a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. Then, his fingers leaving greasy spots on his jeans, he had to lean over while his stomach cramped. Somers was out there, alone, without him. And anything could happen if Hazard wasn’t there. Andy-Jack could be hiding, waiting, the rifle snugged up against his shoulder. Andy-Jack could have rigged the trailer with explosives. Andy-Jack could have recruited the other Ozark Volunteers; Paradise Valley was already a death trap. What if those neo-Nazi assholes had decided today was the day they were going to kill some cops?

  Hazard had to run to the bathroom and brace himself at the sink. Nothing happened, and after a while, he washed his hands, scrubbing with soap, and then he wet a paper towel and ran it under his collar.

  He was still shaking when his phone rang.

  “Are you ok?”

  “Yes. Yes, we’re fine. Everybody’s fine. He didn’t try anything.”

  “And?”

  “And we got the toaster. He tried to wipe it down, but Norman is pretty sure he sees blood in some of the cracks. They’re getting it over to Boyer right now.”

  Hazard let out a breath; his fingers relaxed, and the paper towel slipped out of them before he could catch it.

  “You did it,” Somers said. “You were right. About all of it. They’re walking the son of a bitch down the stairs right now; so much for the wheelchair. He lost his mind when we arrested him, started screaming about how Hoffmeister deserved it, how no amount of money was worth letting him live. It was just like we thought: hate and revenge. Pretty basic motives.” Then, repeating himself, he said, “You did it.”

  “No, you did it. You did it the right way.”

  “No. We did it.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  DECEMBER 24

  MONDAY

  8:51 AM

  HAZARD WOKE EARLY; HE HAD dreams of Conor Kelly, only sometimes Kelly was Andy-Jack, and sometimes he was Mikey Grames. In those dreams, Hazard would wander the Haverford for hours, calling out Somers’s name. He would come around corners just in time to see Somers be cut down by a shotgun blast. Or the building would collapse, burying him. Or Mikey would have him in a chair, ripping out fingernails one by one. Sometimes, he would find Somers buried beneath a swarm of bees.

  Three days had passed since Somers had arrested Andy-Jack for the murder, and the evidence against him continued to mount. Three nights of dreams. Hazard lay there, awake but disoriented, and thought of Mitchell and the Keeper of Bees. His mind played a soundbite on a loop: walk into death, walk into death, walk into death.

  He showered to get the stink of flop sweat off him. Then, in joggers and an old STL Public Radio t-shirt, he went downstairs to make coffee and get bagels. He made Somers’s the way the other man liked it—toasted, for the love of God, with about two inches of cream cheese on top. His own, untoasted and with lox, was the civilized way to eat it.

  They didn’t have one of those breakfast-in-bed trays, so he carried the plates like a waiter, the mugs of coffee hooked in his other hand, and climbed the stairs. In his absence, Somers had sprawled across the mattress; the sheets had slipped, exposing the dark calligraphy that swirled across his torso. Even the start of crow’s feet made him beautiful, although Hazard thought he might not tell Somers that, not just yet anyway. It was too much fun to watch him panic. The truth was that Somers was beautiful the way mountains were beautiful, the way deserts were beautiful, the way the Indiangrass rolled toward the horizon under the dawn. Age just made everything better; that was part of it. And part of it was that he was so beautiful it was terrifying; a mountain is beautiful even when a plane flies into it, and that was how Hazard felt, that crashing obliteration, when he looked too long at this man he loved.

  A guy like that won’t wait around forever.

  So instead, he focused on Somers’s toenails, where one foot hung out from under the sheets. Nails that were desperately in need of trimming.

  “Get up,” Hazard said, setting the plate with the toasted bagel near Somers.

  Stretching, Somers rolled onto his back and wiped his face. “Good morning to you too.”

  “Happy birthday. Sit up so I can give you this coffee.”

  “It’s like being a prince in a fairytale,” Somers said, grinning as he piled pillows against the headboard. Taking the coffee, he added, “God bless you.”

