11th hour

Chapter 38

“It’s late, Mr. Blayney. And listen, don’t call me again. The person you want to talk to is Bec Rollins in Media Relations. She’ll be happy to speak with you. Use my name.”

Blayney ignored me, pressed on. “We got off to a bad start, Sergeant, and I know it was my fault. I get a little carried away. Does that ever happen to you?”

“Does what ever happen to me?”

“Do you ever get a little carried away when you’re really into a case? In my situation, when I’m on a story, I want to live it, breathe it, dream it.”

Blayney was trying to bait me into saying Yes, I sometimes get carried away. Did he think I was stupid?

“I understand that sometimes reporters who are living, breathing, and dreaming their stories get carried away. They should take care that what they consider enthusiasm isn’t actually stalking or assault.”

Blayney laughed. “Okay, okay, you win, Sergeant. But I still have an offer for you.”

“Oh, really.”

I was tired. Unlike the dealers who’d died tonight, I had inhaled smoke. And unlike Chuck Hanni, I’d gotten soot all over me. I looked charred. I felt charred.

“Good night, Mr. Blayney.”

“Listen, I don’t think you’ll go to hell if you call me Jason. And here’s my offer.”

I sighed loudly.

“Have lunch with me. I want to tell you what I’m trying to do at the Post. I think you’ll see that I’m not a bad guy. I’m on your side. I could be even more on your side if we work together.”

I laughed at him. It was a genuine laugh. The guy was actually funny. I recognized a journalist’s trick of the trade: make friends with your subject and gain trust — then betray that trust.

“I want to give you my number,” he said. “I sleep with my phone next to my pillow.”

I said, “Who doesn’t?”

“I never miss a call.”

“Sweet dreams,” I said. I heard him calling my name as I moved the receiver toward the hook.

I said, “What is it?”

“Just take my number, okay? You may change your mind about talking to me.”

I said, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” pretending to write down his number, then I hung up. I was dying for a Corona, but instead I had a big glass of full-fat milk, got into bed with Martha, and put my feet up on some pillows.

Martha put her head on my belly, about where I thought the baby’s little butt might be. I talked to them both for a few minutes, laughed at myself, and then turned on the news.

I fell asleep with all the lights on. I hadn’t set the alarm. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. And then came the call from the crime lab, from Charlie Clapper, who was pulling a double, maybe a triple shift.

Clapper said, “We found a gun inside the car. Thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A twenty-two. The number had been filed off, but we recovered it with acid and traced it. We already know all about that gun.”

“It was one of the guns stolen from our evidence room.”

“Well, you took all the fun out of that,” said Clapper.

“Brady is going to want to know.”

“He’s next on my call list.”

I thanked Charlie, said good night.

I stared at the ceiling until six, then got dressed and took Martha for a run. The killer Jason Blayney had nicknamed Revenge had taken out seven people, one of them an undercover narc.

Revenge was on a spree, and he was stepping up his timeline, doing multiple homicides. He was growing into his job as an executioner and he was becoming fearless.

These days, I couldn’t walk through the Hall of Justice without looking at every cop and wondering, Did you do it? Are you the one who’s gone rogue? I had the sense that I knew Revenge, that he was a regular cop, hiding in plain sight.