And Every Man Has to Die

TWO

Saturday, July 12th

2058 hours

Graveyard Shift

Officer Thomas Chisolm sat quietly at the Adam Sector roll call table. The large conference room had three tables, one for each of the three sectors. Adam and Baker covered the north side of River City, while Charlie sector covered the more affluent, usually quieter south side. A lectern, currently empty, stood at the head of the tables. Rows upon rows of mailboxes perched on the back wall like pigeon nests, some bare and others stuffed with paperwork that might date back as far as the assigned officer’s rookie year.

He glanced up from his own timeworn hands to the woman seated across from him. She was new to the platoon and tonight was her first shift. Her blue nametag, designating her as a probationer, read B.J. Carson. Chisolm knew it stood for “Billie Jo,” but wondered how much adolescent ribbing she’d suffered as a result of those unfortunate initials.

Carson seemed to sense his glance. She flashed Chisolm a shy smile. He saw strains of confidence in that smile, but he recognized other traits, too. Traits he wasn’t entirely comfortable with in a new cop, whether he saw them in a man or a woman. She was worried about proving herself.

Chisolm’s own rookie campaign was eighteen years in the past, though he could recall that rite of passage in great detail. Of course, it had been different for him than most new cops these days. He’d walked in with significant military experience, including his two tours in Vietnam with Special Forces. Police work wasn’t a tremendous adaptation for him, whereas most of the rookies he saw coming on now had to transition from civilian life into the quasi-military world of police work.

In Chisolm’s mind, it was a good thing if a new recruit wanted to prove himself. That was how he eventually fit in-by proving he could do this job. There were a lot of areas where the new guy was required to prove himself, too. Snagging calls for service, writing a ton of paper, and showing that he could talk to all kinds of people in all kinds of situations were all on that list. The final exam, though, was being willing to jump into a fight when it happened. Prove you could hold your mud when things got dirty.

Wanting to prove yourself, to Chisolm, was a good thing. Worrying about being able to was quite another. And he saw a little bit of that in B.J. Carson.

He flashed back to the last recruit he’d trained who didn’t have what it took to be a cop. Four years ago, he tried to teach Maurice Payne what he needed to know in order to make it on the streets, but he’d ultimately failed. Payne could do the softer side of the job, but failed utterly when it came to pressure or violence. Even though it took another training officer to sign off on Chisolm’s evaluation-thanks to that self-righteous prick, Lieutenant Alan Hart-the department eventually let Payne go. Chisolm took very little joy in seeing that happen, and none of it at the expense of Payne. He hoped the young man landed on his feet somewhere more appropriate for his skill set. The satisfaction for Chisolm was in showing the arrogant Lieutenant Hart that he’d been right, in spite of the shiny gold bar that Hart wore on his collar.

Since training Payne, none of the recruits that rode in Chisolm’s car had failed to make probation, a fact of which he was quite proud. More than that, he hoped that he instilled in this new, younger breed of cop what it meant to enter law enforcement. Almost all of them were untested by warfare and some hadn’t even suffered some of life’s hard knocks. Yet Chisolm had to teach them how to be a warrior in peacetime, which was one of the most difficult jobs in the world.

Chisolm didn’t avert his eyes from Carson after her shy smile, but she averted hers. She was a beautiful woman. It might have made some things in life easier for her up to now. If anything, though, now it was going to make things more difficult for her rather than less. From the cops and the criminals.

Chisolm’s gaze shifted to Anthony Battaglia. Batts was watching Carson. His face was mostly expressionless, but Chisolm detected the faintest bit of hunger in the Italian’s dark eyes.

Battaglia seemed to sense Chisolm’s attention. He turned his eyes to the older officer and tipped him a wink. “Another night beatin’ down crime. Right, Tom?”

Chisolm nodded. “You said it.”

Battaglia flashed him a toothy grin. “Fuckin’ scumbags won’t know what hit ’em.”

That forced a smile to Chisolm’s lips. “Probably not.”

