Читать книгу You Can't Die But Once - Penny Mickelbury - Страница 5
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
“White power!”
“America for Americans!”
“White lives matter!”
“White is right! White is might!”
Heavy clouds, accompanied by heavy humidity, hung over the demonstration, but the threat of rain remained just that: a threat, no matter how many hopes, wishes and prayers for a downpour were sent to wherever the supplicants sent their pleas for a rain-out of the meager gathering.
“Fuckin’ weather forecasters wrong again,” was heard as often as the pleas for rain. The only correct prediction was the number of far-right demonstrators who answered their leaders’ call to show up in DC: About five hundred of them, far below the ten thousand they themselves predicted. And as was almost always the case, the far right was greatly outnumbered by the other side. About five thousand counterdemonstrators out-shouted the hatemongers. Their voices were louder and they lasted longer, and they showed an impressive willingness to remain behind the police barricades that they could overrun at will should the mood strike them. Thankfully, that hadn’t happened. Yet.
“Go back to the mist, gorillas!”
“Your mama is a gorilla!”
The right surged as one. The police line held as more than one person mused how often it happened that bullies and hatemongers were so thin-skinned. One of their favorite tactics was demeaning other people but when the name-calling was directed at them, they were hilarious in their hurt feelings and bruised egos. They shouted insults and obscenities that only the cops heard because now the counterdemonstrators were singing Freddie Mercury songs.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Gianna heard whispered in her ear and it startled her because the voice was that of Kenny Chang, and in all the years she’d worked with him she had never heard him curse.
“Eric, call me please,” she whispered, and four seconds later he did.
“Boss?”
“Something has spooked Kenny. Leave Tim in charge of your post and reposition so that you can respond to whatever has upset Kenny if necessary.” She heard his whispered acknowledgement, then went to stand near Kenny. She wanted him to know that she was there but that she was not interfering. She stood watching the ever shifting and changing images of the demonstration on the three huge monitors mounted on the wall. The images came from almost a dozen different camera feeds, including three drones. She’d been watching them since long before the official start of the demonstration, as much to be certain that her people and procedures were in place as to get the pulse of the crowd. But though she watched all the screens with their shifting images, her intense focus was on the one image that did not change—the one on the computer screen in front of Kenny. Three of her own people were in the group of white supremacists, so undercover that she almost didn’t recognize them, and one, Randall Connelly, kept moving within the crowd, ducking and dodging, stooping low as if to conceal himself beneath them. What the fuck are you doing indeed! She sat down beside Vik Patel and whispered to him, “Pull up Connelly’s coms.”
He nodded, typed on his keyboard, frowned, typed some more, then shook his head in confusion. “Must’ve malfunctioned, Boss—”
“Bullshit,” Gianna barked. “That’s new equipment and it had better not malfunction. Can he shut it down if he wants to?”
“He’s a tech-savvy guy, Boss, so I suppose so. But why would he?”
Why indeed. “Can you override whatever he did—without him knowing it—and get him back up?”
Patel was typing furiously, and nodding his head just as furiously, as if some fabulous beat that only he could hear reverberated in his head. Gianna resisted the urge to look down to see if his feet kept the rhythm. “I should be able to find him, Boss, but I can’t! You think he’s destroyed the com?”
“I’ll destroy his ass if he has,” Gianna responded, surprised to hear her words out loud. She’d intended only to think them. She returned her eyes to the big screens on the wall so as not to concentrate on what Kenny and Vik were doing. It seemed that the crowd of anti-demonstrators had grown in number and volume. The various camera feeds constantly shifted the crowd angle and she spotted Alice Long in the crowd, watching without seeming to watch. Alice was one of the best undercover cops Gianna had ever seen. Then the image shifted again, and she saw Mimi, working the outskirts of the crowd. Mimi back at work—diligent, focused, and enjoying every moment of it, and for a brief instant Gianna forgot about Randall Connelly and his silent communication device.
“Boss!” Kenny Chang’s shout brought her to his side as fast as she could manage, and she silently cursed the still-healing leg and the murderous young man whose bullet had almost cost her the leg—and her life.
“Show me, Kenny,” she said calmly.
He pointed to his screen. “Watch these four guys . . . here they go . . . as a group they move exactly three steps to their left. Then they just seem to wait. No shouting or chanting. Like they’re not really part of the demonstration.”
Gianna watched the men. They all had shaved heads and visible Nazi symbols tattooed on their necks and arms. They were in the group of demonstrators but did not seem to be part of the group. “Have they been this way the whole time? More like spectators than participants?”
Kenny shook his head. “They were really into it in the beginning. They were closer to the front of the group and yelling and shouting with the rest of them.”
“Then what changed, Kenny?”
