Plugged

CHAPTER 10

I try to stay focused on the drive back to Jersey, but the smooth ride is comforting and my mind begins to wander.

I keep saying that I’m not big on flashbacks, but whenever my mind blurs, the Lebanon is always there. Sky filled with streaking rockets, mangled shards of metal constantly raining from above. Everything was pockmarked by shrapnel. Everything. Mahogany-skinned old men on their stoops shooting the breeze like it was same-old same-old. Which it probably was.

I remember one French guy whose claim to fame was a dick the size of a baguette. This boast was put to the test one day when we came across a dog fight arena and. .

Macey Barrett’s phone rings and I nearly jump out of my skin when the car automatically picks up its Bluetooth signal and transfers the call to the Toyota’s sound system.

‘Daniel?’

‘Holy Mary!’ I blurt, which is a pretty accurate impersonation of a Christian Brother I used to do back in the eighties. Still pops out every now and then in times of stress.

Faber’s laughter is distorted by the speaker. ‘For you, I’m Holy Mary, God, Jesus and the Easter Bunny all rolled into one.’

I recover myself a little. ‘Faber. How’s it hanging, Jaryd? Good day in court pointing the shit out of everything?’

Faber’s not laughing now. ‘I point for emphasis, that’s all.’

‘You point all the bloody time. It doesn’t mean anything you do it so much. It’s like a tic. I’m telling you, Faber, that’s why you never win anything at the tables.’

Silence for a moment. All I can hear is the discreet growl of the engine and the asphalt joins bumping under the wheels.

The heartbeat of the road.

Faber gets over his pointing sulk. ‘Have you got the product?’

‘Two barrels of it. I hope you have secure storage.’

‘Two fucking barrels? Where am I going to put two barrels?’

‘Hey. I can dump one, no problem.’

‘No. I can store it. I wasn’t expecting two barrels. A briefcase maybe.’

‘This is steroids, Faber, not heroin. There must be half a million doses here.’

Faber whistles. ‘Those steroid guys really work for their money. The mark-up would make a crack dealer piss himself laughing.’

‘Faber, this wouldn’t be you trying to weasel out of giving me my fifty large? Because if that’s the case I can drive this truck to any one of a dozen people I know.’

‘That would be a bad idea, Daniel.’

‘Tell me why, arsehole.’

So he tells me. ‘Because your buddy Deacon, she’s already gone in the freezer.’

My stomach sinks.

‘Okay, dickhead. You watch your little screen and you’ll see me coming.’

‘I better see you coming fast. It’s cold in that freezer.’

I hate this guy and I wish he was dead.

Faber’s playing it cool, but he must be sweating over his decision to send me for the steroids. Even with a monitor on my ankle I’m a wild card and he knows it. Greed made him hasty and now he’s had an entire day to think about the possible consequences. I bet that pointing monkey just cannot wait to roll me into the freezer beside Ronelle, and start peddling his steroids outside health clubs all over New Jersey.

I drive slow, keeping to the speed limit, with the radio tuned to local travel news, in case there’s a pile-up on the motorway I need to avoid. Accidents mean blues, and this pick-up screams drug money.

Traffic is light and there’s a sweeping mist scything past the streetlight beams. All those little drops, like half a million twinkling steroid pills.

I drive on without seeing a single cruiser, in spite of our mayor’s road-safety drive, and in a couple of hours I’m back on good old I-95, cruising past monolithic Borders and Pottery Barns, past giant empty parking lots and all-night diners. I am envious of the people inside in their cocoon of light, enjoying the simple pleasure of some late eggs or a coffee refill. Not that I’m hungry yet, with the congealed lump of Mexican takeaway melting slowly in my stomach acid.

Christ. When you’re inside a diner you wanna be outside and when you’re outside you wanna get back in. What are you, schizo?

I’m talking to you, aren’t I?

By three thirty I’m bumping my tyres down the Cloisters off ramp and swinging a wide arc into the bus station car park. I have to look hard to find a young hood selling pot. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think this sleepy town had no hostess-killing lawyers living in it. I cut across empty spaces in the car park and pull in behind the dumpsters, beside a certain white Lexus that I had hoped never to see again.

No doubt Faber’s computer will pick up this unscheduled stop, but he’s not going to risk shocking me now with all this junk in the trunk. If he calls, I’ll tell him I’m filling up at the twenty-four-hour pumps.

