And Every Man Has to Die

THREE

Monday, July 14th

0907 hours

Renee straightened her skirt for the third time in the last minute, then adjusted her short stack of paperwork so that the corners lined up exactly. She glanced up at the clock on the wall, which told her the same thing it had the last time she looked. As usual, the new chief of police was running late.

She took a deep, tai chi cleansing breath and let it out. She hated that presentations like this made her so nervous. She was confident in her information, her analysis, and her conclusions. So why did making a formal presentation get her so worked up?

The chief’s secretary, Charlotte, appeared in the doorway to mahogany row. A pleasant, dark-haired woman with bright eyes, Charlotte flashed a smile at Renee. “The chief is ready for you now,” she said.

Renee stood, tucking her small stack of papers under her arm. “Thanks.”

Charlotte nodded and motioned her forward. “I love your skirt,” she said as Renee walked past. “Is it new?”

Renee shook her head. “God, no.” She couldn’t remember the last time she bought something new. “I only wear it when I need to feel confident. And I’m not feeling very confident right now.” She smoothed the fabric, more to dry her clammy palms than to erase any wrinkles. “I’ve heard the new chief is a yeller,” she added in a whisper.

Charlotte chuckled and took Renee’s arm. “Well, his career in the army probably made him a bit rougher around the edges than we’re used to. But he’s fair. Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

Charlotte smiled. “Just give him what he needs to know. And remember that he’s used to people calling him ‘sir.’” At the closed door to the chief’s office, she paused and gave Renee another smile. “You’ll do fine,” she whispered.

Before Renee could thank her, Charlotte rapped twice on the door, paused a moment, and turned the knob. Then she stepped aside so that Renee could enter.

Renee walked into the office for the first time since the new occupant had moved in. She’d become quite comfortable with the former chief, a pleasant, contemplative man who’d always given her a ready ear. He’d kept his office decorated with a variety of personal and professional items, all of which had served to give the room a sense of who he was.

The stark emptiness of the office now surprised her. Aside from a couple of framed certificates on the wall behind him and a photograph of a young child on his desk, there were no other decorations to speak of. A few stock items, such as the US and Washington State flags and the department seal, kept the walls from being entirely bare.

The new chief sat behind his large mahogany desk, the only remnant of the office’s former tenant. His features were swarthy, reminding Renee once again of the first thought she’d had when she saw his photograph during the selection process. She’d grown up a Tolkien fan, reading The Lord of the Rings at least once a year from the time she was twelve until… well, she still read the trilogy every few years.

The new chief’s appearance was, unquestionably, an orc.

For a moment Renee didn’t know whether that revelation should make her laugh or frighten her. After all, if he was as mean as he looked-

“Are you my crime analyst?” the chief asked, his voice not quite as gruff as she had expected, but not exactly silky, either.

“One of them,” she answered. She crossed to his desk and held out her hand. “I’m Renee. Right now, I’m assigned to emerging trends.”

“Emerging trends?” the chief repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” Renee answered. “I collect data citywide and collate it, looking for-”

“Emerging trends,” the chief finished for her. “I get it.” He pointed to the other men in the room. “I’m sure you know Captain Reott, commander of the Patrol Division?”

“Of course,” Renee answered, giving Reott a nod.

“And Lieutenant Crawford, who is the unit commander for-”

“Major Crimes,” Renee finished.

The chief’s eyes narrowed slightly in irritation. Renee pretended not to notice. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve invited them to be part of this briefing so that you don’t have to give it more than once.”

“Thank you, sir,” Renee said. She handed the chief a small packet of papers, then gave one to Crawford and Reott. “This is my report, in case you need to refer to it again at a later date.”

The chief scanned the sheet before him. He gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”

Renee lowered herself into the chair, sitting stiffly upright. She waited while the three men read. After several moments, the chief looked up at her, his expression tinged with impatience. “You had a presentation of some sort?”

Renee cleared her throat. “Of course. Well, I know you’re busy, so I’ll cut to the heart of the matter. I believe we have some significant organized crime activity here in River City.”

“Significant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And is that an emerging trend?”

“No,” Renee said, wondering if he was being sarcastic. “We’ve had an influx of black gangs since the late 1980s. Those gangs tended to fuel their income by selling crack, which has never really developed a substantial foothold here as it did in Los Angeles. They seem to sell enough to keep themselves in business, but that and some prostitution seem to be their only real criminal enterprises.

“Beyond that, we have some organized methamphetamine sellers, based mostly in the motorcycle gangs. Locally, the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross runs the show, though it has proven nearly impossible to break into that inner circle. They deal mostly in large quantities, selling to smaller independents who break up the bricks and distribute it further.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” the chief said crisply, “but the detective sergeant in Narcotics already gave me this information. I was told you had something new to add?”

“I do,” Renee said, keeping her tone even. “It involves the Russians.”

A sarcastic smile spread over the chief’s face. “I’m pretty sure the Cold War is over,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure we won.” He gave Renee an appraising look. “Are you sure you’re a crime analyst and not a CIA analyst?”

Are you sure you’re a police chief and not a donkey?

“Yes, sir,” Renee answered. “This is a serious crime problem.”

The chief paused a moment. Then he nodded and motioned for her to continue.

“Since the fall of the Soviet Union in December of 1991, there has been a steady flow of immigrants from those republics,” Renee began. “Russia and the Ukraine have been the primary source of new immigrants into River City. Most of them immigrated to the United States via Seattle and then found their way over here. Once there was a small community of Russians established, it seemed to attract more immigrants every year.”

“How many Russians live in River City now?”

“Well, the last official census was in 1990, so those numbers are way off. But based on other databases, I’d estimate between twelve and fifteen thousand.”

The chief’s eyebrows shot up. “Out of two hundred thousand? That’s a significant minority.”

Renee nodded. “Yes, sir, I know. That’s my point.”

“Is there someplace they all live?” the chief asked.

“Sir?”

“Is there someplace here in River City like Russia Town or Little Moscow or something?”

Renee scowled slightly. “No, not exactly. There are a number of neighborhoods with a significant Russian population, but-”

“I figured as much,” the chief grumbled. “They all huddle together.”

Renee shrugged. “It’s the same way when every new ethnic group immigrates in large numbers. That’s simply our history. The Irish did it in the 1850s, the Italians in the early twentieth century, Southeast Asians in the 1970s. The Russians are no different.”

“The hell they’re not,” the chief said, his voice rising. “Listen, I spent twenty years in Uncle Sam’s Green Machine from 1971 to 1991. I retired once it was clear Communism was beaten. And you can thank Ronald Reagan for that accomplishment, by the way.”

Renee was unsure where he was going with this. She’d voted for Reagan, but didn’t see how that-

“I trained to fight those Commie bastards every day for twenty years,” the chief said, “so don’t try to tell me that they’re no different.”

“Well, sir,” Renee said, “you may be right. But I believe they are very different in one respect.”

“And what’s that?”

“They’re organized. And because the bulk of the Russians here are still first generation, they enjoy considerable capitulation amongst community members.”

The chief eyed her doubtfully. “Organized, you say?”

Renee nodded. “I believe that a splinter group of Russian organized crime is operating here in River City.”

The chief stared at her for a few moments. Then a smile spread over his face. “The Russian Mafia? You’re kidding.”

“No,” Renee said, shaking her head. “Though I wouldn’t say Mafia, necessarily. But yes, organized crime from Russia. If you analyze the data-”

“Who are these gangsters?”

Renee pressed her lips together. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It’s hard to pin down, because all of them are new to the country. Interpol is slow to process requests, and as I mentioned, the people in the community won’t supply information to the police.”

“So how do you know they exist?”

“It’s a conclusion I’ve drawn,” Renee explained, “based on all the data.”

“What is some of that data?”

“There’s been a spike in the number of auto thefts over the past year. The percentage of those vehicles that are never recovered has more than tripled. That indicates someone is either shipping them for resale elsewhere or running a chop shop and parting them out.”

The chief shrugged, unimpressed. “Auto theft doesn’t equal Russians,” he said.

“No,” Renee conceded, “but it is one of their favorite criminal enterprises. Besides that, we’ve had a 550 % increase in drug delivery arrests involving males with a Russian surname since 1996. And two of the five massage parlors in the city have changed their names from an Asian theme to an Eastern European theme. The employee lists contains almost exclusively Russian surnames.”