“You know it,” Battaglia said. He turned to O’Sullivan. “Hey, asshole, are you done with that yet?”

“If I was done, lad,” Sully shot back, “I would nae be looking at it anymore.”

“You know, you’re not supposed move your lips when you read,” Battaglia observed, his thick Brooklyn accent clashing with Sully’s Irish lilt.

“Like you know anyt’ing about reading.”

“I know it takes you for-fuckin’-evah.”

“Oh, fer the love of Saint Francis,” Sully sighed. He slid the binder across the table toward Battaglia. “Here. All you want to do is look at the pictures anyway.”

“Ohh, yeahhhh,” Battaglia said, smiling broadly. He flipped open the flyer and peered down in mock lust. “Ooh, hot. You know, methamphetamine really does wonders for a woman’s looks.”

“Aye,” Sully replied. “Vitamin M is the new wonder drug.”

Chisolm watched the exchange silently. It was nearly the same every night. Sometimes, if veteran officer James Kahn was in a grumpy mood, he might berate the two of them for their antics, but that usually only fueled their act. Once in a while Katie MacLeod got involved in their exchanges. Chisolm smiled. In most cases she bested the both of them at their own game, something that Chisolm believed only made the brothers like her even more.

Katie. Chisolm noticed her seat was empty. He assumed that she’d taken a vacation day, since it wasn’t her regular day off.

The only other person missing from the table was Matt Westboard. The quiet, solid officer was on his days off.

Chisolm returned his gaze to his own hands. Every day, he took stock of the men and women at the table around him. It was a habit he’d learned from his commanding officer in Vietnam, Captain Mack Greene. “Know your people,” the grizzled Green Beret leader told him repeatedly. “And know them again every single day.”

Of course, they weren’t technically Chisolm’s people. He didn’t command them. He was one of them. Sergeant Shen ran the platoon and Lieutenant Saylor commanded the shift. Even so, as an eighteen-year vet who remained on graveyard shift by choice, Chisolm knew that a lot of the team members looked to him for leadership. And he would not disappoint. Ever.

That was his burden in life, and he knew it. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted such a responsibility, but rather that he knew he could handle it. Not many others could, even among his fellow cops. So it fell to him to do so. He had the knowledge and the experience.

The door to the roll call room swung open. Lieutenant Robert Saylor led the way in, the red clipboard full of announcements tucked under his arm. Sergeant Miyamoto Shen followed behind him and took a seat at the head of the Adam Sector table. His gaze swept the table, his features impassive.

“Listen up,” Lieutenant Saylor rumbled from the lectern. He waited for a moment until the chatter dwindled to silence. “There’s a couple of new stolens on the board tonight,” he began, rattling off the license plates of the stolen vehicles. Then he flicked the page. “Let’s do some prowl checks at the River City Arena over the next few nights. The circus is coming to town and our Criminal Intelligence Unit believes that the animal rights groups might be active in some form of protest.”

“Hell,” Kahn muttered, “the circus is in town all year. It’s down on mahogany row, starting in the chief’s office.”

Saylor glanced up from the hot board, fixing his eyes on Kahn. “Did you have something to add?” he asked.

Kahn cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Do the intel guys have anything more specific than that?”

Saylor shook his head. “Just what I read.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

Saylor smiled slightly. “I’ll forward your dissatisfaction, Officer Kahn. I’m sure they’ll be happy for the feedback.”

Kahn shrugged. “I doubt they could figure it out, sir.”

A general rumble of low laughter filled the room. Chisolm smiled himself. He’d had more than his fair share of issues with intelligence units, beginning with the frequently inaccurate ramblings of military intelligence during the war.

Saylor didn’t reply right away. Then he said, “I’m sure they’ll get their cryptologists on it right away. Meanwhile, it actually makes some sense that these animal rights whack jobs might try something funny at the arena while the circus is in town, so let’s give it some frequent drive-bys, huh?”

Kahn nodded.

Saylor moved on. “We have a new member of the graveyard team tonight, over in Adam Sector.” He swept his hand toward that table. “Officer Carson, would you mind standing up?”

