Seasons
WhiteJazz
Rating: PG
Category: Case Story
Series: 3rd in "Daedalus" Series
Warnings: Caveat Lector. If you must know, go here. Spoilers (minor though they may be) for "The Waiting Room."
Notes: This series began a week or so after "Murder 101," and will continue through the fourth season. I now have 15 stories planned for the series. If you don't recognize Tracey, reread "Curtain Call."
Standard disclaimers apply: I don't own them, I'm just playing with them. The only characters I claim are David Noble, Tracey, Hawk and Icharus.
~*~*~*~
From "The Cascade Times," Thursday, March 18:
250 TV SETS HIJACKED FROM LYMAN TRUCK
Delivery Chain on Thin Ice For First Time in 25-Year Service
From "The Daily Mirror," Thursday, March 18:
80-YEAR OLD MAN ARRESTED FOR 40-YEAR OLD MURDER
D.A. Doubts the Accused Will Ever Stand Trial
~*~*~*~
"Jim, you are never going to convince me it was just the peyote."
"I don't have to convince you, Chief. Just myself."
"What for? What scares you about just accepting this?"
Jim Ellison tightened his grip on the truck's steering wheel, narrowed blue eyes staring out the front windshield at the column of stalled morning traffic. He considered the question for several long moments. The last few days had been eye opening for him, to say the least. His experience with Molly had him accepting things today he would not have stood for two months ago. Part of him wanted to chalk it up to the peyote—as Captain Banks was happy to do—but another part of him was intrigued by the idea of the sixth sense. Intrigued, not scared.
"It doesn't scare me, Chief," Jim replied cautiously. "It's just a big leap of faith. I mean, we can't really be certain, because of the peyote, right?"
Sandburg shrugged from the passenger seat. "You could be right, you could be wrong." A mischievous twinkle lit up his eyes. "We could always test it—"
"Stop right there," Jim said, negotiating the turn into the precinct parking garage. "No tests. Besides, where in hell are you going to find another ghost to test this strange theory of yours?"
Blair began to laugh. "No pun intended, Jim?" he asked.
Jim groaned and parked the truck. "Let's go. And no more ghost stuff, okay?"
"Absolutely not, Dr. Venkman," Sandburg said as he unbuckled his seat belt.
"Well then," Jim replied, climbing out of the truck. "I guess that would make you Slimer, huh?"
~*~*~*~
The atmosphere in Major Crime was distilled with conflicting emotions of joy and sadness from the staff. At first glance, all was as it should be. Rafe, Henri and Connor were at their desks accomplishing various tasks. Rhonda was typing a memo. The usual assortment of department personnel were going about their various daily tasks with the normal sense of urgency. Captain Banks was in his office, talking to David Noble. The only thing out of place was a presence at a desk that had sat unoccupied for the last two and a half months. Detective Andrew Dills was back.
Jim noticed this immediately upon entering the bullpen.
"Dills," he said, walking over. "Welcome back."
Dills offered Jim a confident grin. "Great to be back, Jim. "Dills turned to Sandburg, who had come up behind Jim. "I see you're still putting up with this guy."
"It should be the other way around," Jim joked.
Sandburg pretended to be wounded. "Oh, Jim, that really hurt my ego, man. It's good to see you, Dills. How do you feel?"
Dills shrugged as if he'd been asked that a dozen times in as many minutes. "Better than before, I can honestly say. Nothing like surgery and chemo to make you feel like a man again. But the doctor said the tumor's completely gone, so that's good news."
"Is Simon relegating you to desk duty for a while?" Jim asked.
"He's trying to," Dills replied. "I agreed until things got back to normal around here." With that comment, Dills shot a glance at the captain's office.
Jim followed the gaze as the nickel dropped. Dills was back at Major Crime and in good health, but that meant Noble's tour with them was coming to a close. In all likelihood, Noble would be transferring back to the 5-9 in the next few days.
"Well, take it easy," Jim said.
He walked back to his own desk.
"Jim, I'm getting coffee," Blair said. "Want some?"
"Yeah, thanks, Chief," Jim said.
He sat down and turned on his computer. As he waited for the system to start, Jim's eyes wandered over to Megan Connor. She seemed to be concentrating on a mug book, but kept shooting furtive glances at the captain's office. Jim sighed. It would be hard for Megan to lose Noble. The two worked exceptionally well together and had developed a strong friendship since their first partnered assignment.