It could be true. Long Island is a long way from New Jersey, and the pumps are fifty feet away.

The engine is still ticking when Faber calls.

‘I got my finger on the button here, McEvoy.’

‘Come on, boss. I need gas,’ I tell him. ‘Five minutes’ delay. Maybe seven if I grab a coffee. Check your doodad, there’s a Texaco here.’

I imagine Faber pointing at the phone. ‘Gas? You couldn’t drive another four miles?’

‘You pointing at the phone, Jaryd?’ This pointing thing is a great needle and I am going to work it to death. ‘I thought I heard a rush of air. Like a ninja thing. You a ninja pointer, Faber?’

I hear a crackling noise, like Faber’s snorting into the phone. ‘That little remark just cost your detective friend two degrees of heat. That raincoat won’t keep her warm in the freezer, especially since I got it here in my hand. What the hell were you two doing before you came over here? She’s only wearing purple panties and a raincoat. Tell me why you really pulled over, Daniel.’

‘I’ve been running on fumes for the past half-hour. The goddamn on-board computer is telling me I have a radius of two miles. So I am filling the hell up, unless you want the real cops to get hold of your steroids.’

‘And?’

‘What do you mean, and?’

‘I am sensing an and here, McEvoy. Do you want to tell me what it is, or, should I just go ahead and turn the thermostat down as low as it can go? See if we can’t freeze Deacon’s lingerie right off.’

So I give him an and, but not the real and. ‘Okay. All right. Take it easy. I picked up a few weapons from my locker in the bus station on the way out, and now I’m dropping them off. I bring ’em over to your place and they get confiscated, right?’

The secret to a good lie is to bury it in truth.

‘What’ve you got there?’ asks Faber, playing it cool like he could tell the difference between a Gatling gun and a Colt.45.

‘I got two phasers and a fart ray. What do you care? You’re getting your steroids. Maybe you should take a couple of them yourself, beef up that pointing finger.’

I can’t help it. It’s a curse.

‘Five minutes,’ says Faber gruffly, then hangs up.

I squeeze the steering wheel until the leather groans, then laugh a long, jagged laugh that chops at my throat like an axe hacking on a steak. When the fit passes, I buzz down the window and spit into the night.

You okay now? asks Ghost Zeb.

Yep. Fine. Peachy.

Just over seven minutes later, what I had to do has been done and I’m pulling around back of The Brass Ring thinking that the parking lot seems a little placid without canaries and praying I didn’t get any blood on my clothes.

One of Faber’s guys, Wilbur, is on the ramp cracking his knuckles, and I’m having a little chuckle over his shit-kicker name when I remember how eager Wilbur was to shoot Goran in the face. I’m thinking that Wilbur got teased a little too often in the schoolyard and is taking revenge on the world.

Wilbur throws me a nod that speaks volumes. Not good hey, McEvoy, let’s go grab a Cobb salad volumes, more see what I did to Goran? Well you’re next kind of volumes. I’ve had so many security guys giving me the hard face over the past few days that it’s getting kind of comical. I wonder, is that how the world sees me?

Bald and comical, says Ghost Zeb. That’s it exactly.

Screw you, Zebulon Kronski. Stay fucked, why don’t you?

Hey, come on. I’m kidding. Can’t a guy kid?

Keep a civil tongue in your head. No more bald cracks after all the money I paid you.

Understood.

It better be.

Wilbur comes down the ramp and is half trotting beside the Hilux before the vehicle comes to a full stop. I step on the gas a little just to piss him off, then reverse to the ramp.

‘What the fuck you doing?’ he huffs when I step down from the cab.

‘Sorry, Wilbur man. Overshot. Big truck, you know.’

Wilbur rests a ham hand on the wing mirror. ‘Where’s the stuff?’

That deserves an eye-roll. ‘Where’s the stuff? You see the two enormous white barrels in the back. What do you think?’

Wilbur pats something. Either his heart or a shoulder holster.

‘I wouldn’t play smart with me, Irish. I really wouldn’t.’

It’s too much. I can’t take it. So I punch that leaning-over bastard just as hard as I can in the kidney. Something splits inside him and my injured knuckle sings like a saw-fiddle.

Wilbur goes down gasping, wishing it was five seconds ago and he had kept his mouth shut.

