Three uneventful interviews later, Val’s noon alarm chimed, reminding her to check in with her partner by phone.
“Good timing. I was about to break for lunch,” Jan said. “What have you found?”
“Not much,” Val said. “Nobody knows anything about the red and blue pills, what they mean, or who might have wanted to vandalize the property. Yet I kept getting the feeling that Tasha Koval, the IT Director, was holding something back from me.”
“Protecting someone, perhaps? Herself?”
“That’d be my guess, but who?” Val checked the hallway outside the meeting room door to make sure no one could overhear her, then lowered her voice anyway. “How about you? Anything interesting?”
“I’ve got the opposite problem,” Jan said. “Everyone here has a conspiracy theory, and no two stories match. Nor can they cite any hard evidence to back them up.”
“We knew this would be a slog,” Val said. “Did anything jump out at you? Any names, events, threats—anything?”
“Nothing I’d call hard evidence. But there was one interesting coincidence.”
Val’s ears perked up. Her uncle always said there was no such thing as coincidences. “What kind of coincidence?”
“More of a personal thing than case-related,” Jan said. “A woman here says she knows you. Or, knows of you, anyway.”
“Lots of people know ‘of’ me, unfortunately. A sad artifact of getting press for shooting bad guys.”
“That’s not it. She used to work out at your dojo. Her name is Fay.”
“Fay?” Val said. “Hmm. Would that be short for Fayra? Fayra Ireland?”
“Exactly. She says hello.”
“I remember her.” Val’s excitement grew. “If I recall correctly, she used to date the guy that just took over the dojo—Tank. Er, Richard Steiger.”
“Should I ask her?”
“Hell yeah,” Val said. “Tank runs an MMA fight group that might be linked to the incels, who in turn might be connected to the shooting. Follow up with her—see what she knows about Tank’s current activities and if she can vouch for his whereabouts last Friday morning. Any dirt at all, really.”
“You think he’s hooked up with this?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s too big of an overlap to ignore. It might provide a motive. Maybe he’s taking out a grudge against her, or something?”
“I’ll circle back with her, then,” Jan said. “Funny that she didn’t mention Tank as part of her connection to you, though.”
“Yes, it is. Funny as in suspicious.”
“If she has dirt on him, maybe we should sweat him for an hour or two,” Jan said.
“Great idea.” Val hung up and grinned. Grilling Tank under hot lights in a cramped interrogation room sounded like fun after all the abuse he’d dished out to women at the dojo for so many years. She could hardly wait for Jan’s next call.
Val grabbed a quick bite from a Greek food truck, a delicious gyro she washed down with fresh-squeezed lemonade, and returned to VeroniCare a few minutes early for her 12:30 p.m. interview. This time, the receptionist occupied the front desk, as she had on Val’s first few visits. Tall and thin with short black hair and the face of a makeup model, she scowled at Val when she entered.
Val recognized her and recalled her name from the gym on Saturday. “You’re Nora.” A statement, not a question. “Stevie’s friend.”
“You’re half-right.” The woman’s scowl disappeared into a neutral expression that, Val supposed, passed for a smile in her world. “I’m Nora. But I don’t have any friends named Stevie.”
“You fought in the mixed martial arts show on Saturday,” Val said. “After me.”
Nora slapped her, or so it felt, with a long, disapproving gaze down her perfect nose. “I keep my personal life separate from my professional,” she said with a sneer. “I would appreciate if you respected that.”
“You’re sure you don’t know him? I thought I saw you speaking at the gym.”
“I talk to lots of boys,” Nora said. “Boys always try talking to me. I’m sure you understand.”
“Sure.” Val checked her list of interviews. “I don’t see you on my schedule. Perhaps we could chat later in the day?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Val waved the list at her. “I’m interviewing VeroniCare staff about the break-in, trying to gather evidence to solve the case. As the front desk person who sees just about anyone who walks in that door, you strike me as a key person for me to interview.”
“I know nothing about the break-in.” Nora returned her attention to her keyboard. “It happened at night, right? Surprise, surprise. I don’t work nights.”
“How long have you worked for—”
“Who prepared your schedule?” Nora said without looking up.
“I was working with Tasha Koval and Sanjit Patwari, so I assume—”
“Then you should ask them.”
“Listen,” Val said, her hackles rising. “I’m ready and able to yank you into a hot, stinky conference room for several hours, be it here or police headquarters, and watch that perfect makeup run down that beautiful little face of yours. Or you can spend five minutes answering a few basic questions now. I’ve got time, and it makes no damn difference to me.”
Nora’s eyes grew wide. She pushed her keyboard to one side. “Five minutes, right here, right now. To answer your first question: I’ve worked at VeroniCare for almost two years. Yes, I participate in mixed martial arts fighting. I’m undefeated in 27 official bouts. I trained in Kung Fu, aikido, and Muay Thai, a form of kickboxing.”