The door to Banks's office swung open and Noble walked out. He headed straight for Megan's desk and sat in the chair next to it. Simon, in turn, stuck his head into the bullpen.
"Ellison, Sandburg!" Banks bellowed. "My office."
Jim stifled a groan and followed his partner into the lion's den. He shut the door, then pivoted to face his captain.
"Is Noble out?" Jim asked. "Just like that?"
Simon crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against his desk. "He knew that coming in. It was a temporary transfer and Detective Noble had every intention of going back to the 5-9 when Dills came back. He and Connor will finish up their fraud case and that will be that."
"Just think, Jim," Sandburg said. "We can give him a big farewell party right here in Simon's office." The captain glared. "Or not."
"Or not," Banks repeated. "Now I want to hear about the status of the TV hijacking case."
~*~*~*~
Golden bars of sunlight streamed through the slats in the boarded-up windows of the deserted row house. Years of accumulated dust filtered through the light. A single, free
standing floodlight threw a glare on two folding chairs in the center of the abandoned living room. Two teenager boys squinted into the darkness surrounding them, unable to pinpoint the voice speaking to them from the shadows.
"Was any rational thought going through your head when you hijacked that truck?" the disembodied voice asked. The owner of the voice—nicknamed Hawk—was only twenty-six himself, and he circled the terrified boys, reveling in the sense of power it gave him.
"We didn't realize it wasn't an open target—" the younger of the boys tried to explain, but was cut off.
"A damning statement, gentlemen," Hawk said gruffly. "You weren't aware, because you acted without orders. That behavior is frowned upon, you know that."
The boys nodded. "We do, sir. But we can return the TV's, no problem," the second boy said.
"It is a problem," a new, deeper voice said.
Hawk turned sharply and froze. He recognized the newcomer immediately by the silver-handled cane he carried in his left hand. Everyone who worked for Hawk knew the man by reputation only—few had actually talked to him. That was the job of the captain, Hawk's job. He'd spoken with Icharus only twice before, but never in the middle of something like this.
"Sir," Hawk said respectfully.
"It seems these boys have committed a severe blunder," Icharus said, strolling up to stand next to Hawk.
"Yes, sir," Hawk said.
Icharus stared hard at the two boys that couldn't see him. His intent gaze sent shivers up Hawk's spine. It was the look of a predator playing with his meal before devouring it. Icharus turned that intent gaze on Hawk.
"He's not pleased with this," Icharus said. "Lyman Shipping was protected."
"I understand, sir."
"Turn them over, then," Icharus said sharply. "And this blunder may not end up on your head."
Hawk nodded. "Yes, sir."
Icharus pivoted on his heel and disappeared into another part of the house. Hawk waited, listening as the back door opened and slammed shut. He let out a pent-up breath, glad that encounter was over. If He wasn't happy, then Icharus wasn't happy and everybody felt it. At least the boys blunder wasn't seen as Hawk's fault. There were only drones, after all. If it had been one of the deputies….
Well, thank God for small favors.
~*~*~*~
The scent was making him hungry.
"Can't you drive faster?" Dills asked, inhaling the aroma wafting from the brown paper bag. Sandwiches from Subway never smelled so good.
Joel Taggart laughed as he made a turn onto Sheridan Boulevard. "If you're that hungry, go ahead and eat yours."
"And get meatball sauce all over my new shirt?" Dills muttered. "Preposterous. Besides, hot pizza subs are impossible to eat in a moving vehicle."
"Then quit complaining," Joel said. "I'm sure everyone else is as hungry as you are."
Dills sighed, thinking of his delicious sandwich cooling on the seat between them. "Nothing like months of liquid diet to remind you of the good things in life. And speaking of which, gossip chain says Rafe and Tracey are getting serious."
Joel laughed. "My friend, they have been serious. He's crazy about her."
"So do you think—?"
<"All units, this is dispatch."> The radio crackled to life. <"Reports of shots fired at 1095 Brubaker. Over.">
Dills glanced out the windshield, watching the intersection for Brubaker Lane appear only a few blocks away. He looked over at Joel. Desk duty or not, they were probably the closest to respond. Joel nodded and Dills grabbed the mike.