The chief shrugged again. “So the Russkies are tearing off a small piece for themselves. Why should I care? Beyond asking the patrol captain to stomp on them a little bit, that is.”

“Because they are highly organized,” Renee said, forcing herself to keep an even tone of voice. “This exactly mirrors their operations back in Russia. Their criminal organization over there was incredibly diversified and very secretive. They still believe in the concept of Omerta, the code of silence.”

The chief shook his head. “I still don’t see-”

“Sir, they clearly have a foothold now,” Renee interjected, speaking rapidly. “But because they aren’t focused on just one revenue source, they can grow quickly. And there’s something else. Probably the most important thing, actually.”

The chief scowled. “Well, if it was the most important thing, you should have started with it. What is it?”

“They’re ruthless,” Renee said, her voice flat.

The chief stared at her again, then looked up at Reott and Crawford. “Is she for real?” he asked them, motioning toward Renee. When neither man answered, he turned his attention back to her. “Ruthless? Like all gangsters aren’t?”

“They’re not like other gangsters, sir. They operate in a different way. They have a completely different frame of mind.”

“They’re criminals,” the chief said.

“They’re ruthless,” Renee repeated. “They’ve been known to assassinate entire families in horrible ways in order to make their point, both to their enemies and the people in the community. And, for this generation at least, the community will listen to them and understand.”

“So I’ve got fifteen thousand ruthless Reds to worry about?” the chief asked. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No. The vast majority of the Russian immigrants here are hardworking, law-abiding people.”

“Then how many are criminals?”

Renee shrugged. “I don’t know. A few hundred, at most. And I would speculate that perhaps thirty or so are directly involved in organized crime.”

“But those thirty are ruthless, according to you.”

“Yes,” Renee said, “they are. And they have tentacles that reach deep into that community of fifteen thousand.”

The chief sighed. “All right. Thank you for the briefing… Renee, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I still don’t see why I should be so worried, but thank you.”

Renee made no move to leave her seat. “You should be worried, sir, because this is a group of men that were able to function under the oppressive Soviet government. Not only function, but thrive. Now, here in America, they are unfettered by that iron grip. The freedom of our country gives them virtually unbridled opportunity. Our laws don’t matter to them. Our jails don’t frighten them. And our police don’t worry them one little bit.”

The chief sat in his seat for a long moment, staring at Renee. She held his gaze, her chest afire. Finally the chief said, “Don’t think you can come in here and educate me about the world. I spent twenty years preparing to go to war with these people. Are they tough? Yes. But they were also disorganized and inefficient, while quite capable of deceiving themselves of that very fact. Their soldiers were sloppy and lazy and served under duress, not willingly. That is the type of warrior that country produced. I don’t believe that they’d produce a criminal who was very much different. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment in ten minutes.”

He turned his attention to the notepad on his desk and tossed her briefing paper haphazardly onto a loose stack on the corner of his desk.

Renee sat in shocked silence for a moment, then rose. She met the eyes of Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford, giving each of them a stunned nod before turning and leaving the office. She closed the door behind her and walked down the short hall. When she passed Charlotte’s desk, the secretary raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Can we send him back to the army?” Renee asked.

1146 hours

Detective Ray Browning set down the telephone receiver just as Detective John Tower poked his head around the corner of his desk.

“You want to grab some lunch, Ray?”

Tower was the newest member of Major Crimes, having pulled duty in the Sexual Assault unit previously. Browning had worked with him in the past and knew him to be a good detective, if a bit emotionally driven. Since being transferred-some would say promoted-to Major Crimes, he’d been adrift in a new environment.

Browning understood why. Homicide detectives were somewhat clannish to begin with. On top of that, there was the natural confidence-some would say arrogance-that came with being a first-string player. And then there was the hierarchy. Detectives Finch and Elias were partnered up, but most of the detectives flew solo. Lieutenant Crawford threw together ad hoc partnerships when cases merited it, but ever since the Crime Scene Forensics Unit took over processing the evidence, the age-old practice of automatically putting two detectives on every case went by the wayside.

“Ray?” Tower repeated. “Lunch?”

Browning smiled and shook his head. He rarely ate out. Instead, he brought a brown bag lunch and stored it in the small refrigerator near the coffeepot. Some days he made his lunch, other days his wife surprised him and did it. On those days, he usually found a note tucked away somewhere in the bag, signed by his Veronica.

“Brown bagging it again?” Tower asked. “Don’t you ever get tired of the same old thing?”

Browning shook his head. “No. Besides, where do you go when you eat out? The same old places?”

Tower shrugged. “I suppose.”

“You wait until you’re married,” Browning told him. “You might start bringing a brown bag lunch, too.”

“So I can save money for my future?” Tower asked, teasing.

“Nope,” Browning answered. “So you can bring a little piece of home with you to work.”

Tower paused, considering. “I guess that’s why Stephanie’s picture is on my desk.”

“Could be. When’s the big day?”

Tower smiled hugely. “One week.”

“Getting close. How’re you feeling about being a married man?”

“Great,” Tower said. “I feel great. She’s wonderful. She understands what this job can do to you, too.”

“That’s a rare thing, man or woman.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Tower shrugged again and turned to go. “Well, anyway, I gotta get something to eat.”

“Where?”

Tower paused. “Why? You change your mind about coming along?”

“Sort of. I just got off the phone with the arson investigator, Art Hoagland. You know him?”

Tower shook his head.

“He’s a longtime fireman,” Browning said, “but new at the investigator gig. Sometimes he likes to bounce an idea or two off of me.”

“So?”

“So,” Browning continued, “I figured you might like to come along. We can meet Hoagland for some lunch at whatever trendy location you young detectives are eating at nowadays.”

Tower gave him a curious look. “I wouldn’t ever have figured that the only way I’d get you to go out for lunch would be invite along a second responder.”

Browning shrugged. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m in,” Tower said.

“All right.” Browning stood and reached for his jacket. “Wait a second. Second responder?”

Tower grinned. “You’re familiar with the term ‘first responder,’ right?”

“Sure. Police, fire, medics.”

“Well,” Tower explained, “the guys on patrol decided that should be amended, on account of how every time they’re called to a scene, fire is standing off, waiting for the cops to check things out and make them safe. So instead of calling them first responders, they’re-”

“Second responders,” Browning said, a smile playing on his lips in spite of his effort not to let on that it was funny. “Well, he’s a brother investigator now, so let’s say we give him some help.”

Tower shrugged. “Sure. But since it’s his case we’re running, he’s buying, right?”

1204 hours

Valeriy walked into the poorly lit coffee shop and found a seat near the window. A dowdy waitress appeared at his table after several minutes. He ordered a Turkish coffee from her, then pulled a Marlboro out and lit it.

As the smoke curled upward from his cigarette, he stared out the window at the street beyond. His thoughts strayed to the streets of Kiev and his hardscrabble teenage years there. He imagined that he might have died in some street fight if he hadn’t found his way into the army at sixteen. There, his ability to control his emotions and to focus had served him well. He’d found himself part of the elite forces, the Spetsnaz, before he would have been old enough to legally drink in America.

Val smiled at that. Even more ironic, when he finished his term of service he elected to leave the military and found himself right back on those same Kiev streets he’d left only a few short years before. Of course, things were different for him by that time. He had learned to organize, to weigh risks and to act decisively. It wasn’t long before he was a leader in the black market groups.

He drew in the tobacco smoke, held it, and let it whoosh out as the waitress clattered a tiny cup of Turkish coffee in front of him. He eyed her coldly, but she ignored him and waddled away.

Val didn’t touch the coffee right away. Sergey’s words from Saturday night stuck in his mind. “The calm before the storm,” he’d said. Valeriy knew his boss was right, even though Sergey didn’t realize everything that was in play. His ambition was grand. Too grand, in Val’s eyes. There was plenty of opportunity here in America, if a man were careful and not too greedy.

I will let the big man’s ambition exceed his grasp, Val thought. They would expand and expand until everyone decided the Russian Mafia was a huge problem for these American police. Sergey would not stop before that happened, Val knew. It was inevitable, so he chose to embrace the fact and make it work for him. They would rise up like a great civilization, and then, when they were eventually seen as a threat and the police focused on them and beat them back? Well, they would simply retreat. But that retreat would only go so far. Their operation would still be well beyond where they’d started. But because they would have been so prevalent before the retreat, the police would forget them. Bigger fish would catch their attention while Val and his operation continued to swim, mostly unseen.