“I don’t know, Boss. They just started this shifting action about ten minutes ago.” And as if on cue the four men now backed up. At the same time Kenny whispered, “Connelly! They started when Connelly started acting squirrelly.”
“Where is Connelly now?”
“Don’t see him, Boss,” Kenny said.
“Vik. Do you have eyes on Connelly? Ears?”
Patel shook his head but like Kenny, his eyes never left his screen. Gianna had seen enough. She turned away from the screens and grabbed her phone. Eric answered in the middle of the first ring. She told him what she saw and what she thought: “They’re moving to the back edge of the police barricade, and I think their intention is to get out of the enclosure. Move there, Eric, and I’ll get you some backup.” She then picked up a landline, punched a button and connected to Command Central.
“Captain Maglione.” The voice on the other end answered as quickly as Eric had.
“Will you connect me to Chief Schmidt, please? It’s important.”
“It had better be important, Maglione,” Schmidt snarled almost a minute later.
“It is, Chief,” she said, and told him what she’d seen and what she thought. “I’ve moved Lt. Ashby—”
“You put Ashby back where he was, and you don’t move anybody without my order. My people are watching the screens, and nobody has reported what you have—”
“Leave Ashby where you sent him, Maglione.” Gianna and Schmidt heard the chief’s snapped order. “I’ll send Andy Page and his team as backup.”
“But Chief!” Schmidt all but yelled.
“Don’t argue with me, Gerry. If Maglione thinks there’s something to worry about, then I’m gonna worry about it, and if you’re smart, you will, too. Keep your eyes on this thing, Maglione, and call me directly if anything changes.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, but he’d already hung up, so she did, too, so as not to hear anything Gerhard Schmidt had to say. She called Eric and told him to watch for Andy Page. Then she returned to her spot behind Kenny Chang.
“Lt. Ashby is watching our guys,” he said, watching the screen.
“Lt. Page from ATTF will join him in a minute,” Gianna said, knowing she didn’t have to tell him to keep his eyes glued to the screen.
• • • •
Mimi watched Eric Ashby change positions after summoning Tim McCreedy to take up his original spot. She didn’t think too much of it: A demonstration was a fluid, almost organic thing, constantly shifting and changing; and after the violence in Charlottesville a couple of years ago, she knew the chief of this department well enough to know that he would not allow this demonstration to get out of hand. Of course Gianna would move her top people around . . . but twice in a matter of minutes?
Ashby took off running toward the rear of the demonstration. Just as Mimi was deciding whether to follow, she saw the flak-jacketed members of the Anti-Terrorism Task Force break ranks and follow Ashby. That made up Mimi’s mind and she followed, but slowly. She saw that some of the crowd noticed the cops. Curiosity was one thing, panic quite another, and if she ran in pursuit of the cops, panic could ensue, especially since she’d already identified herself as a reporter. First cops run; then the reporter runs after them? As the talking heads of the day liked to say, not good optics. So she walked—a bit faster than a stroll but short of a sprint. Her brain, however, was in overdrive. What the hell was happening?
• • • •
Eric Ashby willed his brain to stop thinking and his eyes to watch and see. The four men shifted again, this time by backing up three steps, and four people behind them—all women—shifted to the side of the men. The four men backed up again and their backs were at the barricade. Escape was theirs and Eric could do nothing to stop it. Not alone. He couldn’t pull his gun on them, not in a crowd. Nor could he yell at them to stop whatever it was they were planning. So he stood with his back against the wall that provided a natural barrier and watched, frustrated, angry and helpless.
The design of the demonstration had seemed like a good idea at the time: Confine it to a newly gentrified but still industrial area of lofts, galleries, tattoo parlors and brewhouses, close enough to the federal enclave that the Washington Monument was visible. Since few of the organizers had any real knowledge of the city’s geography, they believed themselves to be close to their idol, so they didn’t really understand that they were contained: A brick wall was one boundary, and a wall of armored, shielded police patrolled by mounted officers was another. The two crowds of demonstrators faced each other behind barricades about ten feet apart. But the rear barricade where the four men now stood was vulnerable, though it didn’t look like it. It was thick, dense black plastic mesh bolted to half a dozen metal poles—a ten-foot-high structure backed by concrete planters to prevent a crazed driver from repeating the Charlottesville catastrophe.
“Oh shit! Boss!”
“What is it, Eric?” Gianna tried to sound calm, but since Eric sounded panicked, that was all but impossible.
“Where the hell is Andy Page? I need him here now!”