Carson’s cheeks blossomed with a tinge of red. She pushed a long lock of hair behind her ear and stood.

“Welcome to the shift, Officer,” Saylor said, putting his hands together in a light clap. The rest of the assembled officers followed suit, resembling a lackluster golf clap after a routine putt. Chisolm also heard a mild, murmuring undercurrent that he recognized as half a dozen male officers making comments on her figure that her police uniform and gear couldn’t hide. Or her initials.

“Thanks,” Carson said, then hurriedly sat down, no doubt aware of the appraisal.

Saylor set the hot board down on the lectern. “That’s it for new announcements. Does anyone have anything for the shift?” Saylor waited a moment, then turned the meeting over to the sergeants at their respective tables.

Sergeant Shen addressed the Adam Sector table. “I’d also like to welcome Officer Carson. She’s going to finish up her probationary year on our team now that she’s finished with the training car. I’m sure you all remember her from when she was assigned to Officer MacLeod.”

“Let’s hope she’s learned something since then,” Battaglia joked.

Carson appeared momentarily stricken, though she tried hard to hide it.

“I’m sure she has,” Shen said with a light smile. “That was her first rotation in the training car, wasn’t it? Fresh out of the academy?”

“Yes, sir,” Carson said. “I was brand new.”

“It didn’t show,” Battaglia said, his voice full of sarcasm. He winked at Carson and smiled. Her features softened once she realized he was teasing her.

And so it begins, Chisolm thought. Every new cop put up with the ruthless teasing, so that was nothing new. But he sensed something more in Battaglia’s jest. Something more along the lines of James Kahn’s barely concealed lust. He filed his concern away, determined to watch and wait.

“How is Katie?” Sully asked.

Chisolm’s ears pricked up.

“She’s out of the hospital,” Shen replied, “and resting at home.”

“Hospital?” Chisolm snapped. “What happened?”

Shen raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t hear?”

“I was off yesterday.”

Shen nodded. “She got into a fight with a guy on a DV call over at the Delilah apartments. They fell down the stairs during his arrest. Her ankle was broken.”

Chisolm scowled. Why was she in there without any backup?

“Ah, tell the story right, Sarge,” Sully said, dropping his faux accent. “She didn’t just get into a fight. She kicked this guy’s ass.”

“Big Russian guy,” Battaglia added.

Sully nodded. “Yeah. Huge guy. And she took care of his business by herself.”

“Where were you two jokers?” Kahn asked snidely.

Sully waved his comment away. “We were upstairs at the apartment. The guy was trying to sneak out of the apartment building when Katie found him. She really-”

“How bad’s the ankle?” Chisolm interrupted.

Shen shrugged. “The doctor said that the swelling would have to go down some more before they could determine whether it would require an operation or not. It was broken in two places.”

“So she’s out for a while,” Chisolm concluded.

“Six to eight weeks, minimum.” Shen motioned at Carson. “That’s why we got Officer Carson here instead of swing shift snagging her.”

“Good trade,” muttered Kahn.

Chisolm shot him a dark look, but the veteran officer ignored him.

“Anyway, that’s all I have tonight,” Shen said. “If no one else has anything, let’s hit the street.”

There was a pause that no one filled. After a few moments, the officers collectively pushed their chairs back and filed out of the room, headed to the basement where swing shift would probably be waiting with their cars.

Chisolm fumed as he picked up his patrol bag in the hallway and swung it onto his shoulder. Maybe Sully and Batts should have been with MacLeod and maybe not, but Kahn’s comment was completely out of line. Making a derisive comment about MacLeod or anyone else in Adam Sector was bad for morale and divisive for the platoon. Moreover, in making that comparison to MacLeod, Kahn put pressure on Carson to somehow measure up to a veteran officer. And he was pretty sure that something about both officers being women was lurking in the undercurrent of Kahn’s comment, though he hadn’t come out and said it. Kahn’s use for a woman diminished to zero if he couldn’t sleep with her.

