Wade shifted his gaze to the rest of the place.
A chipped and beaten Formica?topped counter ran across almost the entire width of the room, creating a partition. Wade guessed it was probably repurposed from the video store. A gate made of unpainted wood bridged the remaining distance between the counter and the wall.
Behind the counter were four gunmetal gray desks and chairs, like those found at police stations all over the city. Atop the desks were computers from the Paleolithic era of computing, phones, an old microwave, lamps, boxes of office supplies, and other equipment that nobody had bothered to unpack, set up, or organize. Some file cabinets, a refrigerator, a microwave, and four gym lockers were crammed together in a corner along with more unopened boxes and crates. There was a gun locker mounted and locked on the wall. The chief had tossed Wade the key to the gun locker that day in the park.
Wade walked through the gate and between the desks to the back of the station, where three holding cells had been built. The doors were made of thick iron mesh, and each cell contained a concrete block for a cot and a stainless steel toilet/sink combination.
All the construction work that had been done to transform the video store into an adequate police substation was cosmetically unfinished and raw. No primer or paint had been applied to any of it.
“You’re responsible for paint and improvements,” Claggett said, reading Wade’s sour expression. “I just provide the four walls and the roof.”
“There’s a big hole in the wall,” Wade said, gesturing to the fire damage.
“I didn’t say the walls and the roof would be solid,” Claggett said. “Just that they’d be there. Are your friends coming back to finish up?”
“I don’t think so,” Wade said.
Claggett looked at him. “Can I ask you a personal question, Officer?”
“Go ahead,” he said.
“What did you do wrong to end up here?”
“My job,” Wade said.
“Maybe you’re in the wrong job.”
“Or I’m in the right job with the wrong people.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“That’s what they tell me,” Wade said.
“Or you’re a damn fool.”
“They tell me that too.”
“So which is it?”
“Could be they’re the same thing.” Across the room Wade saw a door that was ajar, revealing a staircase beyond it. “What’s upstairs?”
“An apartment nobody wants,” Claggett said. “Tenants down here usually use it as storage space.”
“I’d like to see it,” Wade said.
Claggett led him through the door and up the stairs. He unlocked the door and held it open for Wade, who walked past him into the apartment.
There was a kitchenette without appliances, a living area, and a separate bedroom and bath. The carpet throughout was filthy and stained. The walls had a piss?yellow, weathered tinge from age and sun damage. The barred windows in the bedroom and living room overlooked Division Street.
A cell with a view.
Wade went to one corner of the living room, crouched, and pulled up the edge of the carpet to expose the hardwood floor underneath. With a little work, it would clean up nice. All the walls needed were a coat of white paint.
He stood up again. “I’ll take it.”
“You’ve already got it. It comes with the space downstairs.”
“I want to rent it for myself as a place to live.”
“You want to live here?” Claggett asked, incredulous.
“How does seven hundred and fifty dollars a month sound to you?”
“But you could stay up here for nothing,” Claggett said.
“You’re not much of a businessman,” Wade said. “Do you have a problem with making money?”
“I’m out of practice. I don’t get the opportunity very often.”
“Bring me a rental agreement to sign.”
“You want it made out for week to week?”
“Month to month,” Wade said. “I’ll pay you the first and last in advance.”
“Do you really think you’re going to be here that long?”
“I’m optimistic,” Wade said.
“You’re fucking nuts,” Claggett said.
Chapter five
They went back downstairs. Claggett gave Wade a set of keys to all the doors and locks in and around the building and then hurried out.
Wade found the keys to the squad cars on one of the desks and went out back to his fenced?in parking lot to inspect his fleet.
The first squad car was filled with trash, as if someone had emptied a few neighborhood garbage cans into it. Amid the papers, cans, and bottles, he saw soiled diapers, rotting food, and even a dead bird. The upholstery in the front seat was patched with filthy duct tape. He glanced at the odometer-a mere 287,000 miles.
The second car had about the same number of miles on the odometer as the first one but wasn’t filled with trash. The molded plastic backseats and floor were coated with dried vomit and feces instead.
The third car was practically new, with just 215,000 miles on the engine, but the interior looked and smelled as if the entire police department had used it as a urinal and then invited a few stray dogs to relieve themselves in it too.
He walked around the cars and checked the tires. They were inflated and the treads were in pretty good shape. Anything above bald was better than he’d expected.
Wade popped the hoods and opened the trunks on all three cars.
The engines seemed intact and the vehicles were stocked with crime scene kits, first aid kits, and all the other necessary equipment.
They’d even given him radar guns. He wasn’t planning on writing any speeding tickets. That would just piss people off. He had bigger problems to deal with.
The cars were old, beaten up, and purposely filled with filth by his fellow cops as a not?so?subtle message to him about how enthused they were to have him back. But the vehicles seemed to be in basic working condition. That was good enough for him.
He closed the hoods and the trunks, locked up the cars, and went back inside.
Wade spent the next few hours doing a thorough inventory of the equipment, weapons, ammunition, and office supplies that had been left for him. To his surprise, he found everything that was needed for the proper operation of the substation.
He knew the department hadn’t done it out of concern for his safety or for the good of the community. It was about limiting the blowback. The chief wanted to be sure that when Wade or his two officers got seriously injured or killed that the bloodshed couldn’t be blamed on substandard or missing equipment.
With the inventory done, Wade unpacked and organized his station. He arranged the desks and made sure that all the computer terminals were linked to the police network, which utilized the cable lines that were strung up on telephone poles all over the old part of King City. It wasn’t the best system. A couple of years ago, a runaway trash truck knocked over a pole and shut down the police communications network for hours.
Wade double?checked that the radios were hooked up to the dispatcher, which they were, though he didn’t expect to be sent out on many calls. People in Darwin Gardens didn’t call the police when they needed help.