Where indeed, Gianna thought. It wouldn’t help to tell Eric that Andy should be there, especially since she was looking at the same thing he was. The four men somehow cut through the wire mesh fence, like they knew to bring wire cutters . . . and there was Andy in the ATTF van, just in time. Andy and his crew piled out of the van just as the four men completed their escape—walking right into the waiting arms of eight DC police officers. They were so surprised they didn’t even try to resist. In the few seconds before anyone else could escape, Eric summoned half a dozen mounted officers to secure the back boundary. And lo and behold, Randall Connelly was right in the middle of the crowd, shouting slogans and gesturing with his fists like any good demonstrator—including an undercover cop—should.
Gianna turned her attention back to the ATTF takedown of the escapees. All were handcuffed and face down on the ground and Eric and Andy were watching the ATTF team search them. Eric was standing close enough that she could hear some of what was going on, when she heard one of them yell, “LT look! Wire cutters!”
Andy Page rushed over, said something, and two of his team pulled one of the cuffed men to his feet. Eric hurried over in time for Gianna to hear the man say that he would say nothing, though he did demand a lawyer. Andy smacked him upside the head, ordered him to remove his shoes, and threw him into the van. His team grabbed the others and followed suit, including the shoe removal, which caused one of the men to kick out violently and attempt to escape. He was quickly subdued but the scuffle called attention to what was happening, especially for Randall Connelly, who was trying to get to the back of the crowd. Gianna saw him.
“Officer Connelly, if you break your cover, I will fire your ass.”
He stopped in his tracks. She knew that he had reactivated his communication device, and while he remained in place he continued to try to see what was happening to his friends. But there was nothing to see. They were safely inside the ATTF van on their way to Central Lockup where the chief was waiting for them.
Gianna’s phone rang. “Are you all right, Eric?”
“Yes, Captain, I’m fine, and it all looks calm here.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Not a single word,” and she knew the disgust in his face equaled that in his voice. “Maybe Connelly will give us something.”
“Not bloody likely,” she said, not masking her own disgust. “Get started on your report as soon as possible and reasonable, Eric. And good work today, as usual.”
• • • •
It was the quiet that alerted Gianna. It was never quiet when both teams were present, even if a class was in session or, as was currently the case, they were watching a training video. Det. Alice Long, one of their trainers, likened them to a class of two-year-olds. Eric’s favorite description was a basket of puppies or kittens. Bottom line, they were never still and quiet at the same time. Gianna looked up from her corner of the room and quickly stood. Striding toward her was Deputy Chief Gerhard Schmidt. She stepped from behind her desk and went to meet him.
“Chief.”
“Captain,” he said, and extended his hand. But there was no palm to shake. Instead he proffered what she recognized as personnel folders. She took them but did not take her eyes from his, forcing him to speak first. “This is the paperwork transferring Lt. Eric Ashby and Det. James Dudley to my command, effective immediately.”
She held his gaze, which was becoming a snarl, for another three seconds before turning away to stand behind her desk. She picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Sgt. Bell, do you know if Lt. Ashby has left already?”
She heard Tommi Bell’s deep inhalation, then, “He’s here with me, Captain, with Lt. Page. Where you left them, working on their statement.”
“Then with my apologies, Sergeant, please ask him to return immediately. And I need you to come look over some personnel files, please.”
“Do you want Lt. Page to remain here?”
“Thanks, Sergeant,” Gianna said, and hung up. She was angrier than she’d been in a long time, especially since Schmidt now was leaning across her desk glaring at her.
“Nobody needs to look over those personnel files, Captain,” he snarled. “Surely you recognize an order when you hear one, and if you read those files, you’d see one. Unless it’s not your habit to follow orders.”
“It is my habit to follow protocol, Deputy Chief, and protocol dictates that I sign off on the personnel files when officers leave my command and that my administrative sergeant sign off as well. Which we will do. After we’ve read them.”
“And you are not to inform Lt. Ashby and Det. Dudley. I will do that.”
It was Gianna’s habit to grow calm to the point of still, and quiet to the point of silent when she was angriest, so when she dropped the personnel files on her desk and headed across the room, away from Schmidt, she did so at a leisurely stroll, without a word. The stroll effect was to mask the limp that she was damned if she’d let Schmidt witness, and the silence was to prevent her from saying out loud what she was thinking. So when he yelled out, asking if she’d heard what he said—“of course, sir,” she replied over her shoulder, not turning to face him. The farther she got from Schmidt the faster she walked until she was standing directly behind Jim Dudley. “Don’t turn around, Jim. Go to my office— Sgt. Bell’s office—immediately.”
