A red haze seeped into the eastern sky as Westermann arrived at Headquarters. The duty officer gave him a heavy-lidded gaze, fatigue robbing him of the energy to muster actual hostility. Upstairs, the squad room was empty and Westermann helped himself to three aspirin from Souza’s desk drawer. No sleep, a hangover coming on as his drunkenness faded. He opened his office window in time to hear a delivery truck rattle by. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands, willing himself to clarity in this stagnant heat. He needed to get his mind around the logistics.
Koss.
Maddox.
Where was Vesterhue?
Where was Mavis Talley?
He needed to convince Kraatjes first. If he convinced Kraatjes, the two of them could go to the Chief. But if it went wrong, this was a career-killer.
Kraatjes always arrived early, when the sun still hid behind the skyline.
He rapped on the doorframe, pulling Westermann from his thoughts.
“I saw your note.” Kraatjes looked apprehensive. “You look like hell.”
Westermann knew how he appeared: unshaven, yesterday’s clothes wrinkled and withered, hair lank from twenty-four hours of sweat.
Kraatjes took a seat, looking cautiously over at him. “Okay, Piet. What’s up?”
Westermann laid it out for him.
The Chief’s lights were off and the sun came through the open windows, casting an orange light across the room. Westermann unloaded the case just as he had to Kraatjes—what he knew, what he intended to do—while Kraatjes paced, smoking, nodding along.
When Westermann was done, the Chief leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling. Kraatjes settled over by the window, blowing cigarette smoke into the stagnant City air. Westermann, his story told, slumped in his chair, his hand supporting his forehead.
The Chief asked Kraatjes, “You think Asplundh will grant us the warrants?”
Kraatjes nodded, having thought this through. “You guarantee that one of us falls on his sword if it goes south, then, yeah, I think he’ll do it. He doesn’t want a bunch of dead kids on his conscience.”
The Chief sighed. Westermann could feel the Chief’s appraising eyes and knew that his shabby appearance didn’t inspire confidence. The Chief leaned his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers.
Kraatjes finished his cigarette and stubbed the filter into a glass ashtray on the Chief’s desk. “I’ll take the fall if this goes wrong.”
The Chief looked at Kraatjes, then Westermann, then back to Kraatjes. The Chief shook his head. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but this is on Piet. We’ll do this, but Piet gets the credit or he takes the fall. That’s how it’s got to work.”
Westermann nodded, his thoughts drifting, fatigue blurring his focus.
Morphy.
Morphy.
Morphy.
The Chief stood. “Let’s get this moving.”