THURSDAY, MAY 1 3—LINCOLN PRAIRIE
It was one twenty-three Chicago time when the Boeing 737 Marti and Vik were napping in touched down. They picked up Vik’s car and drove directly to the precinct. As soon as Marti dropped off the evidence bags she brought back from Los Angeles, Lieutenant Nicholson’s secretary was right at her elbow.
“She wants to see both of you right away.”
This time there was no three-minute wait. The lieutenant was standing by the window with her back to them. She turned, arms folded. “You are both on report for an unauthorized absence and leaving this jurisdiction without the knowledge or consent of your immediate superior.”
“We were working the task force case,” Vik volunteered.
Marti said nothing. Behind her back, her hands were clenched into fists.
“Let’s get this straight right now,” the lieutenant said. “We play by my rules. Nothing, I repeat, nothing happens around here without my knowledge and my consent.”
“Frank Winan . . .” Vik began.
“Frank Winan be damned. You two are suspended from duty until further notice and that includes all Lincoln Prairie and all task force responsibilities.”
“Oh no,” Marti said. “We are not going there today. We do not owe you anything but courtesy when we’re working a task force case. And since you don’t have enough home training to show me any respect, I don’t feel obligated to tell you shit, nor do I intend to.” Marti took a step toward the lieutenant, and Nicholson stepped back. “You’re afraid of me,” Marti said. “I scare the hell out of you, don’t I? You’ve sat behind a desk your entire career while I was out there working the street.” She took another step forward.
Nicholson took another step back and then she was against the window and could go no further. “Why . . . why . . . you . . . you—”
“Back against the wall, Lieutenant? Cornered? Don’t know how to get out? That’s what we’re here for. To save your sorry ass.” Marti punctuated each word by jabbing her finger into Nicholson’s chest. “Remember that when you’re writing us up.”
With that Marti turned on her heel and walked out. Vik was right behind her.
“She was scared,” Vik said, when he caught up with her. “She’s a cop and she was backed into a corner and didn’t know how to get out.” He sounded incredulous.
“That’s because she’s never been in one before,” Marti said. “It’s called on-the-job experience.”
As they passed the secretary’s desk, she gave them a thumbs-up.
The sergeant waved them over. “Looking good, Big Mac,” he said. “Looking good.” He gave her a copy of the News-Times. There were pictures of her and Ben in uniform on either side of the headline. She couldn’t remember Ed’s exact questions or how they answered them, but the interview was about the two of them as a husband-and-wife team. They spoke of their family life, but didn’t allow any photos. Their jobs were peripheral.
“Thanks,” Marti said. “I appreciate this.” Her hand was steady as she accepted the newspaper, but she was still mad as hell.
“We appreciate you,” the sergeant said. “Both of you. And you earned this one, Big Mac.” He tapped the edge of the News-Times with his fingertip.
The office was empty when they opened the door. Marti felt as if she had been away for a week instead of one day. There was no coffee aroma. Her in-basket was overflowing. She put down her briefcase, gave the spider plant the last of what was in the coffeepot, spread the newspaper on her desk, and checked the date.
“Hot off the press,” Vik said. He put the bag filled with Jones’s mail and papers on his desk, then looked over her shoulder. “No wonder the lieutenant had her shorts in a bunch.”
The article was on the third page of the weekly family section. Between the formal photos of her and Ben in uniform, Marti read, “Not your Typical Couple, Not Your Typical Blended Family.” A brief recap of how they became widow and widower concluded with “their initial professional respect, although not love at first sight, became a lifetime commitment to each other and their children.”
Then there were the typical questions. She worked long hours, and sometimes seven-day weeks. Ben worked in shifts, forty-eight hours on, forty-eight hours off. How did the family handle that? “My mother,” Marti had responded. “She’s always there for all of us. And friends, church members, sometimes someone we work with. And, we get a lot of support from both departments, and especially our partners.”
Ben added, “Communication. That and making sure we are participating in our children’s lives and activities. One way or another, they always have a parent or adult available for school, church, sports, and recreational activities.”
Ed Gilbreth added brief comments from Vik: “She’s my partner. We’re cops. We’re always there for each other.” Ben’s partner, Allan: “We’re all family. We take care of each other.” Deputy Chief Dirkowitz, formerly their lieutenant: “MacAlister is an outstanding member of this department. When you work this closely together and so much depends on your partner and any other officers involved in a given situation, the closeness, the concern, the respect, the dependability have to be there.” Ben’s fire chief: “In both the fire and the police department, one person’s life can depend on someone else at any time. They always have our complete support.” And their pastor: “As a church, as a community, we have to respond to the challenge of being the village that raises the child.”
