Weiss moved heavily through the rain. He pulled his collar up. He hunched down inside his trenchcoat. He didn’t have a hat, so the water matted his salt-and-pepper hair, ran into the folds of his saggy cheeks like tears.
It was a miserable rain, thin, steady, cold. It carried the pungent smell of fallen leaves in it, the first whiff of autumn. He had parked a full block away, the only space he could find. By the time he reached the old white brick building, the legs of his pants were soaked; his skin felt clammy. He pulled the wood-framed glass doors open and was grateful to step inside.
At the elevator, he pinched his coat and shook it. The excess water puddled on the marble foyer floor. He slid back the old-fashioned elevator cage. He got in and it rattled shut. As the box ground upward, he stood gazing at the sinking walls, his hands in his trenchcoat pockets. His hangdog face was impassive. His sad eyes were distant. He felt the low boil of anxiety in his belly, but what the hell. There were a lot of things to worry about just now and not a damn thing he could do about any of them.
Bishop was irritated the minute he saw Weiss in his doorway—standing there gigantic and dripping wet, his eyes full of sorrow. That’s what annoyed Bishop most: that look of pity Weiss lugged around with him like a suitcase. Bishop read it as pity, anyway—pity for all mankind, which was idiotic enough, and pity for him personally, which just pissed him the fuck off. It meant they hadn’t found the body yet. Which sucked, all right—and Weiss being all compassionate about it only made it worse.
Bishop grunted a greeting, turned away. Walked back to the table by the window, leaving Weiss to come in behind him. Well, he was edgy to begin with. But his boss was the only man on earth who could get under his skin like this just by showing up.
Weiss stripped his coat off, draped it over a chair. The water dripped from it, pattered on the wood floor. He felt chilled and uncomfortable in his damp clothes. But then, he didn’t feel all that comfortable just being here, under the circumstances.
“Crap day,” he said.
Bishop didn’t answer. He plunked down into one of the chairs by the table. He snatched up his cigarette box, snatched a cigarette, lit it.
Weiss watched him, read his temper and his nerves. Winced to see the angry bruises on his face and hands. Purple stains in the flesh, spreading out, becoming yellow stains. As Weiss lumbered toward him, he saw the deep rings, too, under his hollow, sleepless eyes.
Poor bastard, he thought.
He sank into the table’s other chair with a heavy sigh.
Oh, fuck Weiss, thought Bishop. And his pity and his sighs.
He inhaled smoke fiercely, blew it out fiercely. “What, they still can’t find him?”
“I know,” said Weiss. “It’s crazy shit. They dragged the Basin all yesterday, even a couple hours this morning before the weather went south.”
Bishop gave a snort of disgust.
“They figure either he was swept out to sea somehow or—” Weiss’s shoulders lifted and fell.
“Or what? He hailed a cab? I shot him in the face.”
“Maybe the sharks got him. I don’t know.”
“The cops were there in less than a minute.”
“Right, that’s the thing. So maybe he swam for it.”
“He didn’t swim for it. He was too dead to swim for it. I shot him in the fucking face, Weiss.”
“What can I tell you? It’s gotta be something.”
“Jesus!” said Bishop. “Who’s Ketchum got on this? The Blind and Stupid Division?”
“They’ll find him.”
“Hey, it’s nothing to me. The man’s dead. He’s plenty dead. Just be nice if the Keystone Kops could manage to fish him out of the seaweed, that’s all. I’d like to be able to move on with my life, sleep with both eyes closed for a change.”
He turned away after that so Weiss couldn’t see how wired he was, how uncool. Because all that stuff about moving on with his life, sleeping with both eyes closed and so on—that was bullshit, a smoke screen. It was all about the girl, really. And he didn’t want Weiss to read his expression and see just how much the girl had gotten to him. Weiss could do that, too, look into people’s minds like that. It was even more annoying than his universal pity.
