Taking the Highway (28 page)

He wouldn’t apologize. Not to Oliver. Not for this. He’d saved Nikhil’s life. He held onto that thought, like a shiny penny in an otherwise empty pocket.
Nikhil is alive because of me.
That had to count for something.

He couldn’t tell Quigg about Topher, or the CEJ and certainly not Nikhil. One slip and he’d dump all this bad weight—every last particle—on his nephew. There was no way to share, no way to help. He broke contact with Nikhil, or he painted a target on him. It was as simple as that. He had to work his own angles, use the task force, arrest the ringleaders, maybe even get Nikhil to help him from the inside.

Andre threw his head back and felt cold air blow on his cheeks. Who was he kidding? Sooner or later—probably sooner—someone would ask the wrong question and make the connection between Andre LaCroix and Nikhil LaCroix, then from Nikhil to Topher Price-Powell and the CEJ. The whole thing was a ticking time bomb—for Nikhil if the shooter was still out there, for himself when anyone connected uncle to nephew, and for the entire city if the CEJ decided to bomb Overdrive again.

The door opened and Quigg stormed through it. He tossed Andre’s datapad and wallet on the table. “Pick up your weapon on the first floor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get out.”

“My brother?”

“I never called.”

Andre picked up his datapad and checked the time. How could it only be three o’clock when he’d already been in here a week? “No more questions?” he asked Quigg.

Quigg worked his jaw. “None. Leave.”

“So, why bring me here at all?”

“You’re not here. You’re gone.”

Andre walked past Quigg, then swung back around. Suspicion felt like someone squeezing his spine from inside his body. He leaned on the doorjamb, one foot inside and one foot outside the interrogation room. Quigg windmilled his arm, shooing him out.

“You got other suspects who need the room?”

“No. Out.”

Quigg—or whoever was pushing Quigg—wanted Andre free and on the street. Nobody was afraid of what he might say. He could have said it all by now. Andre remained in the doorway, feeling like he was being set up for an even bigger fall. But what? And by whom? Well, he wouldn’t figure it out standing here watching Quigg chew his cud. If the world was going to fuck him, there was no sense trying to keep his pants on. Better to figure out a plan for when they were already around his ankles.

Andre smiled and extended his right hand. “Thanks, Lieutenant. No hard feelings?”

“Son, my feelings are so hard you could break a tooth eating my excrement.” Quigg glared, arms crossed. “I don’t like bad cops. I don’t like you.”

Andre took back his hung hand. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Can I ask you a question?”

“Make it quick.”

“Do you know where they took everyone? Which hospital? I want to check on my friend.”

“Who, Elway?”

“You’ve heard? How is he?”

“Try the morgue.”

Andre’s back hit the doorjamb. He’d physically retreated from the news, the impact of it hurling him backward.

“He died hours ago. Poor guy never even made it to the hospital.”

Andre’s throat tied itself in a knot. He turned his back to Quigg and tried to swallow. “Can I . . .”

“You know what you can do, LaCroix? You can die a slow and painful death. In the meantime, you can get out of my sight.”

“Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.” He pushed past Quigg and made for the stairs.

On the first floor, the property manager held out a clipboard and a light pen. “Thumb on the screen, please. On the X.”

Andre tilted his head to look at Noelle’s face. She was close to two meters tall, and he always felt like he was staring right into her tits. Noelle was usually his source for the best jokes. Now, she just glared down at him, impatiently tapping the board.

Andre thumbed the screen and retrieved his weapon, gave Noelle’s breasts a mock salute, and holstered the Guardian. He did not bother to reload it.

The first floor lobby area was almost deserted. The receptionist sat at her desk. Her screen was full of crashed cars and dead bodies, the Ugly Ben logo glowing brightly in the corner. As he passed, he heard his own name, followed by his own voice. “This is my fault.” He stopped and stared at the screen. The clip was repeated and he heard himself say it again. No! He hadn’t said that. Not out loud. They’d used a voice changer, a scrambler, somehow they’d put words in his mouth. Or did they? The authenticator—the same brand the police used—flashed its logo beneath Ben’s as they replayed the clip a third time. “This is my fault.”

