Nevermore (15 page)

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here had been the renaming ceremony for the street back in 1999.

McBain searched desperately for a parking spot.

Generally, the street outside a precinct house had angled parking, but cops
never
parked their cars neatly. Vehicles, both unmarked and blue-and-whites, were thrust up against the sidewalk at every conceivable angle, some of them on the sidewalk itself.

Eventually, though, McBain found a place to wedge in her Saturn. After locking it with the remote, she walked in the precinct’s dirty glass front door, heading up the four metal- rimmed stairs and through the creaky wooden doors to the reception area. The public information desk was empty at this time of night, so McBain moved past it and to the left, walking by about half a dozen plaques for those officers who fell in the line of duty (Guidice most prominent among them). There, facing the large white wall with the Five-oh’s insignia embla-zoned on it, was the main desk, behind which sat a bored- looking night-shift sergeant. Hair in a crew cut, beady eyes barely visible under a ridged brow, a potbelly protruding over his gun belt, and with a name tag that said o’shaughnessy, the sergeant was perusing the sports pages of the
Daily News
.

McBain could hear a voice, not really audible, on crummy speakers under the desk. She assumed it was the dispatcher, and as she got closer she 148 SUPERNATURAL

heard familiar codes, confirming her presump-tion.

McBain also noticed the Derek Jeter bobblehead on top of the computer monitor. It was slightly askew, and obviously not attached to the monitor, so chances were good it belonged to this sergeant alone, who only kept it out during his own shift. In addition to his name tag, his badge, and the gold
50
pins attached to his collar, he was also wearing a decidedly nonregulation pin with the interlock-ing NY logo of the New York Yankees baseball team. If worse came to worse and she couldn’t get O’Shaughnessy to help her out via friendly means, she could always threaten to report him for being out of uniform.

Without looking up from the paper, O’Shaughnessy said, “Can I help you?”

“So whaddaya think, the Yanks’ll trade Johnson?”

That got the sergeant to look up. “Friggin’ well hope so.” He looked at McBain. She watched his face change as he regarded her. First he saw her dark-skinned face and short, nappy hair, and his disinterested expression said,
black female.
Then he moved down to her dark business suit, which altered his expression to vague interest, since it was now
black female who doesn’t look like street
slime.
Then he saw the gold shield on her belt.

Only then did he set the paper down and change Nevermore

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his expression to one of genuine interest, as now she wasn’t a black female at all, but a member.

“Never shoulda traded for the guy inna first place.

He ain’t no Yankee. Neither’s A-Rod.” McBain smiled, dredging up the baseball knowledge she had absorbed from her fellow detectives in the Missing Persons Unit. She couldn’t have cared less about that or any other sport, but you didn’t survive in the testosterone- laden NYPD without being able to hold your own in any conversation about the Yankees, Mets, Knicks, Nets, Giants, or Jets.

The Rangers, Devils, and Islanders were optional, which was good, as McBain drew the line at hockey.

“Yeah, but A-Rod’s still a good player. I don’t think RJ has anything left in the tank.”

“Got that right. ’Sides, after 2001, you don’t let a guy like that onna team.”

“I dunno, they let Johnny Damon on after 2004, and he’s been pretty good.”

O’Shaughnessy shook his head. “That’s different—

Yanks signin’ Damon pissed off Red Sox fans. Pissin’ off Red Sox fans, that’s
always
good.”
If you say so
, McBain thought. She was already starting to use up all the knowledge she could bring to bear in a Yankees-related conversation. If she had to drag the endless Yankees–Red Sox rivalry into it, she’d flounder, and that was contrary to her purpose.

Luckily, O’Shaughnessy let her off the hook.

150 SUPERNATURAL

Now sitting up straighter in his chair, he asked,

“What can I do ya for, Detective?”

“My name’s McBain, I’m with MPU. You guys get any calls the last couple of days for a 10–31 at 2739 West 195th Street?” she asked, using the radio code for a burglary in progress.

O’Shaughnessy’s pudgy face fell into a frown.

“Don’t think so. What’s that gotta do with Missing Persons?”

