IT’S THREE IN THE AFTERNOON by the time my eyes open to find Thomas Upton, Chief of Ds Malachi McGowan, and the Police Commissioner Himself seated around my hospital bed as if attending a wake.
“Water,” I say.
The three men stare blankly at each other before Upton relents to put a straw to my lips.
“You look like shit, Dex.”
“Don’t look so good yourself, sir.”
“Me? I’m just here for moral support.”
“Should I be worried?”
The PC Himself says, “We’re happy with your progress, Detective.”
Not without a touch of sarcasm, I say, “Does this mean I’m still a cop?”
The Chief of Ds says, “Let’s just say you won’t be needing your union rep to monitor this conversation.”
At this point, I don’t give a shit if I’m suspended from active duty, terminated, or under arrest. I say as much to the gold braid gathered around my bed. “I only want to know about Gabby and Mel.”
It’s Upton who speaks first. “Gabby is fine, Dex, just fine. Resting at home, no serious damage. Doctors didn’t want her traveling. Otherwise, she’d be here.”
“What happened?”
“After you went down, Chatterbox went after Gabby in the smokehouse. No reason for him to know she had a weapon. He entered, she fired, she hit him. He got off two rounds of his own, missed both times.”
“There was a fourth shot.”
“Gabby. She only winged him first time. Fourth shot was her trying to finish the job.”
“And?”
Upton shakes his head.
“Mel?”
Looking uncomfortable, he continues. “Detective Johns didn’t fare as well. The Chatterbox had wrapped her in a tarp and put her into Danilenko’s ice locker. She was there for a very long time before we found her.”
I shudder and moan.
“No, no, Dex. She survived, but suffered serious frostbite. She lost fingers on both her hands. Still, she’s a fighter. Determined to return to active duty as soon as she’s able to shoot straight.”
Chuckles all around.
“There are a lot of questions to be answered, Detective.”
Right now, the only questions I need answering have been answered. I lay back my head, cover my eyes and weep with relief.
✽ ✽ ✽
When I open my eyes Upton, McGowan, and the PC Himself are still there looking immensely uncomfortable.
Unlike the fictional version played by the actor Tom Selleck on the program Blue Bloods, our Police Commissioner is a physically unassuming man with a halo of silver hair, best known for having a placid demeanor punctuated by violent and irrational outbursts of temper earning him the title der führer behind his back. He’s rumored to have achieved high office by having dirt on the Mayor gathered over a thirty-five year career with the NYPD, seven spent in Vice. With aspirations, himself, to one day run for office, the PC is as politically astute as he is ruthless.
There must be a reason he hasn’t ordered me a lethal injection. On cue, he enlightens me.
“The doctor tells us you’ll require extensive surgery and subsequent therapy to regain full use of that left arm. It will be six months, maybe up to a year, before you can even think about returning to active duty. In the meantime, not to worry. The Department has you covered.”
“Sure. After which, it’ll be light-duty-desk-duty until I’m so stir crazy, I voluntarily resign.”
Now it’s me who’s beginning to feel uncomfortable, because I sense there’s something they’re not saying. “Are you being straight up with me? Are Gabby and Mel okay or are you screwing with me because of the doctors? Tell me, I can handle it.”
“Detective Fernandez is fine, Fortune. It’s been an ordeal. She’s taken personal leave for obvious reasons, but should return to active duty inside a month.”
“Busted down to patrol?”
The PC gives me a look as if I’ve been doing drugs. “Right now, Gabby Fernandez is the second most celebrated member of our Detective Squad.”
Out of morbid curiosity, I ask, “Who’s first?”
The PC colors right to the top of his bald head. “You Detective, Dexter Fortune, NYPD’s finest Homicide Squad investigator gone rogue, defying his superiors to ride off on his white steed to save the life of his colleagues held hostage by the notorious serial killer The Chatterbox in a remote cabin in the woods Upstate.”
“It didn’t exactly happen that way.”
“Well, the press is lapping-it-up. You’re a rock star, Fortune, almost as famous as that sister of yours on the West coast. They can’t wait to get you in front of a camera,” McGowan says. “Shit, Fortune, whole thing reads like a movie script. Wouldn’t be surprised if you get a book deal out of this, lucky bastard.”
“I don’t understand. Who gave this version of the story to the press?”
“Not the Department,” says the PC. “Because we’re not controlling the narrative, are we?”
“I still don’t get it.”
“The Chatterbox.”
“The Chatterbox is talking from a jail cell? How is this possible?”
“He’s not exactly talking from behind bars, Dex,” says Upton. “Because, you see, The Chatterbox got away. By the time the State Police arrived on scene, he was gone. Tracking dogs and a hundred cops and volunteer police searching those woods and nothing, no trace at all. Even winged, he managed to get away.”
What begins as a chuckle evolves into a full-throated belly-laugh. Fearing I will bust my stitches, a nurse is summoned. A sedative is administered and morphine to ease the pain.
I admire the crazy son-of-a-bitch almost as much as I want him dead.