Close Pursuit by Carsten Stroud

Author:Carsten Stroud [Stroud, Carsten]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-81524-8
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2012-01-17T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

JURIS DICTION

The comatose biker had disappeared when Maksins and Kennedy got their prisoner up the stairs and into the squad room. So had the rest of the Task Force. The Westclox over the bulletin board gave the time as 1630 hours. Fratelli had left the coffee on and there was a note from Oliver Farrell saying that Kennedy had two calls—one from Stokovich which had come in at 1500 hours, and the other from Genno Sorvino saying he’d be in the office all evening and he wanted to talk to Detective Kennedy as soon as he got back from wherever the hell he was. There was also an interdepartmental flimsy from downtown that had IAD all over it. Kennedy read this first, read it slowly and carefully, taking in every cold-assed phrase and every hidden threat, and when he had finished he felt an overwhelming need to piss. He took the note with him into the squad room toilet with the cracked mirror and the grimy wash basin and the gray metal cubicle with the doors removed so the prisoners can’t ask to be allowed to crap in private. Standing at the urinal, he rested his arm along the top of the fixture and read the short, nasty little communiqué again and again until his bladder was empty. Then he folded it twice and dropped it into the urinal. The day he answered a call like that was the day he left this force.

He called Stokovich first, partly because he knew that Bruno would have the latest word on this Internal nonsense, and partly because he’d rather talk to a cop than to an Assistant District Attorney. Maksins went downstairs to get Dennis McEnery a dinner, prepaid monthly by agreement with several local delicatessens. McEnery was lying on his back with an arm thrown across his face, shielding his eyes from the forty-watt bulb in the wire cage overhead. One of Stokovich’s boys answered, Kennedy didn’t know which one, and then the lieutenant was on the phone. Kennedy had never known Stokovich to refuse to take a call, no matter when it came in. He was a son of a bitch, but through this latest tempest in a pisspot, Kennedy had been getting the idea that he was their son of a bitch. A boss who went to the wall for his men was like the white buffalo these days: an endangered species.

“Kennedy, you miserable bastard! How the hell are you? Do not tell me you don’t have that MacIlwhatsit kid in the cage right now. Do not tell me that!”

Kennedy spoke through an involuntary grin. Sometimes there was nothing like a line of patter to make you feel better.

“No, sir, I do have him. He’s asleep in the back right now. He tried to go home around seventeen hundred hours. Wolfie and I scooped him outside his flat.”

“Wolfie behave himself?”

“Hey, Lieutenant, Wolfie’s okay. A little tense maybe, and he’s no Martin Luther King. But he’s fine. Did good today.

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