And Every Man Has to Die

SIX

Wednesday, July 16th

1640 hours

Renee sat in the chief’s office, feeling ignored while Special Agent Maurice Payne orated. The mush-mouthed agent prattled on mostly to the chief, occasionally glancing at Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford. Renee and Detective Browning might as well have been invisible.

“The AK-47, while not exclusively used by former Soviet organized crime, is a heavily favored weapon,” Payne said in the tone of a lecturing professor. “As you may know, that was the standard issue rifle in the former Soviet Union and their satellite eastern bloc nations. The better models are Czech-made, though the Chinese have a-”

“I’m familiar with the weapon, son,” the chief said, cutting him off. “I faced off against soldiers carrying it for my entire military career. But just because someone used an AK-47, it doesn’t make them Russian. Anyone could have gotten hold of some AKs.”

“Perhaps,” Payne conceded, his expression slightly pouty. “But also remember that DeShawn Brown reported hearing a Russian accent.”

“He heard an accent,” Detective Browning corrected. “He didn’t specify it was a Russian accent.”

Payne turned to Browning. “When I spoke to him, I asked if it could have been Russian. He said yes.”

Browning’s eyes widened. “You interviewed one of my witnesses?”

“Of course,” Payne said officiously. He gave Browning a condescending look. “Sometimes you have to know what questions to ask, Detective.”

Browning’s nostrils flared. Renee swore she saw red seep into Browning’s cocoa-colored cheeks. There was a long moment of tension in the room before Browning sputtered, “Know what questions to-”

“I thought the feebs were here to observe and assist,” Lieutenant Crawford interrupted. “Not screw up our investigation.”

The room fell silent and the temperature seemed to drop. Renee resisted the urge to smile at Payne’s expense and sat quietly waiting to see how the situation played out. Payne blushed and pressed his lips together tightly, but didn’t speak right away.

The chief filled the silence. “I don’t think we need to be tossing any more rocks in the pond, Lieutenant,” he said, “just to see the splash.”

Lieutenant Crawford didn’t remove his eyes from Payne. “Sir, I wasn’t tossing any rocks. I just think it’s damned unprofessional of an agency that’s supposed to be assisting us on a case to stomp on the lead investigator’s shoes.”

Payne squirmed under Crawford’s steady gaze. “If this was a shoplifting at the supermarket,” Payne snapped, “I’d be inclined to agree with you, Lieutenant. But this case has major repercussions that could extend well beyond River City. If the Russians are successful in consolidating their position here, they might make similar moves in large cities such as Seattle or Portland.”

“So we’re just the minor leagues,” Crawford commented dryly.

“River City’s always been a small town,” Payne shot back. “A city isn’t always defined by the size of its population. Sometimes it has to do with attitude and professionalism.”

“Well,” Crawford said. “Aren’t we just Mr. Cosmopolitan?”

Payne opened his mouth to reply, but the chief cut him off.

“Enough of this!” he rumbled. “It’s getting us nowhere. Regardless of your thoughts on the matter, it’s clear we have a bit of a problem here in River City.” He glanced at Renee. “In your initial briefing to me, you made some statements about this particular brand of gangster. Would you mind repeating those for everyone else present?”

Renee nodded and cleared her throat. “Basically my point to the chief was that the Russian gangs tend to be more organized and more ruthless than we’ve seen in our gangs of the homegrown variety. Aside from some of the Central American gangs, I don’t think you’ll find a criminal organization more willing to do considerable violence than with the Russians.”

“I already know that,” Payne said. “That’s why I’m here.”

The chief held up his hand. “I just want everyone on the same page, Special Agent.”

Payne shrugged and motioned for Renee to continue.

Renee said, “The problem is that immigrant communities such as the Ukrainian community here in River City tend to be very insular and suspicious of law enforcement. We don’t get much help, if any, from the community members even though the vast majority are hardworking and law-abiding people.”

“So,” the chief said, “what is your recommendation?”

Renee raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”

“Your recommendation,” the chief said. “If you were sitting in my chair, what would you do to solve this problem?”

Renee felt her heart race. She’d been a crime analyst for twelve years. In all that time she was very comfortable with her facts and even her speculation, but she couldn’t remember a time when anyone other than a working detective asked for her opinion on a solution.

“Renee?” the chief said, still looking at her.

“I think you have to strike at the head of the snake just as you would in any other organized crime case,” Renee finally managed. “Since the agent has an asset that can give us that information.”

Payne held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Now we’re getting into confidential material that these gentlemen aren’t cleared to know.”

“Do you mean the protected witness that we’re helping you guard up at the Quality Inn on North Division?” Captain Reott said.

Payne set his jaw and sighed. “That’s the problem,” he said, “with sharing information with the locals. There’s no sense of security.”

“Your information’s safe enough,” Reott said. “And not known to the majority of my troops. I do think it’s fitting that the division commander of patrol should be aware of this. Don’t you?”

“Fine,” Payne conceded. “But I’d appreciate it if you kept the information circle as tight as possible.”

“Certainly,” Reott replied curtly.

Payne turned back to Renee and shrugged. “I guess you can continue.”

Renee imagined clawing out the eyes of the arrogant agent in front of her. Then she said, “If you can get the names of the major players from your asset, then maybe patrol or the detectives can squeeze those leaders. Even if we only get them off the street for a little while, that might stymie this push for dominance.”

“That’s not going to work,” Payne said. “In fact, by arresting them on something weak only to release them a short time later, all we’re doing is emboldening them.”

“I disagree,” Renee said. “They are already contemptuous of our jails and our criminal justice system. It’s not going to get any better or worse, but by taking them off the street-”

“It’s pointless,” Payne said. “We need to build a stronger case and hopefully get them on federal racketeering charges. That way I can build a RICO case-”

“And get all the glory,” Crawford interrupted.

Payne pressed his lips together in exasperation. “It’s not about glory, Lieutenant. It’s about doing a job right and making a case that sticks.” He looked back at Renee. “And they might be contemptuous of your jails, but I don’t think they’d have quite the same cavalier attitude when faced with spending time in a federal penitentiary.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Then Renee looked at the chief and said, “That’s my opinion, sir, and I stand by it.”

The chief nodded. “Thank you, Renee.”

Detective Ray Browning lifted his hand to catch the chief’s attention.

“Yes, Detective?”

