CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

CAPTAIN FLORES DIDN’T seem to know where to look.

He kept glancing over at her, but then his eyes would flick away, embarrassed, as if he were unwilling to meet her gaze. She wondered if he was having trouble admitting to himself that they’d done a good job. Perhaps it was more that she and Ramos been divested their sodden uniforms, and sitting there in borrowed clothing, without their helmets, they both looked suddenly human.

That was the thing about the Judges uniform: it was a shield, but it was a mask too. Now, Flores was forced to see the people beneath the uniforms, and for the first time he appeared to understand that they were just like him—a man and a woman charged with upholding the law and protecting civilians.

“Pennhouser says you visited Adams’s office. There was no indication that things were awry?” said Flores, after a moment. He rapped his fingers on his desk, distracted.

“Nothing,” said Ramos. “His assistant told us he’d gone away for a few days to avoid the media, following his statement earlier in the week.”

“Ah, yes,” said Flores. “The statement.” He sighed. “Well, I think we can assume his office will be issuing a retraction shortly. He’s sedated at present. We’ve not had a chance to question him yet, to find out how he was picked up by Reece. The doctor said he was a wreck when you handed him over to the ambulance crew.”

O’Shea and Ramos had managed to get Adams out of the sewer system and up into the abandoned warehouse, where they’d called in an ambulance and escorted it through the near-impenetrable storm before returning to the precinct. Adams was in a bad way, but they were assured he’d make a full recovery—in time.

“He’s been through a lot,” said O’Shea.

“Much of it of his own making,” said Flores. “We talked to the perp you brought in—the man who shot Hartigan.”

“And?” prompted Ramos.

“Seems he was in the pay of Adams all along. He and a few others—we’ve got names, and we’ll round them up once the storm blows over—had been tasked with creating unrest. They were trying to provoke you, so that everyone would see you coming down on them at the protests. Adams was trying to control the story, to add weight to his position. It was a hatchet job.”

“A hatchet job that led to murder,” said O’Shea.

“Rohmer—that was his name—was never supposed to go that far. But that’s what you get with people like that. He was hopped up on stims and out of control. Once he got fired up, there was no stopping him. Hartigan obviously saw things going south and tried to step in…” Flores shook his head. “Adams is in it up to his neck.”

“He certainly was,” said Ramos with a grin.

“We should have spotted it sooner,” said Flores. “If we’d been working together, sharing information…” He trailed off. “I’m sorry. I can’t condone what you did back at Chelsea Market, but the things I said—they were uncalled for.” For the first time since they’d entered his office, Flores met her eye. He seemed genuine enough.

“Times are changing, captain,” she said. “This is new, for all of us. But there’s no going back. Not now. We’re going to have to learn to work together.”

Flores nodded. He looked out of the office window at his team, going about their duties. Despite the late hour, the precinct was still buzzing. “They’re going to find it tough,” he said.

“We all are,” said O’Shea. “But we have a job to do.”

Flores nodded. “Speaking of which—there’s still the matter of David Carrera. We’re no closer to finding out what’s happened to him. Do you think he could be down there in those tunnels?”

“If he is, he’s dead,” said Ramos. “No one could have survived that. We were lucky to get to Adams in time.”

“I suppose we’ll know more in the coming days,” said Flores. “We’ll get a team down there once the water level drops. Take a proper look at what Reece was doing down there… and look into those other bodies you found, too.” He grimaced at the thought. “A whole community, drowned in their beds. Poor bastards.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment. O’Shea could still see the face of the woman, pale and staring, as she bobbed just below the surface of the water in the tunnel, eerily lit by the light of a torch. The image would haunt her, she knew, for years to come.

“Look, there’s nothing any of us can do now. The whole city’s holding its breath, waiting for the storm to pass. Get some rest, both of you, and I’ll update you in the morning. You can use the dorm space out back.” Flores rapped his fingers on his desk again.

“I’d feel happier if we had an answer on Carrera,” said Ramos.

“We all would,” said Flores. “But you’ve been out there, and you said it yourself—if he was down in those tunnels, he’s already dead. There’s nothing we can do for him now. We can pick it up again in the morning.”

Ramos glanced at O’Shea, as if seeking her approval, or at least her agreement. She could see the tiredness in his eyes.

She nodded, rising slowly from her seat. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. “Wake us if there’s any news.”