The Second Life of Nick Mason

24

The brutal murder of an SIS sergeant, then the execution of a prominent drug dealer, both less than a week apart-it all made Detective Frank Sandoval believe that Nick Mason was following a carefully planned hit list. The question was, how many more names were on the list?

It was after midnight again. Sandoval showed his star to the uniform at the door, then went up the stairs to the club. At night, a high-end place like this should be doing big business, but there was no music playing, no customers, no dancers. The place was lit up with an ugly set of fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling and filled with cops.

Sandoval weaved his way through the chairs and runways until he saw a flash of light coming from the bathroom. He went around the partition and stood in the open doorway. It had been propped open with a chair. The body was lying on the floor in an awkward pose no living man ever struck, the legs tangled together and the torso half turned on its side. A lake of dark red blood had spread for three or four feet in every direction, and Sandoval could see the smooth straight line across the man’s throat. The man’s eyes were open.

A police photographer was standing on the far side of the bathroom, his shoes covered with white fabric. He adjusted his camera setting and took another picture, blinding Sandoval with the flash.

“Weapon?” Sandoval said.

“In the sink,” the photographer said without looking up at him. “Don’t come in.”

The photographer took another shot. Then another.

Sandoval stepped away from the door, around the partition, and back into the main room. He found a young detective from Area North a few feet away, writing something on his pad.

“Anybody see anything?” Sandoval asked him.

“Nothing,” the detective said. “Staff said he had a whole posse with him, took over that corner over there. Four or five other black men, depending on who you ask. One white woman. But they were all gone before we got here.”

That’s when Sandoval heard the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Three seconds later, a new group of men spilled out into the room like they were invading the place. A half dozen of them, all in dark suits. It was SIS.

“What the fuck,” the young detective said. He went off to talk to the first man he could find until Sandoval saw Sergeant Bloome making his entrance.

“SIS is taking this one,” he heard Bloome say.

Sandoval wasn’t surprised. They take over yet another case. They stay in control.

“Okay, Sergeant,” the detective said. “It’s all yours.”

Sandoval watched all the other cops follow the detective down the stairs. Even the photographer. Sandoval took half a step forward. Pure physical reaction. Then he stopped himself. In that one instant, he had made his decision.

The first time he had run into Bloome, the man had treated him like nothing more than a nuisance. The second time, he had tried to intimidate him and pump him for information.

This was the third time, and Sandoval wasn’t leaving. It was time to face the man. He knew he couldn’t outpunch him, but maybe he could wear him down, wait for an opening. Finally get to him.

There was only one answer to intimidation. Exposure.

He took a breath and swallowed. Bloome spotted him and crossed the room.

“Sandoval,” he said, “you deaf? Get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t take orders from SIS,” Sandoval said. “I’m still working my own case.”

Bloome paused a moment to consider that. “Not here,” he said.

“How come you get so nervous every time you see me, Bloome?”

Bloome raised his eyebrows. Two other SIS detectives, both within earshot, stopped and turned to listen in.

“Look at you,” Sandoval said. “Why are you so concerned about me? A dead SIS sergeant, then a dead major dealer, four days apart? You worried about a connection?”

“You think you can stand there and ask me questions like I’m some goof you just picked up off the street?”

Stay cool, Sandoval told himself. Here’s where he tries to end it in one punch. The harder he comes on, the more you lay back. That’s how you get to him.

That’s how you drag this whole thing into the light.

“How many homicide detectives they got in this city right now?” Bloome said. “How many hundreds of you guys are out there and your clearance rate is what, forty percent? Fifty in a good year? That’s a fucking joke, Sandoval. You guys are an embarrassment. That’s why they put us together, so they got some real cops around here who know what the fuck they’re doing. I’d let you stick around and watch if I thought you’d learn something.”

A few more SIS officers were looking over at them. Sandoval could see it on their faces. Nobody ever talked to Bloome this way.

“Can you believe this guy?” Bloome said, looking around at his men and smiling.

You’re getting closer, Sandoval told himself. You can read it in his body language, the way he’s tensing up, the way he’s standing taller, like an alley cat getting ready to fight. He doesn’t know how to handle this.

“Maybe I call your sergeant,” Bloome said. “How ’bout we call him, have him explain this to you?”

“Why waste time with my sergeant?” Sandoval said. “Let’s go to the captain. Or maybe the chief. Let’s have Internal Affairs sit in and make it a party. Then the feds. I bet the DEA would love a look.”

“There’s no connection between this case and the murder of Ray Jameson.”

“Then why are you sweating?”

Bloome stood there, looking at him. You caught him, Sandoval thought. You slipped your way through and you just fucking caught him. Now don’t let up.

“Maybe you should call your union rep,” Sandoval said. “Lawyer up, tell them everything.”

Bloome had a slight smile on his face. “You think you got something? You got that feeling you’ve turned up a big case? That rush?”

Bloome took a step closer to him.

“You’re not exactly walking around in a white suit yourself, Sandoval. Everybody knows your partner’s dirty. How long would it take me and my crew to find something on you, huh? Five minutes?”

Sandoval held his ground.

“This is our city,” Bloome said, looking down at him. “You should know that by now. We run it and everyone else is just a visitor.”

“If you’re the fucking king of this city,” Sandoval said, “why are you soaking through your two-hundred-dollar shirt?”

Bloome waited a beat. Then he took one step closer.

“I’m gonna take an interest in you,” Bloome said. “You don’t want that, Sandoval, because there’s one thing I know about cops. Somewhere in your life, you got a big problem. A weakness. You got people in your life you care about. I’ll get to everything, every corner of your life and everybody else around you.”

You got him, Sandoval thought. You fucking got him.

“I’m giving you one time-to-walk-away card,” Bloome said, stepping even closer so that the two men were just inches apart. “Because I am the last guy you want to put in a corner.”

“Wherever you are,” Sandoval said, “you put yourself there. Now step the fuck back.” Sandoval was ready for whatever came next. One hand on your shoulder. Or two hands.

Then probably every other SIS cop in the room.

“What do you need?” Bloome said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You want the collar? This is a heater case, Sandoval. I’ll bring you in, make you the lead. We run it my way, but you can be the hero. They pin a medal on your chest, take your picture, give you a promotion, a nice raise. You’ll make sergeant by the end of the year.”

Sandoval didn’t answer him. He just shook his head. He’d already said no to the hammer.

Now he was saying no to the carrot.

But he was walking away with something a lot better. He had his answer. Bloome had already given away his connection to Quintero. Add to that these two cases and now this attempt to essentially buy him off…

If Bloome had speed-dialed Darius Cole and put him on the speakerphone, it wouldn’t have been any better.

“You’re making a big mistake,” Bloome finally said. “I hope you’re not too attached to your career.”

Sandoval looked him in the eye one last time.

“Do you even fucking remember when you were a cop?”