“I’d like to lend my support to Renee’s analysis of this situation and perhaps add another wrinkle to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I had a conversation with Officer Chisolm at the scene of the ambush. He offered an interesting analysis of what occurred. I asked him to come down so that he could explain it to all of you in person.”

“Is he here?” the chief asked.

“I believe so. I could check.”

The chief nodded, and Browning rose from his chair and left the room.

Renee watched the color drain slowly from Payne’s face as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She wondered what that was all about, but she couldn’t think of any way to tactfully ask.

A few moments later Browning returned with Thomas Chisolm in tow. Chisolm was dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a black T-shirt. His badge hung from a lanyard in the middle of his chest. As always, Renee’s eyes were drawn to the thin white scar that ran from his temple to his chin. His eyes looked slightly sleepy. Renee realized that this was the middle of the night for him.

Browning sat down and Chisolm took the final empty chair next to Renee.

“Detective Browning said you had a theory,” the chief said. “Go ahead and explain it.”

Chisolm nodded. “I do, but it’s not a theory, sir. It’s pretty much fact. If you recall, the drive-by assault on the Crips gang went like this. There were shots fired from an unknown vehicle through the front window of the house. Inside were a half a dozen gang members, sleeping. The car drove away immediately after firing the shots. This drew the majority of the gangsters out from the protection of the house and into the front yard. At this point at least three gunmen opened up on the assembled group with automatic weapons fire. They used short, controlled bursts that indicated technical proficiency with their weapon. Their positions of cover and concealment set up an almost perfect triangulation of fire.”

The chief nodded slowly. “Go on,” he said.

“Immediately after the initial attack, a van arrived to provide transport to the shooters. As they got into the transport vehicle, one of the remaining gangsters fired at them. The shooters didn’t panic, and returned fire using the van as cover in similar fashion as they would an APC or a tank.”

“So,” the chief said, “your belief is that these men had to have military training.”

“That’s my analysis, sir,” Chisolm said.

“And I take it you are familiar with all of these tactics firsthand?”

“Yes, sir. Two tours in Vietnam.”

The chief nodded slowly, his expression betraying admiration.

“These are very common tactics,” Payne cut in. “I’ve seen them, too.”

Chisolm turned his gaze on to Payne. “I’m sure you have, son. In books.”

“Yes,” Payne said. “In books. But you probably don’t think much of books, do you, Officer Chisolm?”

Chisolm shrugged. “Actually, I like books. I’ve learned a lot about the world from books, but they are not the be-all, end-all of knowledge that you seem to think they are.”

“I have experience, too,” Payne snapped back. “Experience and education. I went to the University of Washington, Officer Chisolm. I graduated with a 3.8 in criminal justice and international studies. Where did you go to school?”

Renee watched as Chisolm smiled.

“Vietnam,” Chisolm answered. “It was pass/fail.”

Payne’s cheeks flared red again.

Chisolm’s smile broadened. “And graduation was a bitch.”

Renee suppressed a smile. Behind Payne, Crawford let out a low chuckle and shook his head.

In the end the chief came to Payne’s rescue. “Thanks for your insight, Officer Chisolm. I appreciate you coming down here in the middle of your night.”

Chisolm nodded. “My pleasure, sir.” He rose, turned on his heel, and strode out of the office without a word.

“Guess the young bull isn’t quite ready to rule the herd yet,” Crawford observed, still chuckling.

“That’s enough of that,” the chief said evenly, but he was looking at Payne. “Agent Payne, do you have a problem with Officer Chisolm?”

Payne clenched his jaw and didn’t answer.

“Should I take your silence as a yes?”

Crawford said, “You could, Chief. Or you could take it as one man being unhappy about the fact another man got him fired from a certain River City Police Department a few years back.”

The chief glanced at Crawford and then back at Payne. “You used to work here?”

Payne blinked slowly. “I went through the police academy and served briefly with the River City Police Department before I moved on to federal law enforcement,” he said in measured tones.

The chief remained silent. Renee could almost see the gears turning behind the thoughtful expression. Crawford drew a breath to say something, but the chief held his hand up and stopped him before he could utter a sound. His eyes remained on Payne. After a few moments he said, “Agent Payne, I am very grateful for federal assistance in this matter, and I am more than happy to have the criminals in this case charged federally. There’s no issue there. But if you have a grudge against any of my officers, I suggest you stow it. If you can’t do that, I’ll give your SAC a call and we’ll get an agent in here who doesn’t have any issues.”

Payne swallowed and shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he whispered. “It’s just that Officer Chisolm was not very kind to me during our training experience.”

“Tom doesn’t suffer fools,” Crawford managed to say before the chief waved his hand and cut him off again.

“I’ll take your word,” the chief said, “that this’ll be the last time we need to speak of this.”

“You have it,” Payne said.

“Good. Then let’s move on. What is your recommendation on how to move forward with this case?”

Payne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Renee almost felt sorry for the young agent. Almost.

“Well,” Payne said, “obviously Detective Browning should continue to work this case in whatever manner he sees fit. As long as I am updated frequently, I don’t see any conflict there.”

Browning barely reacted, but Renee noticed a flicker of irritation pass across his face, which was about as expressive as the veteran detective was likely to get.

“On the overall front, I think we need to initiate some surveillance. If we properly monitor the key players, we may develop enough probable cause for a wiretap and other devices and we should be able to build a chargeable RICO case.”

Crawford snorted slightly and shook his head.

The chief glanced over at him. “You take issue with this approach, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, I do, sir,” Crawford shot back, his voice confident. “I’ve been assigned to Investigations for a lot of years and I can tell you that working the case is the only way to work a case.” Crawford looked over at Payne. “These feds are happy to carry on surveillance until the second coming, but we don’t have the resources for that. Besides, I don’t think we have the time.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning these Russians aren’t going to sit on their hands waiting for the federal government to decide there’s sufficient probable cause to make some major RICO case. Those cases take years. We don’t even have weeks if we’re going to be successful in stemming the tide here.” He pointed to Renee. “You heard what she had to say. These Russkies don’t mess around. If we’re going to get a handle on this situation, it has to be sooner, not later.”

The chief glanced at Payne and waited for his reply.

“My recommendation stands,” the young agent said briskly. “We’ve built numerous solid cases based on short-term surveillance, and the agency is more than capable of adapting and moving quickly when a situation becomes more rapidly evolving.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Crawford. “I’ve noticed that.”

