cards for Breaking and Entering Professionals of America.
“So what do they call you?”
“H.B.”
“Okay, Honest, you’re going to tell me what you’re doing here, and why, or I’m going to beat you with this baseball bat until you’re almost dead, or just wish you were. Whichever comes first.”
He looked hesitant, so I moved things along with a little tap on the noggin.
“Ow, Christ!”
“That was nothing. I’m only getting started.”
“You’re not.”
“I am,” I said, then tapped him again, a little harder.
“Shit, okay. I was just looking around.”
“Of course. Why didn’t you just say that?”
I tapped him again. He put his hands over his face.
“Okay, okay. I was looking for dirt. Stuff we could use on you.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know. Dope, illegal guns, a wad of cash. Photos of you sleeping with a llama.”
“I’ve never even dated one,” I said.
“You don’t do shit, pal. Not even a computer.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. You still haven’t told me why.”
“I don’t know why. I’m just supposed to get the stuff. Why is somebody else’s job.”
“Is shooting me part of your job?”
“I wasn’t trying to shoot you. It went off accidentally. You should know better than to grab a gun like that.”
“So who hired you to look for dirt?”
“I tell you that, I’ll never work again.”
“You tell me that or you’ll be drooling on yourself and shitting in a bag for the rest of your life.”
I knelt down, got another grip on his larynx and cracked him on the forehead again, in case he’d forgotten what it felt like. He nodded ferociously and I let go.
“You’re a harsh son of a bitch,” he croaked.
“Out with it.”
“I work in security for Con Globe. I’m on special assignment to George Donovan, Chairman of the Board. I don’t know what it’s about. I just do what he tells me and that’s that.”
I sat down on my butt as if Ackerman had landed a decent punch of his own. Con Globe. The snappy corporate nickname for Consolidated Global Energies. My former employer. My only employer for twenty years of my professional life. Run by George Donovan, the guy who helped make sure twenty years was all I’d ever get.
Joe Sullivan could have sent Will Ervin, the patrolman who took over the North Sea beat after Sullivan was promoted to Southampton’s investigative unit. But this was way too interesting to pass up, and anyway, Sullivan was a friend of mine.
Ackerman ran out of things to say while we waited in the kitchen, except about the end of his professional life. I soured his mood even more by promising an avalanche of felony charges.
“What do you get for hitting me with a baseball bat?” he asked.
“Exercise.”
When Sullivan made detective he hated giving up his uniform, so he designed a new one. Olive drab T-shirt and camo pants stuffed into a pair of steel-tipped boots. He wore an official ID around his bull neck and a non- regulation S&W 627 in a shoulder harness. At almost six feet tall with blonde hair in a buzz cut and about fifty extra pounds hanging on a weight-lifter’s build, he rarely had to take the Smith out of the holster.
I could tell the outfit made the right impression from Ackerman’s moan when Sullivan came through the door.
“Yo, Sam,” said the cop, “what do we got here?”
I tossed him Ackerman’s wallet.
“Who says you can’t find an honest man?” I said, as Sullivan looked at the ID.
I made him hold his questions while I freed Eddie from the Grand Prix. He was happy to see me, and happier to get to the nearest tree.
“Sorry, man. I got held up.”
He raced ahead to the house to say hello to Sullivan, having seen the cop’s Bronco drive by. When I got there he’d already been introduced to the idiot lying on the floor.
“Want some coffee?” I asked Sullivan. “How ’bout you, H.B.?”
While I worked on the coffee Sullivan pulled Ackerman to his feet and sat him in a kitchen chair. Then he brought a washcloth from the bathroom to wipe off the blood and assess the damage.
“I better get him to the hospital,” said Sullivan. “That lip should be sewn up.”
“Can you keep him from talking to anybody while you do that?” I asked.
“First tell me what happened.”
I went through the whole story, everything I knew, including the name of Ackerman’s employer, my old boss.
“Jesus,” said the cop. “Why would he do something like that?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to the guy in years. Or had anything to do with his company. It makes absolutely no sense.”
Sullivan went and stood over Ackerman, who shrank involuntarily into his seat.
“I guess we’ll find out when we book this lard-ass ninja.”
“Could we talk about that? In private?”
I got the look I expected from Sullivan. After cuffing Ackerman to a radiator, he followed me outside.
“I’m not going to like this,” he said.
“Don’t I have the option of pressing charges?”
“Sort of. A B&E is pretty serious crap. At night, with a gun, assaulting the homeowner. Bad shit.”
“I’ve got to know what’s going on. Donovan’s a very heavy guy. The worst Ackerman’s statement will do is prompt a firm denial and cause a little embarrassment. If you bring him in now we’ll lose whatever leverage we got.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I want you to take him to the hospital and get him patched up. Don’t let him talk to anybody or get near a phone. Then figure out a way to burn up some time. Lose him somewhere. Give me eight hours. Then I’ll call you and tell you what I want to do.”
“What
Sullivan was a straight-ahead type of cop. He not only followed the rules, he liked following the rules. He wasn’t self-righteous about it, it was just the way he was. For him, proper procedure was sacred doctrine.
But then again, there was such a thick ledger of debt between us that we both knew he’d try to do what I wanted, no matter how much it endangered his career. A career we also knew was partly my doing.
“This is not a typical situation,” I said. “This guy’s only here because I’m here. I’m the target. Nobody else.”
“That’s a fine point.”
“Just give me the time to do some things. Figure out how to deal with this.”
“I may not agree with what you figure out.”
“I understand. It’s your call. I just need a little wiggle room.”
Sullivan had his hands on his hips, skepticism etched on his face.
“Wiggle room for what?” he asked, then abruptly put up his hands. “Forget it. I don’t want to know.”
“You don’t.”
He’d given in. Though I could see the warning in his eyes—
Sullivan retrieved Ackerman from the kitchen and marched him over to the battered Bronco. Along the way he recited Miranda. He didn’t mention that Ackerman was about to disappear into a hole before all those hallowed