As far as Chisolm was concerned, Kahn was a complete asshole, even if he was a good cop.

He pushed the thoughts aside as he checked his car into service and rolled out of the basement. Instead he focused his mind on the mission ahead, which was, as Battaglia colorfully put it, beating down crime.

2209 hours

Valeriy pulled his green BMW into the nearly empty elementary school parking lot. He spotted Evgeniy’s Honda Prelude among the few cars in the lot. It was easy enough, since it was the only car with the cherry coal of cigarette glowing inside. Val glided along the driver’s side, stopping once their windows were lined up.

“Is it done?” he asked, getting straight to business.

Evgeniy nodded as he let out a long, steady stream of smoke.

“No trouble?”

“No trouble. Everyone was gone. It was easy as cake.”

“Pie,” Val corrected, reaching for a cigarette of his own. He slid the Marlboro between his lips and struck his Soviet Zippo. “In America, they say ‘easy as pie,’ Evgeniy.”

The other man shrugged. “Maybe I am not so American.”

Val drew in a deep lungful of smoke and let it billow out. “Perhaps not. But everything is ready to go?”

Evgeniy nodded. “As I said. Is all finished.”

“Did you use a remote trigger?”

Evgeniy shook his head. “I put it on a timer.”

Val frowned. “That isn’t as reliable.”

“No, not as much as a manual trigger, but it is safer for us. And I wired two, so there is a contingency in case one fails.” Evgeniy took another drag. He blew the smoke onto the glowing end of his cigarette, contemplating the redness. “Who could imagine it would come to this, my friend?”

Val narrowed his eyes. “What kind of question is that for a soldier to ask?”

Evgeniy shrugged. “I am not the same soldier I once was, Valeriy. And this is a different kind of war.”

“War is war,” Val said dismissively. “And soldiers obey.”

“Yes,” Evgeniy agreed. “And I did obey. I always will. But I am just…”

“Just what?”

Evgeniy sighed, his voice sincere. “I am just unsettled by this, is all.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t like the battles we fought in military. Not even like the struggles we had in Kiev against others in this life. This is against our own.” He paused, taking a short drag on his cigarette and letting it out in a wavering breath. When he spoke again, his voice broke with emotion. “This is also children.”

Val paused, examining the face of the man across from him. As a technician, Evgeniy’s skill was unrivaled. But if he couldn’t be trusted…

Val adjusted his position in his seat, tapping ash from his cigarette to help disguise the movement. He slid his.45 Colt 1911 from his belt and held it against his leg.

Evgeniy didn’t seem to notice. He took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes far away. After a few moments he shook himself from his reverie and turned to face Val. “It is difficult, that is all.”

Val nodded slowly. “There is no punishment harsh enough for betrayal,” he reminded Evgeniy.

“No,” Evgeniy agreed, shaking his head. “There isn’t. That’s true.”

“And the sins of the fathers…” Val began.

“Reside in the sons,” Evgeniy finished. “Yes, Valeriy Aleksandrovich, you are correct. I regret that there is some sentimentality creeping into my soul in my old age.”

“No regrets,” Val said. “Now, tell me about the timers.”

“They’re made of soft plastic with only a few tiny metal parts,” Evgeniy said. “The entire device will melt except for the metal. Those pieces shouldn’t be detectable.”

“The police will suspect?”

“No.” Evgeniy shook his head. “It will look like an electrical short, and the house is old. The police will not suspect a thing.”

“Good,” Val said. “Then you’ve done well.”

“We shall see,” Evgeniy answered with a sigh.

Val smiled slightly. Despite his skill, Evgeniy was always nervous until everything had passed. “Very well,” Val said, his tone dismissive. “Then I will meet with you tomorrow for coffee.”

“Do svidanija,” Evgeniy said. He nodded at his superior, started his engine, and drove away.

Only after the technician’s taillights had disappeared did Val replace his pistol inside his belt. Then he dropped his BMW into gear and headed toward Sergey’s house.