Payne looked askance at Crawford.

Crawford’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you want examples?” He raised his thumb. “Ruby Ridge.” He raised his index finger. “Waco, Texas.”

“Waco was the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms,” Payne said.

“Federal is federal,” Crawford shot back. “And I think the reason you want to do surveillance is because that’s all you feds know how to do.”

“Surveillance is an effective tool,” Payne replied.

“I don’t disagree,” Crawford said. “But like I said, we don’t have the resources for it and we don’t have the time. Neither do you. You don’t even have enough resources to guard your own protected witness.”

“I might be able to break free some additional resources,” Payne began, but Crawford shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter, because like I said, we don’t have the time to build a case like the one you’re talking about.”

Payne leaned back in his chair and glared condescendingly at Crawford. Then he said, “Is Sergeant Morgan still the range master here?”

“What the hell has that got to do with anything?” Crawford asked.

“Humor me,” Payne said.

“He is,” Reott answered.

“Well,” Payne said, “I recall him to be a very gruff man of few words, and those words were often repeated. I assume this was to ensure that the students learned these lessons that he deemed critical to firing accurately and surviving in a gunfight.”

“Duh,” Crawford said. He glanced at Reott, Renee, and then the chief. “What’s the point?”

“The point is, that one of his more common statements was you can’t miss fast enough. Have you ever heard him say that, Lieutenant?”

“Sure,” Crawford said.

“And do you understand what that tenet means?”

Crawford leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Don’t talk to me like you’re a professor, you little shit. I don’t work for you.”

“But you do work for me,” the chief said. “And I’d like to hear the agent’s point.”

Crawford leaned back, staring daggers at Payne. The agent seemed more comfortable now that he had the chief’s support. “As I understand it,” he continued, “that means you should take enough time to be sure of your shot because you might only get one, and if you hurry the shot and you miss, it could be game over. Do I have that right?”

Crawford didn’t answer.

Payne smiled wanly. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. So, with that in mind I’m sure you can see how this philosophy applies to our current situation. If we rush this case-that is, if we fire too quickly-we will surely miss. And that would be a costly mistake.”

The room fell silent. Renee glanced from face to face, fascinated by the mixture of ego and talent in the room. She wondered sometimes why men who had reached powerful positions couldn’t divest themselves of their ego and cooperate to reach a common goal. But she’d come to the conclusion that their ego not only got them into powerful positions, but made them effective there.

The chief leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate all of you coming to this meeting. I’m going to accept the agent’s recommendation as a course of action.”

Crawford sighed, but the chief ignored him.

“Detective Browning, continue your investigation independent of any Bureau activity. Copy all your reports to Agent Payne.”

Detective Browning nodded. The chief’s gaze fell on to Agent Payne. “Agent, we will continue to provide an officer to the protection detail at the hotel. If you require any backup for emergency reasons during the course of your surveillance, please contact either Lieutenant Crawford or Captain Reott, depending on whether you would prefer uniform or investigative personnel. However,” he added, “we do not have sufficient resources to provide you with any other assistance in your surveillance activities.”

Payne’s expression, which had been noticeably gloating, fell. “No assistance?” he asked.

The chief shook his head. “We’re stretched thin enough just providing basic public safety services to the citizens of River City,” he said. “If you encounter a situation where you need immediate assistance, we’re certainly willing to help. If your investigation progresses to the point where you need help with any operational matters such as search warrants or arrest warrants, we’ll help you on a case-by-case basis.”

Payne sat speechless. Then he cleared his throat, nodded, and stood. “Thank you for your assistance, Chief,” he said in an official tone. “The Bureau appreciates it.”

“Anytime,” the chief answered.

Payne nodded again, turned, and walked briskly out of the room. Renee watched him go, forgetting that it was poor form to smile at another’s discomfort. She let the corners of her mouth do what they wanted to do.

Nothing wrong with a little schadenfreude, she thought.

1753 hours

Katie MacLeod sipped her glass of wine. It was a crisp white that tasted heavily of apple. Curious, she picked up the bottle and perused the label. It was nearly local, having been bottled in Wenatchee.

“So much for that little mystery,” she said to the empty room. Wenatchee was full of apple orchards. It made sense that they’d get into the wine business at some point. Or did it make sense that if they had a winery in the region, apples would find their way into the mix somehow?

Katie took another sip and swished it around before swallowing. It definitely tasted like there was some apple in it. No question. The bigger question was why in the hell she was trying to solve the grand mystery of what ingredients were in a glass of Wenatchee wine.

Maybe it was because it was her third glass with dinner. Katie shrugged and took another sip. This time she didn’t bother swishing. She swilled. Like mama, like daughter, she thought.

That brought a frown to her face. She was not like her mother. That woman drank every day for no reason other than… well, other than she simply drank every day. Katie was having a glass of wine with dinner.

Or three glasses with half a dinner. Whatever. She reached for the bottle and poured the last of it into her glass. Might as well finish it, she figured.

The telephone rang. She had a flash of panic. Maybe it was her mother calling to rebuke her for having those negative thoughts about her. That would be karma in a nutshell, wouldn’t it?

Katie decided she didn’t care. Maybe since she was a little tipsy herself, she’d be able to have something closer to a normal conversation with her mother. Maybe drunk to drunk they’d make more sense, like two people speaking the same foreign language.

Katie picked up the phone, then paused and looked at the caller ID attached to the cord. The rectangular gadget displayed a local number. She didn’t recognize it.

Katie took another deep breath and stared at the unfamiliar number. It had to be Stef. In the space between two rings, her mind raced with images of him. His smile. His short hair barely kinked from lying on the pillow next to her. The anguish on his face after-

No.

He hadn’t called her since the incident with the Rainy Day Rapist. What was that? Over two years ago? Before that, he’d called her every few weeks or so. Usually drunk or whacked out on the pain pills he took. Always a mess. It was not unlike talking to her mother.

Katie knew he was trying to grab onto her like some kind of life preserver, a last vestige of his days as a cop. Maybe he saw her as a way to validate or even redeem himself. But Katie didn’t feel like she was rescuing him from drowning in his own self-pity. It felt like he was going to drag her down with him.

