The Taken

He coughed into his hand. “This detail about the Cameron case, the water in her lungs, it, you know…”

“What?”

“It just makes me want to die.”

She could feel the heat radiating off him, as if finally telling her his secret had set him on fire.

“Did they catch them?”

“One of them.” He was far away now, and strangely calm. “Brought him in, put him in one of the holding cells downstairs after they booked him. They told me where he was. There was no one at intake, but there was a key on the desk. I took off my gun and my stick and left them on the table.”

“What happened?”

“He lived. Then he went to prison. Second degree. He’ll be paroled in four more years, the rest of them are out there somewhere.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off the passing show, but that was all he was going to say. She was trying to get more experience showing the people she cared for that she really did love them, but even at Martha’s apartment, despite her fear for the girl’s life, it had taken an effort. That was who she was: her love stayed inside her too much. She was nothing like Brenda Cameron, nothing like that dead girl’s mother. The hot core of another person had always frightened her. She preferred relationships that didn’t have to be plumbed, that could be resolved in guilt or innocence. This was neither, these crimes James Wingate had just described to her, a murder and an assault, and she didn’t know what to say.

So she said, “You wanted to know what Ray Greene was doing at the station house.”

“Sure,” he said, as if he was going to sleep.

“He’s coming back.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Probably it will be. He’s going to be CO.”

“And you?”

“They want to give me the gold watch.”

“Will you take it?”

What she’d told Greene had been calculated to cause maximum discomfort. But now she told Wingate the truth: “I don’t know.”

He pushed his plate away. He’d taken two bites of his tuna sandwich. She wasn’t hungry anymore, either. “I hope you won’t,” he said.

They paid and left. When they were outside on the sidewalk, turning back toward the police station, she put her hand on Wingate’s shoulder and turned him to face her again. “James, look, I’m no good with the comforting word, but honestly, I feel sick right now. I just wish I could -”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m glad I told you. But I can’t talk about it anymore. If you’re worried I’m tempted to come back here, I’m not. I’m never coming back.”

She had been worried, and she was glad she didn’t have to ask.

As soon as they entered Twenty-one, the desk sergeant stood and waved them over. He looked at his watch. “Nice lunch?” he asked.

“It was fine,” said Hazel.

“I’m happy for you. The two of you have another date, this one with Superintendent Ilunga. He’d like to see you right away.”

Hazel hadn’t noticed a slender woman holding a clipboard standing at the end of the countertop. The desk sergeant gestured to her and they realized this was Ilunga’s administrative assistant: she was going to take them to him. Hazel’s sandwich gurgled in her gut. Something was wrong.

The assistant didn’t say a word as she led them up the stairs to Ilunga’s office, which was past the room they’d been given to examine records in. There was a heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway with the single word SUPERINTENDENT on it. The assistant knocked and then stepped away and vanished into her cubbyhole.

After a delay of ten or so seconds, Superintendent Ilunga opened the door and gave them both a smile, his eyes lingering on them each individually. “Come in, come in,” he said, moving back toward his desk. “Close the door.”

They entered and stood in front of the man’s desk, waiting for the customary invitation to sit, but when he sat, he appeared to forget the etiquette, and they remained there, slightly uncomfortable and standing vaguely at attention.

“Do you mind if I eat?” he asked them, his hand hovering over a brown paper bag.

“Oh, not at all,” said Hazel, gesturing stupidly. She tucked her hand behind her back.

Ilunga took a tuna sandwich on whole wheat out of the bag and took an enormous bite out of it. He worked the corners of his lips around the bits that stuck out, manoeuvring a lettuce leaf into his mouth. His thin, muscular features distended powerfully as he chewed. After working the sandwich for a full minute, he swallowed and immediately took another bite as large as the first one. This too he chewed for a full minute, watching them both as calmly as if he was looking out a window. Hazel slid her eyes sideways toward Wingate without moving her head, but she couldn’t tell what his expression was.

When Ilunga finished his second mouthful, he held the sandwich out to them at arm’s length. They stared at his half-eaten lunch as if they were being hypnotized by a cobra. At last, Ilunga spoke. “Neither of you wants a bite?”

“We just ate, Sir,” said Wingate.

“So neither of you wants to eat my lunch?”

“No, Sir.”

“Strange.” He drew the sandwich back and bit the remainder in half. He seemed to be nodding thoughtfully to himself as he masticated the giant chunk of food. “See,” he said, with his mouth still partly full, “I went to Room 32 to check how the two of you were doing, and there were all your files – well, our files – but you were gone.”

“We did go out for an hour or so,” said Hazel. “Should we have notified you?”

“No, no,” Ilunga said, with an expansive gesture. “You’re free to come and go as you please.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

“Of course, it’s also good to know if you’re coming or going.” He examined the edge of the remaining quarter of his sandwich. “Because some people get confused.”

Hazel shifted on her feet. “May we sit, Superintendent?”

“Oh,” he said, pleasantly. “I’d rather if you didn’t. I don’t want any of your slime to come off on the fabric.” He finished his sandwich in the stunned silence and then clapped the crumbs off his hands. He laid them flat on the desk and looked at them both with his head slightly lowered. “I thought we treated you rather well, James.”

“You did, Sir.”

“And is that what inspired you to hook up with the Hayseed Squad and come back down to cast aspersions on us? I’m curious.”

Wingate drew the side of his forefinger down the corner of his mouth. “Sir?”

“We have our own internals to keep us in check. We don’t need any small-town cops keeping an eye on us.”

“As you’re not my commanding officer anymore, Sir, I hope you’ll forgive me for speaking frankly,” said Wingate. Ilunga remained silent and still, as threatening a stillness as either of them had ever witnessed. “I’m an OPS now, and Toronto is in our jurisdiction. Your division is in our jurisdiction. If a crime we’re investigating brings us to your doorstep, you’re obligated to assist us. We appreciate that assistance, and we thank you for it. And if there is nothing else, we’ll get back to what we were doing.”

Ilunga laughed. “Oh, I don’t believe you will, son. If you’re investigating the conduct of my officers or calling into question our results, then you can get yourself a subpoena and then we’ll talk. Maybe.”

“We’re not investigating your officers or your division. We’re investigating an abduction. The facts have brought us here.”

“Dana Goodman brought you here. You’re a pair of country suits doing triage for a disgraced officer and a certifiable lunatic. You’re just the Angels to his Charlie, yes? I hope he’s sent you your divining rods, because you’ll need them to find your way out of the pile of shit you’ve got yourselves into. Now, my advice is that you scouts