As I watched my canine partner celebrate the day, all that sounded pretty good.
I reached for my phone, wanting to call Cohen. To get his advice. But I hesitated. Cohen had transferred to the sex crimes unit three months ago—he had his own caseload to deal with. Plus, I’d promised myself I’d make it on my own and not lean on my boyfriend. I didn’t want to succeed because I had a former murder cop in my back pocket.
I let my hand drop.
My counselor had pointed out something when I told him about my career change. That perhaps I hoped to find in the police department that same sense of family I’d had with the Marines.
That sounded good, too, if I could work my way past Bandoni.
But I missed the trains.
Clyde came running back. I dropped my hand to his head, ran my fingers along the sensitive edges of his ears.
Then I let all my doubts about pursuing this new path roll over me. I breathed in the cold prairie air and imagined the rumble of a train. I held myself still for two minutes. Five.
Then I let it go. However this worked out, we’d manage. The only way to get through this world was to keep moving forward, doing your best not to trip.
A flat, silver sun heaved itself above the horizon, unspooling a line of mercury where earth met sky.
“Let’s get to work, boy.”
CHAPTER 4
In war, there is no future. You do not count on another sunrise, another birthday, old age. You take only that day.
None of us knows what lies ahead. But war rolls up the horizon and sets it down right outside your door.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
I dialed Bandoni as I drove. By now, the workday was underway, and my absence from the office would be obvious.
“I’m on my way to the rail yard,” I said.
“Not going to let it go, are you?”
“Not until I’m sure.”
“I heard a lot of veterans are suicidal.”
“It’s the company they keep.”
“Ha ha.” Another of his gusting sighs. “I’m throwing up a smoke screen for you, partner. But you should know that the sergeant’s been asking when you’ll be in. So has the Lobster. I don’t know if she’s just checking up on you or if there’s something else going on.”
Lieutenant Lobowitz, a.k.a. the Lobster. One of the detectives had given her the nickname because of the way she turned bright red when she was angry. Which was often. My mind flashed to the stack of rape kits on my desk, and unease fluttered in my chest. “She say anything specific?”
“Nope. I told her you were working something, and you’d be in as soon as you could.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s your one pass, gift-wrapped with a bow. What did Gabel say about the scene?”
“Too soon to tell. Except the stain on the fabric is mammal blood.”
“You take my advice and call someone about your buddy with the dent in his skull?”
The rising sun bounced off the rearview mirror. I tilted it. “A detective is going to the hospital to talk to him.”
“And he’s still drawing a blank?”
“So far.”
“Fucking railroad cops. For the record, Parnell, you are one pain in the ass. I’ll keep you covered with the Lobster. But either move fast or bring us something.”
That shaved a few ounces off the ten-pound stone in my stomach. “Will do. And thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. If this turns out to be nothing, you’re gonna have your own personal blood-spatter problem. The sergeant’s up in arms, and the lieutenant’s giving me the evil eye. And there’s the fact we got real work to do. Starting with those rape kits the chief is asking for. The chief. Remember him? Guy who signs your paychecks.”
He hung up.
Half an hour later I walked into the control tower at Denver Pacific Continental to get a feel for the magnitude of our problem and see if I could rustle up some help.
DPC’s yardmaster was a taciturn Russian American named Sergei Illych. His parents had fled the USSR for the US in the late fifties, when Sergei was twelve. I knew this because Sergei and I had gotten drunk one night at Joe’s Tavern after a company holiday party, and he’d been in a rare, whiskey-induced mood to talk. He was well more than twice my age, but we got along fine due to a shared love of fine spirits and a vast experience with trauma. Ever since that night, I think he had a special fondness for me, as he would for anyone who could hold both her liquor and his secrets.
When Clyde and I entered the control room, he was staring out at the morning sun, a cup of some ill-smelling brew raised halfway to his lips, the steam curling up like a question mark. Through the glass, the yard was mostly quiet. My train, the train that might or might not hold a body, sat idle. In contrast to the rest of the yard, the roundhouse on the south end of the yard was bustling. As DPC faced budget cuts due to the reduction of long-distance freight, we—they—depended more and more on patching up the old trains.
“You see that coupler on Big Red,” Sergei said without preamble. He could read trains the way a radiologist read MRIs. “Looks like a crack.”
I stared. “I don’t see anything.”
“Your eyes are untrained.” He sipped from his cup and finally glanced at me. “The look on your face. I would say you had a fight with your best friend, but he’s right over there, watching you. Man’s best friend. Woman’s, too, I think.”
“I’ve only officially been a detective for three weeks, and I’m going to get busted back down to patrol.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me.”
“I need a dead person on that train.”
“So very Russian.” The other eyebrow went up. “There are ways.”
“Put away your Makarov, Boris.” I gestured out the window. “How many cars?”
“Deputy Chief Mauer did the calculations and determined