‘You are a dick,’ I say, sparing time for a short lecture. ‘And a murderer. Of women. A female murdering dick. That’s why I burst your kidney. And also so you won’t be able to shoot me later, because of all the pain and internal bleeding.’

Wilbur chooses not to rebut, so I go on about my business.

There is a double drum caddy in the bay, which is handy. I won’t even have to make two trips. I roll and grunt the barrels on to the caddy and shoulder them up the ramp.

The club is quiet now. It’s a week night, so the entire zip code is still as the grave at this hour, except Wilbur, who’s writhing on the ground like an ageing break-dancer. I take a deep breath and wheel the caddy into the club itself, making sure to leave the doors ajar behind me. I trundle down a hallway with red velveteen wallpaper and brass portholes. If Faber was going for the Liberace’s yacht look, then he’s got it spot on. I didn’t notice much about the decor the last time I came in the back way on account of my body being full of all this extra electricity.

In between the portholes, the walls are lined with signed pictures of celebrities. As far as I can make out, these are stock head shots with nothing to suggest that Kevin Costner frequents The Brass Ring. This guy Faber just gets classier by the second.

I hear voices at the end of the corridor and so I trundle the caddy that way. It’s either Faber down there or the cleaning staff; I am almost past caring. My entire existence is getting a little dreamlike and I feel bulletproof and doomed at the same time.

I barge through the kitchen door, barrels first, catching Faber in the middle of an anecdote. Two of his guys are gathered round laughing heartily like he’s Bill Cosby in his heyday. While I’m waiting for the hilarity to end, I spot an AirPort wi-fi base station plugged into a socket by the door and I nudge it out with the caddy’s wheel.

‘So the guy gets off with eighteen months suspended,’ says Faber, raising his hands for the punchline. ‘And I get paid by all parties.’ Everybody laughs on cue, and one of those ass-licking goons goes so far as to repeat the punchline and wipe a tear. Shameless.

Faber lets the laughter die to let me know how unconcerned he is by this whole thing. He deals with bigger fish than me every day.

‘You finished, Jaryd?’ I ask him testily, pushing the caddy to the centre of the room. ‘You want to let the lady out of the freezer now?’

Faber turns around, making a big show out of being surprised that I’m even there.

‘Hey, Dan. Is that the time? Shit, I’ve been telling the guys a couple of war stories here, forgot all about our little situation.’ He suddenly spots the massive barrels in the middle of his kitchen and claps his hands. ‘You brought me a present.’

I keep on pretending that I’m doing this for the money. ‘You got one for me? Fifty thousand ones.’

Faber drops a huge wink at his boys. ‘Yeah, sure. I got your present right here. Why don’t we just have a look at my pills first?’

I push the caddy towards Faber’s biggest guy and he has to do a nimble little shuffle to save his toes.

‘Knock yourself out.’

Faber has his three guys get to work. One covers me with a pistol, another gives me the brisk-frisk while the third tips a barrel from its perch and pops the security lid. The drum’s mouth glows and the guy’s double chin is swabbed by crescents of blue light.

‘Holy fuck,’ he says. ‘This shit is radioactive.’

Faber digs his arm in deep and lets the pills run through his fingers, like he’s a pirate feeling up his doubloons. This is the point where my what I like to call plan could have been seriously derailed, but I got away with it. It was fifty-fifty and I picked the right fifty.

‘Score,’ he says.

‘Score,’ I say. ‘You like MTV, Jaryd?’

I might as well needle him. We both know what’s coming. At least what he thinks is coming.

Faber opens his mouth to give the word, then has a thought that disturbs him. ‘Where’s Wilbur?’

‘Why’s that, Jaryd? You told him to bring up the rear?’

‘I asked you where Wilbur was.’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know, exactly. Not to the precise inch.’

Faber hurls a handful of pills back into the drum. ‘You prick, McEvoy. He better not be dead.’

‘Or what. You’ll kill me twice?’

The attorney’s grin is sly. ‘Kill you? Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because you better. I know about you and Connie, and I tried the cops once already but it didn’t work. Next time I’m gonna do the job myself.’

Faber acts frustrated. ‘Why are we still talking about that stripper? Screw it. I’m not wasting my time arguing with a dead guy.’

He walks to his laptop, arms swinging to let me know he means business. The guy is going to shock me again. I knew he would, he enjoyed it so much the last times.