Putting on an exasperated look, she said, “
Don’t
ask. My sergeant’s taken up lodging
right
in my ass until I get through this.”

“Heard that.” O’Shaughnessy sputtered a noise that McBain supposed could have been a laugh.

He grabbed the keyboard with a meaty hand and dragged it toward him. “Lemme check.” Several keystrokes and a few mouse clicks later, O’Shaughnessy shook his head, causing his jowls to vibrate. “Nah, nothin’ there since that homi cide back on the seventh.”

“Okay,” McBain said. It had been a long shot, but she was just
sure
that—

The dispatcher’s voice said,
“Nine-one-one
call, 10
–
31 at
—
”
Here, the dispatcher enunciated each number.
“
—
two-seven-three-nine West one-nine-fi ve.”

McBain had to fight to keep herself from grinning.
Knew I could count on the boys.

O’Shaughnessy stared at McBain with an ex-Nevermore

151

pression that she supposed was awe. “How the hell’d you know about that?”

“It was a guess,” was all McBain would say.

“Listen, let me take care of that.”

“No biggie,” O’Shaughnessy said, “I can get one of my guys down there and—”

Wincing, McBain said, “Sergeant, please—I really need to take care of this one myself. It’s the only way I’ll get outta the boss’s doghouse, y’know?”

The sergeant stared at her for a second with his beady eyes. “This got somethin’ to do with that homi cide?”

“Sort of.” That, at least, wasn’t really a lie. “Like I said, it’s a long story. If you want the whole thing, fine, but there
is
a 10–31, and—” Waving her off with both hands, O’Shaughnessy said, “Fine, fi ne, what-the-hell-ever. Knock yourself out. Just leaves my guys free to bust more stupid college kids.”

McBain chuckled. Both Manhattan College and Mount Saint Vincent were within the Five-oh’s jurisdiction, and Friday nights usually meant lots of so-called SWIs—Stupid While Intoxicated.

Then O’Shaughnessy got a weird look on his face.

“Hang on—you sure you don’t need backup?” Trying not to grit her teeth, McBain said, “If this is who I think it is, trust me, I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but what if you

can’t? My lieutenant

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finds out I let you out without backup, he’ll have
my
ass.”

“I can understand that,” McBain said. She had been hoping O’Shaughnessy would be too bored to think through the implications.

O’Shaughnessy’s eyes darted back and forth as he thought for a minute. Finally, he said, “Tell you what—I’ll send one of my guys over in twenty minutes if I ain’t heard from you.”

That was a compromise McBain could live with.

She was now grateful she’d had the foresight to program the Five-oh’s number into her cell. “That’s fair. Thanks a
lot,
Sergeant, I
really
appreciate it.”

“No problemo, Detective,” O’Shaughnessy said, picking up his paper. “An’ hey, listen, I got me season tickets for the Stadium every year. I ever got a free seat, want me to let you know?”

“Sure,” McBain said, confident that she would always be busy at those times, but preferring to keep the goodwill with the sergeant, just in case.

With that empty promise made, she turned and headed back to her Saturn.

It didn’t take long to drive to the corner of Webb and 195th Street, and it took even less time to fi nd an illegally parked 1967 Chevy Impala.
I swear,
I’m gonna kill ’em.

Double-parking her Saturn right next to the Impala, she checked to make sure her NYPD creden-Nevermore

153

tials were prominently displayed on the dashboard, in case one of O’Shaughnessy’s “guys” decided to get overzealous with the parking citations.

The house in question was easy enough to pick out, as it was the only structure on the corner that wasn’t red brick. Yellow crime scene tape was draped sloppily across the wire gate that led to the front door, probably a victim of eleven days of November wind. McBain was surprised the tape was still up, but then recalled that nobody actually lived in the house to take it down. Presumably, the real estate company representing the house—whose name, phone number, and website were listed on the For Sale sign—had declined to show the house for a while after it was a crime scene.

Walking back toward where her car and the Impala were parked, she saw a gated driveway. Normally padlocked, the lock was hanging open, though the gate was still shut. Peering past the gate down the driveway, she saw a side door, and two fi gures kneeling down in front of it. One was fairly tall and was staring intently down at the other one, who was crouched in front of the door. The tall one seemed to be speaking sharply at the short one, though not loud enough to be heard from the street.