“I’m familiar with the form. Are you sticking with the story that you don’t know Stevie Ray?”
Nora chuckled. “I’m sticking with my story, yes.”
Val, unsure of how to interpret her laughter but pressed for time, continued on. “And Tank Steiger?”
“What the hell kind of name is Tank?”
“He also goes by Richard.”
“Yes, obviously. He runs the MMA fights.”
“How long have you known him?”
“I’m sorry. What does this have to do with the break-in?”
Val huffed but conceded the point. “Who besides you can unlock that front door?”
“Dozens of people. Veronica, the senior managers, almost the entire IT staff, and the cleaning crew. We’re not the most secure facility.”
“It’s a combination lock, correct?”
“Correct,” Nora said. “What does that matter? Whoever broke in didn’t use the combination. They smashed right through the door.”
Val pointed to the shelves behind Nora, full of a fresh supply of health- and skin-care products. “Who’s familiar with your inventory and where it’s stored?”
“Again, almost everyone. That’s how we make most of our profits.” To Val’s surprised look, she added in a conspiratorial tone, “Friendly tip: don’t buy that stuff here. The markup is outrageous.”
“So the value of the stolen items…?”
Nora’s eyes grew wide again. “Thousands, at least.”
Val jotted down a few notes. The robbery motive loomed larger than she’d given it credit before. “Thank you, Nora. You’ve been most helpful.”
Nora’s sour expression told Val that ‘helpful’ was the last thing she wanted to be.
The big cop swaggered into the arena like he owned the place, a confident stride despite a slight limp. Dark, wavy hair cut short, not quite military style, with a light stubble dotting his chin, he wore a polo shirt, khakis, and chinos. Comfortable clothes. Not a uniform. Fit, muscular, tough-looking. He paused, hands on hips, scanning the room until his eyes met Stafford’s.
“Just you?” Kryzinski’s voice carried a measure of chagrin.
“My partner will be along in a moment,” Stafford said, aiming for an air of indifference, but he couldn’t suppress his impatience. The guy showed up five minutes late, after all. Not a good start.
However, Stafford’s partner was late, too.
Yes, partner. He no longer thought of the booming, irascible organizer as his captain. Stafford was Cap’s equal—at least. Perhaps soon, his superior. With what he had done so far, and what he planned, and with his burgeoning success as a recruiter, surely the organization would recognize his value and give him the leadership role he craved—and deserved.
Kryzinski strolled the practice-gym side of the facility with detached amusement, taking in the sights and no doubt the sounds and smells as well. Someone worked out with a medicine ball in the corner, rappety-rappety-rap-rap. Sweat, steam, and a persistent scent of mold or fungi assaulted the sinuses. Manly smells.
The Cell Captain—dammit, his partner—emerged from the lockers dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and loose-fitting shorts, his rippling muscles glistening with oil in the harsh light. Stafford cursed his own unflattering outfit: a simple button-down shirt, street shoes, and his delivery uniform pants. He’d kept them on to facilitate a quick change when he returned to work. He’d angled for an evening talk, but the cop insisted on a midday rendezvous. Stafford’s delivery schedule would suffer, along with his paycheck. More frustration, contributing to his growing impatience.
“Mr. Kryzinski,” Cap said in not-quite-a-shout, the way he always talked: over you, at you, at high volume. “Welcome.”
“Thanks for having me.” Kryzinski reached the Cell Captain—fuck, he needed to stop calling him that—first, shook his hand, then accepted Stafford’s outreached hand with a firm grip. “Quite the place you’ve got here. Is this where you meet?”
“Meet?” Cap wrinkled his brow. “This isn’t city government. We don’t hold ‘meetings.’ We communicate one-on-one as much as possible and take action. You got a problem with that?”
“Hell no.” Kryzinski arched his back, elbows reaching behind him. “Avoiding meetings is why I stayed on patrol for so long. If you’d answered ‘Yes, we meet here,’ I’d have turned around and walked out that door.”
The Cell Captain gestured to Kryzinski to lift his arms, extending his own to pat down the cop’s thick torso and legs. When he finished, the cop held out his hands in the same way. “Now you.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Kryzinski said. “With what we’re discussing, I need the same assurances you do.”
Stafford gulped, expecting a confrontation, if not violence.
Cap’s eyes narrowed. A thin, cruel smile crept across his face, and he lifted his arms, spread his legs out a bit. “I assume you carry a personal burner phone,” he said while enduring the pat-down.
“A different one every month.” Kryzinski finished and straightened. “Right now I throw away a lot of unused minutes.”
“Good.” Cap seemed to relax a bit. “Talk to me about what it means to you to be a cop in today’s world. Is it everything you expected it to be?”
