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11 He’d created a fictitious past for Denby in his own mind, as he had for all identities he’d ever had, as he supposed actors who worked to entertain were wont to do. Nasty childhood, probably domestic abuse involved - alcoholic father at the very least - capped by a strict religious schooling (the latter of which he had genuine experience). Became a cop originally to protect people like his mother from their husbands, but went quickly downhill. The rest of the backstory had been filled in by the scriptwriters, his superiors: Too much too soon; Denby couldn’t handle it. What a spineless recreant. That was what he’d thought in the beginning, at least. It hadn’t been the first time he’d posed as an alcoholic – or a drug addict. But it had been the first time he’d ever met one – to respect one – on the side of the law. And the thought of her now . . . His chest ached, although the ribs she’d cracked when her bullets had impacted the Kevlar of his vest had since healed. Why? He scowled out at the rapidly darkening eastern sky. Already he could hear the bass voice of the announcer booming from the stadium speakers, though his windows remained shut. Not loud enough for him to understand the words; just noticeable as an intermittent growl of background noise. Baseball. This city breathed it, drank it, lived it as if nothing else existed. He imagined his neighbors all sitting outside on their bleached front stoops on lawn chairs, their radios tuned to the local station, listening to the game in surroundsound. He scowled again. This wasn’t where he belonged, not in this city full of people who lived by rigid adherence to their own strict rules of etiquette; a city where everything had a place and stayed in it, within a state whose informal motto proclaimed to the world that its people believed in nothing they couldn’t hear or see or touch. Still, the heart of the midwest was one of the safest places in the country when one was hiding from the Columbian cartel, he had to admit. The Hispanic population was practically nil, and the drug trade, while it still existed, viewed this locale as more of an endpoint in their distribution system than as a major artery. The chief concentration was on watching the interstates for suspicious vehicles with Texas license plates, as that was how the deliveries were made here. He’d learned as much earlier this afternoon when he’d visited the St. Louis police station and its associated Police Academy. The twin buildings of uniform, dressed and mortared gray slabs of stone had all the ambience of a mausoleum, he’d thought, and in fact (so he’d been informed) the Academy itself had originally served as the city’s morgue. When he’d finally left, exhausted (due to a fatigue he attributed to the lingering effect of the drugs he’d taken as Denby), he’d barely taken notice of anything around him, keeping his head down against the blustery wind as he forged his way to his car. It was only when he had finally left the parking lot just to stop instantly for a traffic light that he’d glanced up at his surroundings.
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