As he drove, he let his thoughts drift over all of the events that were in motion. For someone less focused, so many things might be overwhelming. After all, he had his own plans to tutor young Pavel. Sergey had his plans for the organization, most of which Val took an active part in developing. They had to find a way to deal with the rival gangs in River City, most of whom were blacks from California. The single Hispanic gang would need some attention, too, at some point in the near future.

The direction that they wanted to take required careful consideration as well. Drugs and prostitution were lucrative, but high risk, so they stayed only marginally involved in those endeavors. Cars were more labor intensive and required more organization, but the payoff was still significant. Particularly with the connections that he and Sergey had maintained in Europe.

And now they had to deal with the traitor, too. This fucking musor. Betrayal was bad enough, but for it to be someone like Oleg was that much worse. A key player like him turning on them risked everything, for everyone.

And so the price to be paid was high.

Val didn’t feel any of Evgeniy’s reticence or regret for the course they’d chosen. The choice was logical and just. Evgeniy had a daughter of his own, so that was probably the reason for his sentimentality, more so than the technician’s age. That was another reason Val remained unencumbered. He had women on occasion, but they meant little to him. He regarded them in much the same way he regarded food and drink, as something to be consumed when the need arose and forgotten once he was sated.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Val had his own plans, which he kept to himself. Every move he made for Sergey, for Pavel, for the organization-all ultimately served his own designs.

Val smiled coldly as he drove. One of the first Western books he had read was a battered paperback called Dune. After he read the science-fiction epic, Val thought that the author could very well have been a Russian. The plot was suffused with political intrigue, which captivated Val. It was there he first read the words, “Plans within plans within plans,” and realized the wisdom of that sentiment. The book became an educational text for him. He read it over again once a year, studying the nuances carefully. When his English proficiency allowed, he read the book in the original language, finding still more intriguing subtleties. When he eventually read Machiavelli’s The Prince, he found it weak in comparison.

Val knew that the actions of his organization had to be attracting the attention of the police. When he had told Sergey, the boss agreed with him but didn’t seem concerned. “American police are weak,” he’d told Val. “Their jails are like having a dacha in the country.”

Sergey was right. But police attention would eventually hamper their operation. So Val devised a plan.

So did Sergey. “Don’t buy the house,” he’d told Val, “buy the neighborhood. We need to expand, Valeriy. Beat down our rivals and take control of this city.”

Val turned onto Sergey’s street, his cold smile still in place. He’d embraced Sergey’s plan and they’d discussed how to make it happen. They had planned deep into the night for better than a week, mapping out their moves like chess masters. When they’d finished, both men were certain that they’d be successful.

And Val was well pleased, for Sergey’s plans fit his own. Plans within plans within plans.

Sergey’s driveway was full. The boss’s black Lincoln and Pavel’s tricked-out Honda were nestled side by side, so Val found an open spot along the curb and parked. As he stepped up the walkway he flicked away his cigarette butt. The warm night air was full of that clean freshness that Val attributed to all the trees that grew within the city. Only the barest wisp of a faraway barbecue disturbed the unpolluted essence of the breath he drew deep into his lungs. Only in the winter after a hard snow had the Kiev air ever seemed so clean.

Val knocked quietly at the door. After a few moments his sister appeared in her robe. Marina Aleksandrovna Markov smiled at her brother and swung open the door. “Valera! Come in.”

Val stepped inside, brushing a kiss across his sister’s cheek as he did so. Marina’s exuberance always overwhelmed him. He had long held that their parents’ genetics had bestowed all of their calculation and reason to him, the eldest son, and all of their love and joy upon their daughter, Marina.

“Can I pour you something?” Marina asked him, sliding her arm through his and putting her head on his shoulder.

“What is Sergey having?”

“He is upstairs, just coming out of the shower. But he opened a bottle of red wine before he went upstairs.”

“Red wine needs to breathe,” Val said.

“I see,” Marina said, teasing. “Aren’t my two men just the worldliest men there is?”

Val smiled in spite of himself. “I’ll have the wine, sestra.”

