Plugged

Faber clutches his chest, a final scream leaking out of him, takes a step backwards on to the spread of pills. His final act is an ignominious pratfall, then he’s dead on the floor.

Mike kneels beside Macey Barrett and is about to touch him, when one of his guys coughs gently.

‘Uh, boss. Trace.’

Mike pulls back his fingers. ‘Yeah. Good. Thanks, Calvin. Always looking out for me.’

He pockets his gun, then gives the room a quick scan, looking for cameras, I’m guessing. I draw back from the freezer porthole and squat under the glass, just breathing and waiting. Deacon is coming around now, muttering to herself, mostly stuff about me, most of it bad.

I peek through the porthole again and the only people in that room are corpses.

I see dead people, jokes Zeb.

Yep. Me too. Far too often.

You had Mike Madden out there and you never asked him about me.

There’s a time and place, Zeb. And that wasn’t it.

I feel a sense of victory that I’m not proud of. My plan was full of holes, but nobody fell into them. Two birds with one bullet. Faber has paid the price for murdering Connie and Irish Mike is no longer on the hunt for Barrett’s killer. Home free.

That’s really great. I’m happy for you.

One thing at a time, Zeb. I still got problems.

One of my problems groans and attempts to sit up. I wedge my forearm under her head and try for a tender smile.

‘Hey, Ronnie. How you doing?’

‘Who the fuck are you? Joey Tribbiani? And what’s that weird look you’re giving me?’

I drop the tender smile. ‘Let’s get you off that trolley, Detective. The bust of your career is outside that door.’

Deacon flaps her palm against the freezer.

‘What? The locked steel door?’

I sit her upright, pulling my jacket tight around her shoulders.

‘Have a little faith, Deacon. It’s a freezer, not Fort Knox.’

There’s a seal around the porthole, which peels off easily once I get a nail underneath it. Most modern freezers have a safety latch on the inside in case anyone gets trapped, but just as Faber said there’s a plate welded over this one.

Still, it’s just a door with a basic lock. A lot less complicated than your average automobile door.

I reach down inside my pants.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

I pull out the slim jim taped to my leg. ‘For your information, I’m gonna jimmy-jang the lock. Thinking ahead, Ronnie. That’s the secret.’

‘Yeah, you’re a regular Nostradamus-seeing-into-the-future-motherfucker.’

This might not be the time to ask for a second date. I think I preferred Detective Ronelle Deacon when she was blue and frozen.

I feed the thin steel band into the door’s innards through the slit vacated by the seal. A good carjacker could pop this door in under a dozen seconds, but it takes me half a minute. I feel the latch cord tugging the steel band and I can’t resist a wink at Ronelle before I yank it open.

‘Show-off,’ she says, but she’s smiling and I think that maybe there’s a future where she’s not trying to kill me. Maybe.

Deacon tries to slap me off, but I carry her out into the kitchen. Freezer steam floods out behind us like London fog.

‘Christ,’ breathes the detective, and I realise that this is probably her first glimpse of carnage. ‘Whose fault is all of this? Ours?’

I prop her on a high-backed stool. ‘Goran was dealing drugs,’ I tell her. ‘She had a scam going with Faber ripping off dealers. Faber murdered my friend too.’ I clasp her shoulders firmly, making steady eye contact. ‘They were always heading towards this. None of it is our fault.’

Deacon does not avert her eyes. ‘I think maybe a lot of it is your fault, Dan. But I don’t know how.’

A siren sounds in the distance. Coming closer.

‘Finally, a concerned citizen,’ says Deacon. ‘I was starting to believe that there weren’t any left.’

Bad timing, I haven’t had time to drill a story into her.

‘Listen, Ronelle. We have shady circumstances here. Very dubious. You have to tell Internal Affairs something they want to hear or both of us will be taking a trip to State.’

Deacon’s brow furrows, cracking the ice on there. ‘I gotta tell the truth, Dan. There’s no other way. I’m still police.’

‘There are bullets from your gun in your partner. Who’s to say that you’re not the bent detective and Goran died trying to take you down? At the very least your career is over for not calling this in last night. At most you get nailed for murder one.’

It makes sense, but will Deacon see it in time? That siren is awfully close.

‘What do you suggest?’

Thank Christ.

‘You got an anonymous tip about Faber on the DeLyne murder, which is true. You came over to find a drug deal in progress. They got the jump on you, shot your partner and locked you in the freezer. You got out and made them pay for shooting a cop.‘

Deacon’s eyebrows go up and snow flutters down her cheeks. ‘What? All of them?’

‘Hey. You’re Ronelle Deacon. You were pissed. I’d believe it.’

Deacon wrings her fingers, getting the blood flowing. ‘Okay, lemme think.’ She wrings for another second. ‘Right, that’s the stupidest bucket-of-pigshit plan that I ever heard. You know how long it’s gonna take IA to tear that into confetti? What? You hate me, McEvoy. Is that it?’

‘Hey, take it easy, Ronelle. I got feelings.’

‘So, Officer Deacon, you bust out of a freezer in your French under things, unarmed, and kill like a hundred guys. Jesus Christ.’

The sirens are closer; I think I hear tyres squealing. ‘It sounded better when I said it. You’re using mocking voices and stuff.’

While she’s thinking, Ronelle paws at an automatic in the sink, picking it up with fingers that are still white.

‘That’s probably loaded, Ronnie. Just so you know.’

She twists her frozen finger around the stock. ‘Loaded. Okay. Christ, I hope my spazzy fingers don’t accidentally shoot someone.’

I swallow drily. ‘Okay. Funny. Now I got to get going.’

The automatic is pointed roughly at my groin. ‘I’m supposed to let you walk?’

I try to look earnest and good. ‘Come on, Deacon. I’m just a complication. If I disappear, all is right in the world.’

The siren is right out front. Red light swings across the roof through the blinds. I start tapping my foot; can’t help it. The foot-tapping jiggles my anklet, so I quickly saw through the strap with a handy cleaver.

‘You look like shit, McEvoy,’ comments Deacon as I work.

‘Guy tagged me when I was trying to save your life for the second time,’ I say picking up Barett’s phone which I have become attached to.

I hope I didn’t overplay the hero thing. Doesn’t matter really, because any Brownie points I might have accumulated are about to be wiped out.

‘Yep, so anyways, I gotta put you back in the freezer,’ I say, stuffing the anklet in my pocket.

Deacon’s face says what the fuck?

‘My plan was fine, until the last bit about you breaking out and going Rambo.’

Deacon doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about shooting me in a