Cold Hit

Chapter 20

Zack was standing with his back to the window. He looked awful. Bloodshot eyes, purple nose, saffron cheeks. His swollen jowls were flush with the tropical colors of sunset. Making it worse, he was holding forth in front of six detectives on the worthlessness of task forces. "You bunch a ass-wipes couldn't find dog shit at the pound."

I walked over and grabbed him by the elbow. "Hey, Zack, come here. I need to show you something."

He pulled away. "Juss' splainin' what lame shit this is," he slurred.

Agent Orange was only a few minutes behind me. If he saw Zack in this condition it was over. But my partner was a big man who wasn't easy to corral under normal circumstances. Drunk, he was impossible. So I screwed my heels into the floor and let him have my best right cross. He wasn't expecting it and at the last second, turned into the punch. The sound bounced off the walls in the squad room, cracking like a leather bullwhip.

Zack fell forward, landing across somebody's new window desk, scattering pencils, pictures and a charging cell phone. He was stunned, but not out. I reached around behind my back, grabbed the cuffs off my belt, and slipped them on his bandaged wrists. Then, with a throbbing right hand, I straightened him up. A line of bloody drool was coming out of the corner of his mouth. These last few days had taken a heavy toll. I'd just added to the mess by splitting his lip.

I turned to the room full of startled cops wearing various expressions of jaw dropping disbelief.

"This guy is a vet with an outstanding record. I'm begging you people to forget what you just saw. He's going through a rough time. A divorce, a bankruptcy. . cut him some slack."

I helped Zack to his feet.

"Why'd ya hit me, man?" he mumbled.

"To shut you up. Come on, we got people to see." "Wha' people?"

I led him out of the temporary task force area into the bathroom across from the elevator, getting him inside just seconds before I heard Agent Orange in the lobby. I leaned Zack against the sink, his hands still cuffed behind him. Then I wet some paper towels and held them up to the fresh cut on his lip.

"You gotta get outta here, Zack. Don't come back till you're sober."

"'S my new unit," he said dully. "Don't wanta get gigged on some bullshit nonperformance write-up."

"You're drunk. The fed running this detail's a total nutsack."

"Don't wanta stay at my place, can't stay at Fran's or my brother's. Hadda borrow his Harley. Fucker 'said he's gonna report it stolen."

"Zack, will you shut up and come with me?" "Get these damn cuffs off," he finally said, softly.

I reached around and unhooked them with my key. "Where we going?"

"To throw ourselves on the mercy of the sixth floor. His big Irish face creased into a frown.

I found my wife in her office and left Zack sitting outside, breathing scotch on her assistant, Ellen.

"What is it?" Alexa said, looking up at me as I came through the door.

She was going over the monthly crime reports for the five detective bureaus. It was not an encouraging picture. Violent crime categories were up and clearance rates were down. That could largely be explained because there were not enough detectives to adequately cover the growing number of homicides. But commanders and deputy chiefs are notoriously deaf when it comes to down-trending job performance numbers. Alexa had to attend the bimonthly COMSTAT meeting and defend her clearance record. That meeting was scheduled for tomorrow. She looked impatient and worried.

"How'd the funeral go?" she said, her eyes still on the printouts, not giving me her full attention.

I pushed past that question, closed the door, and crossed to her desk.

"Honey, I haven't asked you for anything since you got this job but I'm about to break that rule."

"Please don't," she said looking at me with new, hard-edged determination.

I was her husband, and at home, there wasn't much we couldn't find a way to agree on. But we had carefully defined our two worlds. On the job she was my boss and we always found a way to keep it completely professional.

"Zack?" she asked, wearily.

I nodded.

She pushed the stack of crime stats aside and rubbed her eyes for a minute before looking up. The expression that formed when her hands came away was polite disinterest. This wasn't going to be easy.

"I've been giving this a lot of thought," I started by saying. "I owe this guy. We both owe him."

"How do I owe him? I never really knew him all that well until you two partnered up, and I'm just finding out he was already a big time lush by then. He needs a twelve step program."

"You owe him because he saved me. If he hadn't been there for me in the Valley, then there would be no us. I know he's behaving badly and something is going really wrong inside him, but I can't just walk away."

"Let's get something straight. Zack Farrell is only one of two hundred detectives under my command. If I give him a pass, or look the other way, how in the name of God, can I drop the hammer on the next drunk who Ambles through here? We have citizens to protect. This is a violent city." She pushed the crime stats across the desk toward me. "I'm supposed to be a firewall between all this and the law-abiding citizens we protect. How do I do that if I don't maintain guidelines and standards?"

"Honey, don't preach the police manual at me."

She just stared.

"Okay, look. It's complicated, but here's my problem. I'm not sure I really knew Zack back then. I was so out of it, I wasn't focused on much. Now that I am, I'm not sure I like what I see. But as a man, I can't accept what I accepted from him back then and not give something back. This is a debt and I've got to find some answer I can live with or it will change the way I view myself."

She considered this, then sighed loudly. "Where is he?"

"Right outside your door. He's drunk. Just got through cussing out half the task force. For all I know, one of them has already given him up to Underwood. The whole thing is out of control, but I've gotta try. He might be suicidal. I can't just stand around and watch him auger in."

She looked at me for a moment before picking up her phone and dialing a number.

"This is Lieutenant Scully in the Detective Bureau. Notify the Psychiatric section I want a two-man team to come to my office and pick up one of my detectives. I'm ordering a three-day hospital evaluation." She waited, then said, "He's undergoing extreme stress, both marital and financial, possibly suicidal. I want him held in the secure wing at Queen of Angels until you can make a determination. All reports on his condition are to be released only to my office." She waited again, then said, "Thanks."

She hung up and fixed me with one of her no-bullshitall-business stares. "This puts him in the system, Shane.

If he flunks the psych review, he's gonna get flagged. All this does is take him out of action for three days and keep him from doing something foolish. Maybe he comes back to us or maybe he gets marked unfit for duty. If that happens, he gets the gate."

"With a medical waiver he could go out on early retirement without affecting his pension."

"That would be up to Tony, the Commission, and the Bureau of Professional Standards," which was our new media-friendly name for Internal Affairs. I could see she was angry. "This isn't the way it's supposed to work," she added.

Thirty minutes later, two psychiatric paramedics arrived. Zack was led into the elevator. Just before the door closed, he turned and looked at me, a stunned, betrayed expression on his swollen face.