"Dispatch, this is Fox 1-1-9. Turning onto Brubaker now. Over."
<"Copy, Fox 1-1-9. Backup is five minutes out. Over.">
"Copy. Out."
Dills dropped the mike as Joel turned onto Brubaker. They were on the nine hundred block and 1095 was fast approaching. The area was a few blocks from the precinct and mostly lower-class residential. Blocks of row houses stretched for miles north and south. The neighborhood was fairly quiet with no foot or car traffic in sight.
As Joel's Suburban approached, they could make out two dark masses in the middle of the street. Joel stopped a dozen yards away and parked. Two bodies were eagle-spread on the pavement, perfectly lined up with the yellow dotted lines bisecting the street. The detectives scanned the houses around them. Most were deserted, windows boarded up and covered with graffiti.
"Looks clear," Dills said.
"Yeah," Joel said. He picked up the mike. "Dispatch, this is Fox 1-1-9. Two victims down. Send EMS. Scene looks secure, but advise caution. Out."
<"Copy. Backup ETA one minute. Out.">
Joel put down the mike and looked at Dills. "Ready to have a look around?"
Dills nodded. They detectives drew their guns and climbed out of the Suburban. Dills trotted over to the bodies, his sidearm half-raised.
The two teenage boys had each been shot twice in the chest. Pools of blood were forming under them, but it had long since stopped flowing. Neither was armed. Dills squatted down to check their pulses, not surprised when he didn't find one.
"Looks like an execution," Joel said from Dills's shoulder.
"Looks that way," Dills agreed solemnly.
Dills jerked, suddenly aware that he was lying flat on his back, staring up at the cloudless sky. He faintly heard Joel's voice screaming his name. A hot vice was squeezing his chest and Dills found it extremely hard to breathe. His eyes wandered blankly along the rows of roofs across the street, noting a gleam of silver from the top of one as the world blurred around him.
//I didn't survive cancer to go out like this…. //
~*~*~*~
Jim and Blair arrived four minutes later. Three police cruisers and an ambulance were already at the scene and roadblocks were in place. A call of "officer down" had come over the mike as they were in route, making Jim's foot press down harder on the accelerator. Jim parked the truck outside the ring of vehicles and sprinted to the scene.
The two bodies had not been moved and were guarded by a pair of uniforms. A trio of paramedics was loading a burdened stretcher into the ambulance. Jim spotted Joel Taggart talking to Officer Wendy Johns and trotted over, casting a backward glance at the ambulance.
"Joel, what happened?" Jim asked, vaguely aware his partner wasn't by his side. Jim glanced around, spotting Sandburg by the ambulance. He was staring hard at the man on the stretcher, talking softly. Jim didn't have to listen to recognize one of the words Blair kept repeating: Dills.
"Happened so fast, Jim," Joel said. Blood smeared the front of his shirt and he looked ready to be physically ill. "We didn't see anyone, didn't hear anyone. Then out of the blue, Dills is down. I never even heard the shot."
Jim glanced over at the puddle of blood now mixing with that of the two bodies.
"He was hit in the chest," Joel continued. "Didn't see it coming."
"It's okay, Joel," Jim said, putting a supportive hand on his friend's shoulder. "He's going to the hospital, he'll be fine."
As if to punctuate that statement, the ambulance sped away, tires squealing and sirens blaring. Sandburg watched it go for a few seconds, then made his way over to Jim.
"He was awake," Blair said. "That's a good sign, right?"
Jim nodded, then turned to Taggart. "Did either of you recognize the victims?"
Joel shook his head. "No, but they have CC Tech ID's on them."
Cascade Community Technical School was a relatively new program offered to high school kids. It offered advanced training in technical skills for students not interested or able to attend college after graduation. The school was attended mostly by minority and lower-class students, and while little violence actually occurred at the school, many of the attendees were affiliated with city gangs.
"That one is Sam Moss and the other is Robert Hill," Joel said. "Both seniors. They're spread out like this was an execution. Young enough to be bangers, but they aren't wearing colors or anything else identifiable."
Jim walked over to the bodies and crouched down next to Sam Moss. The kid couldn't have been older than seventeen. His eyes were open, staring blindly at the sky. No wounds presented themselves beyond the obvious gunshots. Jim pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket and put them on. He carefully pulled back the sleeve of the boy's Timberwolves jersey.
