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Mac introduced Mike Brewster to the crew in the computer room which seemed to be sprouting computers faster than results as far as Mac could tell. And while he appreciated the admiration from Misaki of his bare chest, he wasn’t sure Angie did, so he went upstairs to take a shower and find a clean shirt. When he came back down, the three women were laughing together. Tim was blushing, which told him all he needed to know about what the three women were discussing.
“So, questions,” he said, ignoring the women. He knew better than to ask what they were talking about — he’d blush like Tim, and never live it down. “Tech expertise and money is coming into this in a big way. And apparently the bozo who let Benjamin Ryan go last year is connected to that, and to everyone else. What do we know about him?”
“His name is Anthony Whalen,” Joe Dunbar said. “Although bozo works. Mediocre cop, but connected as you say, so he always seemed to escape any accountability. But then he lets Benjamin Ryan go, and Ryan takes hostages. That kind of fuckup is hard to overlook.”
Misaki stilled. “What did you say his name is?”
“Anthony Whalen?”
“Winston Whalen’s son? Can’t be two men with that name can there?” she asked.
Mac winced at that name. “Who does that to a child?” he muttered.
“He usually goes by Win,” Misaki said. “He’s a venture capitalist who focuses on right-wing causes. He’s made billions — and lost millions. Owns a horse farm out past Bothel. Race horses.”
Timothy Brandt frowned. He turned back to his computer and typed something into a search prompt. “And he attends Valley View Community Church,” he said. “He’s a deacon there.”
“So, are they related?” Mac asked practically. “My source says bozo knows everyone — including Andy Malloy. Better at networking than police work apparently.”
“Profile him,” Misaki ordered. “That’s your gig. Mine is figuring out how they managed to subvert the dispatch system. And I’ve figured out a piece of that by the way.”
“Oh?” Mac asked, temporarily diverted from Whalen.
“Yeah, they had Joe’s number tapped. When he called for backup, it was routed to the fake dispatcher. And then they threw down the black-out blanket for his location. From then on, every call to 911 in that area was routed to the fake dispatcher.”
Mac considered that, and nodded. “And Rodriguez?”
“More complicated,” she conceded. “More moving parts. They had a spotter there, I think.”
Mac made a few notes about that for a future article.
“Mac? If your cop is Win Whalen’s son? That gives me some ideas to pursue,” Misaki said slowly. Mac’s eyes narrowed. She was choosing what to tell him, and it was nowhere near everything. That worried him. “But you all are talking real money here. I hope you’re prepared for that.”
Joe Dunbar’s phone rang. He answered it, listened for a long while. Said a quiet thank you and hung up. He got to his feet, fumbled with his crutches, and made slow progress across the room.
“Where are you going?” Misaki asked. She looked torn between concerned and exasperated.
“Need some fresh air,” he muttered. He paused in the door and looked at Mac. “That was Lorde. You mentioned suicides? I asked him about it. He pulled the data, and felt like I deserved to hear it from him directly. In the last five years there have been seven young men who have been found dead in public spaces — like the call I caught last summer — and who have been ruled suicides. All Black men. All investigated by the North Precinct, by one of those three cops. And all were processed by the same assistant medical examiner. Lorde is opening an investigation.”
Joe hobbled out the door and down to the elevator. Those in the room looked at each other in silence. “Go after him, Mac,” Angie said.
He started to protest, and then looked around. Who else was there he thought?
“Mike? Profile Anthony Whalen,” he ordered. “Angie? Show Mike that rogue’s gallery I was working on, and then find Janet. Something Sgt. McBride said Monday on my blotter call keeps coming back to me. He said I needed to let it go or I’d be writing a check not even the deep pockets of the newspaper could cover. Given what Misaki just said about Whalen as possibly the missing component to all this, we need to talk.”
She nodded.
“And somebody find Shorty,” Mac added. “Get him back here. Tell him to plead ill or something. He said he was getting inquiries from potential investors into our cover LLC. Let’s hope Whalen isn’t one of them.”
Ruri reached for a phone.
Joe had already taken the elevator by the time Mac got finished handing out assignments, so he headed down the stairs. He heard Paulina say something to someone, and Mac headed in that direction. He heard the backdoor slam. Mac went outside, glanced down toward the lake, and when he saw no one, he headed toward the outdoor stairs that lead to the roof.
It was where Mac went to think. He wasn’t surprised Joe was headed there too.
Joe was sitting on the balustrade, his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him.
“Talk to me,” Mac said.
Joe closed his eyes. “I knew something was off last summer,” he said. “I should have followed up. Should have pursued it. But the ME ruled it suicide, and I just thought Hightower and Mason were fuckups. Something must have caught Lorde’s attention. He’s the one who mentioned it to you, right?”
Mac nodded.
“But damn it, seven suicides, Mac! Seven young Black men all found dead in north Seattle. All ruled suicides, and no one questioned it. Not even me.”
“You didn’t know,” Mac said. “How could you? Were they all from north Seattle? That would see strange.” North Seattle wasn’t the most diverse sector of the city. Although college students... maybe, but they’d be noticed if they were going missing like that, wouldn’t they?