McBain removed her

nine-millimeter weapon

from its holster and thumbed the safety. She also removed her fl ashlight, flicked it on and held both 154 SUPERNATURAL

it and the nine-mil up as she kicked open the gate.

“Freeze, police!”

Both of them looked up at her, like deer frozen in headlights as her flashlight shone on them.

Slowly, she walked into the driveway. The shorter one—that had to be Dean—started to rise up, and she said, “Which part of ‘freeze’ didn’t you get?” Dean stopped moving.

She finally came fairly close to the pair, though not near enough for them to be in arm’s reach of her weapon.

Once she was sure she’d put on enough of a show for whoever it was who made the 911 call, she lowered her nine-mil. “You guys are complete idiots, you know that?”

Sam started to speak. “Officer, I can explain—”

“It’s ‘Detective,’ and don’t even
try
to explain it, Sam, ’cause I got
no
tolerance for Winchester-brand bull.”

Both of them started opening and closing their mouths, as if unsure how to respond to her use of their name.

Deciding to put them out of their misery, she smiled and said, “Yeah, I know who you are. Sam and Dean Winchester, only sons of John Winchester, a man who, unlike his dumbass sons, knows to
call
me whenever
he’s
in town.”

“You knew our father?” Dean asked, sounding stunned.

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“Yeah.” She frowned, not liking Dean’s use of the past tense. “The rumors I heard ain’t true, though, are they? That he died?”

Both brothers looked at each other, and the expressions on their faces told McBain everything she needed to know. Far too many missing persons cases ended with a corpse, and she knew what grief-stricken people looked like.

“Damn. I’m sorry, guys, I didn’t know. Look, my name’s Marina McBain, and you are
damn
lucky I found you before the uniforms in the Five-oh did. You know there was a 911 call on your sorry-ass attempt at a B and E here?”

“How did you—” Sam started.

“Later. You wanna check out this place?” They exchanged another glance, this time looking confused. “I, uh—yeah,” Dean said slowly.

“Fine, get your ass back down on the ground and finish pickin’ the lock. I gotta make a phone call.

Here, this might help.” She handed Sam the fl ashlight, which he held up so it shone on the lock.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“No problem.”

“You
really
a cop?” Dean asked.

“Nah, I just like wearin’ gold shields for kicks.

Yeah,
I’m a cop, now shut up and pick the damn lock.” She started up the driveway toward the street.

“Or what,” Dean said with a smirk, “you’ll 156 SUPERNATURAL

show me that NYPD stands for ‘knock your punk-ass down’?”

She turned back around. “Okay, first of all, white people should
not
quote Will Smith. Second of all, if you
want
me to put you on your ass, just say the word, brushy-top.”

Leaving Dean to self-consciously touch the top of his head, McBain pulled her cell phone out from the inside pocket of her suit jacket, fl ipped it open, and continued up the driveway, calling up the number for the Fiftieth Precinct.

“Fiftieth Precinct, O’Shaughnessy.”

“Sergeant, this is Detective McBain.”

“You okay, Detective?”

He sounded genuinely concerned, which touched McBain. “It was the guys I thought it was. I took care of it, so you don’t gotta send your guys over.

Thanks, though.”

“No problem, Detective. Hope this gets you back in good with your boss.”

“Me, too,” she said emphatically. Of course, she was actually off duty right now, and as far as her boss Sergeant Glover was concerned, she was a perfectly good missing persons detective who was currently at home asleep like any sensible day-shift detective would be at that hour. “Thanks again.”

She turned and walked back down the driveway.

“Okay, I got the Five-oh off the scent. If the 911

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caller wants to know what happened, they’ll say it was taken care of, but I doubt they will. Damn citizens don’t follow up on anything.” Just as she got to the side door, Dean stood up and pulled it open. “Yahtzee.”

Handing McBain the flashlight back handle first, Sam said, “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume you guys’re checkin’ out the basement?”

“Good guess.” Dean then looked at her with an annoyed expression. “I suppose you wanna come in with us, huh?”