Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood (19 page)

“My bad.”

“I’m going to give you a warning and caution you that in the future . . .”

Boone stopped when he casually turned the license over and noticed that the paper clip was holding a hundred-dollar bill. “What’s this?”

“Sorry?”

“What’s this on your license?”

Mr. White did not respond.

As Boone continued to speak with an even tone, he began to slide the bill off the clip with his finger. “So, living in a nice suburb, doing business in our fair city . . .”

“Right.”

The bill hung from the license by an edge. Boone held it where the offender could see it. “When was the last time you were ticketed, Mr. White?”

“Hmm, oh, couple of years ago. Excessive lane changing, if I recall correctly.”

The bill was about to blow away. Boone said, “This yours, Mr. White?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmph. Not mine either.” Boone held it up so Jack could see it. “This yours, Officer Keller?”

“Nope, not mine. Is it yours?”

“Nope.”

“Is it the driver’s?”

“He says it’s not his.”

“What do you know?”

Boone gave the bill one more nudge and it blew down the Eisenhower behind them in the fall wind. Mr. White wrenched around in his seat to watch it go.

“Sure that wasn’t yours, Mr. White?”

“No. Not mine.”

“You are aware that bribery is a second-degree felony, punishable by incarceration, aren’t you, sir?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, no, Officer.”

“Well, for future reference . . . we don’t look kindly on that kind of thing. Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Drive carefully, Mr. White. And have a nice day.”

When Boone pulled back into traffic, White’s car was still idling. He and Jack burst into laughter when they saw White running down the shoulder of the Eisenhower after the hundred.

“Should we bust him for being out of his car on the expressway?” Jack said.

“Nah. I think it’s been an expensive enough stop for Mr. White.”

Back at the station, Jack gave Boone a look and accepted District Commander Heathcliff Jones’s invitation to his office, along with Watch Commander Lang and, yes, Fletcher Galloway of Organized Crime. Like Boone, several other officers about to go off duty found reasons to hang around the locker room and the vending machines.

The meeting went on for more than an hour, and when it was over, the others loitered and jockeyed for position near the locker room door, knowing Jack would come there to change back into street clothes.

When Jack didn’t appear for another twenty minutes, the others badgered Boone to go find out what was up.

“You’re his partner.”

“Grab something out of your desk.”

“See if Galloway is still here. I didn’t hear a car leave.”

Boone finally left the locker room and bounded up the steps to the squad room, only to run into the four men in question, standing by the back door. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, brushing past. He rummaged around in his desk, folded a bunch of innocuous papers, and headed back down.

“Well?” the others said.

Boone told them what had happened and added, “I honestly couldn’t tell from any of their looks—even Jack’s—whether the thing got done. I don’t know.”

“You kiddin’? It has to be a done deal. They wouldn’t stand around gassing with the guy if they told him no.”

Another officer said, “They might not even have been talking about the promotion. Maybe it was something else.”

Others laughed. “Yeah, that makes sense. Your boss and his boss call you into a meeting with the Organized Crime Division chief, and it’s about what, crossing guard duty?”

Boone heard footsteps on the stairs, the back door opening, a car pulling away. Everybody in the locker room, now long past the end of their shifts, busied themselves at their lockers. Keller entered with his head down, no discernable expression. Boone saw the others peeking at him.

Keller opened his locker and began to peel off his uniform.

“So?” Boone said.

“So, what? How long’s it take for you yahoos to change clothes anyway?”

“C’mon, Jack. We’re all pulling for you.”

Jack stood with his shirt unbuttoned and was shrugging out of his bulletproof vest. “Let’s just say I won’t be needing the uniform anymore. First of next month, I’m a detective and deputy chief in OCD.”

The others whooped and hollered and surrounded him for handshakes, high fives, and embraces. “Kick some tail over there, would ya?” one said.

“We celebrating?” another said.

“You bet,” Jack said. “On me.”

They piled into their own cars and caravanned to a local watering hole where off-duty cops from other districts gathered too. The news spread fast, and soon the place was alive with music, singing, dancing, and toasts.