‘Why don’t you lie down for a while?’ he says, which sounds rehearsed, and hits return.

The bracelet’s signal is activated, and on cue I fall to the ground gibbering. I feel embarrassed shaking and dribbling like that, but it should buy me a minute.

I feel a powerful urge to sit up and explain to Faber that even a child knows you can’t send an internet signal without a wireless transmitter, but I swallow it down and keep spasming.

A good thing too, because a couple of seconds after I hit the floor, things start happening pretty fast.

The first sign of trouble is the elongated whip snap of a pistol shot echoing down the corridor.

That’s Wilbur gone to meet his maker, I reckon.

So what? That arsehole shot Goran. Maybe he killed Connie too, so I won’t be shedding any tears.

Faber jumps up on his toes like a ballet dancer.

‘What the hell was that?’

‘Gunshot,’ says one of his guys, answering literally what he was asked.

Even though a shell has just popped outside, Faber takes time to turn on his own guy. ‘I know it was a goddamn gunshot, Abner. I fucking know that much.’

Abner? Abner and Wilbur? You cannot be serious.

Abner has his gun in a two-handed grip, pointed down between his toes. It’s a big gun and he’s a big man, but his brow is twisted like a child’s.

‘I guess you prob’ly did know that, Mister Faber.’

And predictably the pointing starts. ‘Go find out who fired that shot.’

Abner scoots out the door, and I am guessing he’s not coming back.

I take all of this in from my low vantage point. I’m not bothering to shake any more, but no one notices. I shift my gaze to the freezer and see the needle is way down in the blue.

There isn’t much time left.

A couple more shots crack outside the door and the wall thuds and buckles like a rhino ran into it.

That’s Abner gone.

Two left now, including Faber. I could probably take them, but then I’d have to take whatever’s coming in from outside. Better to move myself out of the equation.

I flip on to my elbows and crawl quickly towards the freezer head down like I’ve been taught. Faber is shouting something but it’s just panic. You would think a lawyer would know to dial nine-one-one, but he’s not capable of putting a plan together. I almost feel sorry for what I’ve unleashed on him.

Footsteps thunder along the corridor outside, moving towards the door, inevitable as a tidal wave. I pop on to my haunches and thumb the thermostat into the red, for all the good that will do. It will take minutes for this old freezer to shake itself awake. But it’s better than nothing.

I snap the steel handle open and roll inside through the hiss and steam. Two seconds later, the weighted door clunks shut behind me. The sound makes me wince, but it’s for the best. Inside is definitely better than outside for the moment.

Ronelle is strapped on the trolley, white as a marble statue, frosted like a birthday cake, parked carelessly in a forest of frozen carcasses.

So she’s a marble statue birthday cake. . in a forest.

Not now, Zeb. Really.

The buckles holding her down are cold and unnecessary. The detective is alive, but weak as a newborn and vibrating gently with the thrumm of deep cold. I throw off her straps and cover as much of her torso as I can with my jacket. Any bits sticking out, I rub briskly with my hands.

‘Don’t get any ideas, Ronnie,’ I tell her. ‘Just warming you up. No funny stuff.’

I move around the trolley and bump it over to the door with my hip so I can peek through the window. There is an emergency intercom set into the wall, and I lean over to press the switch with my forehead. Noise floods the freezer like a wave.

The porthole is frosted with crystals and streaked with grease, and it feels like I’m watching the outside world on an old gas-tube TV.

Four men have crashed into the kitchen beyond, securing the room for the arrival of the fifth. These men look good, but not great. Not ex-military, that’s for sure. There are holes in their positions that a five-year-old basketball player could dribble through.

Still. In their favour, they have a pretty fair selection of guns between them. Mostly automatics, but I spot a couple of old-fashioned revolvers too.

‘We’re better off in here,’ I whisper to Deacon, who has one eye open and is glaring at me like I’m an alien.

‘McEvoy,’ she chatters, much to my relief. ‘I was wrong. We gotta call it in now.’

Now we gotta call it in?

‘No need for that. The cops are coming soon, one way or another.’

Outside, a man trots into the room like he’s coming on stage in Vegas. A big guy, face a road map of burst corpuscles, soft cap pulled down over one eye. I know who this is. We’ve had text.

‘Irish Mike Madden,’ I whisper to Deacon, who has managed to crank the other eye open.