The hard part was that she still cared about him. Maybe even loved him. But she couldn’t save him from himself. That was one thing she’d learned in police work that was always true. And right now, she wasn’t feeling like the strongest of swimmers for him to grab onto.

The phone rang again. After one more it would go to the answering machine. Maybe that was the best solution. Ignore him. Katie set her jaw.

No. Some people ran from their problems. Other people faced up to them. She knew which kind of person she was. She pressed “talk.” “Hello.”

There was a pause, then a female voice asked hesitantly, “Uh, Katie?”

Katie thought for a second that it was her mother after all, and that she was here in River City, not back home in Seattle. Her stomach fell. She started to ask who it was, but stopped. If it was her mother, that would set the ball rolling. Instead, she simply said, “Yes.”

The nervous laugh on the other end definitely did not belong to her mother. “Oh, good. I thought I had the wrong number.”

“Who is this?” Katie asked.

“Oh, sorry. It’s Billie Jo.”

“Who?”

“B.J.,” the woman said.

“I don’t know any-”

“B.J. Carson. From work?”

“Oh.” Katie’s mind stopped spinning. She remembered Carson, of course. She’d been the rookie’s first training officer back in the spring. The tall, slender woman had seemed a little bit too much of a lipstick cop to Katie, the kind of woman that became a cop more to meet other cops than to protect and serve. She’d felt a little bit guilty judging her right away, but then again, she’d seen nothing in their four weeks together that changed her mind. Then another thought occurred to her. “How’d you get this number?” she asked, her voice a little sharp.

There was a pause, then Carson answered, “I called Dispatch. Janice gave it to me.”

“Oh.” Well, that made sense then, didn’t it? Katie sipped her wine. She was solving mysteries left and right tonight. But the biggest one still remained. What the hell did Miss River City PD 1998 want?

“Is it all right that I called?” Carson asked.

Katie swallowed and said, “It’s fine.”

“Is this a bad time?”

Katie smiled at that. Was it a bad time? Oh nooo, princess. It was a great time.

“What can I do for you, B.J.?”

Another pause. Katie drew in a breath. How in the hell did this woman expect to be a cop if she didn’t show a little more confidence? She’d get eaten up. Forget the bad guys, even. She wouldn’t get past the other cops.

“Well,” B.J. began, “I wanted to tell you I was sorry to hear about your ankle.”

Katie’s eyes flicked down to her injured ankle propped up on a chair. Her sock-clad toes peeked out of the blue foam support boot her doctor had prescribed. She wiggled them at B.J. in a sarcastic thank-you.

“That’s nice of you,” Katie said flatly. She knew that she should be sweeter about it, but too many things got in the way. Her own lack of tolerance for bullshit was probably the biggest obstacle, but the wine came in a close second. Running in a strong third place was frustration at being sidelined while this woman, who she suspected of being a badge bunny with a badge, was out working the streets.

“Are you coming back soon?” Carson asked.

Katie detected the sincerity in the other woman’s voice and felt a small stab of guilt for her own cattiness. Still, she knew that wasn’t the reason Carson had called. “As soon as my doctor lets me. Is there something going on?”

“Going on?” Carson repeated. Katie heard a trace of panic in her voice.

“Well, you called me,” Katie said. When Carson didn’t answer, she went on. “We don’t exactly go to lunch together, so I was wondering why you were calling.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. She felt guilty for being so blunt, but then she shrugged and finished off the glass of wine. If someone was going to call her out of the blue, they got what they got, right?

“I’m sorry,” Carson said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

Katie put down her wine glass. She wanted to say that maybe Carson was right, but that was a bit too harsh, and she knew she was already going to regret being as rude as she’d been. “No, it’s all right. You just caught me by surprise. I mean, we’re not even on the same platoon, so I’m a little confused, that’s all.”

Carson didn’t answer.

“Look, I appreciate your well wishes on my ankle, but you probably called for another reason, so what can I do for you?”

“Oh, right,” Carson said. “I called because you were the best training officer I had. Plus you were the only woman. And I need some advice.”

“Advice?” Katie shrugged.

“Yeah.On dealing with… it.”

“It?”

“It.The whole thing. Being a woman on this job. Dealing with the men. All the sexual tension. Just… all of it.”

Katie’s mind whirred in several different directions. No one ever taught her how to deal with it. She figured it out on her own, the hard way. By working hard. By being the best cop she could be. By never showing that she was any weaker than her male counterparts. Hell, by never being any weaker than her male counterparts.

Sexual tension? Sure, it existed, but you handled it the way you handled it anywhere else. Professionally. Prudently. And if anything ever happened with anyone on the job, you kept it discreet. Mostly you didn’t let it happen, because it almost always led to disaster. That’s what happened with her and Stef. She’d learned her lesson there on her own. No one pulled her aside and gave her the template for dealing with it. She certainly hadn’t called anyone at home and pleaded for advice.

And who did this Carson chick think she was, anyway? Time was, a rookie remembered his place. Open ears, close mouth. Work hard. Learn. It didn’t come to you on a silver platter. You figured it out over time and if you proved yourself to be a brave and hard worker, the veterans on the platoon gave you some subtle guidance, but you didn’t call them on the phone and ask for it. You earned it. At seven years on the job, Katie knew she was just now entering that veteran phase of her career. She’d earned that respect from most of her platoon mates, with the possible exception of Kahn, and who cared about that prick? She’d faced impossible situations and come through them. Maybe not whole, maybe not all right, but she’d come through. And no one held her hand or gave her some secret potion to deal with all of it. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had, anyway. Some knowledge has no value unless you learn it on your own.

Katie drew in a breath and prepared to tell Carson some version of all these thoughts. She wasn’t sure how they’d tumble out but she was pretty sure this little beauty queen would know by the end of the conversation that even if she had some sort of secret wisdom, she wasn’t just going to hand it over to some bimbo playing dress-up. Carson was going to have to earn it. Like she did.

“Are you still there?” Carson asked.

“Yes,” Katie said. Her stomach was warm with the wine. Maybe she shouldn’t say those things. Or if she did, maybe it shouldn’t be when she was feeling the wine so much. Maybe she should suggest that she and Carson meet for coffee sometime in the next couple of days and she could decide if there was any advice she could give her that would help.

“Should I call you some other time? You sound a little funny.”

