49

Behr sat with his back against an ambulance on the dusty lawn in front of the building, coughing out smoke. He’d given his name and brief description of what had transpired, first to the 911 operator when he called in the fire, then again to the first patrolman on the scene. He watched while paramedics and the police and fire departments arrived simultaneously and put out the building fire, which they’d managed to contain to a few neighboring apartments, made sure the residents were safe, and EMS tried to stabilize the shooter. A paramedic gave Behr water and oxygen and cleaned and bandaged the burns on his hands, which were only first and second degree.

He’d been lucky. The shooter had been far from it. They had him on a stretcher, on his side since his back was so badly burned. One paramedic hung an IV and placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, while the other worked the radio.

“We’ve got a male-Hispanic, I believe-in his thirties, late or early unknown … Abnormal respiration … We have black nasal and oral discharge … Burns greater than sixty percent of his body … Deep burn pattern … Chemical accelerants …”

The care-giving paramedic spread gauze along the burned man’s back and looked up at his partner. “Christ, I think this guy’s been shot-lower left quadrant. Not too recent either … He’s septic.”

“Probable GSWs, lower left quadrant,” the one on the radio said into the handset.

“Repeat. Did you say GSWs or burns?” a voice came through the radio.

“Yeah, GSWs. Burns also.”

“Shit, he’s shocking,” the one on the ground said. “Pulse two ten, and spiking.”

“Let’s move him, stat,” the radio op said.

“Trying to stabilize him first.”

“Nothing to move if we wait, partner.”

“Roger that, let’s roll.”

“He’s hypovolemic, we’re on the move,” the radio man said into the handset.

They used straps to secure him to the gurney and carried it toward the ambulance. Behr got a chance to see the shooter’s face as he went by-his lips grossly swollen, one eye glassy and blank, the other burned shut, the hair on the back of his head gone. Whatever information the man had may as well have been locked away in a Swiss vault. Behr didn’t have much experience with serious burns, but he didn’t see the guy making it.

Behr stood as the ambulance was closed up and did his best to order his scrambled thoughts. He’d tracked down the shooter. The man was for hire, some kind of pro-ex-military, a mercenary-something he didn’t see every day. Someone-his support or handler-had brought in supplies. And someone had firebombed him. Or Behr. Or both of them. He didn’t get much further than that, because as the ambulance sped out, sirens wailing, a dark Crown Vic rolled onto the scene and a familiar, unwelcome figure climbed out. It was Lt. Breslau, chesty and overheated in his suit, his jaw in major pump mode over a lump of gum.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You need further medical treatment?”

“No.”

“Good. What kind of Caro business brings you out into this mess?” Breslau wanted to know.

Behr could only stare him in the face. “Unofficial,” finally came out of his mouth.

“Who’s the well-done slab of meat they just carted away?” Breslau asked.

“Jose Campos. It’s an alias,” Behr said.

“Great, a spic John Doe to unravel.”

“When that fire’s out, you’re going to find an assault rifle in that apartment. Military. Not jerry-rigged,” Behr said, wondering exactly what the hell he was trying to prove.

“This is about the garage shoot, then?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Christ. You protected the principal. That’s great, man, well done. Congrat-a-fucking-lations, you did your job. But that’s not enough for you. No, you need to go and find the shooter. Are you on some kind of glory run here?”

“Glory run? What the fuck are you talking about?” Behr said, his blood fizzing with instant anger.

“Can’t let it go. Can’t get off the rush from all the kudos. Gotta prove it out to everyone …”

Behr felt his knuckles straining in tight fists. He wanted to use them.

Breslau gave a half laugh. “You think I’m a douche bag, don’t you? You do-I can see it on your face …”

Though dying to answer, Behr managed to hold off.

“Just know this: I’m not the douche bag caught on camera entering a security office in that parking garage.”

Behr thought with disgust of the rent-a-cop who’d obviously reported him. But the disgust went deeper, because wasn’t he just a rent-a-cop too? For slightly better wages.

“How the hell’d you even end up here?” Breslau suddenly wondered.

“It’s called investigation,” Behr said, and saw the muscles of Breslau’s jaw freeze. Now the cop was just as angry as him.

“You’re being small-picture here, Behr,” Breslau said, fully squaring on him.

“I am?”

“Yeah. Look, the police, a place like Caro-whatever-they’re all gears in a bigger machine. And you, Behr, you’re sand in the gears. Sand in the fucking gears.”

Behr said nothing. He just stared and choked on the burned gasoline taste in his throat.

“Don’t you think we’ve been looking for the shooter?” Breslau asked.

“I don’t know what you’ve been doing.”

“We’ve been looking for the shooter. We have been. And we were going to find him-”

“Before or after he was barbecued?” Behr shot back, causing Breslau’s volume to triple.

“We were going to find him and lock this thing down! But I’ll tell you this, and I really hope you read me on it. We are not in the business of taking a straight-up random shoot, or even an attempted murder beef, and turning it into some unsolvable high-profile conspiracy case. You got me?”

Behr didn’t nod. He didn’t move.

“And believe me, when I say ‘we,’ I mean ‘we.’ As in ‘to the top.’ So mind you don’t head from ‘sand in the gears’ status toward ‘shit on my shoe.’ Because if you end up there, I will scrape you the fuck off.”

Breslau spat on the ground and stalked away toward his car while Behr turned his gaze back to the smoldering apartment building.

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