‘Where’s my gun?’ is her response to this news. Reasonable in the circumstances.

‘Not here. Be quiet.’

Deacon wants to object, but she’s out of energy for the moment and it is all she can do to scowl at me.

Mike Madden does a little shuffle along the carpet, all the time smiling, and comes to a stop with an arm-waving flourish.

‘Counsellor,’ he says to Faber, who is doing his damnedest not to fall down.

‘M. . Mike,’ he stammers. ‘Mister Madden. What are you. . What brings you here?’

I love these guys. Still holding on to the civil façade when there’s men dying or dead in the corridor.

Mike taps his chin, like he has to think about Faber’s question.

‘One of my guys is missing, laddie,’ he says finally. ‘I sent him on a job to a pill shop and he never came back.’

Faber straightens his tie, breathing a little better. This is all a misunderstanding.

‘Mike. I know this is your town, everybody knows it. I would never. .’

Madden talks right over him. ‘I sent him to a pill shop. And here you are with a couple of barrels. Full of pills, are they?’

‘Not your pills. Not yours, Mike. How stupid do you think I am?’

Mike sighs, like the truth makes him sad. ‘Money makes people stupid, laddie. That’s life.’

Faber scoops a handful of blue pills from the open barrel. ‘Steroids is all, Mike. Just steroids. Not your territory. No profit in them hardly.’

‘Is that so?’ Mike dances across to the barrel, casually slapping Faber’s final guy on the cheek on his way past. ‘Let’s have a little look-see.’ He tips the barrel, sending thousands of blue pills bobbling across the floor. Faber pulls one foot up, like it’s piranha-infested water coming his way.

‘Whaddya know. You weren’t lying. Just pills is all.’

And suddenly Madden’s smile disappears. ‘Open the other barrel, counsellor.’

Faber is a smart guy. He gets it then.

‘Oh, Christ. I see. There’s a. . I got an explanation for you. Probably. .’

Mike pulls out his cell phone, navigating through the touch-screen menus.

‘So I’m enjoying a late-night bottle of Jameson with my little colleen, when this text message comes through.’ He tosses the phone to Faber, who lets it drip through his hands a few times before he gets a grip. ‘Read it for me.’

Faber reads it to himself first, and whatever blood is in his face drains out of it.

‘Jesus,’ he breathes. ‘Oh God.’

‘Out loud!’ roars Mike, suddenly on his tiptoes. ‘Out loud, you crooked ginger bastard.’

He clicks his fingers and one of his guys drops Faber’s man with a single shot. The man dies quiet, sliding down the wall with no change of expression.

Faber drops the phone and starts crying.

‘Pick it up.’

This is difficult for Faber to comprehend. All his life he’s been talking people out of trouble, and now suddenly here’s this immovable object.

‘Pick up the goddamn phone.’

Faber falls to his knees and has to clasp the phone in both hands before he can steady it enough to make out what’s on the screen.

‘Now, if you’d be so kind. .’

And Faber reads the message in a hitching voice, filled with fear and phlegm.

‘I’m in a barrel at The Brass Ring. Bleeding real bad. Faber did this. .’ The lawyer stops, unable to finish.

‘And. .’

‘Please, Mike. I didn’t do this.’

‘Read the fucking rest of it.’

Faber takes a few deep breaths. ‘It says. . It says. .’

Mike can’t wait any longer. ‘It says: If I die, kill the forker. That’s what it says. Kill the forker.’ He laughs. ‘Forker. Predictive text.’

Faber makes a desperate appeal for his life. ‘There’s this guy. On the floor back there. Covered in his own shit, probably. He did this. All of it.’

Mike makes a big show of looking around. ‘Nope. No shit-covered mystery guy. You’re in the dock for this, counsellor.’

‘But he was there. You have to believe me. I’m telling you the truth.’

Mike sighs. ‘This is a whole lotta hoopla for not much there-there.’

I suppose if you’re as powerful as Mike, what you say doesn’t always have to make complete sense, though the hoopla there-there phrase has a ring to it.

‘Open the barrel, lads.’

Two of Mike’s men yank on the lid until one of the teeth gives; the rest relinquish their grip and the barrel yawns open like a lazy crocodile. They pat around in the surface pills for a while until Mike grows impatient for his big moment.

‘Tip it,’ he commands.