“No,” Katie said. “I’m fine. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well, I just figured you were the best person to talk to.” She paused. “Maybe the only one who’d understand.”

Katie did understand.

“There aren’t any women on your platoon?” Katie asked.

“No. Just you. Besides me, of course.”

“Wait a minute. You’re on my platoon now?”

“Yeah,” Carson said. “I got reassigned when you were injured. You didn’t know?”

“No,” Katie answered. “I didn’t know.”

Katie digested this. They sure didn’t take long to replace her. What the hell was this? Any chick will do? She knew that wasn’t the case, but it still burned at her. Not only was she going to be out of commission, but in the meantime Carson was supposed to replace her? And now Carson had the audacity to call her up and ask her exactly how to do that?

“Anyway,” Carson said, “I just figured you probably went through a lot of the same stuff I’m dealing with, so I wanted to call and see if you can offer any advice.”

Katie opened and closed her mouth. She choked down the bilious words that threatened to spill out. Even through the vino she could tell that while Carson didn’t know how utterly ignorant she was, she wasn’t calling to be malicious. She didn’t deserve a magic totem to get her through what Katie learned the hard way, but she didn’t deserve Katie biting her head off, either.

“The best advice I can give you is to do the job,” Katie said. She knew her words had a slight slur, but she repeated them anyway. “Just do the job the best you can.” When Carson didn’t reply right away, Katie added, “Be a good cop.”

Katie nodded. Her advice might sound simple, but she knew it was also profound. In fact it was as close to a magical secret as Carson, or any other cop for that matter, was likely to ever get.

“Okay,” Carson replied, her voice unsure. “But I was also wondering about-”

“I’m sorry,” Katie said, “but I’ve got to go. This pain medication makes me nauseous. I’m not feeling very good.”

“Oh. All right. Well, thanks for-”

“You’re welcome,” Katie said, and hung up.

For a long while Katie MacLeod stared down at her empty wine glass, awash in emotions. Guilt gave way to frustration, which faded into a tickling anger. A little bit of self-pity tried to worm its way in, but she pushed it away with pride. Finally the guilt rose to the top again.

Katie slid her injured foot off the support chair, stood up, and limped toward the refrigerator. She was pretty sure that another bottle of Wenatchee’s best was in there. And right now, that seemed the simplest and easiest thing to do.

1811 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat sipping his Turkish coffee. A half-eaten pastry sat on the plate in front of him. He stared down at the deep black coffee in the tiny cup between his hands. Sergey could not be moved from his decision to address the heads of the various gangs. This was despite Val’s strong counsel that he insulate himself and allow Val to handle the meeting. “No,” Sergey had said, “a subjugated people need to know who their ruler is, even if they never see my face again.”

Val had argued, raising several valid points. Sergey was unmoved. Of course, secretly Val was glad that Sergey had been obstinate. It was exactly what he’d wanted.

Val lifted the powerful coffee to his lips and sipped. The strong taste and odor filled his senses while he considered how to execute the next stage of his plan. He saw the endgame very clearly, but the plays between now and then were still shadowy. Perhaps Sergey would show him the way. He glanced around the small coffee shop, a habit from his days on the street as a young man. Natalia stood by the cash register striking a seductive pose and glancing up at him often enough to let him know that she was his for the taking. He thought that perhaps after he finished with the evening’s business he might avail himself of that particular opportunity. But for now he needed to remain focused.

Focused. The lack of focus made him think momentarily of Pavel. He fingered a battered paperback copy of Dune that sat next to his plate. It was printed in Russian, purchased from a street vendor in Kiev. He’d brought it along to give to his nephew. The boy needed to become more serious, and soon. What better way to reach him than through the same book that stirred his own Machiavellian nature?

He turned his thoughts to the top men in the organization. None of them lacked in loyalty. Several had been soldiers who served in Spetsnaz with him, and those that hadn’t had been on the streets of Kiev with him and Sergey.

Still, Val had to admit he had missed Oleg’s treachery. The accountant had voiced several points of dissatisfaction, but Val had never read that to be disloyalty. He encouraged his men to speak up and advise him of any problems they saw with operations. It was in that light that he had heard Oleg’s challenges. Instead, the man turned out to be a traitor, a dirty musor.

Val took another sip of his Turkish coffee and considered that for a moment. Oleg had been vocal, but was that traitorous? The transgression for which Sergey had sentenced him to die was embezzlement. Stealing from Sergey was certainly not the most loyal of practices, but Val wondered still if he would classify Oleg as disloyal. Everyone skimmed a little. It was a cash business, after all. As long as a man wasn’t too greedy, he could do that indefinitely. Val set aside significant amounts before kicking up to Sergey and the boss had been never the wiser. Either that or he considered it the cost of doing business. His decision to punish Oleg most likely had to do with the amount Oleg was skimming and not necessarily the practice itself.

Val asked himself why he was so concerned with this, but the answer came immediately behind. Because if he missed signs of Oleg’s disloyalty, how well could he gauge the others?

Val thought on that for a long while. In the end he was forced to conclude that all of the men were as loyal as any man could be. Oleg’s treachery with the police was because of the fire. He sat for a while, considering his rationalization. Finally he accepted his own analysis.

He mentally walked through each of his top men again. This time he gauged their loyalty to Sergey versus their loyalty to him. He found that task considerably easier. The men who had served in the military were his. Of that he had no doubt. The others he was less certain of. However, his efforts over the past several months to bring them closer at Sergey’s expense seemed to have been largely successful. He believed that if he made his move now the coup might well be bloodless.

Aside from Sergey, that is.

And Marina, of course. Val thought about his sister again. He didn’t like the idea of bringing her pain, but knew it could not be helped. He told himself he would be there to comfort her, and tried to push thoughts of her from his mind.

He glanced at his pastry and decided that he wasn’t hungry anymore. He pushed the plate away and a moment later Natalia appeared at his table.

“Are you finished with that?” she asked in a sultry tone.

Val grunted affirmatively.

She leaned over further than was necessary to retrieve the small plate, then turned and walked away, adding a bit of sway to her step. Val took a moment to appreciate the view as she made her way back to the kitchen.

Val’s cellular phone rang. He wasn’t entirely sold on these devices. They were becoming more and more commonplace, if expensive. They would likely become immensely popular with Americans because they represented another luxury. For him, it was a very expedient tool, but he distrusted it from the vantage point of communication security. He discouraged anyone from saying anything incriminating over any telephone, but particularly a cell phone. Perhaps a day would come when he and his crew could purchase scrambled cell phones, but until then he was glad that they spoke only Russian in the clear.