Of course, Val knew that would never happen as long as Sergey was in charge. Always a gangster, never a soldier, Sergey didn’t understand what it took to be a true leader. It must be Val who took charge. But how? How to do it right?

For all his plans, that was one thing Val did not have an answer for yet. He wondered if it was because he knew he had to be very careful, or if he was hesitant because Sergey was married to Marina. Was he allowing sentiment and emotion to interfere with his decision?

Val stubbed out his cigarette and cast a mildly irritated glance at the door. Dmitri was late.

The momentary diversion didn’t dispel his self-doubt. The question hung in his mind’s eye, flashing in red. Val reached down and lifted the small cup to his lips and sipped the strong, bitter brew. He let his mind mull over the question, poking and prodding at his heart.

It took another sip before he reached his conclusion. It wasn’t Sergey. It was Marina. He did not want her to feel any pain. She was his sister and he loved her. But Sergey would have to go.

The two propositions seemed mutually exclusive. If Sergey left this world, Marina would feel pain. But Sergey would eventually have to be eliminated for Val’s plan to work.

He sat in the chair and examined the problem from every angle, as if it were cold marble pieces on a black and white checkered board and not people of flesh and blood and hearts. He was so engrossed in his thinking that he didn’t hear the front door to the coffee shop open.

Dmitri appeared at his table, gasping and out of breath. “I’m sorry, Valeriy,” he wheezed, his fat face red with exertion. Huge droplets of sweat rolled down his cheeks. “I ran into a problem with-”

Val held up a palm. After a moment, he swung the palm downward into an invitation for Dmitri to sit down. The corpulent man gratefully squeezed into the seat across from Val.

“Have a coffee,” Val suggested. “It’s Turkish, and very good here. The service is horrible, but the grind is delicious.”

“Oh, no thank you,” Dmitri said. “I am not really-”

“Have a coffee,” Val repeated.

His voice held no more of an edge than his first suggestion. If anything, the second time Val spoke in a quieter voice, but Dmitri read the danger and the intensity there.

“Of course I will,” Dmitri said. He swallowed thickly and raised his hand to get the waitress’s attention. She looked annoyed, but took his order. Dmitri thanked her but she turned and strode away.

“I wonder what her problem is?” Dmitri mused.

“She’s fat and disgusting,” Val pointed out.

Dmitri cleared his throat. Then he said, “I don’t know, Valeriy. I’m very fat, too, but I am not unhappy like that.”

“It is different for a woman,” Val told him.

Dmitri raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Ah, yes, I suppose it is.”

The two men sat quietly until the waitress plopped Dmitri’s coffee in front of him. He immediately picked it up and tasted it. Val watched as Dmitri first grimaced, then smiled and raised the tiny cup in his direction. “Thank you for suggesting it. It is very good.”

“Do you know what the Turks say about coffee, Dmitri?”

The fat man shook his head.

“They say it is black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love.”

Dmitri nodded. “True enough, I suppose.”

Val grunted and took another sip of his own. He was already weary of Dmitri’s sycophantic ways, though he was glad to command such respect from the people in the organization. He knew that much of it was transference of their respect for Sergey, but Val was working hard to ensure that those loyalties slowly migrated to him.

“Were the parts I gave you the correct ones?” he asked Dmitri.

The round-faced Russian nodded quickly and repeatedly while taking another sip. “Yes, yes. They were exactly what was needed. Where did you find them?”

Val waved away his question. “Don’t worry about that. Have you begun the conversion?”

“Yes.”

“How long until all of the rifles are converted?”

Dmitri’s expression grew pensive. “It took me a while to do the first one, but now that I see how it works, the rest should follow quickly. I believe I can have all ten finished in a couple of days. Perhaps sooner.”

Val nodded. “Excellent. Good work, Dmitri.”

Dmitri smiled at the praise. “Thank you. You’ll tell Sergey who did this job, yes?”

Val gave him a contemplative look. After a few moments, he said, “Of course I will.”

“Thank you. It is always an honor to be of service.”

“If you complete this task on time, I will be very grateful,” Val told him, choosing his words carefully for full effect. “And I won’t forget your service.”

Dmitri nodded his thanks again. Val could tell that the fat armorer didn’t yet understand what he had meant, but that was exactly Val’s intent. When the time came, words like the ones he just spoke would resonate with the people who’d heard them.

“I trust the pay is sufficient?” Val asked him.

“Oh yes!” Dmitri said, bobbing his head. “Very generous. Thank you.”

“Very well.” Val raised his cup and finished his coffee. Dmitri mirrored his actions, trying and failing to suppress a grimace at the harsh brew. “I will meet you here again tomorrow,” he told Dmitri. “If you’ve finished the project, we’ll make arrangements for delivery.”

“All right,” Dmitri said. “Should I call you?”

Val shook his head. “Whenever possible, don’t use the telephone.”

Dmitri shrugged. “Yes, Valeriy. I understand.”

“Good,” Val said. “Now, I will see you here tomorrow.”

Dmitri rose and reached for his wallet.

Val waved his money away. “Please,” he said. “It is my pleasure.”

Dmitri offered his hand. Val shook it. The larger man’s palm was cold and clammy. “Thank you,” he told Val before turning and leaving.

Val watched him go, absently wiping his hand on a napkin. As much as the man presented himself as a bumbler, he was the finest armorer Val had ever known. If he said he could have the rifles ready in two days, then he’d probably finish in one. And that meant-

“Sir?”

Val glanced up. An older man with a round belly and thick black mustache stood in an apron next to his table. “Yes?”

The man pointed to the recently vacated chair. “May I sit?”

Val nodded.

The man lowered himself into the seat. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table top. “I have a problem, sir,” he said.

Val said nothing. He watched and waited.

The man cleared his throat. “This is my place,” he began, motioning with his hands. “I start it up when I come here to America almost two years ago.”

“You are Ukrainian?” Val asked.

“Georgian,” the man answered. He held out his hand. “Pyotr,” he said.

Val shook his hand without saying his own name. Either the man knew who he was or he didn’t. “What is your problem?” he asked.

Pyotr lowered his eyes. “It started with my daughter,” he explained. “She does not listen to me like she should, much to my shame. She has become all too American.” He shook his head sadly. “And then she took up with these black boys who drive the cars with all the thumping music. You know the ones? They wear the baggy clothing, too.”

“I know them,” Val said. “But many young men behave that way.”

Pyotr nodded. “Yes, but these boys… these chernozhopyi… they are more than just young troublemakers.”

“How so?”

Pyotr glanced around the empty coffee shop, then leaned forward. “Two of them came to me three days ago. One of them, he is the one who my daughter calls her boyfriend, he tells me that I must pay protection for this business. He acts like he will help me somehow, but all he wants is money.”

“How much did he ask for?”

Pyotr named a figure.

Val shrugged. “Every week? That is not so much. Maybe you should pay. That way, you keep your business and your daughter is happy.”

Pyotr’s eyes widened and flashed with anger. “I do not want my daughter to be happy with this black ass.” He shook his head. “No, I will not pay. A penny that they demand today will become a dollar tomorrow.”

“Then you have a problem,” Val commented. Inside, he felt a tickle of anger at these gangsters trying to move into what they should have easily recognized was not their domain. But they’d be dealt with shortly. Perhaps, though, he could find a way to profit more fully from the plans that he and Sergey had already set into motion.

“I know I have a problem,” Pyotr said. “That is why I am sitting here with you.”

“What can I do?” Val asked.

Pyotr smiled and leaned back, turning his palms up. “I am not a young man, Valeriy Aleksandrovich Romanov. Not a foolish one, either. I know the power that you wield in our world. I would like your help.”

Val showed no sign of surprise or interest. “Again, I ask-what can I do?”

Pyotr leaned forward again. “I can pay you instead. You can protect my business.”

Val pretended to consider momentarily, then shook his head. “I cannot.”

“Why?”

“It isn’t enough money,” Val said. “It isn’t worth doing battle with those types of people.”

Pyotr licked his lips nervously. “I… I can pay more. How much would-”

“We are not interested in such smalltime activities,” Val told him. “They tend to be very costly.”

“But-”

Val pushed back his chair as if to stand. “I am sorry, my friend. But you are on your own.”

Pyotr stared at him in surprise. “You would abandon your countryman to these jackals?”

Val returned his stare for a long moment. He thought about pointing out that the Ukraine and Georgia were not the same nation, but he knew what Pyotr was driving at. They had spent long enough under the same flag to be considered countrymen. Especially here in America.