‘Don’t. Please.’ Faber is begging. Maybe that should give me some satisfaction, but it doesn’t. Staying alive is all I want out of this.

Mike’s boys put their shoulders into the barrel and it teeters past the point of no return, bouncing and skittering across the floor, spilling out a fan of pills and the corpse of Macey Barrett. He comes to rest at Madden’s feet, pools of blue pills in his eye sockets and mouth.

Faber screams and screams like he’s seeing his own death, which of course he is.

‘Oh, please,’ says Irish Mike in disgust, and suddenly there is a gun in his fist.

Faber holds up his hand to ward off the bullets, but Mike has already pulled the trigger. The bullet takes off Faber’s pointing finger, then continues, barely deflected, into the attorney’s heart.

Faber clutches his chest, a final scream leaking out of him, takes a step backwards on to the spread of pills. His final act is an ignominious pratfall, then he’s dead on the floor.

Mike kneels beside Macey Barrett and is about to touch him, when one of his guys coughs gently.

‘Uh, boss. Trace.’

Mike pulls back his fingers. ‘Yeah. Good. Thanks, Calvin. Always looking out for me.’

He pockets his gun, then gives the room a quick scan, looking for cameras, I’m guessing. I draw back from the freezer porthole and squat under the glass, just breathing and waiting. Deacon is coming around now, muttering to herself, mostly stuff about me, most of it bad.

I peek through the porthole again and the only people in that room are corpses.

I see dead people, jokes Zeb.

Yep. Me too. Far too often.

You had Mike Madden out there and you never asked him about me.

There’s a time and place, Zeb. And that wasn’t it.

I feel a sense of victory that I’m not proud of. My plan was full of holes, but nobody fell into them. Two birds with one bullet. Faber has paid the price for murdering Connie and Irish Mike is no longer on the hunt for Barrett’s killer. Home free.

That’s really great. I’m happy for you.

One thing at a time, Zeb. I still got problems.

One of my problems groans and attempts to sit up. I wedge my forearm under her head and try for a tender smile.

‘Hey, Ronnie. How you doing?’

‘Who the fuck are you? Joey Tribbiani? And what’s that weird look you’re giving me?’

I drop the tender smile. ‘Let’s get you off that trolley, Detective. The bust of your career is outside that door.’

Deacon flaps her palm against the freezer.

‘What? The locked steel door?’

I sit her upright, pulling my jacket tight around her shoulders.

‘Have a little faith, Deacon. It’s a freezer, not Fort Knox.’

There’s a seal around the porthole, which peels off easily once I get a nail underneath it. Most modern freezers have a safety latch on the inside in case anyone gets trapped, but just as Faber said there’s a plate welded over this one.

Still, it’s just a door with a basic lock. A lot less complicated than your average automobile door.

I reach down inside my pants.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

I pull out the slim jim taped to my leg. ‘For your information, I’m gonna jimmy-jang the lock. Thinking ahead, Ronnie. That’s the secret.’

‘Yeah, you’re a regular Nostradamus-seeing-into-the-future-motherfucker.’

This might not be the time to ask for a second date. I think I preferred Detective Ronelle Deacon when she was blue and frozen.

I feed the thin steel band into the door’s innards through the slit vacated by the seal. A good carjacker could pop this door in under a dozen seconds, but it takes me half a minute. I feel the latch cord tugging the steel band and I can’t resist a wink at Ronelle before I yank it open.

‘Show-off,’ she says, but she’s smiling and I think that maybe there’s a future where she’s not trying to kill me. Maybe.

Deacon tries to slap me off, but I carry her out into the kitchen. Freezer steam floods out behind us like London fog.

‘Christ,’ breathes the detective, and I realise that this is probably her first glimpse of carnage. ‘Whose fault is all of this? Ours?’

I prop her on a high-backed stool. ‘Goran was dealing drugs,’ I tell her. ‘She had a scam going with Faber ripping off dealers. Faber murdered my friend too.’ I clasp her shoulders firmly, making steady eye contact. ‘They were always heading towards this. None of it is our fault.’

Deacon does not avert her eyes. ‘I think maybe a lot of it is your fault, Dan. But I don’t know how.’

A siren sounds in the distance. Coming closer.

‘Finally, a concerned citizen,’ says Deacon. ‘I was starting to believe that there weren’t any left.’

Bad timing, I haven’t had time to drill a story into her.