  “You have nine minutes to eat that toasted abomination you call a bagel and drink your coffee. Then you have twenty-five minutes to shower and dress. Something nice, John. Pick it out now so I can iron it.”

  After a sip of coffee, Somers pulled the mug away and said, “We don’t have to go out to eat.”

  “It’s your birthday. Pick out something you’ll look good in.”

  “And you don’t have to iron my clothes. I’ll iron my clothes.”

  “Fine,” Hazard said. “I’ll pick them out. And yes, John. I do have to iron them. We don’t have time to put out a housefire because you felt inspired to try your hand at ironing again.”

  Somers blinked and took another drink of coffee. “It’s the little things that are making this whole birthday experience so magical.”

  “It’s our first time celebrating your birthday as a couple,” Hazard said, checking his watch. “Eight minutes. I wanted to make it special.”

  “Good God,” Somers said.

  “You’re wearing that blue gingham shirt, the cardigan with the shawl collar, and those gray slacks that make your ass look good.”

  “All my slacks make my ass look good.”

  “Not that good. Seven minutes.”

  “Ree, I don’t want to make a big deal, ok? It’s my birthday. I just want to relax. I want to spend time with you and Evie, and I want to—” He froze when he figured it out. “Ree. Come on. Tell me you didn’t.”

  Hazard took a mouthful of coffee, but it was so bitter he almost choked. He swallowed most of it and dribbled the rest on his sleeve. He tried for a note of dignity when he said, “I asked Cora first. She suggested it.”

  “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “You’ve celebrated your birthday this way for a long time, John. I know you like it.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t like it. Brunch and mimosas—how many people did you invite? Thirty? God, please tell me it was under thirty.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Christ, at least tell me it was under forty.”

  “You’re dripping cream cheese.”

  “Ree, you shouldn’t have done this. No wonder you’re grumpy; I specifically didn’t ask you to do this because I know you don’t like—”

  Hazard had been so good up until now, had showed self-restraint, had managed, somehow, not to fall all over Somers. He had tried to hold back so that his boyfriend could have a few minutes to eat. But now he didn’t care anymore. He sat on the
edge of the bed and took Somers’s face in his hands; they had been together ten months, and every time they touched still felt like someone loosing chains that had been wrapped around Hazard since he’d been a boy. This was what he’d wanted all those years. To hold him. To feel the warmth of his skin. To trace the sculpture of muscle and bone.

  He kissed John-Henry Somerset the way he had wanted to kiss him all those years before, the way he wanted to kiss him every time they were near, every time they bumped elbows in the night, every time they had to dance around each other in the too-small bathroom. And wasn’t that what Hazard wanted? The question brought a strange terror with it. Wasn’t this what he had always wanted? A lifetime with Somers. And not with the boy he had dreamed about, the one he had feared and desired in high school. With this man, who was better and stronger and kinder than anyone Hazard had ever known. Who was so beautiful. Even with crow’s feet. Especially with crow’s feet.

  When Hazard broke the kiss, he felt the cat’s paw of Somers’s breath on his cheek. He smiled. “It’s your birthday, John. I did it because you like it.”

  Somers’s face was distant for a moment, and then he rolled, fumbling with the nightstand’s drawer.

  “No,” Hazard said. “We don’t have time for fooling around.”

  Somers grabbed something and rolled back, passing it to Hazard. “I had an idea,” he said. “If you don’t like it, no big deal. But I thought it fit you better than A1 Dude-Humping Investigations.”

  “That wasn’t what I—” Hazard began, but he stopped when he saw what Somers was holding out. A business card. Simple. Astraea in a clean, sans serif font. Then the stylized drawing of a star. On the line below: Research. Investigation. Acquisition. Hazard took the card, turned it slowly. On the back it said: Emery Hazard and the new contact information for the agency.

  “She was the goddess of innocence,” Somers said, playing with the hem of the sheet, eyes down. “And purity. And precision, which I thought you’d appreciate. Her name means star maiden, and you were on your big kick about vampire stars, and . . . You know what? Never mind. It’s—”