The boy's arms were lined with cigarette burns, some more vicious than others. Jim moved up to Robert Hill and found similar marks on his arms. But the burns weren't just randomly placed. There was a vague pattern to their placement, a pattern Jim had seen several times before. Put together, the burns resembled the crude outline of a rifle.
"The Carbines," Jim said. "That's their mark."
Sandburg and Joel squatted next to him.
"That's kind of a bold thing to do," Joel said. "Leave their mark and shoot cops."
"It doesn't track," Jim said. "Why would they kill two teenagers, and then hang around until the police showed up and fire at them?"
"Maybe the gang these guys belong to shot Dills," Sandburg offered.
"It's possible," Jim said, the gears in his brain turning. "But until we find out who these two are affiliated with, the Carbines are our only lead."
"What's your plan, Jim?" Joel asked.
Jim stood up and scanned the area. "Let's get these houses checked up. I want them searched basement to roof and turn up any witnesses you can find. Joel, can you run that?"
"Sure, Jim." Joel stood and flexed his shoulders, then winced.
Jim frowned, his eyes landing on Joel's upper left arm. "Joel, you're hit," Jim said.
"Huh?" Joel followed Jim's gaze to his shoulder, eyebrows raising in shock. He gently probed the area around the hole in his frayed jacket. "I'll be damned. It's just a flesh wound."
"You're going to the hospital," Jim said.
"Where are you going?"
Jim spared a glance to the bodies at his feet. "We're going to talk to the Carbines."
~*~*~*~
Derek Whitney tapped his thumbs on the table and leaned defiantly back in his chair. Jim Ellison watched him through the 2-way glass, his irritation at the man multiplying with each passing second. Whitney was the current leader of the Carbines, a gang known to pick its members from CC Tech alumni or dropouts. He'd been arrested a dozen times for minor offenses, none of which received a conviction. Whitney had a detestable arrogance that radiated from him like heat as he sat and waited.
With a backward glance at Sandburg and Captain Banks, Jim left the observation room and entered the interrogation room. He sat down across the table from Whitney and fixed him with a level gaze, not speaking.
Whitney glared back. When he realized Jim was not speaking first, he stopped tapping his thumbs and snorted.
"What?" Whitney asked. "What ever in hell you think I did or I know, I didn't and I don't. Okay, Mr. Policeman?"
"Maybe you didn't," Jim said evenly. "Maybe all you had to do was give the order. That keeps your hands nice and clean, doesn't it?"
"Man, I didn't give no orders today," Whitney said. "I was…occupied all afternoon."
"Occupied? Doing what?"
"None of your business, Mr. Policeman."
Jim smirked. "Oh, I think it is my business, Whitney." He opened the manila folder on the table in front of him and began to flick black and white photos across the table to Whitney. "Anything here look familiar?"
Whitney looked at the photos, an odd mix of recognition and confusion crossing his face. He stared down at the glossy renditions of the Carbine's signature, forever embedded on the skin of Sam Moss's forearm.
"What the fu—?" Whitney looked sharply at Jim. "This some kinda joke?"
"Not unless double murder has become a comedy routine in this state," Jim replied.
Jim watched Whitney's reaction. The young man's breathing was shallow and his heart rate was up, but it was odd. This wasn't the reaction of a man hiding something; it was the reaction of a man who was in shock.
"Do you know the boys in the pictures?" Jim asked.
Whitney weighed his options and came to a decision. "Sammy Moss's older brother, Norman, was one of my boys. He died a few years ago from Hodgkin's disease. I promised Norm that I would watch out for Sammy, but never let him officially, uh, join the club." Whitney fixed Jim with a stare of fierce intensity. "I would never, ever allow any of my boys to hurt him or Robert."
"Do you know anyone who would want to kill them?" Jim asked.
"Naw, man," Whitney said miserably. "Sammy was a good kid."
The door creaked open and Simon stuck his head in. His expression was enough. Jim nodded at Simon, then looked at Whitney.
"I'll be right back," Jim said.
"Lookin' forward to it," Whitney sneered.
Jim walked out of the interrogation room and met Simon in the hall. The captain fixed Jim with a steady gaze filled with sorrow and hurt. Jim's heart sank.