Marina squeezed his arm and moved toward the kitchen. Val settled into a chair near the fireplace, leaving Sergey’s favorite chair empty. He glanced around the simple room adorned with a couple of paintings and several family photographs. The photographs included some black and white shots of his parents and grandparents back in the old country. The house was nice. It was comfortable. No one would ever suspect that the head of the Russian Mafia in River City resided there.

Val scratched his arm absently. Of course, the truth of the matter was that their organization wasn’t the powerhouse here that it had once been in Kiev. Even as a second-tier power, they’d held considerable sway over their territory. It’d been almost three years since they’d come to America, arriving in Seattle and migrating east across the Cascades to River City. Marina had joked that they were the opposite of American pioneers, who had gone west to discover their fortune.

Fortune, Valeriy mused. They’d chosen the Pacific Northwest to avoid the epicenter of Russian organized crime in Brighton Beach, New York. Those Russians were largely Muscovites who had emigrated in the 1970s, using their Jewish ethnicity as a pretext to request asylum. Of course, Brezhnev had only been too glad to rid the Soviet Union of them. Valeriy wasn’t sure if that was more because they were criminals or because they were Jews, but he supposed it didn’t matter. They’d done well in America, but they were a tight group. Once the Soviet Union disintegrated, so did some of the solidarity within the criminal networks. Now it mattered if you were Russian, Ukrainian, or Georgian. So they came instead to the Pacific Northwest, away from the established families. Someplace not as grand, but unspoiled. There was plenty of opportunity in River City, but no one had made a fortune yet. That was going to change, and soon.

Marina emerged from the kitchen with a pair of wine glasses. She handed the half-full one to Val, keeping the glass with just a splash inside it for herself. “I’m going to bed soon,” she explained. “A little wine helps me sleep. A lot gives me terrible dreams.”

“What could you have to dream terrible about?” Val asked. “You have a wonderful life.”

“Yes,” Marina agreed, dropping into Sergey’s seat, “and my bad dreams are about losing it.”

Val turned up his mouth and shrugged. “Very little chance of that,” he told her.

“I didn’t say it was a rational fear,” Marina answered playfully.

Val raised the wine to his nose and sniffed. One of the things he had learned from Sergey was to appreciate the beautiful things in life. Val refused to dwell on hedonistic thoughts during most of his life, but between Sergey and his sister, he’d slowly learned to appreciate certain things in the moment. Wine was one of those things.

“What do you smell?” Marina asked.

“I’m not sure,” Val said. “Black cherry? And a little vanilla, perhaps.”

She smiled and sipped her own wine.

Val did the same. He was rewarded with a rich, velvety sensation. Black cherries and a hint of vanilla exploded across his palate. He swallowed and held the wine up to the light.

“It has a nice color, doesn’t it?” Sergey’s voice came from the doorway. He held a glass of his own and wore a thick blue robe. He walked toward his seat, which Marina vacated only to slide onto his lap after he sat down. “It’s a pinot noir,” he explained, “from right here in Washington.”

Val nodded slowly. “Perhaps we should invest in a winery someday.”

“Perhaps someday,” Sergey agreed.

The threesome fell silent, sipping quietly and enjoying the easy presence of each other. After Marina finished the last of her wine, she rose and kissed Sergey on the corner of his mouth, whispering something into his ear.

“I will,” Sergey answered.

Marina crossed to Val and kissed him on the cheek. “Pavel loves spending time with you, Valera. Thank you for being such a wonderful uncle.”

“It’s my honor,” Val answered. “He’s a fine young man.”

Marina gave his arm a squeeze, bid them both good night, and left the room.

Once she was out of earshot, Sergey eyed Val. “It is a bit late, little brother.” The chide was softened by the term of affection.

“Too late for family,” Val agreed, “but not for business.”

Sergey chuckled. “Very well. What is the business?”

“I spoke with the technician. Everything is in place.”

Sergey’s chuckle faded. His mouth tightened. “So the bookkeeper will be taken care of.”

“Yes.”

