Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.Читать онлайн книгу.
make chief of Investigative Services, anyway?”
I can tell I’m being obtuse when Harry puts his face in his hands. “Carson, you’re precious is what you are, my apolitical tribesman. You truly have no idea, do you?”
“Infirmative action?”
“You, Carson. You put Captain Terrence Squill where he is today.”
Harry stood and gathered bottles from the table. “I’ll grab a couple more brews and give you a little history lesson, bro. You’re looking like you could use one.”
Harry started his lecture halfway back from the bar, two bottles clinking in his hand. “For years Squill was a paper-pushing lieutenant in Crimes Against Property, a drone with one talent: public relations. Spoke at schools, neighborhood meetings, shopping center openings, church socials…” Harry put the beers on the table and sat down. “He polished his act until he became the department’s default media rep. For most people that’s a no-win situation…”
I nodded. “It upstages the superiors, which tends to piss them off.” In college I’d seen tenure-track careers shot down by academic jealousy.
“Not Squill. The bastard knew exactly when to punt to higher-ups. Even better, when the department had a fuckup and the brass wanted to hide, Squill made himself the center of attention, drew the fire.”
I said, “Squill? Jumping into bullets?”
“The media loved him, knowing he’d always deliver contrite, pissed off, colorful—whatever was selling that day. ‘MPD captain says wrongful arrest concerns the department, news at eleven’…‘High-ranking officer slams ACLU critics as “misguided crybabies,” story on page four,’ et cetera and et cetera.”
Harry plucked a book of matches from the ashtray and fiddled with it. “Then Joel Adrian went on his spree. Tessa Ramirez. Jimmy Narley. After the Porters’ deaths the case blew up. But the investigation went nowhere. You can’t imagine how bad it was—”
“Who discovered Tessa, Harry? Who stood in a rat-filled sewer and looked down on her body?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that, bro. I’m talking politics here. Calls for resignations. People cussing the chief out in the produce section of Winn-Dixie. The media ground us like sausage. Everyone was pointing the blame finger at everyone else and suddenly this crazy uniformed cop shows up—Kid Carson.”
“I had a couple ideas. You ran interference.”
“They pissed on our heads for it,” Harry said. “Until there was nothing left to try.”
The peckerwoods at the pool table began a beery argument on spotting the cue ball. We both looked that way for a couple of seconds.
“I got lucky, Harry. Nothing but that.”
He narrowed an eye. “Luck can be knowing where to look, right?”
It caught me off guard. “What are you saying?”
“Like it’s more than just picking a card; it’s knowing who’s dealing.”
“No. Maybe there’s, I guess, an intuition, I don’t…”
Harry stared at me curiously for a moment, then waved my garble away. “After you came up with that off-the-damn-wall theory and nailed the case, it was a political scramble, everybody trying to turn patrolman Ryder’s Lone Ranger roundup into a personal win. And who was best set for it?”
“Squill?”
Harry tugged a match from its rank and studied it. “He’d kept the media pipeline full during the ordeal, and afterward he started sluicing in his own refined oil. Ever think how fast you faded from the hero light?”
I thought back. For two days I was the man who stopped the mad Adrian. By day three it was the department’s triumph and I was a factotum. By day five I was a misspelled name nine inches into a ten-inch story. Harry said, “Squill’s Law: Kiss up, shit down. He pushed you off the horse so the brass could ride it, one of them being him. He rode it all the way to chief of Investigative Services.”
I shrugged. “So I got jerked around a little. When the smoke cleared, I was a detective. No complaints here.”
The argument at the pool table picked up steam. One man positioned the ball and the other slapped it away. Harry rolled his eyes at the scruffy duo and lit the match just to watch it burn. Matchlight turned his face to gold.
“You got a detective shield. But Squill grabbed what he’d been after for years, a seat at the big table. It was you that put him there, Cars.”
I frowned. “I don’t see the big deal.”
“You don’t see the big picture. Squill likes to think of himself as a self-made man. But when he sees you”—Harry tickled the air in a falling motion—“down crash them cards.”
“He can just ignore me.”
“He does. For a year you’ve been nothing but a name on the roster. And PSIT’s been nothing but words on paper. But if PSIT gets activated…”
I thought it down the line: Activating PSIT put Harry and me on center stage. We’d be the ones coordinating the efforts, signing the reports, meeting with the brass.
“There I am, up front again, in his face.”
Harry flicked the dying match into the ashtray. “Yeah. Only, think of it as in his sights.”
The pool-table argument turned loud. One man emphasized his point by bouncing a cue stick off the other’s ear. The struck man dropped, cupping his ear and moaning. The bartender looked at the pair, then at Harry. “You’re a cop. Ain’tcha gonna do something about that?”
Harry put his big fist to his forehead, opening and closing it repeatedly.
“What the hell’s that?” the bartender asked.
“My off-duty light.”
We stood and headed toward our separate cars in the sticky night.
“Thanks for the history lesson, Professor Nautilus,” I said.
“Read it and heed it, showboat,” Harry replied.
I drove to Dauphin Island slowly, windows down, letting the night smells of marsh and salt water wash my thoughts like a cleansing tide, but the headless man kept bobbing to the surface. Once home, I lit some candles, sat cross-legged on my couch, and did the deep-breathing exercises recommended by Akini Tabreese, good friend and martial artist. Akini does a lot of deep breathing before busting hay-bale-sized ice blocks with his forehead. Me, I’d do a little deep breathing and pick up a sledgehammer.
Walk the scene…. I instructed my oxygenating thoughts. See the park.
I breathed away my anger at Squill and Burlew and visualized what the killer saw as he met the victim, perhaps on the path. The streetlight so near, they slip back into the bushes; here Squill seemed correct, sex the lure, if not the motivator. The victim dies, gunshot maybe, or a hard blow. If the head is crucial to the killer’s delusion, it should have been removed deep in the shadows, the blade sliding quickly through its task. But, inexplicably, the killer pulls the body into the ribbon of streetlight, petals streaming in their wake. He kneels, performs his grotesque surgery, and disappears.
My mind played and repeated this scene until the phone rang at 2:45. I figured it was Harry. He’d be considering the scene as well, in a lit room with his stereo playing “thought jazz,” Thelonious Monk perhaps, the solos where he breaks through the membrane and flies alone in the raw wind of music.
Instead of Harry I heard a trembling old woman. “Hello? Hello? Who’s there?