He pulled his chair forward. “No. When you put it that way, I see your point.”

“Thank you,” Pyotr said.

“But we are not in the business of protection,” Val continued. “We are in the business of business.”

Pyotr nodded as if he understood, then stopped suddenly. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Val said, “that I will protect this business from those black gangsters and any other threats because it will be my business.” He gave Pyotr a penetrating stare.

Pyotr was aghast. Then anger seeped into his expression. He began shaking his head, stammering, “No, no, I won’t-that isn’t why I-how can you-?”

Val held up his hand, silencing the older man. “You have asked me for something. I have granted it. I would be very insulted if you were to retract your request now.” He leaned forward himself and asked, “Do you want to insult me, Pyotr? Since you know my name so well, I can only imagine you know about me just as well. You know that those blacks are nothing to fear in comparison.”

“No,” Pyotr croaked. “I know that.”

“Good.”

“But sir…,” Pyotr pleaded, “this business… it is all I have. It is how I feed my family.”

“And it will continue to feed your family,” Val said.

Pyotr looked at him, a mixture of doubt and gratitude in his eyes.

Val gave him a rare smile. “You asked if I could abandon a countryman to the jackals. I cannot. Nor can I make a man destitute. This coffee shop will feed you and your family, Pyotr.”

“I… I believe you,” Pyotr said, unconvinced. “But how do you mean?”

“I will buy the place from you,” Val told him. “It will be a secret arrangement. You will remain the owner as far as the rest of the world is concerned. You may draw a salary for yourself. We’ll discuss it later and decide what is fair. You can even hire some of your family members to work here, if you want.”

Pyotr nodded sadly, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Don’t worry about the books,” Val instructed. “I’ll hire an accountant who will take care of everything. You just run the place, play the part of owner, and take care of your family. Is that acceptable?”

Pyotr stared down at the table between them for a long while. Val waited patiently. He knew the man had no choice at this point. If he refused, the black gangs would squeeze him. Worse yet, he would face Val’s wrath, which would be a hundred times greater. If he accepted, he would have some financial security, but he would be surrendering his dream. And he wasn’t foolish enough not to know that Val would funnel dirty money through the business to launder it. If it ever came down to the police or the IRS poking around, he’d be on the hook.

Val waited. He knew what the man’s answer would be.

Eventually, Pyotr raised his eyes to Val’s and nodded. “Yes,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

“You are a countryman,” Val said. “You do not need to thank me. Now, I want you to think of a price over the next few days. When we talk again, we’ll work out how much I will pay you for the business and what your salary will be. All right?”

Pyotr nodded his head, then stood woodenly and walked away from the table. His slumping shoulders and shuffling gait were those of a broken man.

Val stopped him after a few steps. “Pyotr?”

The man turned to face him.

“What is the name of the fat waitress?”

“Olga,” he answered.

“Fire her today,” Val said.

Pyotr’s eyebrows shot up. “But she’s my sister-in-law.”

“She’s a horrible waitress,” Val said. “Fire her today. I’ll send you a couple of girls who are young and beautiful. That will bring more customers in here.”

“She’s my sister-in-law,” Pyotr repeated weakly.

Val didn’t answer.

After a moment, Pyotr sighed. He raised his hands questioningly. “Will these young girls know how to do this job?” he asked.

“Anyone could do better than Olga,” Val said.

Pyotr didn’t reply. He gave Val a resigned nod, turned, and headed to the back of the coffee shop.

Val watched him go. He felt no remorse for the deal he’d just struck. The man had asked for it. Besides, Val had needed a good business to launder the earnings from the chop shops. Largely a cash business, a coffee shop could enjoy fluctuations in income without drawing any suspicion. It was perfect.

Not so perfect for Pyotr the Georgian, Val mused. He’d keep his word on the man’s salary. In fact, he’d make sure it was a generous one. But he had no intention of buying the business from Pyotr. No, he’d take away the books and pay the man a stipend, but that’d be the end of it.

He was pretty sure Pyotr knew it, too.

Val had been prepared to leave the shop after his meeting with Dmitri and move on to his next duty. But now he took a few extra moments to sit in silence and look around. The coffee shop was dark but clean. Brighter lights and prettier girls would make a difference, he decided. All was quiet except for hushed voices in the back, followed by some sobbing. Val didn’t let those noises intrude upon his enjoyment as he sat in his new business and planned.

1243 hours

Detective Tower took a huge bite of his sandwich and chewed appreciatively. Browning watched him attack the sub and resisted the urge to sigh and shake his head. He thought about warning Tower that he wasn’t always going to be able to eat like that, but he wasn’t sure if his motivation was for Tower’s well-being or his own envy of Tower’s metabolism. Despite an obviously voracious appetite, Tower remained slender and appeared as hard as whipcord.

He probably doesn’t even work out, Browning mused.

Tower glanced up at him as if he’d heard the older man’s thoughts. “What?” He shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

“Apparently.”

Tower motioned toward Browning’s half sub, still untouched. “Eat your alfalfa sprouts and tofu. You’ll feel better.”

Browning narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to bluff Tower into thinking he’d struck a chord with him. But the younger detective just flashed him a grin and took another huge bite.

Arson Investigator Art Hoagland looked up from his meatball sandwich. “Uh, you guys have some kind of a food issue or something?”

“Not me,” Tower said, taking another bite.

Browning let out the sigh he’d been holding in. “No issue, Art. Thanks for buying.”

“Yeah,” Tower said through a mouthful of food. “Thanks.”

“No problem. It’s the least I could do to pick your brain.”

“What’s on your mind?” Browning asked.

Hoagland set his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Well, being an investigator is a completely different gig,” he said. “And it’s got my head spinning a little bit. Especially on this most recent case.”

“How so?” Browning asked. “Trouble interpreting the evidence?”

“No. That’s not a problem. Fire leaves very distinct evidence. And I know fire.”

“What’s that evidence tell you?”

“That there was faulty wiring, which started the fire.”

“No evidence to the contrary?”

Hoagland shook his head. “None that I could see.”

“And the size of the fire supports that? The way it developed?”

“Yes. All of the physical evidence at the scene points directly to old electrical wiring being the cause. The burn pattern from that point on is consistent. There’s nothing suspicious.”

“But we’re here,” Tower observed, putting the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “Eating on your dime.”

Hoagland nodded but said nothing.

“Was this an older house, Art?” Browning asked.

“Yes.”

“Original wiring?”

“Yes.”

“So it makes sense?”

“The fire makes sense,” Hoagland admitted. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

“How so?”

Hoagland leaned forward. “I guess my problem is the people end of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“A dead woman,” Hoagland said. “And two dead kids. Burnt up.”

Browning nodded knowingly. “It’s always tough to see the victims in the crimes that we investigate. And burning is a horrible way to die. But for me, all of that becomes a stronger motivation to do right by those victims. To solve the case, no matter what.”

“I understand that,” Hoagland said. “But that’s not my point. My point is, who was missing?”

Browning cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“Who wasn’t there?” Hoagland repeated.

“The husband,” Tower said. “The man of the house.”

Browning’s eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. “There’s a husband? And he lives there?”

Hoagland nodded. “Yeah, though it wasn’t easy to verify. None of the Russian neighbors would confirm it.”

“We sometimes have that problem, too. That entire community is reluctant to talk to the police. I think it’s a holdover from the old country. It’ll change with time.”

“We hope,” Tower added.

Hoagland went on. “The neighbors further up the street weren’t sure if there was a husband who lived there or not. I guess that’s a result of our neighborhoods not being as tight-knit as they used to be. But the little old lady across the street was certain.”

“So you got a solid witness.”

“Not really. She was also certain that this was 1983 and that Richard Nixon was president.”

“Oh.” Browning considered for a moment, then asked, “Was it a rental?”

“No.” Hoagland shook his head. “Owned. And in the wife’s name.”

Browning and Tower exchanged a glance.

Hoagland looked from one to the other, then asked, “What? What’s that mean?”

Tower pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “Give me the address of your fire,” he said.

“1409 West Grace,” Hoagland told him.

Tower scratched out the address on a napkin, then rose and walked to the counter.

“What’s he doing?” Hoagland asked.

“Checking something,” Browning told him.

“Checking what?”

“Maybe nothing. We’ll see in a minute.”

Hoagland gave Browning a look of exasperation.

