Heaven Help Us by John G. Hartness

Author:John G. Hartness [Hartness, John G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Falstaff Books
Published: 2016-11-16T23:00:00+00:00

10

We rolled up to Luke's house about ten minutes later, and it looked even worse after I'd had a little time away from it. The place was crawling with men and women in Homeland Security windbreakers and stupid dress shoes that should never be worn to muck around explosion sites. I put down the kickstand on Mort’s motorcycle and two agents were on me like bodyguards on paparazzi.

"You can't be here, ma'am," the first no-neck agent said.

"Get back on your bike, Detective. This is a Homeland Security matter now," the second one followed.

"This is so far from a Homeland Security matter it's funny," I said. "Get me Buprof."

"The director isn't available right now, ma'am," No Neck One said.

"Get in the vehicle, Detective," No Neck Two said, putting his right hand on my shoulder. That was a bad idea. I grabbed his wrist in my right hand, ducked under his arm and twisted it around behind him in a hammerlock. I pushed down on the back of his head with my left hand and slammed his face into the roof of my car. His knees buckled and he went down.

I whipped out my handcuffs and had him bound in three more seconds, then I stood up, my Sig in my hand. "The next motherfucker that decides assaulting a police officer is a good idea is going to have a much worse day than this jackass. Are we clear?"

The three agents approaching my car immediately stopped and put their hands up. I nodded and holstered my weapon. I looked down at No Neck Two and asked, "Are you going to behave, or do I have to leave you like that?"

He glared at me but didn't say anything. "Fine," I said. "See if you can convince one of your pals to uncuff you." I stomped off toward the wreckage with Mort and Watson in tow, only to see a highly agitated Deputy Director Buprof moving in my direction, all red-faced and blustery. I steeled myself for the inevitable confrontation, and he didn't disappoint.

"What the ever-loving fuck do you think you're doing here, Detective? You're suspended! Hell with suspended, you’re fucking fired! And you sure as fuck need to get the fuck out of my crime scene. You've got no legal right to be here, so get your little friends here and go." He stood there tapping his foot, arms folded across his belly, barely holding in his dress shirt from the strain.

"While you are partially correct, Director, you are, like so many Americans, rushing to judgement. As Mr. Card's counsel and his legal proxy, I am certainly within my rights to be here, accompanied by whatever assistants I require to complete my assessment of the damages to his property as I deem necessary." Watson stepped forward, a business card in his outstretched hand. "Watson, as I’m sure you’ll recall. Jack Watson. I am the solicitor on retainer for Mr. Card and his enterprises."

Buprof looked at the card in his hand, then at Watson, then at Mort.

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