‘Listen, Ronelle. We have shady circumstances here. Very dubious. You have to tell Internal Affairs something they want to hear or both of us will be taking a trip to State.’

Deacon’s brow furrows, cracking the ice on there. ‘I gotta tell the truth, Dan. There’s no other way. I’m still police.’

‘There are bullets from your gun in your partner. Who’s to say that you’re not the bent detective and Goran died trying to take you down? At the very least your career is over for not calling this in last night. At most you get nailed for murder one.’

It makes sense, but will Deacon see it in time? That siren is awfully close.

‘What do you suggest?’

Thank Christ.

‘You got an anonymous tip about Faber on the DeLyne murder, which is true. You came over to find a drug deal in progress. They got the jump on you, shot your partner and locked you in the freezer. You got out and made them pay for shooting a cop.‘

Deacon’s eyebrows go up and snow flutters down her cheeks. ‘What? All of them?’

‘Hey. You’re Ronelle Deacon. You were pissed. I’d believe it.’

Deacon wrings her fingers, getting the blood flowing. ‘Okay, lemme think.’ She wrings for another second. ‘Right, that’s the stupidest bucket-of-pigshit plan that I ever heard. You know how long it’s gonna take IA to tear that into confetti? What? You hate me, McEvoy. Is that it?’

‘Hey, take it easy, Ronelle. I got feelings.’

‘So, Officer Deacon, you bust out of a freezer in your French under things, unarmed, and kill like a hundred guys. Jesus Christ.’

The sirens are closer; I think I hear tyres squealing. ‘It sounded better when I said it. You’re using mocking voices and stuff.’

While she’s thinking, Ronelle paws at an automatic in the sink, picking it up with fingers that are still white.

‘That’s probably loaded, Ronnie. Just so you know.’

She twists her frozen finger around the stock. ‘Loaded. Okay. Christ, I hope my spazzy fingers don’t accidentally shoot someone.’

I swallow drily. ‘Okay. Funny. Now I got to get going.’

The automatic is pointed roughly at my groin. ‘I’m supposed to let you walk?’

I try to look earnest and good. ‘Come on, Deacon. I’m just a complication. If I disappear, all is right in the world.’

The siren is right out front. Red light swings across the roof through the blinds. I start tapping my foot; can’t help it. The foot-tapping jiggles my anklet, so I quickly saw through the strap with a handy cleaver.

‘You look like shit, McEvoy,’ comments Deacon as I work.

‘Guy tagged me when I was trying to save your life for the second time,’ I say picking up Barett’s phone which I have become attached to.

I hope I didn’t overplay the hero thing. Doesn’t matter really, because any Brownie points I might have accumulated are about to be wiped out.

‘Yep, so anyways, I gotta put you back in the freezer,’ I say, stuffing the anklet in my pocket.

Deacon’s face says what the fuck?

‘My plan was fine, until the last bit about you breaking out and going Rambo.’

Deacon doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about shooting me in a vein.

‘You’re a good cop, Ronelle. I know it. This is your chance to be a good cop again. It might cost you a few brain cells, but you can offer that up to Jesus. That’s what we do in Ireland.’

Deacon mulls it over, then hands me my jacket and nods at the freezer door.

‘You’re right. I gotta go back in, fuck it.’

It really is the only way. If the blues find Deacon strapped to a gurney in a locked freezer, then she is totally clear. She can even claim memory loss.

‘It’s just for a few seconds; they’re right here, and I turned the temperature up.’

Ronelle lets me hoist her back inside. ‘Well turn it back down, dipshit. I hope it’s not Krieger and Fortz. Those two couldn’t find their dicks with a dick-o-scope.’

Dick-o-scope. Nice.

I lay Deacon on the trolley, hoping her frozen marrow doesn’t snap, and strap her down just tight enough.

Before I can secure her right arm, she reaches up and catches my jaw with one shivering hand.

‘I’m cold, Daniel,’ she says.

‘It’s just for a minute.’

She pulls me down for an icy kiss. I feel our lips stick together.

‘Thanks for coming back. I won’t forget it. Next time I catch you for murder one, I might break it down to manslaughter.’

‘Appreciate it.’ It takes a lot for someone like Deacon to say thank you; I expected the barb on the end as soon as she started the sentence.

‘You better get out of here before I start warming up.’

Cute.

I am out of there.