“Yes,” he said into the receiver.

Yuri spoke quickly. “Dinner is arranged,” he said cryptically. “All the guests will attend.”

Val did not answer. He snapped the phone shut and put it back into his pocket. So far, everything was a go. All his strategies were working out. He had done his groundwork. He had the loyalty of the men, he had the tools, and things were proceeding according to plan.

According to plans within plans within plans.

1927 hours

Detective Ray Browning sat at his desk staring down at the case file in front of him. The lights above the desks of his colleagues had been turned off hours ago. The only sound he heard was Glenda’s rapid typing in the foyer as she transcribed one of the detectives’ reports on overtime. Browning found himself envying whichever detective had made enough progress on a case to ship a report to her.

Browning never officially learned to type. He still nurtured his hunting and pecking skills when he was forced to type something. But right now, even he could type up his report without Glenda’s skills.

He resisted the urge to review the contents of the case file again. He knew them virtually by heart already, but if he were to open the file the result would be another hour poring over every detail again, looking for something that he might have missed the first dozen times.

But an empty cupboard was an empty cupboard, no matter how many times he opened the door and peered inside.

Something about the case bothered him. It wasn’t the meddling of Special Agent Payne. It wasn’t even the fact that the victims had been young black men, stirring in him some sort of sympathy born of kinship. Browning didn’t think along those lines. Men were men. Good was good. And criminals were criminals. He barely paid attention to skin color unless it helped him identify the bad guy.

No, what bothered him was the sheer brutality of it. Three dead and one in a drug-induced coma who was likely to be a vegetable for the rest of his life.

The gang member witnesses ranged from unhelpful to flat-out adversarial. Only DeShawn Brown, the apparent leader of this Crip set, had been both helpful and useful. And even his information hadn’t given Browning any particularly powerful or solid leads.

The police database for Russian criminals was shallow, and most of their information sketchy. He spoke with DeShawn very frankly about gang matters, assuring the young man that he could speak freely without concern for criminal matters so long as they were drug or property crimes. DeShawn had been wary nonetheless and avoided anything directly incriminating. When Browning had asked about political issues, the gang leader shook his head.

“Ain’t nobody said nothin’ to me about nothin’,” he’d stated emphatically. “This was a flat-out ambush and we didn’t do shit to piss them motherfuckers off.”

Browning wondered if the move by the Russians was truly unprovoked, but he had no call to disbelieve DeShawn.

Beyond the carnage, what bothered Browning just as much was the setting. It irritated him that the gang members would hole up in a residential area that even by gang standards would have been considered civilian. Their presence was a trouble magnet. But the bulk of Browning’s ire was directed at the men who had fired their automatic weapons in a neighborhood full of working people and children.

He accepted Chisolm’s analysis that they were military trained and that their rounds had been largely accurate, but that didn’t negate the fact that a stray round could have taken an innocent life.

All of this didn’t help solve the case.

Browning examined instead what physical evidence existed. They recovered 106 AK-47 shell cases. According to Chisolm, each of the three shooters probably had a thirty-round magazine and probably carried two or more in reserve. At least one or more of the men had done a tactical reload at some point. Browning hadn’t needed Chisolm’s input to figure that part out. He might not have been in the military, but he understood math.

He’d ordered a fingerprint check on all the casings and was astounded to learn that there hadn’t been a single smudge or smear, much less a print. That meant the shooters had wiped down each round before loading them. Furthermore, they must have worn gloves while doing so. That level of meticulous caution dismayed him.

During any detective’s career, the majority of cases were broken because the detective discovered a mistake that the criminal made. He knew that you could be a brilliant investigator and follow out every lead to its natural end, but if the perpetrator didn’t make a mistake somewhere along the way, you were unlikely to break the case. That sentiment didn’t sit well with some of the more hotshot detectives, but Browning’s days of worrying about image were long behind him, if they ever existed at all. His primary consideration was simple: Figure out what happened, find the bad guy, and build a case against him that’ll stand up in court. Nothing more, nothing less. Although in this case he was coming up with a lot less.

“If this is the way the Russians do business,” he whispered down to the closed case file, “we could be in for a long haul.”

Speaking those words sapped the last of his motivation for the day. His wife, Veronica, and son, Marcus, were waiting at home for him, probably holding dinner. There was nothing more for him to do today except hope that maybe someone made a mistake overnight.

2217 hours

“Baker-122, Baker-128.” The dispatcher’s monotone voice broke into the still night of B.J. Carson’s patrol car as she cruised up Division Street. She waited until Battaglia answered up, then keyed her own mike. “Go ahead,” she said, trying to project a confidence she didn’t entirely feel.

“In Adam Sector at 119 W Central. Male caller states he thinks his wife has committed suicide. She went in the bathroom and he heard a loud bang. He is standing by at the front door of 119 W Central.”

“Copy,”came Battaglia’s unflappable voice.

“Copy,” Carson said, putting on her overhead lights and heading that direction. “Time delay?”

“He called less than a minute ago. Also, medics will be standing by.”

Carson copied that, too. She hung up the microphone. Katie’s words echoed in her mind: just be a good cop.

She pressed down on the accelerator and drove hard. No way were medics going to beat her there. She only had about five blocks to drive.

As she turned onto the correct block she dumped all her lights and rolled to a stop one house east of 119. In the distance she could hear the loud air horn and siren of the fire truck. Battaglia cruised in behind her, lights out.

Carson headed up to the door. A middle-aged man opened the door as she approached. Worry lines etched his face.

“Straight back,” he said, pointing with a trembling hand.

Carson entered the house, her heart pounding with adrenaline. The smell of body odor and dirty cat boxes filled her nostrils. She heard Battaglia’s footsteps and creaking leather right behind her. The sounds comforted her. Directly inside the doorway was a large, messy living room. On the other side of that she could see the bright light of the bathroom. The bathroom door stood half open.

Drawing her weapon, Carson approached the door cautiously. The man at the door gasped at the action, but Carson ignored him. The woman in the bathroom might still be alive. She might still want to commit suicide. And she might want to make Carson do it for her. She’d learned in the academy that suicide by cop was getting more and more popular.

