Cutting edge s--1 Page 6

  “With a mandate and a federally funded program to train one thousand new foot soldiers in President Clinton's war against crime, and given your experience on the force, I really shouldn't-”

  “Wonder? The redskin is put to great use now…

  Some help I'll be in the war against crime here in Houston, sitting down in that hole Lawrence has found for me.

  Then the bastard has the balls to pretend he likes me by telling jokes about… well, never mind.

  “ He leaned back in the cushion, uncomfortable now.

  “You okay, Lucas?”

  “Can't sit in one place too long. Insides start to act up on me. A pain that is coming from deep within is always also a going-back pain, so it hurts both ways.”

  An old Indian expression, she guessed. Want to get out of here?

  Yeah, any ideas?

  Park's not far from here.

  “Park?”

  “Municipal Zoo.”

  “Animals… I love animals,” he replied. “They never ask anything from you, never take anything from you, and they never lie to you.”

  She eyeballed him, wondering about the double entendre of his words. “That's certainly true, and lovely in the way you express it,” she finally agreed.

  “So, let's do it. Let's go see some honest citizens of Houston. All in the zoo, right?”

  She wondered just how seriously to take him. Was he kidding, half kidding, or deadly serious? Did he know that she'd told a few lies to get his attention? Was he including her in with all the dishonest citizens of the city, everyone outside of a cell? Was he saying that people in prison were more straightforward and honest than the average citizen, or was he just talking about animals? His mind seemed as agile as a fox's.

  She grabbed the check, but not quickly enough. He grabbed her hand, pried the check from her and plunked a twenty over it. “This'll take care of everything,” he said.

  Machismo in a cripple, she thought. Kind of nice, far. more so than in others. He was on his feet and offering a hand to her as she slid out of the booth. She sensed that it was important to him that she accept his helping hand. She imagined how difficult it must be for him to begin his career over again here in Houston, only to find the same foot on his neck as he'd had in Dallas.

  FIVE

  They took her car, and while she drove, he continued to talk more freely, as if a floodgate had been opened. He cursed the duty he'd pulled, paperwork, mold and ancient files.

  “Everything about Dallas has become a curse then, hasn't it, Doctor? As a result of my prior experience in Dallas-Fort Worth as a detective, Lawrence assigned me to the Cold File Room, the pits, the bottom basement of police work here.”

  “But he's familiar with your record, so he has to know you were a good detective. Maybe somewhere in the back of that thick skull of his, he's thinking why not put a man in the Cold Room who has the aptitude to do more than clerk the files?”

  “Now that's some kind of wishful logic, Doctor,” he replied as they passed row upon row of dilapidated shops and abandoned houses. He wondered how much of his past she actually knew. She sounded as if she'd rummaged around in his personnel files, but if so, she'd have to have done so before they met in the Cold Room. She'd been setting him up from the beginning.

  “He's got to know that you possess a good mind and a talent for detection,” she continued her lame attempt at bolstering his ego.

  “I've got no such illusions, Dr. Sanger.”

  “Meredyth.”

  “What?”

  “Call me Meredyth.”

  He gulped and nodded and said, “I'm in the Cold Room for one reason. It's a convenience for the department, a place to put the cripple.”

  “Well, you can't let them get away with it, now, can you?”

  “What can I do about it? I'm just a rookie, on probation status. Hell, I haven't even finished all my class work yet.”

  “You're still taking classes?”

  “I'm finishing up with my last evening course. The one I kept putting off.”

  “Which is?”

  “Street Courtesy, or as the cadets call it, Bull on the Boulevard. Most of it amounts to filling in garbage in a little workbook that has absolutely no bearing on the real world.”

  “Hey, you do what you have to do.”

  He slapped the dashboard with both hands, creating a rifle shot of noise, making her start. At the same time, he nearly shouted, “I hate the classroom nonsense. Pretending to believe the crap the instructors hand out, pretending to like and respect both instructor and subject, when in fact I know they're generally full of it.”

  “So, you think you know more than they do?” She managed a laugh.

  “Fortunately, I do.”

  She stared across the gulf between them.

  “I tell you, it's true. Most of 'em have had no more than a year on the street, but because they couldn't cut it there, they teach. Those who can't do, teach.”

  'That's a nasty bit of bumper-sticker logic. God, Lucas, I can just see you seething in the classroom like some overheated radiator about to explode. I hate those types in my class sessions.”

  “But lives depend on what these teachers feed these rookies, so… so somebody's got to set them straight.”

  “Set who straight? The rookies or the teachers?”

  “Both, if the situation warrants.”

  “Then maybe you should put in to teach rookies yourself, if you believe you can do a better job of it. You've got a hell of a chip on your shoulder.

  Not sure I'd want to see you in a class of mine.”

  He thought about this even as he countered, saying, “I just bet you're holy hell to please as a teacher.” He saw an image of himself before his instructors, and he didn't like what he saw.

  He must project to his instructors the image of a wiseass, did-it-yesterday, know-it-all hard case. But he went on defending himself to her for some unaccountable reason. “Occasionally, I have lost it while sitting straight-backed in one of those damnably uncomfortable desks.”

  “It must be hard for you,” she patronized as the cityscape passed by their windows on either side.

  “And I've often taken exception to something either written on the board, in the book, or spoken by an instructor.”

  “Oh, Lord,” she muttered.

  They were entering the zoo grounds, and this time she was too fast for him, paying the parking fee.

  “For instance, there's no such thing as a polite shake down,” he continued lecturing as the car pulled through the gates.

  “But there is such a thing as proper protocol.”