"Dills died in surgery a few minutes ago," Simon said, his voice fraught with emotion. "He fought hard, but just couldn't win this one."
Jim couldn't speak. It was surreal. Months of struggle to end like this.
Simon cleared his throat. "I'm assigning Connor and Noble to this case with you. They just finished up the fraud case this morning. I want whoever did this found, Jim."
"Understood," Jim said.
~*~*~*~
In under five hours, Major Crime had a completely different air about it. They were no longer welcoming an old friend back into their midst, but accepting that he was never coming back. One of their own was gone and nothing mobilized a police department in quite the same way. Detectives and officers bolted to and fro at a frenetic pace, trying to do their job as quickly and effectively as possible. Minus a select few.
Blair, Rafe, Henri and Megan were sitting in the break room, staring blankly at cooling mugs of coffee. Jim leaned against the counter, his own mug forgotten in his hand. The only detective conspicuously missing was Noble. A television was on in the corner of the room, volume low.
Jim sloshed his coffee around, impatience growing. He supressed an urge to call down to the lab and see if his bullet analysis was done. It shouldn't be taking this long. His eyes flickered to the television as the five o'clock news came on and the persona of Mike Earhart filled the screen.
<"Three are dead after a surprising turn of events this afternoon,"> Earhart reported, earning the attention of the other detectives. <"Police found two teenagers dead today and, although we have unconfirmed reports that their deaths were gang related, the victims themselves were not members of gangs. Cascade Police Detective Andrew Dills was also shot by an unidentified assailant just minutes after arriving on the scene. Detective Dills died of his wounds this afternoon. More as it develops….">
The screen went black and broke the spell. Sandburg tossed the remote into the center of the table. A knock on the break room door startled them all. Rhonda poked her head in.
"This just came up from Forensics," she said. Rhonda handed Jim a sheet of printed paper and left.
Jim scanned the sheet, reinforcing what he's suspected.
"Dills and those kids weren't shot with the same gun," Jim said. "So either someone else was there or arrived just after the executions."
Megan nodded. "Someone who mistook Taggart and Dills for the killers."
"Possible."
Captain Banks chose that moment to stick his head in the door. "We've got someone compiling a list of known associates for Moss and Hill, but it won't be ready until morning. Go home, all of you."
Banks heard no complaints that night. As Jim moved into the bullpen and put on his jacket, he noticed David Noble standing in the hall and staring out of a window near the Communications office. He was motionless, his back to everyone. Jim shook his head and turned to Sandburg, seeing his own weariness reflected there.
"Let's go home."
~*~*~*~
Jim decided around one-thirty that sleep wasn't coming for a while. He was wide-awake and on edge, similar to when there was lightning in the air. Difference was, there were no storm clouds for miles this night. He threw back the comforter and padded quietly down the stairs. The light was on in Sandburg's room and he heard the faint rustle of papers.
He walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. Thinking twice, Jim poured a second glass and carried them both over to the French doors. They weren't completely closed. Jim knocked once and pushed them open.
Sandburg was sitting Indian-style in the center of his bed, a thick pile of white paper in his lap and next to him on the blanket. With his hair pulled back and glasses on, he looked much too studious for this time of night.
"Hey," Sandburg said, looking up. "Why are you awake?"
Jim shrugged and handed over one of the glasses. "I keep asking myself that and getting no answer," he replied. "How about you? Don't you have a class in the morning?"
"I just have some editing to do," Sandburg said. He gulped down half his glass and sat it on the night table.
"It couldn't wait for daylight?"
His friend shrugged. "The old creative juices were flowing, I guess," Sandburg said. "Besides, days like today make you realize when something is important and has to be done."
Jim quirked an eyebrow, his eyes flickering down to the red-corrected pages. "Is it your dissertation?" he asked, already sure of the response.
Blair fixed him with a steady gaze. "It's just a rough draft of it, Jim."
He eyed the thick pile. "That's some rough draft."
"It still needs a lot of work," Sandburg said. "It won't be ready for the spring graduation, so I've got all summer to work on it. And to talk about it," he added.
Jim understood. And tonight was not the time to get into it. He held out his glass, wishing he'd thought to add something stronger to the OJ.
"Here's to Andy Dills," Jim said.
Blair picked up his glass and clanked it against Jim's. "To Dills."