“Good. When a man begins to have doubts, that is bad enough. But for him to steal from his own people? His family? The ones who stand shoulder to shoulder with him?” Sergey shook his head in disgust. “Stukatch. No death is hard enough for such a man.”

“I believe you will find this a hard death,” Val said quietly.

“As it should be. And what is the danger to us?”

“Evgeniy says there will be none,” Val answered. “Of course, every one of our people will know what truly happened. It will send quite a message, Sergey.”

“Beat your own and others will fear you,” Sergey said, quoting a Russian proverb.

Val shrugged, conceding the point. Sergey liked to use proverbs to make his point, but Val had to admit that he was usually right. Sergey was an excellent tactician. Fortunately for Val, he was not such a wonderful strategist.

“Is that the only news?”

“No,” Val replied. “I gave Dmitri the parts for the Kalashnikovs. He is making the transition on them now.”

“Good. I had heard that Black Ivan was arrested, though. How were you able to get the parts?”

“His wife gave them to me.”

“What did they arrest him for?”

Val suppressed a smile. He knew that Sergey was fully aware of everything that had happened at Ivan’s apartment, including the charges against the man. This was merely a ploy to see how well informed Val kept himself. Sergey made sure to test his lieutenant every so often.

“Spousal assault,” Val answered. “But that charge won’t hold. Elena is refusing to cooperate. The more serious charge is for assaulting the woman police officer who responded.”

“How is it that he was arrested?”

“Two more cops came to her rescue,” Val said. “Three against one.” He considered a moment. “Well, two.”

“I’m surprised Ivan lost that fight,” Sergey said, taking a healthy sip of his wine. “He is very strong.”

“I think perhaps he gave up in order to avoid further problems. But I won’t know until he is released.”

“Perhaps,” Sergey answered, staring at the glass of wine. “What about the other package?”

“I was able to get that from Elena, as well. It is already in distribution.”

“Who is handling that?”

“Andrei.”

Sergey nodded his approval. “Then all is well, little brother.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“And here we sit in the calm before the storm.” Sergey sipped again.

“Yes.”

“It’s a peaceful feeling, isn’t it?” Sergey asked. “To know what is going to happen next? It is comforting.”

“Yes,” Val agreed, “it is.” He smiled and raised his glass. “To the coming storm.”

Sergey raised his own glass, and they drank.

Valeriy leaned back in his chair, enjoying the calm, the wine, and his own secret knowledge.

Plans within plans within plans.

Sunday, July 13th

0117 hours

“Let’s get a burrito before they close,” Battaglia suggested.

“Taco Shack is open twenty-four hours, goombah,” Sully told him.

Batts made a face. “Taco Puke? No, I mean Guillermo’s.”

It was Sully’s turn to make a face. “You want to talk about smell? That place used to be a Chinese restaurant. You know that, don’t you?”

“So?”

“So, I can still smell the Szechuan in there. The tortillas taste like soy sauce.”

“You’re dreaming,” Battaglia said. “Guillermo’s has the best burrito in town.”

“Every time we go there, three things happen.”

“One thing happens,” Battaglia said. “I get a good burrito and ain’t hungry anymore.”

Sully shook his head. He removed his right hand from the wheel and held up a single finger. “One, you eat one of those huge freakin’ burritos.”

“Duh. That’s why I go.”

Sully raised a second finger. “Two, as soon as we get back in the car, you crash in the passenger seat and fall asleep.”

“Like anyone gets any sleep on graveyard anymore,” Battaglia argued. “This isn’t the ’60s.”

“Three,” Sully said, ignoring him and flicking a third finger upward, “you get horrible gas and fart up the car like crazy.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s true. It ends up reeking like your ass in here.”

“That’s complete bullshit.”

“How would you know? You’re asleep when it happens.”

“More bullshit,” Battaglia said, shaking his head. “How do you live with yourself, making up all this stuff about people?”

“Adam-122?” chirped the radio.

Sully smiled. “Here comes a call.”

“Shit,” Battaglia muttered. “I’m starving.”