Boone was nursing a Coke and found himself hungry, so he ordered baked chicken wings. He had been so disciplined on his diet that he avoided the loaded potato skins, onion rings, deep-fried fish-and-chips, and other bar fare. He was teased unmercifully by the others, but all that only meant things were getting back to normal. He had grown so tired of being treated with kid gloves.

At the end of the evening, Jack was clearly too tipsy to be driving, so Boone prevailed on a couple of other guys to take his car back to the station. “I’ll run you home and pick you up in the morning.”

“Oh, I’m okay, Boones.”

“You know better than that. No arguing.”

Fortunately, Jack wasn’t so far gone that he had to be led to his apartment or put to bed. He was just buzzed, and by the time they got to his place, he was also hungry. Boone liked having something to do and not having to face the prospect of another lonely evening at home. He had been, as Francisco Sosa always liked to put it, “redeeming the time.” He was reading about gangs and the Chicago Outfit, studying organized crime, brushing up on stuff he’d learned studying criminology. And none too soon. Jack kept talking about how street gang violence was at record levels and that it seemed something was about to blow. “I can’t get to OCD soon enough,” he said.

“Me either,” Boone said. “I know most guys would love to be in the 11th with all the action we get, but I’m not going to be happy until I’m on full-time gang duty.”

“Well, don’t worry. The work will be waiting for us when we get there. And I hope you know we’re never going to solve the problem. Gangland stuff is never over.”

“You sound defeatist, Jack. If we can’t win, what’s the point?”

“You serious? Just frustrating the bad guys and neutralizing them is a worthy enough goal.”

Boone was also looking up the verses Sosa occasionally sent. Strangely—to him anyway—Boone continued in his own awkward way to try to pray.

Every time he did, he was reminded what an empty Christian he had been all his life. He believed the Bible, believed in God, trusted Christ for his salvation—all of it. But he had never been passionate about any of it. He had never memorized Scripture or even read much of it outside church. And besides saying grace, he virtually never prayed. Well, now he was trying. He wasn’t sure of the benefits or what he was trying to accomplish, and he didn’t tell a soul. But if there was something there, something more, something he’d been missing, he was willing to pursue it.

Boone was still angry. He still had deep, unanswerable questions. But he wanted to do his part. In some weird way, Boone wanted to be available and open if God really wanted to communicate with him. And that wasn’t all. He wanted relief, rest, some sense of peace and happiness. He would never be giddy, as he had been when he had it all—the job he’d always wanted, a beautiful wife, a precious child. But down deep he hoped there was some modicum of something out there—anything—that would spark something in him.

He was doing as Brigita Velna had deduced. He had created a routine, a structure, a life for himself that protected him from outside forces. And there were benefits. He was as healthy as he had ever been—fit, toned, chiseled even. And he was back in the groove on the job, able to corral his emotions and perform his job the way it was supposed to be done.

He was being recognized again, and while that didn’t bring the same joy it brought when he had been able to share it with Nikki, there was some sense of satisfaction in it, of having accomplished something.

“I know this is your day, Jack,” Boone said while tending a steak in Jack’s oven. “And you know I’m thrilled for you, but what happens to me now? Who do I get stuck with as a partner, and how long do I stay assigned to the Siberia of day watch?”

“You’re gonna love me,” Jack said, having changed into a robe and planted himself behind a TV tray, turning on a Cubs game from San Diego. “I mean, I haven’t got you transferred yet; that’s going to take a while. But I think I convinced Jones to switch you back to nights. And I laid it on thick for Lang, too. I told him the only thing you were going to miss was working for him.”

“Beautiful. Not true, but beautiful. No sense burning that bridge, that’s for sure.”

“You like Lang, don’t you? I mean, he did you right on that motorcyclist murder suspect.”

“Oh, no question. But I can’t say I want to stay on days just to work for him.”

“Looks like your new partner’s gonna be Fox.”

“Garrett Fox from OCD?”

“Yeah, he’s been through the wringer, undercover for too many years. Wants back in uniform, if you can believe that.”