~*~*~*~
Although he was a reserved person by nature, David "Boomer" Noble felt unusually solemn this morning. It was probably run-off from yesterday. The entire police department felt it when a fellow officer died. Part of the melancholia also stemmed from the gazes he felt from everyone at Central Precinct. Would he stay and take Dills's place? Would guilt over the coincidental timing drive him back to the 5-9 as planned?
Honestly, David didn't know the answer to those questions yet. An early morning talk with Captain Banks told him the permanent spot was his if he wanted it. But did he want it? David pondered those thoughts as Jim Ellison drove the pair to Southtown. With Sandburg at Rainier, Banks didn't want Ellison bracing Terrell Hill alone.
Hill, older brother of recently slain Robert, had a track record that began at age eighteen and probably extended backward into sealed records at Juvenile Hall. Terrell had been arrested for an assortment of assaults, attempted assaults and other minor offenses. He'd spent sixteen months in Starkeville for stealing a Rolls Royce and stabbing a police officer in the arm while resisting arrest. He was also an ex-member of the Titans, a rival of the Carbines.
Ellison parked his truck in front of the Bastion, a seedy nightclub in a row of boarded-up businesses. The unlit neon sign advertised girls and beer. A rearing bull about to gore a toreador was also outlined on the sign. A square of cardboard in the front door said, "Open at 2 p.m."
It was 9:30 a.m.
"You sure Terrell Hill is here?" David asked.
"Pretty sure," Jim said. "This place does business during the day, too."
They climbed out of the truck. The street was quiet, save the occasional curse or yell that seemed to come from all directions at once. David headed for the front door, but Jim took a left and walked down the alley next to the Bastion. David's followed, his nose wrinkling against the smell of garbage and rot. Jim stopped in front of a wooden door at the back of the building and banged on it.
Several moments passed. A small square of steel slid away from the door and a pair of eyes peeked out.
"Who're you?" he grunted.
Jim held up his badge. "I need to speak to Terrell Hill about his brother's death."
The eyes went wide. "Bobby's dead?" He disappeared for an instant. The steel square slid back into place and several locks clicked. The door squealed open and a black teen poked his head out.
"Terrell's sleepin'," the teen said. "Wait here 'n I'll get him."
He disappeared up a set of stairs. David and Jim stepped into a gloomy backroom. Cases of liquor lined the walls, floor to ceiling. A brown table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by six rickety chairs. Boxes of sealed cards and poker chips were piled on the table. The detectives exchanged a glance.
A door slammed upstairs, followed by feet pounding on stairs. The footsteps grew steadily closer until Terrell Hill barreled into the room. He was muscular and almost as tall as David, his dark skin marred with scars. Terrell fixed David, then Jim with a poisonous glare.
"Who's sayin' Bobby's dead?" Terrell roared.
"I'm Detective Ellison," Jim said evenly. "This is Detective Noble."
David pulled a cropped photograph of Robert Hill's face from his jacket and held it up. "Is this your brother?" David asked. "Robert Clarence Hill?"
Terrell's jaw dropped. He snatched the picture and stared. His expression changed from malevolence to utter shock. Terrell stepped backward and collapsed into a chair.
"Who killed him?" Terrell asked.
"We don't know for sure yet," Jim replied. "We were hoping you could give us some information."
"I ain't seen Bobby in a coupla months," Terrell said. "I told him to stay outta the gangs, man. Now look at him."
David pulled another photograph from his jacket and handed it to Terrell. "Recognize that mark?" he asked.
Terrell's face twisted in confusion. "That's the Carbines's ticket," he said. "Why? What's that—?"
"We found those marks on the bodies of Robert and Sam Moss," Jim said.
Terrell shook his head, on the verge of tears. "Naw, man. Sam was like the Carbines mascot. Whitney would never let 'em do that. And we ain't got any bad blood."
"Are you sure?" David asked. "You said you hadn't talked to him—"
"He'd tell me," Terrell insisted. "Bobby's a good kid. Too smart for his own good sometimes. It don't make sense for the Carbines to kill him."
"We're not so sure they did," Jim said. "If so, it wasn't ordered."
Terrell looked up. "You talked to Whitney?"
"Yes, and we believed him," Jim said. "You're sure you can't give us anything?"