“No, I don’t think so,” Joe said wearily. “I think cops are using the north Seattle precinct as a dumping ground. Get a bit rough with a suspect, and he dies on you? Oops. You dump him in the north precinct, give McBride — or someone — a call. One of those three will take care of it. The ‘hit squad’ gets the call when they’re found. They see to it that the body doesn’t go into the medical examiner’s office until their favorite assistant examiner is on duty.”
Mac nodded. “I remember the story I read now,” he said. “Somewhere down south they did a study of Black men who were committing suicide by hanging. The writer found cases across the country. He didn’t believe a Black man would commit suicide by hanging himself in a public space. He thought they were lynchings that cops were covering up by ruling them suicides. Maybe even lynchings by the cops themselves. I don’t think anything ever came of the story — they couldn’t get the FBI interested. It was dismissed as coincidence — spread across the country like that. But I agreed with the writer — I can’t imagine a Black man committing suicide that way.”
“No, I can’t either,” Joe said, considering the story. He shook his head. “Lorde said he was going to petition to get the bodies exhumed so that another autopsy can be performed on them.”
“So, you’re speculating that they’re deaths were caused by police roughness? Not murders?” Mac asked although he wasn’t sure there was a difference. “Like Malloy’s case?”
“Malloy got caught on camera, and his partner testified against him,” Joe said. “The victim was 12 years old. Tall for his age, I grant you, but still. And his partner couldn’t stomach it. Malloy went down for it. And it was a shooting. Harder to cover that up.”
He thought about it, then shook his head. “Well, went down for it after a fashion — he was forced out and took early retirement. He should have served jail time. But no, I’m guessing these victims were older guys.” He looked at Mac. “You hang out at Johnny’s, I hear?”
“I used to,” Mac admitted. It was a pool bar. He didn’t think he’d ever seen another white person in there. And the other regulars probably thought Mac was Black, just light-skinned. Well, he wasn’t sure he wasn’t.
“So those kinds of guys,” Joe said. “They’re out late, maybe doing something they shouldn’t. Or just spotted by a cop in some part of town where they stick out. And maybe they give the cop some lip, or maybe they try to run. Hell, maybe the cop got yelled at by his sergeant and decides to take out a bit of frustration. You know?”
Mac knew. He wanted to rage that it wasn’t right or fair or good policing. But hell, Joe knew that better than he did.
“And maybe the cop tasers him too long, or chokes him and he’s got asthma, or whatever, and the guy dies. And the cop and his partner are in agreement, they’re not going down for some no-account n—,”
“Don’t,” Mac interrupted. “Don’t.”
Joe sucked in a long breath, and let it out. He nodded. “Some ways it’s almost worse than if we had cop vigilantes out there hunting Black men. These cops don’t even....” He shook his head, then started a different line of thought. “Andy Malloy came close to being a cop vigilante, according to Nick. You and your cousin were lucky to survive him pulling you over.”
“Didn’t seem like it at the time,” Mac admitted. “But yeah. Could have been a Driving While Black death penalty.”
“So, I went into policing to make a difference,” Joe said. Mac thought Joe had tears in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. “And I’m working for a bunch of real shitheads!” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Mac. And that wasn’t even why they came for Nick and me. This has been going on for years! But they’re all in a rage because some mediocre white man got booted from the force because he flagrantly violated policies — and not for the first time, in case you didn’t know that — and nearly got two innocent women killed. How dare a white man be held accountable!”
Mac let him rage. Not much else he could do for him, not right now. But there would be a reckoning. Because this was why he wasn’t a sportswriter. There were stories that mattered, that needed to be told, and this was one of them.
And he didn’t give a rat’s ass how wired these bastards were, or how deep Whalen’s pockets were.
Someone would pay for the callousness of these men’s deaths.
Ironic, Mac thought bitterly. We’re being hunted for the tail of the dog — and this is the real story.
“Do you think Lorde will follow through?” Mac asked.
Joe shrugged. “Who knows, Mac?” he said, and sounded bitter. “Didn’t you say all three officers have killed someone in the line of duty already? Why are they still on the force? Why didn’t the fact that they were dirty come to light then? I’m not saying Lorde won’t try. I’m confident he will. But you know they’ll lawyer up. The union will stand by them — to protect their rights, they’ll claim.”
Mac nodded. He glanced up at the road. Shorty’s Lexus was turning in at the gate. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got work to do downstairs. And who knows? If you play your cards right, Ruri or Misaki will be willing to kiss it and make it all better later.” Mac paused. “Or both. Is a threesome still on your bingo card? This could be your lucky night.”
Joe snorted. “Crass,” he pronounced. “Does Angie know you talk like this?”
Mac started to laugh. He walked slowly beside Joe as he made his way across the roof. He looked at Joe, and laughed again. “You don’t know much about women, do you?” he said at last. “Women’s talk is much raunchier than men’s. You should hear my aunt and her friends. Lordy! And most of them are 60 plus, and half of them are lesbians!”
Joe grinned. “I’ve got to meet this aunt of yours someday,” he said. He managed the stairs by tossing his crutches to the bottom and then hopped down them on one leg, holding onto the railing.
Mac raised one eyebrow and grimaced. “Dude,” he said. “I would have carried the crutches!”
“Just as long as you aren’t volunteering to carry me,” Joe muttered. He picked up the crutches and balanced himself on them. He sighed. “Thanks,” he said without looking at Mac.
“De nada,” Mac said.
“On that note, do you think Paulina would feed us?” Joe asked.