“Wants?”
Boone said. “Or is being forced? He’s got a reputation.”

“Don’t we all? He can be a hothead, thinks he knows it all and is God’s gift to police work, but you can work around that. If you could put up with me—”

“Don’t start, Jack. Everybody envied me getting to ride with you, and you know it.”

“Hey! You know I get to wear a suit and tie and share a secretary with Galloway?”

“For real?”

“Yeah, I’ve met her a few times down there. Got a funny first name and some kinda ethnic last name. ’Bout your age. Young mother.”

“I think you’re going to want to get a handle on her name before you become her boss, Jack.”

For the next six months, everything Garrett Fox did made Boone more eager to transfer into the Organized Crime Division. For one thing, Boone missed Jack. Despite his rough edges, Jack was a cop’s cop and—for all his ability—humble. No one had ever described Garrett Fox as humble. Maybe he had been so good undercover because he knew how to keep his mouth shut. But now he was making up for it.

Fox was squat and muscular, about five years older than Boone, with short black hair and a pointy face. Boone decided his name fit. The man seemed unable to talk about anything or anyone but himself. Fox told Boone of his every case, every caper, every exploit in the years he had been undercover. According to him, no one came close to being as good, as insightful, as aware.

Fox was also impressed with his own libido. He was already separated from his wife, fast heading for divorce number two. Thankfully, no kids. He wanted to talk about his nearly nightly sexual conquests, and he also asked if Boone had met the secretary from Organized Crime.

Boone shook his head.

“Now there’s one I can’t crack,” Fox said. “Not a model, but you know, attractive, young. Gets hit on all the time. I mean, we have to be careful with all the harassment rules and everything, but there’s not a guy in OC who wouldn’t want to . . .”

“Not available, eh?” Boone said. “Isn’t she married?”

“That never stopped me. Sometimes they’re the most grateful, know what I mean? But no, Haeley’s never been married, far as I know anyway.”

“I heard she had a kid.”

“Well, yeah, a little boy. Under three, I think. Cutest little guy. But that was from some boyfriend who ran out on her, if I heard it right. She ought to be ripe for picking, but I think she’s a religious wacko or something.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s got some Bible verse on her desk. Well, not the verse, because they don’t allow that, but the numbers—whatever they call it. Besides that, she pretends not to know when someone’s coming on to her—I mean, she’s smart and everything, so I’m not buying that she can be that dense.”

“Interesting.”

“Maddening.”

Fox started in on all his other prospects until Boone finally asked him to quit. “I’m missing my wife, if you don’t mind.”

“Lighten up, dude. It’s been almost a year, hasn’t it?”

Lighten up? Just like this idiot to think time heals this wound.

Boone grew weary of hearing the same stories over and over, but he had not learned how to imply that he was not as impressed as Fox thought he was. Anytime Boone responded at all, with a nod or a
really?
or an
uh-huh
, Fox took it as rapt interest and kept going, plainly embellishing every story before moving on to another.

Fox also seemed convinced that he knew more about street patrol than anyone else, and while Boone did most of the driving and was in essence the senior partner, Fox treated him as a rookie. He reminded Boone of all his years on the street before going undercover, and after each call he would debrief, explaining how he would have done things differently. Boone prided himself on being open to input and able to discern when Fox, though obnoxious, was right.

And he had to admit that Garrett was a by-the-book cop. Boone never felt vulnerable or insecure with Fox in the passenger seat.

In December, closing in on midnight, Boone and Garrett received a call to a bar where a man was drunk and disorderly. As Boone sped toward the address, he said, “I don’t know what these tavern owners expect with the kind of clientele they serve.”

“Tell me about it,” Fox said. “I remember one time when I had to take on four Seabees from Great Lakes, on leave in the city for one night. They were all over six feet and about two-forty. Lucky for me, they were too drunk to counter all my moves. Single-handedly cuffed all four of ’em before backup arrived.”

“That so?”

“Dang straight.”

“You’re telling me the truth?”

“I don’t have to lie. I can show you the commendation I got from downtown.”