dead air follow instead of announcing himself right away that it was Commander Bryce. “Are you aware, Phil, that your precinct shrink is looking into the Mootry killings on her own, freelancing?”
“I told you, Commander, remember?”
“Oh, yeah… you did, didn't you.”
“At the time, I thought like you. She's got a personal stake, back off. But she's gotten everybody on the case scratching at themselves. My detectives hate her guts.”
Lawrence could almost see Bryce frowning, and he heard the other man's groan clear enough. “What do you want me to do that I haven't already done, Commander?”
“She gets in the way again, let me know. I'll give it some thought from this end.”
“Gotcha, will do.”
“So, how're the kids, Phil?”
For some time, they talked of personal matters, ranging from Lawrence's family to Andrew Bryce's wife to sports. Bryce was always quick to put a man at ease, Lawrence thought, although he hadn't known the commander long, only since taking over as captain here at the Thirty-first, a job Bryce might easily have awarded to another man. Yeah, Bryce always put a man at ease… just before he handed him an impossible task, thought Phil Lawrence as he waited for the other shoe to drop. “I'm sorry, Phil, but until some additional funds come in, we're going to have to refuse your last budget request for more manpower. After all, the academy just sent you fourteen additional foot soldiers and this former detective, what's his name… Stonecoat?”
“Yeah, but I need additional detectives. Commander.”
Bryce sighed, conveying a sense of defeat. “You understand, I hope.”
“Sure… sure, sir… but I hope when cases go unsolved…” He thought better of it, letting it go as Bryce murmured sympathetically.
Lawrence heard the click at the other end. Bryce always did it the same way. Always hung up as if in the middle of a thought, no good-byes, no take cares, no see ya rounds. Was it bad manners or simply a man without enough time in the day?
Lawrence leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, giving further thought to Dr. Sanger. That bitch was single-handedly causing an uproar in Donavan's division over at the Twenty-second Precinct, where Detectives Amelford and Pardee were in charge of the Mootry murder investigation. Lawrence's department was unofficially being held accountable for the problems across town, thanks to Meredyth Sanger, who had caused the kind of uproar that was impossible to keep in-house. No doubt one or more of the detectives working the Mootry case had gone to Commander Bryce; more likely, one of them simply slipped him an anonymous note. Detectives, more so than any other breed, hated being shadowed or second-guessed. And Phil had not been out of it long, so he, too, understood the contempt with which Sanger was regarded by the detectives on the case.
“God, I wish I could control that nosy bitch,” he muttered to the empty room. Giving it some thought, he was soon graced by a tight smile that spread across his lips. Maybe there was a way… a way that Andrew Bryce had himself suggested without realizing it. Maybe she needs a scare thrown into her. If I weren't so constrained by my position… He gave it some thought, and then quickly lifted the phone again and made a call.
Commander Bryce's secretary had interrupted his call to Phil Lawrence, stepping into the room. He didn't want anyone, including his trusted secretary, knowing about his interference with Lawrence's operation; it could look unseemly, politically incorrect for him to make any movement that could influence Lawrence's handling of the Mootry case. Mootry had been a judge and prominent figure in the area, as well as a friend, after all, and it would not sit well should some ambitious, hotshot reporter doing investigative work uncover the fact that Commander Bryce had a personal stake in the outcome of the Mootry investigation.
It was as his long-dead daddy had always told him: “The appearance of impropriety, son, is just as deadly as the impropriety itself.” They were words to live by if you were in a political seat, and the job of commander of the Houston Police Department was only a few political rungs below the mayor. He equally believed in the notion that whether or not you knew what you were doing, you had to present yourself in action, word and deed as one who knew what he was doing, that looking like you were an expert was as important as being an expert. It was on such principles that he had conducted himself thus far in the public eye, and it had worked in ingenious fashion for him. So why change now?
Clarice, his secretary, a middle-aged but still handsome woman who'd been with him for years, urgently reminded him of his luncheon meeting with the deputy mayor, who would be interested in knowing the current dispensation of the Mootry matter. Donovan had given him all the data necessary to sound informed for the deputy mayor's benefit. Unfortunately, it appeared a case that might never be solved, as the killer or killers had left absolutely nothing in the way of useful clues.
He thanked Clarice, dismissed her and again sat in the silence of his enormous office. He'd worked extremely hard to be in this chair. Mootry's death was hardly cause for great alarm at this time, but he meant to monitor the case every step of the way. He momentarily wondered if he shouldn't reconsider Phil Lawrence's appointment as captain. He wasn't sure exactly why, but it had to do with competence or incompetence, one or the other outweighing all else. But who did he have to replace Phil with? Who could he trust… who could he really, truly trust?
He'd had to claw his way to the top of the crab heap, the others snatching, pinching, tearing at him the entire way. He had enemies in all the precincts, people who thought him inept, wrong for the job, dangerous, all manner of things, but none of them knew him; no one could ever know him entirely. Certainly not Phil Lawrence, Donovan, or any of his captains.
Bryce had friends, but no one in police circles, not anymore. It was the price he'd paid.
He snatched at the notes he meant to take to the deputy mayor, stood, and went for the door. He waved perfunctorily in Clarice's direction. Their affair had cooled many years before. He'd been good to her, keeping her on with him as he rose through the ranks, due in large measure to the fact that she respected his privacy and need for meditation. She had been like a rock and still remained a rock. Maybe he could trust her, but no one else on the inside, not anymore… not ever… Everybody wanted to bring him down, and he must accept that fact, live with it or die (in the political sense and perhaps every other sense) ignoring it.
“Commander Bryce,” Clarice called out. “Sergeant Kelton's on line three.”
“Kelton, huh?” Kelton was his eyes and ears in Lawrence's precinct. He needed to take this call, but he was running late.
“Shall I take a message?” Clarice politely asked. 'Tell 'im I'll call after one.”
“Yes, sir… understood…” Bryce marched out and Clarice forwarded his message word for word.
SEVEN
On their way back to pick up his car, Meredyth Sanger explained to Lucas Stonecoat what she'd gotten herself involved in, bringing him up to date on the Mootry investigation. As they drove, the images of the city floated by the car windows, rolled up tightly against the heat and city noise. He noticed that she ran her AC at full-tilt, so that her police band radio crackled with static as loud as a child's popgun.
“Hobby?” he foolishly asked.
“Business. Never know when you might be needed. The movies are the movies, the streets quite another.”
He groaned. “How I know that.”
“Anyway, when a first-timer discharges his weapon, we know he's going to have to talk to the likes of me. And sometimes… many times, in fact, even a vet needs my help. Sometimes I'm called in to help a victim or a family member, sometimes children who're involved.”
“I guess you've seen a lot here, more so than in Washington?”
“I saw my fill in Seattle, but yeah… this place is wild.”
“So, fill me in more on this Mootry case.”
“Mootry was a rarity, a well-liked Texas politician for most of his life, more recently a retired appellate court judge, although from a close scrutiny of his dealings, you might say he pretty much bought his way into the appellate court. He had amassed a fortune, led something of a Ross Perot life. A generous man, though.”
