“Thank god,” Joyce said, her keyring jangling as she pulled it out of her purse. “I don’t know if I would’ve been able to handle losing my boots and Buggy in the same day.”
“Buggy?” Patrick raised an eyebrow as Joyce unlocked the driver’s side door.
“What?” Joyce looked back over her shoulder at him. “Doesn’t your car have a name?”
Patrick shrugged. “‘Car,’ I guess.”
“Yeesh.” She threw her purse into the passenger seat, rolling her eyes. “I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
Straightening up, Joyce leaned in close and gave Patrick a quick peck on the lips. Then she pulled back and poked her index finger hard against his chest.
“Do not do anything stupid without talking to me first, you understand?”
Patrick knew that he had a silly grin plastered to his face, but he didn’t care.
“I promise,” he said, mooning. And then, in a more serious tone, repeated, “I promise.”
She gave him an appraising glance for a second, and then tossed her cane into the floorboards on the passenger side and folded herself down into the driver’s seat. “I’m going to go home and grab some things, and then head into work to take care of Officer Carlson’s remains. I’ll meet you guys back at your place later?”
“Copy that.” He nodded. “And be careful, okay?”
As soon as she turned the key in the ignition, the Dead Milkmen’s “Punk Rock Girl” started blaring from the car stereo’s speakers. Without turning the music down, she looked out the window at him, a grin on her face, and winked. “See ya, cutie.”
Then the Beetle pulled away from the curb and sped up the street, tires screeching, kicking up gravel in its wake.
Patrick shook his head, grinning.
And then his grin fell as he glanced back at the warehouse down the street. There had been a point the night before when he hadn’t been sure he would ever leave that subbasement again.
He wasn’t going to do anything stupid, he told himself. That hadn’t been a lie. But he would do what he had to do, and try to be smart about it.
Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his quilted jacket, head down and shoulders hunched, he turned and continued walking down the street in the direction of the docks where his own car was parked. He had work to do.
Patrick drove with the window down, the chill air bracing him, keeping him alert. He drove west on Howard, skirting the northern edge of the Oceanview neighborhood, until he reached the 10th Precinct station house at the corner of Howard and Albion. Turning into the entrance to the underground parking garage, he swiped his access card against the reader, and when the barrier gate lifted, he eased his car down the ramp.
Moments later, when he stepped off the elevator on the second floor, he almost collided with another officer walking in the other direction.
“Hey, watch it!”
Patrick stepped back, starting to apologize, until he saw who it was. “Oh. Hey, Harrison.”
Detective Harrison was wearing the same rumpled suit from the day before, but his jawline and cheeks were freshly shaved and his mustache precisely trimmed. This was a man who’d gotten a full night’s rest.
“Damn, Tevake, you look like you got run over.”
Patrick rubbed the stubble on his chin and grimaced. His eyes had been bloodshot and raw when he’d last looked in a mirror, with dark circles underneath. He was tired, and he knew that it showed.
“What the hell happened out there?” Harrison crossed his arms over his chest. “You and Carlson found our guys?”
Patrick’s jaw tightened. “More like they found us.”
“I heard from the uniforms who found him that Carlson was messed up. Beaten to death, with his sidearm in reach. What was that about?”
“We had split up to search the subbasement, so I didn’t see the attack.” Which was true, as far as it went. “Carlson was already down by the time I reached him.”
“The duty officer said something about a pursuit?”
Patrick nodded. “I tried to radio for backup, but couldn’t get through.” He glanced around the squad room, which was pretty quiet for a day shift. “I lost them in the end, and wasn’t able to get in to file an after-action report before now.”
“Damn.” Harrison shook his head, whistling softly. “I’d like to get my hands on the sons of bitches who beat him down like that.” He paused for a moment, and a pained look flitted across his face. “It was my fault you guys were down there. I was the one handing out the search details. Maybe if I’d sent more uniforms with you . . .”
Patrick was a little surprised. He’d always considered Harrison to be something of an ass, and had found his police work to be mediocre at best, and so he would never have expected that sort of reaction from him.
“I don’t know that it would have made any difference,” Patrick said, somberly. “You made the call based on what we knew at the time. I wouldn’t have done it any differently myself.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Harrison looked uncharacteristically vulnerable for a brief moment, and Patrick found himself sympathetic to him. Then the moment ended as Harrison’s accustomed arrogant expression settled back into place and he reached up and smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger, his signature tic. “Well, at least I don’t have to be the one to write up all that paperwork.”
And just like that, Patrick’s newfound sympathy for Harrison quickly dissolved.
“Where do we stand with the surveillance?” Patrick said, redirecting the conversation.
“Chavez has a rotating crew of undercover officers in unmarked cars watching the suspects IDed from the Fayed kid’s computer,” Harrison answered, a little surly, “but so far all they’re coming up with is a whole bunch of long distance photos of a