Battaglia moved to the opposite side of the doorway, his gun drawn and at the ready. Carson tried to peek through the crack at the hinges. She saw a body seated on the closed toilet. There was no movement. She glanced up at Battaglia and shook her head.

Battaglia shrugged. “Ma’am?” he said. “Ma’am, are you all right in there?”

The man who had let them in approached them. “Help her, please!”

“Sir, just go to the door,” Carson said as firmly as she could muster. She knew her voice had to cut through the man’s worry and impending grief. “Medics are on the way. You’ll need to let them in.”

The man reluctantly obeyed.

Carson looked over at Battaglia. “I’ll check,” she whispered.

“My number came first, my call,” Battaglia whispered back. “I’ll get it.”

Just be a good cop.

Carson shook her head. “I got it.” Before Battaglia could move, Carson stepped around the door, her gun extended.

The woman sat on the toilet, her empty hands hanging limply at her sides. Her legs were splayed out and her head had fallen onto the sink. A bright red stream of blood trickled slowly from her nose and mouth into the drain. Her wide and staring eyes bore into Carson, the last vestiges of life in them seeping away.

“Gun on the floor,” Battaglia said from behind her.

Carson looked at the woman, who she guessed had pulled the trigger less than three minutes ago. An odd thought occurred to her-the woman’s soul was probably still leaving her body.

Carson looked away.

“Semi-auto.22,” Battaglia said. He didn’t touch the gun. Carson knew that a detective would have to respond and investigate the suicide to ensure it wasn’t a homicide. It was standard procedure. Their job now was to allow medics in to either work to save the woman or declare her deceased. After the medics were finished, their duty became protecting the integrity of the crime scene.

“You see a casing anywhere?” Battaglia asked.

Carson looked around. “No.”

Battaglia peered at the woman. “Looks like she shot right through the roof of her mouth. I don’t see an exit wound or any spray on the wall behind her. The bullet probably just bounced around inside her head. Pureed her brains, I bet.”

Carson glanced out the door. The man still stood at the front door of the house. Carson hoped he wasn’t hearing this.

“Awful nice of her to bleed out into the sink, I guess,” Battaglia continued quietly, leaning forward to examine her more closely.

Carson swallowed hard and felt a rush of nausea. The stench of human and cat box odor didn’t help her queasy stomach. She focused on taking tiny breaths through her mouth.

“She’s probably right-handed, so she would have to hold the gun just so”-he made a gun with his thumb and forefinger-“which would eject the casing over there.” He shined his flashlight into the bathtub. It was dirty but empty.

Carson followed his flashlight beam, then glanced up at Battaglia’s face. His hard expression was covered by a sheen of intensity. Carson wondered at his callous attitude toward this poor woman. Was this the same man who had comforted her after the Russian traffic stop? Who joked over beers at the Happy Time?

She heard the fire truck arrive, its loud diesel engine rattling, its air brakes hissing.

“Or,” Battaglia said, turning his hand over, “she could hold it so, which would eject the casing right here.” He moved the light to shine on Carson’s boots, then looked up at her quizzically.

No. Please don’t tell me I screwed up the crime scene.

She lifted her right foot carefully. Nothing underneath. She checked the tread. Nothing.

“Now the left,” Battaglia said. His tone was even, but she imagined a hint of dread in it.

Carson lifted the left boot. Nothing underneath it. She turned her foot over. A small gold.22 caliber casing was wedged in the tread.

“Damn,” she muttered. So much for being a good cop. She couldn’t even handle a straightforward suicide scene without mucking it up.

Battaglia chuckled slightly. “Don’t worry about it. Put it back where you stepped. The detective will never know the difference.”

“Damn,” Carson repeated. She picked the casing out of her boot tread and put it down where her foot had been. Then they both backed out of the bathroom.

“Case solved,” Battaglia told her. “Now we wait for an hour for the detective to get here and another two hours for him to reach the same conclusion and give it his blessing.” The resentment in his voice sounded more contrived than bitter.

Fire Station Paramedics, Squad Three, came barreling through the door. Battaglia shook his head at the lieutenant of the squad and they all slowed down.

“I just need one man to come in and verify she’s DOA,” Battaglia told the lieutenant.

The fire lieutenant nodded. He motioned to one of the three men behind him. “Dean?”

A short fireman with what looked like a large tackle box in his hand stepped forward. Battaglia led him to the bathroom.

“What happened?” the lieutenant asked Carson while they waited.

“Suicide.Gunshot.” She looked to see if the man who had let them in was watching. She spotted him out on the porch, smoking a cigarette. Carson put her finger in her mouth and simulated a gun. The lieutenant nodded.

Carson stood by with the firemen. She cringed when she overheard Battaglia warn Dean not to step on the bullet casing.

After a few minutes, Dean returned. “Nothing, El-Tee.”

“All right. You need anything?” the lieutenant asked Carson and Battaglia.

“Nope,” said Battaglia. “Just your run sheet.”

The lieutenant jotted down the names of his crew and their response time on his paperwork, then tore off the pink copy. He handed it to Battaglia.

“Thanks, threes,” Battaglia said. The firemen filed out the door and back to their truck. Once they were out of earshot he turned to Carson. “Back to bed for them guys. Must be tough.”

Carson was usually grateful for Battaglia’s humor, but it didn’t seem right at the moment. “Do you want to call for a supervisor and a detective? I can inform the complainant that she’s DOA and then get his story for you.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Battaglia said. “Thanks, B.J.” He turned and went into the kitchen, looking for a phone.

Carson walked back into the bathroom. The fireman hadn’t moved the woman. A rubber contact remained on her upper chest where the paramedic had hooked her up to the heart monitor. The blood and mucous that hung from her mouth had thickened into a gel-like substance. Her glazed-over eyes held no life in them, no expression. Less than four minutes had passed since Carson had seen her last.

Death is instantaneous, she thought, but it must also be a process. This woman’s life-her soul, if she had one-was clearly gone.

Carson left the bathroom and found the man still on the porch. She took a deep breath of the fresh air.

“Sir?”

The man glanced up quickly. A cigarette dangled between his fingers. “Is she okay?”

Carson hesitated. She’d never delivered news like this to anyone before, and was unsure exactly what to say. Finally she managed to say, “No, sir. I’m afraid she’s… gone.”