  He ignored her, continuing on. “Nor can there be a friendly rapport with street lowlife at three in the morning when your mind's got to be focused every second on the possibility of some truly evil thing exploding in your face-maybe the kid you're making jokes with turns out to be on PCP. He might turn out to have an IQ of eleven and a half.”

  “Yeah, I've heard all the jokes,” she replied sarcastically. “Luis has an AK-47 with a thirty-round clip.”

  “If Luis misses four of every ten shots and fires sixteen times at each drive-by shooting-”

  “How many drive-bys can be attempted before he has to reload,” she finished the tasteless but sadly poignant, all-too-familiar urban tale.

  After they laughed together and turned off the ignition, she asked, “Is that what happened with Wallace Jackson?”

  “Killer's street name was Red-X. Time we got near him, he'd colored his hair something approximating green.” Lucas painfully flashed anew on what had happened in Dallas when his partner, Jackson, had been interrogating a punk one second and suddenly hitting the pavement the next when the kid pulled a gun to open fire. The cretin had realized his own stupid ploy to step in as an eyewitness to the very crime he'd committed was going haywire under Jackson's scorching interrogation of him at the scene. Jackson was so good at what he did that even though the kid had worn a mask during the holdup, Wallace had actua
lly gotten a voice identification on the creep even as he spoke.

  Lucas found himself telling her every detail as he had never told the story before.

  “The kid who pulled the job returned to mingle in the crowd and then stepped forward claiming to be a witness.

  Jackson was immediately, instinctively suspicious.

  He told the kid to hold still and that he'd get back to him, asked me to keep the kid company, to ask him a few questions. Which I did. Then Jackson goes to the store owner, his wife and son, and asks them to listen in when he returns to ask the punk more questions.”

  “So, the kid's voice was recognized by the shop owner?” she asked, pulling the car into a vacant spot.

  “Rule number one in crime: Crime makes you stupid,” Stonecoat summarized for her now as he had for all the rookies in his class the night before. The others had politely listened to his story before he realized his classroom etiquette error. He had then turned the floor back over to the instructor, Officer Pete Jenkins, who obviously lived by the book and was likely going to get some of these rookies killed by the book.

  “So, the kid realizes it at the last minute and opens fire?”

  “Fires warning shots over the heads of everyone.

  We all hit the ground and he disappears down the street, brandishing his weapon.

  Jackson and I hopped in our car and gave pursuit. The rest is history, or bad karma, as they say…”

  During their stroll through the zoo and as they fed the animals, he confided in her that he still liked to think of himself as Detective First Class Lucas Stonecoat, even though he no longer enjoyed that rank. He'd held on to his shield, however-a keepsake from the old days with his buddy Wallace Layfette Jackson. “One crazy nigger teamed with a war-whooping Indian,” he said, and then burst into laughter over pleasant memories that rose up from deep within his soul.

  She strolled alongside him in a leisurely manner, allowing him to continue. “Sometimes I'll flash my old shield-you know, like in a bar-when I think it'd do me or the situation some good… Criminy, I sound like one of those old men who've turned into living Buddhas who squat around and tell stories to people who aren't listening.”

  “Oh, I'm listening to every word. I suppose you really flash that gold shield to impress the ladies, right?” This made him laugh again, and he had a wonderful, warm laugh. “Sometimes, sometimes maybe I do. You're pretty smart, Doctor… ahh, Meredyth.”

  “For a white woman, you mean?”

  He laughed again and tossed a handful of food pellets to monkeys roaming the other side of the fence. They didn't react, bored with their onlookers and their diet. The animals felt the heat, too. The mercury was already climbing through the nineties at eleven A.M., and Lucas felt the perspiration trickling even as he wondered how she managed to appear so cool.

  “I bet you're the type that takes risks with that Dallas badge,” she said, having pegged him as a risk-taker.

  “Risks?” he asked sheepishly. “Me?”

  “Like most cops.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, my own people… they say I'm more cop than I am Cherokee.”

  “Do you like to take risks with other cops?”

  He stopped to stare at her, finding her eyes inviting. “Whataya talking about?”

  “Other cops… from other precincts, of course, where they don't know your face. Do you like to pretend around them that you're still a detective?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just to let them know that there're Dallas cops on the prowl here, too.”

  He nodded appreciatively, adding, “Or simply to get past a door as a detective, just to look in on a crime scene, to get the adrenaline rush going again.”

  “So, you've done that? Just for the rush?”

  He only smiled.

  “Here? As a civilian? Now, I'd say that's taking a big risk.”

  The smile only widened.

  “You are a bit…” She searched for the word. “Loco?”

  “No! I wasn't going to say that!”

  “Crazy, wacko? It's okay to say it.” She lied. “I was going to say brave, gutsy.”

  “So, you're not above lying to save someone's feelings, Doctor. Your profession hasn't thoroughly claimed you?” She retorted with, “So, you're not above using your old badge to gain a confidence. I'll have to remember that.”

  “Call it my outlaw badge.”

  SIX

  7b4LTl: C42111Category 42… Topic 159LOG. Message 294… Sun. July 21-. 1996… 9:00:00

  Questor 3… Helsinger's Pit….

  Q3: Problem with New Cain here resolved. Altar prizes on the way. Enjoy and bask in knowledge of the sacrifices.

  END TRANSMSSION Category 42… Topic 159LOG…. 9:02:00

  Category 42…. Topic 159LOG…. Message 295… Sun-July 21… 1996 3:29:05

  Questor 1

  Q1: I look forward to the prize. You have proved a true crusader and savior my Knight.

  END TRANSMSSION, Category 42… Topic 159LOG…. 3:30:01

  Captain Phillip Lawrence's phone rang and he answered it, knowing from his superior's strange habit of letting 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.