Browning smiled slightly and leaned forward. “Listen, Art,” he said. “Russian society is still very patriarchal. Not to an extreme, but it is still a major component in the social order. I’m sure that’ll break down as they acclimate to American life, but for now, that’s the way it is.”

“You mean, the father rules with an iron fist.”

“Probably not that extreme, but along those lines. There’s a long history of this for the Russian people. Even their middle names are a variation of their father’s first name, regardless of whether the child is a son or daughter.”

“I understand, but how does this fit in with my arson?”

“It fits like this,” Browning said. “If there was a husband, he’d be the head of the family. The mother would be the center, but he’d be the head. So if they owned a house, not only would it be in his name, it would most likely be only in his name. The wife’s name wouldn’t even be on the paperwork at all.”

“So you’re saying there probably wasn’t a husband.”

“Maybe not,” Browning said. “But there’s another possibility.”

“Which is?”

“Let me put it to you this way. When we first started encountering California gangs up here in River City, we rarely found guns or drugs on the older, ranking gang members. You know who had the guns and the dope?”

“Who?”

“The juveniles in the gang. See, they all knew that a fifteen-year-old risked a significantly lighter sentence in Juvenile Court for having a gun or drugs, as opposed to a twenty-three-year-old.”

“That makes sense.”

“You know who else held for the gangsters? Particularly their guns?”

Hoagland shook his head. “No.”

“Their girlfriends. Because they knew the females were less likely to be searched and probably wouldn’t be searched as thoroughly by male officers.”

“Okay, I can see why they’d think that, but-”

“Do you know how the Italian Mafia used to hide assets?”

Hoagland held up his hands. “Enough questions, Ray,” he said. “I asked you for your advice.”

Browning smiled. “Art, the best thing one investigator can do for another is ask a lot of questions. Maybe one of the questions will get you thinking about something you overlooked or thinking about some piece of evidence in a different light.”

Hoagland considered, then shrugged. “All right. I see your point. Sorry. It’s just that this is my first major case. And people have died.”

“I understand,” Browning said. “Believe me.”

Hoagland picked up his drink and took a pull from the straw. “Okay, go on. You were saying something about the Godfather?”

“Sort of. The Italian Mafia used to put property in the name of their wives or parents, even their children. Some of the California gangs have done it, too.”

“Why?”

“It helps hide the gangster from the IRS, for one. Plus, it makes the paper trail harder for law enforcement if a RICO case ever comes down. They also figure that if they get busted, there’ll be something there to take care of the family.”

“That’s noble enough, I suppose. I mean, for a crook.”

“There might be some nobility in it somewhere,” Browning said, “but mostly it was about covering their own backsides.”

Hoagland nodded. Both men remained silent for a moment. Then realization crept into Hoagland’s eyes. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that the husband might be a gangster?”

“It’s possible.”

“And we have a Russian gang problem here?”

Browning smiled. “Last I heard, we had ten or fifteen thousand Russian, Ukrainian, and Georgian immigrants here in River City. Now, unless they are an extraordinarily virtuous people, there are going to be a hundred or more criminals in a population that size. And if that many criminals are operating in a city like ours, some of them are going to get very organized.”

“But that’s all theory, right?”

Browning shrugged. “We don’t have anything solid, no. But we’re pretty sure there’s an organized group operating here in River City.”

“Why would you think this husband, if he exists, is one of them?”

“I don’t,” Browning said. “Not necessarily. But follow the logic. One possibility is that there is no husband. But if there is a husband, why wouldn’t his name be on the deed? Especially in such a patriarchal culture?”

Hoagland pursed his lips in thought, but said nothing.

“You see,” Browning continued, “our role as investigators is to read the evidence, imagine probabilities, and then eliminate them. If there’s no husband, you’ve reached the end of that particular road. If there is…” He trailed off.

“If there is,” Hoagland finished, “then I’ve got some more digging to do.”

“Exactly.” Browning picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

Tower returned to the table and sat down. He pushed the napkin across the table toward Hoagland. “Oleg Tretiak,” he announced.

Hoagland looked down at the name, then up at Tower. “Who’s he?”

“According to the Department of Licensing computer, he’s a guy who calls 1409 West Grace home,” Tower said, his tone slightly smug. “And I’ll bet that Tretiak is the same last name as your other three victims, right?”

Hoagland nodded.

Browning swallowed his food and gave Hoagland a long look. “So now you’ve got yourself a little mystery, don’t you?”

Hoagland nodded again, his eyes glazed over in thought. “I need to find out who Oleg Tretiak is.”

Tower shook his head. “No, you know who he is. You need to find out where he is.”

Hoagland sighed heavily. “And how am I supposed to do that? I mean, I know I can check for him in our computer system, but-”

“Already done,” Tower announced.

Both Browning and Hoagland turned their eyes toward him. Browning waited while Tower let Hoagland squirm a little. Then the younger detective smiled and said, “He’s flagged with a 629 code.”

Hoagland let his chin flop forward onto his chest. “Please. In English. Cop talk is about as foreign to the fireman here as Russian.”

“It’s an FBI flag,” Browning explained. “It means that anyone who comes into contact with this person has to report it to the FBI immediately.”

“So if I find the guy, I have to call the FBI?”

Browning nodded. “Yes. But if this guy is in the wind, it might be worth giving the local office a call anyway. Just to touch base. Maybe they know something that will help you out.”

“Yeah,” Tower said sarcastically. “They’re really good about sharing information.”

Browning chuckled. “Touche. But you never know. It’s worth a phone call.”

Hoagland nodded. “All right. I will. In fact, I’ll go do that now.” He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Tower. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime,” Tower said, and shook it.

Hoagland reached for Browning’s hand. Browning gave him a firm shake. “You’ve got a good gut for this, Art,” he said.

“How so?”

“The physical evidence told you this was accidental. Maybe it was. But something on the people side didn’t add up, so you’re following out the lead.” Browning smiled. “That’s what a good investigator does. So keep it up.”

“Thanks.” Hoagland gave Browning’s hand one final, short pump, then released it. “See you later.” He turned on his heel and left the sandwich shop.

Tower watched him go. “Not bad for a hose hauler,” he admitted.

Browning nodded. “Not bad at all.”

2212 hours

Officer Katie MacLeod sat on her couch with her leg propped up on pillows. She stared at the television, watching a hospital drama but not really paying attention. She wondered if the writers took as much dramatic license with the medical profession as they did with hers. Mostly she didn’t care.

She glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes after ten.

What she cared about, mostly, was that her platoon mates were already out on the street, patrolling River City. Which is where she belonged. Not sitting on her couch, half doped-up on pain meds and with an ankle the size of a volleyball.

“This sucks,” she said.

She wasn’t surprised that she missed being at work. What did surprise her was how much she missed it. She missed the feel and smell of her wool uniform and the leather of her belt. She missed the reassuring weight of her gear on her waist. The anticipation of the possibilities that awaited her on each shift. The opportunity to make a difference. The uncertainty. The chance for action.

More than that, she missed the camaraderie of roll call. Saylor’s confident leadership. Chisolm’s steady presence. The twins cracking wise in their terrible accents. Matt Westboard’s quiet diligence. Hell, she even missed Kahn’s gruffness.

She looked down at her swollen, discolored foot. Six to eight weeks, minimum. That’s what the doctor told her. And that was if they didn’t have to operate. If she didn’t need a pin or two to hold things together.

Katie frowned. She didn’t belong on the couch. She belonged in a police cruiser.

On the television, a crew of doctors and nurses rushed to the bedside of a dying patient. They worked feverishly, the actors spouting jargon that Katie didn’t understand. But the sense of purpose and the unity of action that the entire team exhibited only made her feel worse.

She reached for the remote and changed the channel. Maybe there was some sappy romantic comedy on one of the movie channels. At least there was nothing in her life she could compare that to.

Katie MacLeod flipped through her cable stations, wondering how there could be a hundred and seven channels and nothing on.

2304 hours

Graveyard Shift

The belch came out as a wet, flapping croak. Battaglia glanced over at Sully, his gaze a mixture of concern and disgust. “You feeling all right?”

Sully shook his head. “My stomach is bugging me.”

Battaglia sniffed the air. “Whew. Now it’s bugging me. Roll down your window.”

Sully hit the power switch and slid his window down halfway.

“You want me to drive?” Battaglia asked.

Sully shook his head. “No, I’m okay.”

“What you most certainly are not, brother, is okay. What’d you eat?”

“Lasagna,” Sully answered.

Battaglia scowled. “What?”