“You going to get that?”

Battaglia shook his head. “You’ve got a free hand there with your magic counting fingers. You answer it.”

“I’m driving.”

“What, Irishmen can’t multitask?”

“Adam-122?” the dispatcher repeated, slower and with more force. There was a brief battle of wills, then Sully reached for the mike. Battaglia snatched it off the holder first.

“Adam-122, go ahead,” Battaglia said, smirking at Sully.

“Feckin’ guinea,” Sully said.

Battaglia shot him the bird.

“Adam-122, respond to 1409 West Grace. The fire department is on scene with a structure fire, requesting traffic control.”

“Wonderful,” Battaglia groused before raising the microphone to his lips. “Copy.”

Sully slowed, checked front and rear, and swung a U-turn.

“Just what we need tonight,” Battaglia complained, replacing the mike on its holder. “Perimeter duty while the fire mopes save another foundation.”

“And no time for Guillermo’s,” Sully added.

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I can swing through the Taco Shack on the way, if you want.”

“Shut up.”

“Really. It’s right on the way.”

“Just drive, bogtrotter.”

Sully smiled and cruised up Monroe. He hung a left on Northwest Boulevard. Battaglia rolled his window down and lifted his nose in the air. “It must be a good one. I can smell the smoke already.”

As he spoke, the unmistakable odor of a burning structure wafted in. “I’ll bet the hose jockeys are beside themselves,” Sully said. “A real working fire.”

The two remained silent until Sully guided the car onto Grace Street. Mid-block, a house was fully engulfed in orange flame. Firemen blasted the fire from two different directions, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

“Damn,” Battaglia mumbled, staring at the burning home.

“No kidding,” Sully said. He took a deep breath and said, “I’ll drop you here. Why don’t you grab some of the cones and block off the street. I’ll take the car around to the other end of the block and park it there. That ought to keep things under control, traffic-wise.”

Battaglia nodded absently, then got out of the car. Sully popped the trunk and waited while his partner retrieved a small stack of orange traffic cones. Once Batts slammed the hood, he pulled away, drove his car around the block, and parked at the opposite end of Grace Street. He sat in the car for a few minutes, watching the fire from there. Firemen scrambled about the scene, though he didn’t entirely understand what they were up to. He figured it was the same with them watching police work.

Leaving his overhead rotators on, he got out of the car and wandered closer to the fire. Near one of the pumper trucks he encountered Battaglia staring down at the grass. Sully opened his mouth to tease his partner about abandoning his post. Then he followed Battaglia’s gaze and stopped short.

Lying on the grass, bathed in the flashing blue, red, and white light, were three still figures. Sully stared at them dumbly as his mind digested the scene. The largest of the figures was clearly an adult. Given the petite bone structure, Sully guessed her to be female. The two figures beside her were much smaller, clearly children. The tiniest one wore a diaper. Dark streaks covered all three bodies. The woman’s mouth hung open in a slack, silent cry.

Sully felt a stab in his chest. He took a deep, unsteady breath and glanced over at Battaglia. The dark-haired man stood stock-still, his gaze locked on the three bodies. “The children,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “They look almost like little dolls, don’t they?”

Sully’s mind flashed to Battaglia’s children: his daughter, Maggie, and baby son, Anthony Junior, were very close in age to the two on the grass. Sully reached out and clasped Batts on the shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze.

Without meeting Sully’s eyes, Battaglia reached up with his own hand and clasped Sully’s. His eyes glistened in the darkness as the flashing emergency lights splashed across his face. “Life’s so goddamn short to begin with,” he said, “and theirs just barely got started.”

There was nothing for Sully to say.

The two officers stood watch over the three still forms long after the flames burned themselves out, long after Sergeant Shen arrived, his normally impassive face shaded in sadness, and even after Lieutenant Saylor came on scene, his mouth a tight line. They stood by until the fire department’s arson investigator arrived and took control of the scene. Even then, the pair strode back to the patrol car reluctantly, as if somehow they were abandoning the tiny dolls on the lawn.