Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.Читать онлайн книгу.
When there was more crumpled paper than room to work, we called it a night, heading outside as Burlew was coming in, his gray raincoat a sodden tent. Harry was already on the street and Burlew and I passed in the narrow vestibule between outside and inside doors. I nodded and gave him room, but he took a sidestep stumble and shouldered me into the wall. I turned to see if he was drunk, but he’d already passed into Flanagan’s, chewing his wad of paper, a tight smile at the edges of his doll-baby mouth.
The next morning we were summoned to Squill’s office. He was on the phone and ignored us. We sat in hard chairs before his uncluttered desk and studied his ego wall. If any political or law-enforcement celebrity had passed within three states, Squill’d been there with hand out and teeth shining. After five minutes of listening and grunting, Squill hung up his phone and spun his chair to look out the window, his back to our faces.
“Tell me about the Nelson case,” he commanded the sky.
“Indeterminate,” I said. “Yesterday we talked with his aunt, Billie Messer—”
“I’m talking to the ranking detective, Ryder. In this office you wait your turn.”
I felt my face flush with anger and my fists ball involuntarily. Squill said, “I’ll try again. What’s happening on the Nelson case?”
Harry looked at me, rolled his eyes, and addressed the back of Squill’s head.
“We talked with his aunt, Billie Messer, plus some other folks. They confirm the lowlife lifestyle indicated on Nelson’s rap sheet. He used people. We interviewed a former girlfriend, the one who filed the charges. She’s a confused woman who still has tender feelings for Nelson, but basically said the same. Today we’re meeting with the D-Two homicide dicks to set up a mechanism to review the—”
Squill spun to face us. “No,” he said, “you’re not.”
Harry said, “Pardon me, Captain?”
“You’re not doing anything. I’ve spoken with the chief and he agrees this isn’t a psycho case. It stinks of fag revenge killing. We’re dumping the file back to Second District. Your involvement in the Nelson case is officially over.”
I braced my hands on my knees and leaned forward. “What if it’s not vengeance, but the start of a killing spree?”
“I’m not talking to listen to myself. Dismissed.”
“It doesn’t fit a vengeance pattern. Here’s what I’m—”
“Did you hear me?”
“Let me finish, Captain. We don’t yet have enough information to decide whether or not this is—”
Squill spun back to the window. He said, “Get him out of here, Nautilus, I’ve got work to do.”
I was shaking my head before we hit the hall. “That didn’t make sense. Why pull us before we’ve done an overview? We don’t have the info to decide either way if this is PSIT status. What’s buzzing in his shorts?”
Harry said, “I got some fresh milk this morning.”
“Spill it.”
“Remember the rumor Chief Hyrum is retiring next year?”
“Thumping and bumping, you said.”
Harry sighed. “I’d never have said that, it doesn’t fit. I said rolling and strolling. Only it’s not next summer, it’s this September.”
I said, “Two months away. The hatchet jobs have to be done in double time?”
Harry nodded. “Pop an umbrella; the blood’s gonna fly.”
“That doesn’t concern us, remember? You told me that.”
“The only constant is change, bro, you told me that. There’s two deputy chiefs tussling for the job of Big Chief: Belvidere and Plackett. Squill’s hitched his wagon to Plackett’s star, been buttering his biscuits for years. If the commission recommends Plackett for chief, guess who he’ll slip in as a deputy chief?”
My stomach churned. “Squill?”
Harry slapped my back. “Now you’re seeing the big picture, Carson. Like Squill, Plackett’s more politico than cop. Guy couldn’t find his ass with a mirror and tongs, but he knows how to work the newsies; Squill gave him pointers about sound bites, eye contact, spinning a story. On the other hand, Belvidere’s a cop. Knows his shit, but has a personality like instant potatoes. A lot of little things add up in the police commission’s selection process, but remember who floated the idea of the PSIT…”
“Belvidere,” I said. “Plackett opposed it.”
“Probably at Squill’s advice,” Harry said. “Push it.”
“If we do good, it makes Belvidere look good, which steals thunder from Plackett, which works to Squill’s disfavor?”
“Hocused and pocused,” Harry said. “Now try and focus.”
I rolled my eyes. “C’mon, Harry, try it in English.”
“Look hard. Take it one more step.”
I focused. “In the best of all possible worlds to Squill, the entire concept of PSIT would be floating facedown in the Mobile River?”
We passed Linette Bowling, Squill’s charmless, donkey-faced administrative assistant. Harry snatched a fistful of droopy flowers from a vase on her desk and handed them to me.
“You’re beautiful when you finally get the picture, Carson.”
“Nautilus, you asshole,” Linette brayed from behind us, “gimme back my fuckin’ flowers.”
It was eighty-eight degrees at 11:00 p.m. A wet haze smothered the stars and gauzed the moon. Two days had passed since Nelson’s murder, and the team Squill had assigned to the case hadn’t made any progress. I stood at water’s edge and cast the spinning rig, retrieved the lure slowly, cast again. I usually fish with a fly rod and know what I’m fishing for: specs, reds, pompano, Spanish mac. But now and then I use a spinning rig to dredge the night waters. Sometimes my line ties me to a shark. Or a big ray. Familiar species. But on rare occasions I’ve reeled in bizarre life-forms not mentioned in my books on Gulf fishing. I never know what trick of tide or current directs them to my line, but there they are, wriggling species from unknown depths, daring my touch. It’s strange, but without them I doubt I’d enjoy fishing as much.
It’s the soothing aspect of angling that often compels me to fish when troubled, and I had been upset since hearing Clair’s buzzsawing of Dr. Davanelle. I hadn’t meant to overhear, nor spy on Dr. Davanelle’s private horror, but it was acid-etched in my mind.
Of Dr. Davanelle’s choice for the pathologist position, I knew only the edges of the story: she was the second choice for the job, hired only after the horror of Dr. Caulfield’s injury. It took a tragedy for her to gain the position in Mobile, her first professional assignment. As Harry had reminded me during our session at Cake’s bar, I, too, had stumbled into my position through the misfortunes of others. I knew such a thing could feel like a form of dishonesty. It didn’t help that Dr. Davanelle worked with Clair—brilliant, renowned, sought at forensics symposia worldwide—a total perfectionist who demanded nothing less than the best from every staff member, every second.
I reeled in my line and set the rod in the spike. I sat in the sand with my arms wrapping my knees and stared across the rippling plain of water, liquid obsidian burnished by moonlight. After several minutes of reflection I scrabbled through the cooler bag where I’d tossed my cell phone at the last minute. Phone on ice; Freud would have enjoyed that.
Information provided Ava Davanelle’s