“Not bad,” Marti admitted, pleased and also noting that there was no comment from Nicholson. She called Ben. “Seen the newspaper?”
He laughed. “Seen it—I’ve got twenty-five copies of it and one of them is framed and ready for hanging.”
They talked for a few minutes, and Ben suggested that she and Vik meet him at a local restaurant for before-dinner drinks. “I got that promotion.”
“Yes!”
“And I feel like celebrating,” he explained.
Marti thought about the second PSA test come Monday, and the possible results. “Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.”
“And be sure to bring Vik along.”
“Don’t worry, he’s already nodding his head and he doesn’t even know what we’re talking about.”
Vik took the newspaper from her before she could fold it. “Belongs someplace else,” he told her. He found some scissors and cut out the article; then he fastened it to the wall. “This must not have made the lieutenant too happy either.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “Looks like we declared war.”
“I did.”
“No, we did. As much as you want to take her on alone and as much as I’d like to watch, we are partners.”
Marti gave him a big hug. “Thanks. I know you’re always there for me. It’s just that I’m the one she has it in for, not you.”
“She isn’t going to let go of this one, Marti. And win, lose, or draw that will not make her any easier to live with.”
“Maybe she will,” Marti said. They both knew the scent of fear, but Vik had not been standing close enough to Nicholson to smell it.
Vik rubbed his hands together, opened the evidence bag, dumped everything on his desk, and settled in to begin sorting through the Jones papers.
Marti took everything out of her in-basket. Vik had the largest pile. There were no forensic reports. She did have six “while you were out” messages with names and phone numbers written on yellow paper, but no messages. She sighed as she picked up the phone. She’d had a hard time getting to sleep in L.A., strange bed, and strange room. The adrenaline high from dealing with the lieutenant was wearing off and she was beginning to feel exhausted.
Mark Dobrzycki had called at nine fifteen this morning. Damn. She meant to call him from LAX.
She punched in his private number.
“Yeah, Dobrzycki.”
“Yeah, MacAlister.”
“Did you find anything useful in L.A.?”
“Just an old photograph I was looking for.”
“We didn’t find anything useful.”
“Oh.” She didn’t bother to ask why he hadn’t told her the FBI had already tossed the place. “When did you go in?”
“Before you did.”
“What did you take out?”
“Nothing. We have this little camera that takes pictures of documents. That photo was the only thing we found that could be of interest.”
Marti didn’t ask about that either. “Find out anything I should know about?”
“Not yet.”
“Mark, you will let me know if you do.”
“Of course,” Mark told her.
Sure, Marti thought, just like you let me know you tossed the place before we did.
As soon as Marti hung up, she said, “Maybe bringing Mark in on this wasn’t such a good idea. If he does find out who did it, he’s not going to give him up unless and until the Bureau gives the okay.” She had been hoping Mark would make it easier to find some peripheral person with a grudge or an ordinary motive. Mark was thinking Mafia, drug cartel, and other major crimes. “If he does catch our subject, I think he’ll at least let us know that much. If it’s a small catch, he might even let us have him. In fact, if they need to talk to whoever did this, letting us arrest him for the homicide would open the door for them to question him without creating any suspicion.”
“Ever work with him before?” Vik asked.
“Yeah.”
“What’s the score so far?”
“Three out of four.”
“That’s not bad when you’re dealing with the Feds.”
“I had to wait until the third one walked out of a federal prison before I could arrest him.”
“Better to wait for a sure thing than be where we are now.”
Marti stood up and stretched. “Is it your turn to make coffee or mine?”
“I’ve got it.” Vik was out of his chair and heading for the coffeepot before she could fake a protest.
Sara Jones had called. Marti hesitated, decided not to mention their trip to L.A., and picked up the phone. She apologized for not calling sooner.
“Have you found out anything about why my mother died?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Can I take her home soon?”
Marti shuffled some papers and pulled out the coroner’s jury schedule. “It goes before the coroner’s jury next Tuesday. You should be notified as to date, time, and place. I’ll see what we can do about it then. Can you stay here that long?”
“I’m not going anywhere without my mother.”
“And otherwise everything is okay?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“Just find out why she died. Please.” Sara sounded like she was crying.
Vik turned on his computer and checked his e-mail. “Not a word from Lieutenant Lemonpuss,” he said. “I’m going to go ahead and send her today’s reports. I think you should, too.”
Marti thought about that for a few minutes. Then she turned on her computer. There was nothing from the lieutenant for her either. “Why bother,” she said.
“You’re right,” Vik agreed. “I’ll just type something up and send it to her twice, one from each of us.”
“Sounds good to me.” Even as she spoke, Marti realized she really didn’t care.