Andre tried to remember the exact sequence of events, but it was like an alcoholic blackout. He leaned over the receptionist’s desk, glaring at the screen, trying to make his synapses fire in the right direction. He remembered climbing that hill, he remembered the spinners accosting him. Did he really tell them—and the world—that the crash was his fault?

And there was Naked Jay on the screen—when did those two start working together?—asking him who was responsible. Andre covered his mouth and shook his head, as if he could prevent words from coming out of that other self’s mouth. It didn’t help. There was his own face, looking directly into the camera, saying he did it, as if he’d reprogrammed the Overdrive towers with his own hand.

The receptionist wheeled her chair away from the desk, staring at him with wide eyes. Andre stumbled to the elevator, blindly pushing the button for his floor. Suddenly his overstuffed cubicle seemed like a refuge. He needed a place where this could make sense. A familiar chair, a familiar desk,
something
that wasn’t upside down and inside out.

The Jeffs from forensics got on the elevator after him. Andre hadn’t seen them since the Shepler homicide in the zone. He nodded a greeting that wasn’t returned.
Uh-oh.

“He actually came back to work,” one of them said.

“Some people got the nerve.”

“You hear what he said to Ugly Ben?”

“I heard it.” The taller of the Jeffs slid his eyes over to Andre. “One of our own. Can you believe that?”

Andre glared them down. “I’m standing right here.”

“Yeah? You want to make something of it?” Both men were in front of him now, exhaling heavy breath in his face. “Come on. You want to?”

“Go ahead,” short Jeff said. He already had his hands up. “I’m due for a raise.”

The door slid open. “Fuck you,” Andre said, and exited the elevator.

“You already did, asshole! You fucked the whole department.”

The doors closed on a mumbled “Shithead,” from tall Jeff.

He heard it all the way to his office. Everyone from the dayjobbers to the janitor had a word. Andre kept his head down, kept walking, let the waves of hatred wash over him. He was an asswipe, a punce, and a twatwad. He was a traitor to the department. He was a killer, a terrorist, a miserable excuse for a cop. He wasn’t worthy to be called an officer of the law.

He finally made it to his cubicle and pulled the flimsy half-door closed behind him. Over the tops of the walls, he could hear the spins blaring into the room. Naked Jay and Ugly Ben mixed with Tom Griffon Junior, mixed with who-knew-what.

Andre sat in his desk chair, but heads kept prairie-dogging over the tops of the cubicle walls, popping out of sight when he noticed.

Andre set the lights in his office to “away,” which deactivated the ones directly overhead and did nothing to darken his cubicle. The glow of his datapad added to the brightness. He ignored all incoming messages, both urgent and ordinary. The spinners were starting to get calls, now. Plenty of blame to go around. The cops, the fourths, the Overdrive system itself. The callers knew something like this would happen. They just knew it.

I am so sorry, Elway.

Urgent whispers outside his door, and the spins abruptly cut off. He saw the feet first—closed-toe shoes and pressed pants.

He lifted his head. “Hi, Captain.”

Captain Evans pursed her lips and shook her head, her braids dancing across her forehead.

“The spins—”

“Are always first and always wrong,” the captain said.

“They’re saying I did it. A fourth. Or a cop. Both.”

“Yes, they are. The news anchors are playing catch up right now. It looks bad, but give it time. They’ll tell what’s true.”

He could breathe again. “Thanks.”

“We both know what comes next.”

“Yeah.” He unholstered his weapon and gave it to the captain, along with his shield.

“I have to,” she said.

“I know.”

“Temporary suspension. Full pay.” She weighed the Guardian in her hand. “You’re getting a nice vacation so you’d better enjoy it.”