Weiss looked out the window, meanwhile, so Bishop could suffer in private. The girl must’ve really gotten to him, he thought. Why else would he care if Tweedy’s body was found? That stuff about moving on with his life, sleeping with his eyes closed, that was bullshit. He seemed sure enough that the biker was meat. Wouldn’t be afraid of him if he was still alive, either.
No, it was Honey Graham who was really frightened. Philip Graham had been calling the Agency almost by the hour, asking if there was any word. He said his daughter was terrified, convinced that Tweedy was still alive, that he would come after her, kill her. The father sounded pretty nervous himself. He had the girl under heavy guard, and he was talking about getting her out of the country before long.
So unless Tweedy was found—unless the Grahams were convinced he was dead for sure—Bishop would never get anywhere near the girl again. That had to be the reason he was on edge like this.
Weiss watched the rain course down the glass in waves. It blurred the scene outside: the steel gray sky, the stretch of wet avenue. It blurred the smiling woman on the billboard advertisement for the bank so that she seemed like the hazy dream of a woman.
What the hell is she so happy about? Weiss wondered.
“Ketchum doesn’t think all that highly of you, either, if the truth is known,” he said aloud.
Bishop faced him, pulling hard on his cigarette again. “Well, that’s not news. What’s his problem this time?”
“He says you should’ve warned him about the blade. Says you wanted the takedown to go sour. Says you were looking for an excifse to blow Cobra away.”
“That’s crap.”
“He’s been snarling at me all morning about it.”
“It’s crap,” Bishop said. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”
Weiss shrugged. But that wasn’t good enough for Bishop. His voice grew harsher, more challenging.
“I mean it. Why does Ketchum think I’d do that? Fucking cop is on me all the time.”
“It’s true. He is,” Weiss answered gently. “And he doesn’t even know about the Graham girl yet.”
Bishop felt the heat rise in his face. So Weiss already understood the whole deal, understood about the girl and everything. It made Bishop feel sour inside. If Weiss knew about that, then, being Weiss, he’d probably also figured out what the gunfight at the edge of the Basin was like. He probably even knew the thoughts that had gone through Bishop’s mind and the way his finger had tightened on the trigger and maybe even about the smell of perfume and sex that had seemed to drift by him. It made Bishop sour to think that Weiss knew about all that.
Weiss rumbled to his feet now. He put a big hand on Bishop’s shoulder, clutched it. “Listen. They’ll find him,” he said again.
Bishop felt the heat in his cheeks, the sourness all through him. “Sure.”
Weiss walked to the chair where his coat lay dripping. He lifted the coat and shrugged into it.
Bishop pretended to ignore him. Pulled on his cigarette, acted as if he didn’t care what Weiss did or what he thought. Because why should he? Why should he give a shit what Weiss thought about anything?
He glanced over at the big detective sidelong, watched him yank the belt tight around his trenchcoat. Fucking Weiss, he thought.
“It’s just you he’s worried about,” he heard himself say.
Weiss glanced over at him. “Who? Who’s worried?”
“Ketchum. That’s why he’s on me all the time. He’s worried I’ll cross the line somehow and drag you down.”
Weiss just answered with a puff of air, a kind of laugh. “I’ll see you, Jim.”
He went to the door.
“Wait a minute,” said Bishop.
Weiss pulled the door open, looked back across the room, met Bishop’s eyes.
Bishop couldn’t help himself. He had to ask. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“What Ketchum said? You think he’s right?”
“Right about…?”
“You think I wanted the takedown to go sour? You think I wanted to blow Cobra away?”
Weiss made a face, tilted his head. “Who gives a shit what anyone wants? SWAT fucked up and Ketchum knows it.” He seemed about to leave, but paused again, looked back again. “Anyway, you never would’ve pulled the trigger if Tweedy hadn’t fired first.”
Bishop almost smiled at that but stopped himself. Because what did he care? What did he care what Weiss thought? Fucking Weiss.
Weiss went out, and the door swung shut behind him.