That was what he was born to do, not paperwork. That was why he became a cop. And that was why his nickname was Bullitt. He gave it to himself on his first day at the police academy but, for reasons he could never figure out, it didn’t stick.
Neither did Dirty Randy.
But he persevered. Over the years, he’d drop the nickname into conversation when it felt right and whenever a new detective transferred into Homicide, he’d introduce himself like this:
“Welcome to Homicide, hombre. I’m Lieutenant Randy Disher, but everybody calls me Bullitt.”
He did it again a few days ago when Detective Jack Lansdale transferred in. But this time he tried to manipulate the situation some more to improve his chances.
“What do they call you?” Disher asked.
“Jack,” he said.
“I mean, what’s your nickname?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Tell you what, you think of one and that’s what I’ll call you,” Disher said. “Pretty soon everybody will pick up on it. How about the Jackal?”
Moonface would have been more appropriate, Disher thought. Judging by Lansdale ’s face, he’d picked at every zit he’d ever had as a kid. He must have had a lot of zits.
“Jack is fine,” Lansdale said.
“But it could be short for Jackal,” Disher said. “I hear you’re like a wild dog when you get on a case.”
Disher gave him a big wink. He hadn’t heard anything about Lansdale, though he was pretty sure that his own exploits were legend by now.
“No, I’m not,” Jack said. “I pride myself on being slow and methodical.”
“Then it’s an ironic nickname, which is even better, though they call me Bullitt because they mean it.”
“Mean what?”
“That I’m cool, I’m tough, and the ladies dig me, like McQueen in the movie,” Disher said. He couldn’t afford a Mustang, but he drove a Ford Focus, which at least was from the same company. “I’ll call you Jackal and you call me Bullitt, not just when we are talking to each other, but whenever we talk about each other to other people.”
Disher had thought it could really work this time, but then Monk showed up with that Diaper Genie for him. Lansdale hadn’t looked at him the same way since.
Captain Stottlemeyer called out for him from inside his office.
Disher hated it when the captain did that, summoning him like a slave.
Why couldn’t Stottlemeyer get up, walk to his door, and ask him to come in? Or pick up the phone and call his extension? That would be the respectful thing to do.
But no, the captain had to bark from his desk like an irritated pit bull.
Stottlemeyer had been in a sour mood from the instant the new operating budget landed on his desk last week. And his mood had gotten progressively worse since his appearance onstage with Monk at the national homicide detectives’ conference, which, much to Disher’s dismay, he hadn’t been invited to. (Disher didn’t care about attending their panel; he just wanted to hang out with other homicide cops, talk shop, and get his Bullitt persona out there to the rest of the country.)
Just when Disher thought that Stottlemeyer couldn’t get any gloomier or more short-tempered, Nicholas Slade grabbed all the glory for Rhonda Carnegie’s arrest on the judge murders and humiliated the department.
Now Stottlemeyer was practically foaming at the mouth day and night.
Disher heard that Stottlemeyer was so unhinged that he’d slugged a cop at a funeral yesterday.
Not wanting to be the victim of the captain’s next violent outburst, Disher grabbed his notebook and hurried into Stottlemeyer’s office, but not before shooting a glance at Lansdale, who sat at the next desk.
“High-level strategic conference,” he said. “Need-to-know only.”
Disher closed the door behind him and approached the captain’s desk. “What’s up, sir?”
Stottlemeyer rubbed his eyes and sighed. “A homicide has just come in. Investigating this one is going to be like dancing in a minefield.”
“Fine by me,” Disher said in his best Eastwoodian snarl. “Let’s dance.”
Stottlemeyer looked up at him with a weary gaze. “I’m serious, Randy, this case could be a career killer if you’re not careful.”
Disher felt a tingle of nervous excitement in his stomach. Did he hear what he thought he’d just heard? Did the captain recuse himself from the case?
“Where are you going to be?” Disher asked.
“Right here, riding this desk. You’re going to be on your own on this one, reporting directly to the deputy chief.”
“You’re telling me to go over your head?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
This didn’t make any sense to Disher. It was one thing for the captain to let him take the lead on a case, but quite another to tell him not to report to him at all.
Then he realized what the captain meant when he said the case could be a career killer if he mishandled it.
This wasn’t just another homicide investigation.
This was a field test of Disher’s ability to lead.
Running this investigation would be a real-world demonstration of his abilities, a chance to prove himself directly to the powers-that-be.
Well, it was about time.
“Why are you taking yourself out of the loop?” Disher asked.
“I have a conflict of interest,” Stottlemeyer said.
Disher nodded. “I understand. You can’t be objective when it comes to me. You’re already biased in my favor. The brass wants to see me in action and come to their own conclusions about my command and leadership skills.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This field test,” Disher said. “I’m ready for it. The tougher the better. That’s why they call me Bullitt.”
“Who does?”
“Them,” Disher said, waving his hand in the air as if clearing smoke. “Those in the they. Not all of the they, but some of them. Those theys do.”
Stottlemeyer sighed. “It’s not an official test, though I suppose that it could end up being one.”
“Then why are you cutting yourself out?”
“Because I know the victim,” he replied.
“How do you know him?”
“I broke his nose yesterday.” Stottlemeyer reached into a drawer and tossed a file across the desk to Disher. “The victim is Detective Paul Braddock, Banning Police Department. His body was found in his hotel room by a maid at the Dorchester this morning.”
Disher picked up the file. “What’s this?”
“A file that I kept on Braddock,” Stottlemeyer said. “He used to be a detective here until I forced him out.”
“I didn’t know you did time in Internal Affairs.”
“I didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “This was a personal project. Ten years ago, I told him he could quit or I could give that file to IA. He quit.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because he was a dirty cop who liked to beat people,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I wanted to spare the department the embarrassment.”
“This is ancient history,” Disher said, holding up the file.
“What does it have to do with his murder?”
“Maybe nothing,” Stottlemeyer said. “But if you’re not careful, the past has a way of coming back to haunt you. Or kill you.”