“Pfft.” Kryzinski glanced at Stafford, humor dancing in his eyes. “I walk down the street with both hands cuffed behind my back, or so it feels. Freakin’ woke bureaucrats spend all their damned time in meetings thinking up ways to make my job miserable.”
“They hold you back, eh?”
“In so many ways.”
Stafford saw his opening. Cap had given him a short leash, but this was in his wheelhouse, and their source had provided a useful tip. “Like in promotions?”
Kryzinski blinked at him as if he’d forgotten Stafford was there. “Come again?”
“P-promotions going to women instead of you,” he said, his throat dry. “It holds you back in your career?”
Kryzinski paused, as if weighing Stafford’s assertion. “So, are you the one wearing a wire?”
“No wire.” Stafford stepped closer and raised his arms. The cop’s rough hands checked his wiry frame in seconds.
“There are two female lieutenants, four sergeants, and six detectives in Clayton,” Kryzinski said in an angry tone. “How many do you think can do what I do?”
Stafford shook his head. Cap made an “O” with his fingers.
“That’s right. Zero,” Kryzinski said. “But the politicians at the top need to make their quotas.”
The Cell Captain cleared his throat. Stafford’s interview time was over. “That’s cost you personally?”
Kryzinski’s eyes flared and he whirled to face Cap. “You squeamish?”
Cap blinked. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, do you faint at the sight of blood and scars?” Kryzinski grabbed the waistline of his khakis, as if poised to rip them off.
“Um, no. Of course not.”
Kryzinski undid his belt and dropped his damned pants down to his knees. Then he hooked a thumb into his boxer briefs and yanked one side down, half-exposing his ass. He turned to show them both a nasty scar that ran eight inches down from his waist. “Took a .38 slug to my pelvis. Broke the goddamned thing. Took six months to get back to walking at normal speed, and it hurts every damned day of my life.” He pulled his briefs and khakis up and zipped his pants. “The fucker that shot me is still awaiting trial, after raping a half-dozen underage girls. You don’t think I’d rather take care of that animal myself instead of letting our so-called ‘justice system’ take its sweet time? Five’ll get you twenty that sonofabitch walks on some technicality.” He finished buckling his belt with a savage yank that should have sucked the air out of the man’s body. “Sorry for the rant. What was the question again?”
Cap nodded at Stafford, a tight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So, you wouldn’t mind breaking a few rules now and again to set things right?”
Kryzinski glared at him. “I’ve already answered that. Next question.”
Stafford expected Cap to snap back at Kryzinski, the way he did to him. Instead, Cap mulled over the remark and shrugged. “Just wanted to be sure. You have a bit of a reputation as a straight shooter.”
“I expect the same from you, or fuck this.”
Stafford tensed…
Cap nodded.
Stafford nearly fell over in shock. He decided he liked Kryzinski. The guy took no bullshit from anyone, even a hard-charger like Cap. He’d never seen anyone handle his Cell Captain that way.
“You married?” Cap asked.
Stafford opened his mouth to answer for him, then stopped. Cap knew better. He was testing the cop, to see where his vulnerabilities lay.
“Got a girl. Fellow cop. Not married…yet.”
Cap nodded. “Before her?”
Kryzinski shook his head. “Close, but no cigar. You?”
Stafford’s admiration grew. Kryzinski knew how to keep Cap off-balance.
“I keep my women at a safe distance,” Cap said. “You gonna? Marry her, I mean.”
Kryzinski’s turn to shrug. “Not sure.”
“How’s her cooking?”
The cop laughed. “She’s learning.”
Cap paused a moment. “Don’t see another way to ask this, so I’ll go straight-up. Who wears the pants?”
Kryzinski smirked. “At work, both—it’s the uniform. At home, I try to keep her clothes off.”
Cap laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good one. Hey, random question. When you’re in a car, who controls the radio?”
“Whoever’s not driving,” Kryzinski said. “Safer that way. Hey, I am a cop.”
“So when you’re pushing the buttons, what do you listen to?”
“Classic rock. The older and louder the better. Kiss, AC/DC, Metallica, Scorpions. Nothing gets me going better than an ’80s rock anthem.” He mimed an air guitar and sang the chorus to “Rock You Like a Hurricane.” Cap, to Stafford’s horror, laughed and joined in, both of them way off-key.
What an asshole. Both of them, for that matter. Screwing around when they needed to conduct important business.
When they finished, Cap cleared his throat. “On a more serious note. If you could change one thing in the world, what would it be?”
“Only one thing?” Kryzinski rubbed his chin. “Man, that’s tough. There are so many things.” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. If I could go back in time, I’d erase the word ‘woke’ from the English language. That’d solve half our problems right there.”
Cap smiled. Stafford smiled back. That confirmed what their source had intimated.
They had their newest recruit in the bag.