"Naw, man," Terrell said miserably. "Just find the bastards."
~*~*~*~
Hawk parked his Corolla in space 312 in the midtown parking structure. He climbed out and walked over to the black Mercedes in space 344. The Mercedes flashed its parking lights. Hawk got into the passenger side and shut the door.
In the driver's seat, Icharus gazed at him calmly.
"The cop's death has altered things slightly," Icharus said. He tossed a bulky manila envelope into Hawk's lap. "Inside are an address and another envelope. Take it there and give it to a man named Terrell Hill."
"Yes, sir," Hawk said.
~*~*~*~
Megan stirred cream into her coffee, watching the dark liquid swirl away into a lighter tan. She tapped the stirrer against the mug and tossed into the wastebasket.
"You're so predictable," Rhonda said from the break room table.
"How so?" Megan asked. She turned and sat down across from her friend.
"Every time it's one container of cream, stir five times and tap the stirrer twice," Rhonda said. She grinned in her amusement.
Megan shrugged. "It's good to have a system and a bit of stability. God knows we don't get much of that as detectives."
"You still haven't said anything about it," Rhonda said, eyeing her.
"About what?"
Rhonda sighed. "About Detective Noble," she said. "You haven't said a word about his leaving and now his possible staying."
"What am I supposed to say about it?" Megan asked. "He's an extraordinary partner and a wonderful man, but if chooses to go it's his choice."
"And if he chooses to stay?" Rhonda prodded.
A smile tugged at the corners of Megan's mouth. "I'll be pleased. I haven't gotten along with anyone quite so well since my first year at New South Wales."
"Have you told him that?"
Megan looked horrified. "I can't do that. His decision to stay or go has to be his. Boomer has some things he doesn't talk about. Maybe he wants to go back to the 5-9."
"It's possible," Rhonda said. "So are we still on for Sunday?"
"As long as your husband is cooking this time," Megan replied.
"Hey, my chili wasn't that bad," Rhonda said.
"No, but we drank an entire gallon of milk between the three of us."
Rhonda opened her mouth to protest, then realized the futility. Megan laughed and sipped her coffee.
~*~*~*~
As Terrell closed the Bastion's back door on the stranger, he examined the envelope in his hands. It was white, business-sized with his name typed neatly in the center. The envelope was taped to a small cardboard box the size of a videotape. Terrell sat down at the table, ignoring the noise from the club out front.
He ripped the envelope off the box and tore it open. The top sheet was a square of paper with three sentences typed in three neat rows.
These are the men you want.
You'll know what to do.
Regards.
The letter was unsigned.
Beneath the paper were three 4x6 photographs. Terrell felt a well of hatred spring up as he recognized the two men in the pictures. They were sitting in the Red Piper, a booth Terrell knew well. They were laughing, grinning, pleased with themselves. In the center of the table was Bobby's gold watch, a gift from their father before he passed away.
Terrell dropped the photos onto the table and ripped into the box. He pulled out a lump wrapped in foam. As he unraveled the bundle, a sense of duty came over him. He knew what this was and what to do with it. Terrell pulled the foam free and a .38 Glock fell into his lap. He picked it up and held it, testing the weight.
It was perfect.
~*~*~*~
"All I'm saying is that the guy couldn't have logically gotten away with it," Jim said. He pulled out of the PD garage and headed for home.
Blair shook his head, tapping one finger on the passenger door. "It's a movie, Jim. It didn't matter if it was logical or not, it happened."
"Yeah, but—"
Jim's cell phone cut off his reply. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket.
"Ellison."
<"The Red Piper, right now. Someone's gonna die.">
The mysterious voice disconnected before Jim could say a word. He listened to the silent buzz for a split second before hanging a sharp left onto the next street. In the passenger seat, Blair cried out.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Jim replied. "Something's going down at the Red Piper."
"Should I call for back up?"
Jim hesitated. "Have them stand by."
As he drove, Jim tried to remember the call. The voice had been distorted, unrecognizable. There was a faint hum in the background, but no other sound he could recall.
He squealed to a stop in front of the Red Piper five minutes later. It was twilight and the club was jamming. A long entry line had already formed on the sidewalk. A crowd was gathering around the front door, everyone trying to see in. Jim turned to his partner.
"Get back up in here and stay in the truck," Jim said as he hopped out.