“I had lasagna,” Sully repeated.

“And you’re sayin’ that’s why your stomach hurts?”

“Probably. Why?”

Battaglia frowned. “You can blame it on my people’s food all you want. I think it has more to do with your delicate Irish tummy than anything wrong with the lasagna.”

“It’s the lasagna,” Sully said, and belched again. His face pinched in discomfort. “That’s all I had tonight.”

“Yeah, well, it was probably some cheap microwave dinner made by a Polish guy in Cleveland or something. Not real Italian lasagna.”

Sully didn’t reply. For one thing, he was fighting down the nausea. For another, the lasagna had been leftovers that Battaglia’s wife, Rebecca, had sent home with him two weeks ago. It had smelled fine, but-

“You sure you didn’t have any haggis?”

Sully shook his head. “I told you this before, you stupid guinea. Haggis is Scottish, not Irish.”

“Close enough.”

“Not even close. It’d be like me calling you Sicilian.”

Battaglia’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, there’s no need to get nasty.”

“See? No fun to get miscast, is it?”

“My people are from Tuscany,” Battaglia said, indignant. “We are not Sicilian animale.”

Sully smiled in spite of his stomach. “You want to talk about close? You know how many miles it is from the Italian mainland to the Sicilian coast?”

“About a million,” Battaglia said.

Sully opened his mouth to educate Batts, then clamped it shut again as another wave of nausea rolled over him.

“You all right, Sully?”

Sully shook his head rapidly.

“Adam-122, a burglary report,” chirped the radio between them.

Sully turned the wheel hard, whipping the patrol car to the curb. He stomped the brakes, lurching the vehicle to a stop. The sway of the car as it came to rest made the nausea worse.

“Dude, do not puke in this car,” Battaglia warned. “We’ll never get the smell out and-”

Sully pushed open the driver’s door and tried to lean outward. His seatbelt caught him, jerking him to a stop and keeping him upright. The belt released as if by magic. He leaned forward and vomited. A solid spray of red liquid interspersed with white chunks of noodles splattered onto the asphalt.

A moment later he heaved again. This time less came out, but the contraction hurt his stomach more. He let loose with a third round that was largely spittle. He felt Battaglia’s hand patting him on the back through his protective vest as he remained in place, spitting and letting out a small groan.

After a few moments, Sully leaned back into the car. He glanced over at Battaglia, realizing now that it had been his partner who popped the seatbelt loose for him.

“Adam-122?” the dispatcher called again.

Battaglia grabbed the microphone and told her to go ahead with the call. Sully watched as Batts scrolled down the tiny orange screen, reading the details as the dispatcher recited them. Then he copied the call and looked up at Sully.

“You all right?”

Sully shrugged. “You got any gum?”

“Nope. But you’ve got toothpaste in your locker at the station, which is where I’m taking you. Pull forward.”

“Huh?”

“Pull forward,” Battaglia told him.

“Why?”

“We’re changing spots and I don’t want to have to walk in your used microwave lasagna to get into the driver’s seat, that’s why.”

Sully shook his head. “I’m okay. I just need some gum.”

“You got some bad food. You need to go home.”

“I can make it through the shift.”

“That’s another seven hours.”

“I can do it.”

“So you’re feeling better, then?”

Sully started to nod yes, but another surge of nausea hit him. He blinked and fought it down. Without a word, he dropped the patrol car into gear and rolled forward several yards.

“Switch,” was all Battaglia said.

Sully eased himself out of the driver’s seat and walked around the front of the car. He was amazed at how weak his limbs felt. By the time he made it to the passenger side and flopped back into the seat, Battaglia was perched behind the wheel. He goosed the accelerator and the patrol car leapt forward.

“Easy there, crazy,” Sully said. Then he added, “This isn’t Rome.”

“I hope it was the haggis,” Battaglia said. “I hope what you’ve got isn’t catching.”

Sully smiled weakly. “Just don’t let the lasagna sit in the fridge too long,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” Sully said. “Just take me to the station before I puke again, goombah.”

“You should stick to corned beef and cabbage, Sully.” Battaglia glanced over at him. “Seriously.”

Sully’s stomach clenched again. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“Tell Sergeant Shen I went home sick,” he told Battaglia.

“Duh.”

“Don’t forget.”

“Double duh.”

“I mean it. I don’t want him to think I went AWOL or something.”

“Hey, who are you talking to here?” Battaglia affected a look of indignation. “One thing we Italians are good for is taking care of our family.”

“Aye,” Sully replied, barely able to summon any brogue. “’Tis true.”

Station, he thought, then home.

Tuesday, July 15th

0211 hours

Officer B.J. Carson pulled carefully onto Monroe Street from Rowan and headed south. After four months of driving with a field training officer in the passenger seat observing her every move, it felt both strange and liberating for her to be on her own. She knew she was still under observation-perhaps even more so than before, with an entire platoon sitting in judgment-but she felt like she could relax a little bit now that she was alone in her patrol car.

She still wore the blue nametag of a rookie, too. The one with “B.J.” emblazoned in bright white letters. Carson had loved having initials for a name when she was young enough to wear pigtails. It set her apart. But by the time she reached junior high, the obvious sexual connotation became a plague. High school was even worse, as her initials became an excuse for boys to believe she was more likely to be promiscuous and girls to assume the same. And maybe it was even a little true, but she didn’t like people just assuming it. In her junior year she changed to a different high school, where she became just Billie. That helped her finally get free of the B.J. curse.

Or so she thought. The day she graduated the academy, they handed her a dark blue River City Police nametag with her initials, and her stomach fell. Then she figured that since she was an adult now, working with other adults, the initials wouldn’t matter anymore. Maybe she could even be B.J. again, and like it.

Not hardly. The police department was an older, grayer version of high school, which was, after all, just a crueler version of junior high. Whenever a male officer saw or heard her initials, she saw in his eyes exactly where his mind went.

As she cruised down Monroe, she pushed away those thoughts and took stock of her platoon mates, instead. Some were easier to figure out than others. She was accustomed to the hard-sell come-ons of a guy like James Kahn. Since she was on probation and trying to fit in, she endured his clumsy, overbearing efforts. She had him figured for a guy who wouldn’t give up unless he ran into a hard stop, so she guessed that she would need to manufacture a fictional boyfriend soon in order to keep him at bay. It wasn’t a perfect solution but it was a better choice than some she’d made regarding male coworkers before.

That’s in the past, she thought.Before I became a cop. Things are different now. I’m different.

Being a cop. Already it was a job full of adrenaline and stress and powerful personalities. Inevitably, that led to a sexually charged environment.

How did Katie MacLeod handle it? Since the rotation with MacLeod had been Carson’s first, they’d focused on much more basic things than the finer arts of dealing with men in the workplace. Still, while the men around the police department cast MacLeod an appreciative glance once in a while, they seemed to genuinely respect her as an officer.

Of course, Carson knew the stories. MacLeod had exchanged gunfire with the Scarface robber several years ago. Another time, she faced a no-win situation on the Post Street bridge with a crazy man and his infant son. And there was her near-fatal encounter with the Rainy Day Rapist about two years ago. The story of how the suspect attacked her in her own home was told to her academy class during the Officer Safety course as an example of why awareness and precautions both on and off duty were so important.

She’s almost a legend, Carson realized. And since that legend was the only other woman on the platoon, she knew very well what the benchmark would be for her, and she felt both admiration and resentment when she considered this.

Still, MacLeod had been a good teacher when they’d ridden together. She’d shown patience and let Carson stretch her limits. Unlike the three male training officers she’d been assigned to, she never felt like she was being protected or that someone was waiting for her to fail. That was an attitude she’d encountered a lot since being hired. She’d hoped it would end as she made it through the field training phase, but she could tell that it wasn’t. She’d need to prove herself further.

Take Chisolm, for instance. His flat, appraising gaze made her nervous. It wasn’t like he was waiting for her to fail, though. It was more like he simply expected she would.

She wasn’t sure why he looked at her that way, but it wasn’t like Chisolm hadn’t earned the right if he wanted to. If MacLeod was almost a legend, Chisolm most certainly was a legend. He was the man who took down the Scarface robber, for one thing. His steely, steady gaze was supposed to give officers confidence and make criminals worry. It had an entirely different impact on Carson, though. It made her nervous.