Andre nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Captain Evans touched his shoulder. “I understand what happened. Hotdogging is the ultimate ass-covering move. Get it right and you’re a hero. Even better, nobody sees if you fuck up. But honey? We
all
fuck up. Share the blame a little next time, okay?”

“I wasn’t hotdogging.”

“I know what you were—” Another curious head peeped over the cubicle wall, then disappeared.

The captain glared over the dividers then gestured to the cubicle door. “Mr. LaCroix, let’s step into a more private location.” She took him through the maze of cubicles and into the stairwell. She closed the fire door behind them, then peered upward and downward, listening in the vast column of space. They were alone.

“I wasn’t hotdogging,” Andre said in an urgent whisper. “It was worse than that. Much worse.”

“What happened?”

“Elway found a tag on me.” Andre looked at the floor and spoke through gritted teeth. “Someone wanted to stop the terrorists. To kill them. I led that person right to the place where Overdrive would break down, and I led them right to the people that did it.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The bombers or the murderers?”

“Either.”

“You don’t understand. If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t done what I did—” He could feel the aching muscles in his jaw, forcing down a memory of Elway’s crushed and broken body. “I thought I knew how big this was.” He held out his hands as if trying to take hold of the case, restrain it. Then his hands opened and fell away. “I chose to save a few lives, and look how many it cost.”

The captain gripped the handrail and closed her eyes for a long moment, inhaling slowly, then nodded as if making up her mind. “Then I’m glad I suspended you.”

“Next you’re going to tell me that it’s for my own good.”

“Nope,” she said. “For mine.”

They both fell silent as the fire door two floors below opened and shut. Footsteps. Voices. Andre reached for the door handle.

Captain Evans caught his sleeve. “I had to call Jordan Elway’s mother. Tell her that her son is dead. I don’t want to call yours.”

“V
isitor,” Andre’s apartment said
in its sultry voice. From his deep armchair in front of the window and the depths of the black mood that seemed to hang in front of him, he silently made himself two bets.

He walked over to the buzzer. “May I help you?”

“Open the fucking door.”

I win
, Andre thought wryly. He called the door open. Danny Cariatti bustled in with a box in his arms, heeled the door shut behind him and set his burden on the floor.

“Beers-of-the-World?”
I win again.

“Beers-of-the-World.” Danny took off his jacket and tossed it over the chair. He stripped off his holster and weapon and looked at the hooks beside the door. Andre’s empty holster hung there like a shed snakeskin.

“The captain has it,” Andre said. The indifference in his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Of course he had a backup piece. Every cop did. But the Russian-made Yavorit sat untouched in the gun safe bolted to his bedroom floor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cleaned it, much less fired it.

Danny passed through to the kitchen without comment. Soon, Andre heard the clinking of bottles and the chuff of his icemaker being dumped over them. Danny appeared with a tub full of ice, brown bottles with colorful labels peeking out here and there. He plonked it down between the two chairs and dropped into the other one. He fished around in the tub and pulled out two bottles, inspecting the labels. “Bali or Tongo?”

“Balinese beer?”

Danny shrugged and handed him the other bottle.

Every Christmas, every birthday, and for all Andre knew, every minor holiday in between, one of Danny’s many relatives gave him what they thought was an original gift—a monthly six-pack of a different beer. On the day of his promotion to Lieutenant five years ago, Danny had received no fewer than fifty-six subscriptions to the Beers-of-the-World club. He drank the good stuff, brought the merely interesting to pot-lucks and barbecues, and poured the worst of it down the drain, but at any point in the year, his basement looked like a global party store.

They sat in silence, drinking exotic beer. Eventually they progressed to genial argument about where exactly Tongo was located and why the beer would taste like breadfruit. When the point of contention became how either of them could say what breadfruit did or did not taste like, the whole debate became moot when Andre peered at his label again and announced his beer was not Tongan but was, in fact, Tobagonian.