Jim pushed through the crowd, holding up his badge. With his other hand on his gun, he shoved his way inside.
Every patron of the club was frozen in place. Waitresses, dancers, bartenders and guests. Their collective attention was focused on a booth in the back. Jim recognized Terrell Hill standing in front of the booth, his back to Jim. Three men sat in the booth with their hands in the air, the fourth already dead. Jim pulled his gun.
"Police!" he said. "Freeze, Terrell!"
Terrell jumped, turning his face to the side. Jim could see tear stains on his cheeks and fear in his eyes. He seemed resigned to something.
"Put it down, Terrell," Jim said.
No one moved. The first police siren sounded in the distance. Terrell's expression hardened. He looked back at the booth and fired. One of the remaining three slumped forward onto the table. Jim fired his own gun, striking Terrell in the center of his back. He fell forward, bouncing off the edge of the booth and falling sideways. Jim swore under his breath and bolted over. Both Terrell and the man he'd shot were dead.
A waitress began to scream.
~*~*~*~
The next morning, Major Crime was buzzing. Most of the attention centered around Simon's office where he, Blair and Jim were discussing the Moss-Hill case. The two men Terrell had murdered were James Arlos and Emile Vassey, paroled felons and all-around thugs. Although there were still questions surrounding much of it, the Commissioner was calling for the case to be closed. None of the detectives were sure how to respond to it. It also brought closure to another case—the hijacked truck of television sets was found in a garage that belonged to Arlos. Both his and Vassey's prints were found in the truck.
"The gun Terrell Hill used last night," Jim said, "was the same gun that killed Dills. Strike marks are identical."
Simon nodded. "So it's safe to assume that Terrell arrived just after his brother's murder and shot at Taggart and Dills, assuming they were the killers."
"We can assume that," Blair said. "Whitney said the Carbines weren't involved and he was half right. Arlos and Vassey were both ex-members of the Carbines. It all looks gang-related, but it's not."
"It just doesn't completely fit," Jim added. "Boomer and I were so sure Terrell didn't know about Robert's murder until we told him. For all I could tell he wasn't lying."
"Yeah, but your senses aren't foolproof," Simon said. "Let's look at it this way. Hill and Moss hijack the Lyman truck with Arlos and Vassey. They disagree over something, and Hill and Moss are killed by their accomplices. Arlos and Vassey fake a gang slaying to throw us off their scent. Terrell Hill happens by and fires on our men. When you question him, he acts innocent. Then he uses that time to track down and kill Arlos and Vassey. End of story."
"What about my anonymous phone call?" Jim asked.
Simon threw up his hands. "I don't know, Jim. It came from a cloned cell phone, so it will be impossible to trace. It sounds cut and dried to me. You solved the case."
Jim nodded, but he couldn't help feeling like he was missing something. Loose ends bothered him and the phone call was a loose end.
"I'll see you two at the memorial service this afternoon," Simon said.
"Two o'clock," Jim said. "We'll be there."
"Dismissed."
Jim and Blair left the office. They passed by Megan and David, both standing by her desk.
"…Wanted to die with his playing cards," David said. "What's weird about that?"
"Where do I begin?" Megan retorted.
"Fighting again?" Jim asked.
David grinned. "It's how we entertain ourselves."
"Boomer, I hear you decided to stay," Blair said. "Are you sure you don't want to rethink that?"
"No, but I may in the future," David replied, chuckling.
Henri Brown wandered over to the group, his eyes constantly scanning the bullpen.
"You guys seen Rafe yet?" Henri asked. "He said he'd call this morning and he never did."
"No, why?" Megan asked. "Is something wrong?"
"Naw, nothin's wrong," Henri said, smiling brightly. "He was supposed to—"
"There he is," Blair said.
He pointed to the bullpen's side doors. Rafe was standing before them in a rumpled suit, grinning like a fool. His eyes were wide, as if seeing everything new for the first time. He spotted his friends and wandered over, not even noticing when he banged his thigh on the edge of Jim's desk.
"So?" Henri prodded.
The others looked at Rafe expectantly, curious as to what was going on. Rafe stopped at the edge of the half-circle, his eyes darting from person to person and finally landing on Henri.
"I proposed to Tracey," Rafe said. "And she said yes."
~The End~