Carson touched her brake pedal lightly as she coasted down the Monroe Street hill, a short serpentine stretch that dropped from the upper north side of River City into the wide valley that extended north from the Looking Glass River. When she neared the bottom, she turned on Mona Street without thinking about it. A moment later, she realized why-this was where MacLeod had been attacked by the Rainy Day Rapist while acting as a decoy.

She slowed to a crawl and scanned the sparsely populated block, wondering exactly where it happened.

About two-thirds of the way down the block she spotted a long stretch of wooded area with no house. She slowed to a stop and stared at the ill-maintained sidewalk and the thick brush just off the roadway. She had visions of a goblinesque attacker leaping out of the bushes with a knife. She knew it was silly; she’d seen pictures of the Rainy Day Rapist after he’d been arrested. He looked normal enough, even with the sensational newspaper headlines above his photo.

It had been that news story about Katie MacLeod that spurred her to apply to be a police officer. She distinctly remembered sitting on her couch, balled-up tissues in one hand and a vodka cran in the other, watching the news. The news station gave almost ten minutes to the piece, describing the attack and showing a photograph of a confident, smiling Katie MacLeod in her police uniform.

Carson wanted to be that. The next day, she went down to civil service and filled out an application. Becoming a cop was going to be a complete reinvention for her. She could become a confident, skilled professional, just like Katie. She could leave her old life behind.

Carson stared out the window and wondered what the attack had been like. She wondered how Katie handled it, how she bounced back from all of the things she’d encountered on the job. She wondered if she could do it herself now that she was on the job. Was her transformation complete, or-

She heard the racing engine before she saw the approaching car. A small gold Honda flashed past the intersection, southbound on Post Street. There was no way she could estimate the speed in the brief glimpse of the vehicle, but it was well above the thirty mile an hour speed limit.

Carson punched the gas. The V-8 engine of the Crown Victoria gave a throaty roar and surged forward. She hooked a quick right onto Post and buried her accelerator to try and catch the speeder. The taillights were already approaching the light at Buckeye.

“Good God,” she muttered. “He’s flying.”

She knew she should reach for the microphone and advise radio she was trying to catch up to a speeder, but she hesitated. What if the car got away from her? It already had a sizable head start.

Carson gripped the wheel and swallowed hard. Adrenaline coursed through her body. She glanced down at the speedometer.

Seventy.

If she crashed her car right now, it would be lights out for her career. She was still on probation. They’d fire her, no question.

It’s only a speeder, she thought. But losing a car on her first night out on her own was not the way to make her bones. Carson clenched her jaw and maintained her speed.To hell with that.

The taillights went straight at Buckeye. Carson had the green light and zipped through the intersection, bouncing heavily on an uneven patch of pavement. She held her speed and quickly closed the gap. He must have been doing around fifty miles an hour.

With half a block between them, Carson hit her overhead lights. For a long moment there was no reaction. She wondered if this might turn into a vehicle pursuit, something she hadn’t been involved in yet. Another shot of adrenaline kicked in, causing her fingers to tingle.

Then the brake lights flashed twice, then came on steady. The car pulled to the right and stopped.

Carson grabbed the microphone. “Adam-128, a traffic stop.”

“Go ahead, Adam-128.”

“Post and Knox with William Young Zebra Seven Seven Nine,” she recited, reading the license plate in front of her.

“Copy.Adam-122?”

Anthony Battaglia’s deep voice responded. “Adam-122, copy.Division and Buckeye.”

Carson hung the microphone on its holder. Battaglia was close. Good. Looking at the three heads in the car silhouetted by her headlights, she was grateful for the backup.

She scrambled to set her spotlight on the vehicle and grab her flashlight. Cautiously, but trying to project confidence, she approached the car. The driver appeared to be in his early twenties with closely cropped hair. His two passengers also wore their hair short. All of them watched her with flat, appraising eyes. The backseat passenger spoke into a cell phone.

She motioned for the driver to roll down the window by twirling her finger. He complied, but stopped the window halfway down.

“Sir, I’m Officer Carson, River City Police,” she began. “I need to see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

The driver looked at her coldly for a moment, then asked, “What for you stop me?”

Carson recognized his thick accent. She’d only encountered Russians once before, on a traffic stop in her second training car. The elderly woman had been exceptionally nice, smiling the entire time, but she hadn’t understood a word of English. Carson received high marks from her training officer for managing to communicate via show and tell and body language, eventually letting her go with a warning.

“I stopped you for speeding,” Carson told this driver. “Now, I need your driver’s license-”

“I not speeding,” the driver interrupted.

Carson paused. She’d been trained not to get into arguments with violators. Simply write them the ticket and let the merits be argued in court. “I need to see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance,” she repeated firmly.

The driver shook his head. “No. I not speeding, so you have no right.”

“Whether you think you were speeding or not,” Carson told him, reciting the traffic code that she had memorized from flash cards in the academy, “you are required to provide these documents upon request from a law enforcement officer.”

“This bullshit,” the driver said.

“You’re welcome to think so. But I need to see your documents.”

“Or vaht?” the driver sneered.

“Or you’ll be arrested,” Carson answered.

The driver laughed. “You? Little girl like you take me to jail?” He shook his head and said something in Russian. The three of them laughed.

Carson considered her options. She wanted to rip the driver out his window, slap handcuffs on him, and take him to jail. See if that wiped the sneer off his face. But she wasn’t sure she could manage that one on one, much less if his two friends decided to jump in.

She could demand the documents again, but it was pretty plain he wasn’t going to give them up to her.

What she didn’t want to do was continue standing at the driver’s door like an idiot, so she mustered the firmest tone she could and said, “Wait here.”

He snorted, but made no move to pull away.

Carson walked back to her patrol car to get the driver’s name off the vehicle registration. As she reached her door, another patrol car cruised up next to her. The driver engaged his overhead take-down lights and aimed his spotlight on the gold Honda. The passenger window descended. Carson leaned in and was surprised to see that Battaglia was alone.

He must have read the question in her eyes, because he immediately said, “Sully got sick and went home.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s Irish,” Battaglia said with a shrug, as if that should explain everything. “Whattaya got?”

Carson motioned toward the Russian driver. “He’s being difficult.”

Battaglia’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

She nodded. “He won’t give me his name, reg, or insurance. Says he wasn’t speeding, so I don’t have the right to ask.”

Battaglia pursed his lips and said nothing.

Carson swallowed and spoke quickly. “Of course, I know he has to, but instead of getting into a fight right away, I figured I’d check the registration and see if that turns up his name. Maybe once he knows I already know, he’ll be more cooperative.”

“Maybe,” Battaglia said doubtfully.

“If not, he’s going to jail,” Carson said.

“Yeah, huh?” Battaglia gave her an approving nod. “Not taking any shit? Good for you.”

Carson felt a twinge of gratitude for the support.

“You want another car here?” he asked.

Good officer safety tactics clearly dictated that Carson should have a third officer present, just in case the passengers got squirrely. But she also knew that there was the academy way and there was the way it rolled on the street. She’d never lose respect doing things the academy way, but she’d never make her bones, either.

“I think we’ll be fine,” she told Battaglia. She tried to appear casual, but she was glad that he’d let her make the call.

Battaglia shrugged. He turned his attention to the threesome in the car. Carson left his window and slid into her driver’s seat. A message was waiting on the mobile data terminal on the console. She pushed the “read” button and a message from the dispatcher appeared, consisting solely of the vehicle registration.

Carson smiled. One thing she’d learned early on about the dispatchers was that they definitely took care of their officers, in large ways and small. She scrolled down the registration information; the legal and registered owner was William J. Bryan, with an address in nearby Cheney. She scowled. Bryan didn’t sound much like a Russian name, but maybe-

She scrolled down a little further and saw the words “report of sale,” followed by the date of June 10.

She sighed. That meant Mr. Bryan sold the car back in June and notified the Department of Licensing of that sale. Unfortunately, the new owner hadn’t transferred the registration into his own name yet. Carson scoured her memory. How long did he have to do that? It was one of those two-tiered statutes that had some sort of grace period, after which there was a fine. Was that fifteen days? And when did the second time limit expire, making it a criminal offense for failure to transfer ownership?

She shot a quick glance over at Battaglia, but the veteran officer remained intent on the car in front of them. That was his job as the cover officer and she knew that they took their roles seriously on this shift.

She reached for her ticket book and removed her cheat sheet. She ran her finger over the codes, searching for the particular charge regarding ownership transfer. When she reached the bottom of the page she flipped it over and scanned the back as well.

Nothing.

