WE RETURN to Midtown North at noon. Without stopping to use the toilet or to greet the team, Upton leads me to Jimmy’s office. To me, it will always be Jimmy’s Office, at least until a permanent replacement arrives.
Inside the office, Upton prepares coffee in a Proctor Silex ten-cup maker located on a credenza behind the desk. He measures out water, places a filter in the basket, spoons out eight heaping mounds of grinds with the care of a professional barista. Upton depresses the Brew button. He tosses packets of artificial sweetener and powdered whitener onto the desktop. The coffee maker gurgles.
Upton tells me to sit. He sifts paper. When the coffee is ready, he pours two cups, offers one to me. We add a generous helping of sweetener and whitener.
“Do we have it wrong, Fortune?”
I’m heartened by his use of the inclusive We, though must assume full responsibility. “I believed Marcus Livingstone to be the man we know as The Chatterbox Killer, sir. Livingstone is dead. I guess I got it wrong.”
“Before you fall on your sword, there’s enough blame to go around.”
“On the bright side, the Chief doesn’t believe in The Chatterbox.”
“There’s that.” Upton grins as if he has gas. “Coincidence?”
“I don’t see it. Why target Livingstone if not for a connection to Miranda? Everything we know points to his involvement. His death doesn’t change this fact.”
“Crazy boyfriend out for revenge?”
I recall an image of Livingstone’s crucified corpse. But who am I to speculate? “Possibly, sir. An accomplice, more likely, I think. The Chatterbox, himself.”
“A pair of tag-team psychopaths. Lovely.”
Upton is quiet while he sips his coffee. He buffs his head vigorously enough to make it shine. Outside the office, I hear the hum and buzz of an investigation. An investigation I’m likely no longer part of. I blame McGowan. Had he allowed us to look at the bigger picture, a more credible alternative to Livingstone might have emerged. I’m still convinced Marcus is complicit in—at the very least—Miranda’s death.
Under the circumstances, I have no choice but to believe.
“What next?” I don’t really want to know but need to ask.
Upton sighs like a balloon deflating. For a big man, it makes him look small. “I’ve already left it too long. I need to speak with Chief McGowan and rally the troops. Everything we thought we knew no longer applies.”
Silent, like a Sphinx.
“Your team will be reassigned.”
Feeling a need to defend and to protect, I say, “I’m the Investigator in charge, sir. The team was following my lead.”
As if he isn’t listening, Upton continues. “Damage control. We need to get ahead of this before the press blows it out of all proportion.”
“What do you need from me?”
Considering carefully, Upton finally says, “Your service weapon and your badge.”
Thinking I’ve misheard, it takes me a moment to reply. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Your service weapon and your badge.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.” Upton raises his arms in a gesture of self-defence. “Being wrong, I can forgive, Fortune. Going cowboy, I can’t. That was one massive cluster-fuck back there. Believe me, I’m trying to protect you.”
“Me, or yourself?”
“If you’re still active by the time I speak to the Chief, suspension will be the least of your worries. He’ll launch an internal inquiry, have you on a platter. Your best hope is to make yourself scarce, keep your head low, and keep it low until the shit clears.”
It makes sense, but I push back. “How can I do that? The killer has made it personal. He won’t stop calling just because I’m off the investigation.”
“Go fishing, visit relatives out of town, take a vacation, change your number. Or go somewhere without cell service.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Now go home and get some sleep before you become delirious. Leave your gear with the Duty Sargent on the way out, and make sure you get a receipt.”
I stand. “How—”
“I can’t say. How long you’re out is up to the Chief. If you come back at all, is up to the Chief.”
Stunned, I turn and exit the office.