Tears welled up in the man’s eyes and dropped down his face. “I knew it.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Carson added, remembering a line from a cop show she used to watch.

The man took a long, wavering drag on his cigarette. “She was an alcoholic, you know? A mean drunk, too. So was I. But when she was off the sauce, she was the sweetest woman in the whole damn world.”

“I’m sure she was.”

Carson stood silently to give the man a chance to digest the news while he smoked his cigarette. The man took deep, deliberate drags and let the smoke out in shuddering exhales. Carson wondered what was going through his mind.

When he’d finished the cigarette and stubbed out the butt, Carson cleared her throat. “Sir, if you can,” she said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

The man nodded. “Sure.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Robert Carew. Her name is Anne.”

Carson wrote that down on her notepad. She took a few minutes to get biographical information about both him and Anne, then asked, “What happened tonight?”

“She’d been drinking all night,” Robert said. “We had a fight earlier. I said some things I didn’t mean. She said some things I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean. Then she… did this.” He waved toward the house as his face dissolved into tears.

Carson changed gears. “Let’s start at the beginning, Robert. When did she start drinking?”

Robert wiped his eyes. He shrugged. “I don’t know. She was probably fourteen or so, I guess. Her parents were both alcoholics, so it wasn’t tough for her to get ahold of some booze.”

Carson shook her head. “No, sir. That’s not what I meant. I meant, when did she start drinking tonight?”

“Oh.” Robert let out a rueful chuckle that died on his lips. “I’m not sure. See, I’m a knife salesman. I have a route. I spend two nights a week away from home. I was in Oregon last night. I came home tonight at about six o’clock and she was already hammered.”

“Did you drink tonight?”

“No. I’m an alcoholic, but I’m sober. Five months now.”

Carson made a note. “So there was an argument, you said?”

“Yeah. It’s hard, you know? When one person quits and the other one won’t. You sympathize, you know what they’re going through, but being around it is hard. It’s very tempting.”

“Was that what the argument was about, Robert?”

He nodded, reaching into his robe for his cigarettes. “She wanted me to drink with her and I wouldn’t. She said I thought I was better than her. ‘Holier than thou,’ she called me. I just listened to her a while, then told her to shut up, and I went into the bedroom and read.”

“Did she say anything else to you?”

“Just that she thought that I’d be better off without her.”

“Did you respond to that?”

Tears welled up in Robert’s eyes again. He nodded, his face pinched. He struggled to shake a cigarette out of the pack, then lit it up.

“What did you say, Robert?” Carson asked gently.

“I said that in her current state, she was probably right.” Robert sniffed and wiped his nose with his robe sleeve. Then he looked squarely at Carson. “And you know what? Those were the last words I said to her.”

Carson nodded. “I’m sorry,” was all she could think to say.

Robert stared off down the street, trembling and smoking.

Carson heard Battaglia open the screen door and step out onto the porch with them. “Detective Finch has been notified and is en route. Sergeant Shen was advised. You can probably leave once the detective gets here.”

“Okay.” She turned back to Robert, very aware of Battaglia’s watching eyes. “I know this is difficult, but I’m going to have to ask you a few more questions, Robert. Are you up to that?”

“Yes,” Robert answered, his voice thick from crying.

“Has Anne ever tried to harm herself before?”

“Just by damn near drinking herself to death.”

“Has she been down lately?”

“A little. It was her son’s birthday last week. She tried to call him but he wouldn’t come to the phone.”

“Why’s that?”

“They don’t get along so good.”

“Did that upset her?”

“Yeah, a little. Then she drank and a little became a lot. You know how drunks are. I know how drunks are. I was one for eight years.” Robert inhaled deeply from his cigarette.

Carson paused. “Who does the gun belong to?”

“It’s hers. I bought it at the pawn shop so she had something to protect herself with when I was out of town.”

“All right.” Carson tried to keep her voice as soothing as possible. “Tell me what happened after you went into the bedroom to read.”

Robert sighed. “Well, I read for about three hours. I got up, went into the bathroom to take a leak-”

“Where was she?”

“Still on the couch.Still drinking.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“I went into the bathroom and as I was going in, I saw her get up and go into the bedroom. I was thinking, you know, great. She either wants to fight some more, or make up and be… well, with me, you know? Or she’s stealing the bed for the night, which would leave me with the couch. But then when I finished using the bathroom, she had come out of the bedroom and was back on the couch. So I went to bed.”

Carson nodded and waited for him to continue.

“She was getting the gun,” Robert said. “That’s what she was doing in the bedroom. I didn’t know it then, but that’s what she had to be doing. Anyway, after about twenty minutes, I heard a loud bang. I ran into the bathroom. She was sitting on the toilet and bleeding and I saw the gun on the floor…”

Robert began to cry again. He struggled to stop, but the sobs came in huge seizures and shook his whole upper body. The ash on his cigarette had grown long. It defied gravity, staying on the cigarette as Robert sobbed.

Carson glanced at Battaglia. His mouth was set in a hard line as he watched. Carson put her hand on Robert’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Robert. No more questions, okay?”

“The questions don’t bother me,” Robert said. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his robe sleeve again. “I know you’re just doing what you have to do. It just rips me up. Like I said before, when she’s clean and sober, she is the most wonderful woman alive. And her figure comes back, too. God, for a woman of forty-five…”

“Alcohol changes people,” Carson said.

Robert nodded and wiped his nose again. “You know, they tell you in Al-Anon that you can’t make a person stop drinking. They have to want to stop.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“They also tell you that sometimes you just have to let a person sink to their lowest point.” Robert looked at Carson with a straight face. “I guess that’s what she did.”

Carson patted his shoulder and turned away. She bit the inside of her mouth and didn’t say another word while she waited for Finch to arrive. She ignored Battaglia’s inquisitive glances. Once the detective was on scene, Carson cleared the call.

Only when she was back in her patrol car and safely out of the neighborhood did she laugh aloud at Robert’s comment. Her laughter came in huge gulps of air, blasting out in high-pitched tones. She slapped the steering wheel.

“I guess… that’s… what she did,” she repeated in between the peals of laughter.

Now she understood Battaglia’s reactions. She understood, and because she understood, she laughed.

She laughed because Robert was right.

She laughed because it struck her as tragically funny.

She laughed until she had to pull into an empty parking lot and cry.