Carson scowled. It had to be there. She must have missed it. She turned the paper to the front and checked once again, this time more slowly. Two thirds of the way down, she found the listing. It was an infraction after fifteen days, a misdemeanor crime after forty-five. She sighed. That meant it was only a ticket, not an arrest.

Carson stepped out of the car and leaned in Battaglia’s window. “The car has a report of sale,” she told him.

“Over forty-five days?”

She shook her head.

Battaglia shrugged. “So we pull him out and you write him some tickets, then.”

“Yeah,” Carson said. Somehow, she didn’t think it was going to be that easy.

Battaglia exited his patrol car and stood by, waiting for her to take the lead. Carson didn’t hesitate. She strode back up to the car and shined her flashlight on the sneering driver’s face.

“Step out of the car,” she said forcefully. “Now.”

The driver muttered something in Russian, but surprised her by opening the car door. Carson took a step back to allow him room. She motioned for him to follow her back to the front of the patrol car. He paused, casting her a disdainful look, but eventually followed.

Carson maneuvered into position at the side of her car while he stood at the nose. Battaglia positioned himself at the front of his own car, within two easy strides of the suspect driver.

The driver stared at Carson with cold, hard eyes.

She opened her notebook. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Why I have to tell you?” he shot back. “I no do nothing wrong.”

“Answer her,” Battaglia rumbled, “or you’re going to jail.”

The driver met Battaglia’s gaze with an unimpressed stare of his own. The two men locked into a brief battle of wills while Carson stood by, realizing that control of this stop-her stop-was slipping away from her.

She opened her mouth to ask the driver for his name again, but the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut cut her off. Recognition, followed by a wide smile, spread slowly across the driver’s face. He shouted something in Russian that sounded like a greeting.

The two passengers in the suspect vehicle exited and began walking calmly toward the driver.

“Get back in the car!” Carson called to them, but they ignored her.

She glanced at Battaglia, but he’d followed the driver’s gaze to the rear of their patrol cars.

Five white males walked toward them, approaching in a loose semicircle. A shot of fear exploded in Carson’s stomach and reverberated up into her chest. Her breath quickened.

The driver said something in Russian and one of the approaching men grunted in return. Then he turned his attention to Carson. “I still going to jail, suka?”

Carson swallowed, then nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice wavering. She winced inwardly at how weak it sounded. “You’re under arrest for failure to cooperate. Turn around and put your hands on your head.”

The driver laughed, that same sneer plastered on his face. “I think we leave now.” He turned away.

Fear pulsed through Carson’s veins, but a small patch of anger bubbled up from the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was the police. People were supposed to listen to what she said, and do it. She was the one with the badge and the-

Carson drew her pistol and stepped toward the driver. She leveled it at his face, her jaw set. “Don’t move!” she said. “You are under arrest!”

The man blinked at her, no fear registering on his flat mien. Carson could feel the tension ratcheting up. Battaglia stood absolutely still.

“Take him into custody,” she directed.

Battaglia took a step toward the driver. Almost as a single creature, the surrounding men took a step forward as well.

Battaglia stopped. The driver smiled at Carson. “So maybe you can to see now?”

Carson licked her lips and swallowed, but she held her gun steady at the man’s chest. “Don’t move,” she said again.

“Or vaht?” he said. “You will shoot me for speeding ticket? I not think so.”

Carson stared at him, struggling to think what to do. The driver stepped toward her until his chest pressed the muzzle of her gun. “Shoot,” he urged her quietly. “Shoot me, you little suka.”

Carson’s finger twitched, but she knew she couldn’t do it. Her mind raced for options. All of this over a traffic ticket?

Battaglia’s hand moved to his radio. The driver fixed Battaglia with a deadly stare. “You call for more police?” he asked, then shook his head. “You do that, they no get here soon enough. Not for you two.”

Battaglia lowered his hand.

“Good,” the Russian said. “Bad for you to end up in hell tonight.”

Battaglia drew his gun and held it to his side. “So how many of you fucks are coming with me?” he growled.

The driver chuckled. “None, I think. Not tonight.” He turned away and walked back to his gold Honda.

Carson tracked his movement with her gun, but kept her finger off the trigger.

He’s right, she thought. I can’t shoot him for a speeding ticket.

All of the other men fell back and got into their respective cars. A moment later, the two cars pulled away and sped up the road, the taillights dwindling in the distance.

Carson stood still for a moment. The whirring of her patrol car’s rotator lights and the clacking of Battaglia’s flashers filled her ears. Then her hands began to shake. She put her gun back into her holster carefully, snapping the security clasps into place with trembling fingers.

Battaglia stood bathed in the red, white, and blue of their emergency lights, his pistol still clenched in his hand at his side.

Carson turned away and turned off the emergency equipment. When she looked again, she saw that Battaglia had done the same. He slid into the driver’s seat of his car.

“Clear your stop,” he said abruptly, “and meet me in the church parking lot two blocks south.” Then he goosed the accelerator and sped away down Post.

Carson nodded. She was unsure if he was angry at her or at the situation. She got back into her car and typed the appropriate clearance code into her mobile data terminal. Then she dropped the car into gear and followed Battaglia.

His car was in the center of the empty church parking lot. His headlights were off, but the parking lights were on. She glided in next to him, putting their windows right next to each other.

Battaglia’s eyes burned. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

Carson started to nod, then half-shrugged. The beginnings of tears prickled at her eyes and she tried to force the emotion aside.

“Scared?” he asked.

She nodded.

He nodded back. “Holy shit. Me, too.”

“It didn’t show,” she said, remembering his bold statement.

So how many of you fucks are coming with me?

He took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah, well, you can never let that show. Not ever.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Son of a bitch. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Never?”

He met her eyes, then shook his head resolutely. “No. Do you know what just happened there?”

Carson swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just what I said. Do you know what the situation was?”

She didn’t sense any frustration in his voice. “I think,” she said, “that if we would have forced the issue by arresting the driver, his friends would have jumped in.”

Battaglia nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m sure of it. Only I don’t know if all they would have done is jump in. I think that there were guns that we just didn’t see yet.”

“So we did the right thing?” Carson asked.

“Yeah,” Battaglia whispered. “We did the smart thing. It was either let them go or get into a gun fight over a traffic ticket.” He paused. “Fuck!”

“Should we call a sergeant?” She figured Sergeant Shen would want to know about this. Plus, other officers should be aware.

“No!” Battaglia snapped.

The force of his voice made her jump. The shock broke loose her pent-up emotions. The tears of fear and anger welled up in her eyes, burst, and flowed down her cheeks. She looked away in shame.

“I’m… I’m sorry, B.J.,” Battaglia said, his voice softer.

She turned back to face him. “Why don’t we call a sergeant?”

Battaglia sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe we do. But if people hear about this, we’re going to get Monday morning quarterbacked to death. Everyone is going to wonder how we just let those two cars drive away like that.”

“But it’s like you said,” Carson argued. “It was either that or-”

“It doesn’t matter. Cops are critical. They’ll eat us alive.”

“I still don’t see-”

“Just trust me,” Battaglia said. “I’ve got enough juice to maybe survive this kind of hit to my reputation, but you’re…”

He paused.

“I’m a rookie,” Carson finished for him.

“Yeah,” Battaglia answered, but she could see there was more.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Plus you’re a woman.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What, you want to live in make-believe land where that particular fact doesn’t matter? You know exactly what I mean. It’s why you didn’t ask for a third car.”

Carson didn’t reply.

“We have to sit on this,” Battaglia said. “We have to keep it a secret.”

“I don’t know…”

Battaglia shot her a hard glare. “What’s to know? You want this for your rep?”

“No,” she answered. “But don’t we have a responsibility to the other cops out here? So they know what might happen?”

“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “We do.”

“Then we have to tell a sergeant so that-”

“You just let me worry about that part, okay, rookie?”

Carson stopped short. Battaglia’s words should have seemed cutting, but there was a softness to the tone. She hesitated, taking a deep breath and running her fingers through her hair. She didn’t want people on the job to think she was weak. She couldn’t afford that. But what could she have done differently? What could any of them have done?

She knew Battaglia was right. Away from the actual event, most of them would come up with a solution. They’d feel superior to her. And they’d think badly of her. After all, if she couldn’t even control a simple traffic stop, what good was she as a cop?

“I’ll take care of it, B.J.,” Battaglia said quietly.

She believed him.

“Trust me,” he whispered.

“Okay,” she whispered back.