He followed orders, and she shifted position to block as much of him as possible as he exited in case Schmidt had decided to follow her. Then she followed Jim to the slow-as-molasses elevator, which they took up one floor because it was faster than waiting for her to walk, though maybe not for much longer. STEPS was next on her Physical Terrorist’s to-do list. Gianna closed her eyes at the thought, and Det. Jim Dudley took advantage of the moment to take a good look at his boss. He’d known her for a long time and thought her one of the best and toughest cops he knew. He’d seen her beaten and shot by perps, and injured more than once in the line of duty. He’d seen her so angry that she punched a would-be rapist hard enough to break bones in her hand. He’d seen her tackle an IRA gunrunner on an icy street. He’d never seen her look like she did now: ready to cry.
The elevator door opened, and he followed her out. Eric Ashby and Andy Page were standing in the hall waiting. “Captain—”
She waved him quiet, asked Andy to excuse them, and both men followed her in. She closed the door and faced them. “Deputy Chief Schmidt has requested your immediate transfers to his command. He is downstairs with the paperwork authorizing the transfer. I have no choice but to sign it. I don’t know why this is happening— ”
“I know exactly why it’s happening,” the usually mild-mannered Ashby snarled. “He’s pissed because you’ve showed him up twice—”
“What the hell are you talking about, Eric?”
“In the command demo planning session when I gave the briefing instead of you, and then at the demonstration when you tried to alert him that something was wrong, and he didn’t want to hear it and the chief overrode him and took your side. That’s what this is about.” Mimi’s warning rang like a claxon in her head. Watch your back. He’s got the long knives out.
“Let’s go,” Gianna said, opening the door and walking out. They could not but follow. They shared a glance, misery etched on their faces.
“Where the hell did you disappear to, Maglione?” Deputy Chief Schmidt’s fury was huge. “I didn’t expect—”
“Lt. Eric Ashby and Det. First Class James Dudley, at your service, Deputy Chief.”
“I told you I wanted to make the transfer notification!”
“These men came to work for me at my request. I owe them the courtesy of informing them that—”
“And you owe me the courtesy of obeying a direct order, Captain.”
Gianna worked to think of something to say that wouldn’t get her fired. Then shouts of, “Boss! Boss!” with a few “oh shits” thrown in saved her, and she hurried over as fast as her leg would permit to watch the screens that had galvanized her team, moving faster than was wise. “Fuck a duck!” she exclaimed as her hurry-up gait morphed into a limp, bringing the pain that went with it. “What is it?”
“Alice is kicking some guy’s ass!” Team Leader Bobby Gilliam exclaimed, sounding like a proud father instead of a role model for the young cops he commanded.
Sure enough, Detective Alice Long was kneeling in the middle of a perp’s back while she cuffed him. He was fighting to topple her, all the while calling her black nigger bitch and black nigger cunt bitch over and over. Alice couldn’t get the cuffs on, so she slapped him upside the head. Hard. He screamed in pain but stopped wriggling around long enough for Alice to lock the cuffs. She stood up, and when she turned around Gianna saw blood running from her nose and mouth.
“Is that one of your officers who just hit a cuffed man, Captain?” Deputy Chief Schmidt demanded.
Gianna ignored him. “Get a patrol car to that location,” she ordered.
“It’s already on the way, Boss,” Bobby said, and a patrol car screeched to a halt. Two uniforms jumped out and hurried over to the cuffed perp on the ground who once again was yelling profanities and wriggling and writhing with all his might, even landing a blow on the uniforms. But Gianna was focused on Alice and the three young cops she was giving an undercover lesson. Something obviously had gone terribly wrong.
Schmidt was in her face now, snarling and growling at her. “I asked you a question, Captain, and I expect an answer.”
“Since you saw exactly what I saw, when I saw it, you must know that I cannot answer your question, but I wouldn’t anyway without written reports from the officers involved. And since I no longer have my lieutenant, who normally would be en route to that scene, I’ll be going instead. With me, Bobby.” And she turned away from Schmidt to find Sgt. Tommi Bell holding up her shoulder holster, which she slipped into and fastened, followed by her jacket. She accepted her phone from Tommi, thanked her, and headed for the door. “Kenny! Vik!” she called over her shoulder as she reached the door.
“Video will be cued up and ready for you when you get back, Boss,” Kenny said, knowing what she wanted.
“I want to see that video right now!” Schmidt exclaimed. “And I want the reports from the demonstration as soon as they’re ready.”
Straw that broke the camel’s back for Gianna. She whipped around. “The chief has the reports from the demonstration—”
Schmidt cut her off. “Why does the chief have them? And the written reports? They’re already finished?”
Gianna looked at him like he was as nuts as he sounded. “Because he’s the chief of police and he asked for them, and of course the reports are finished. That demo was three days ago.”
He gave her a strange look. “You always have written reports back that fast?”
“Of course,” she said, willing her face not to telegraph her thoughts. “Unless an involved officer is injured and unable to complete a report. And when the chief tells me to show you that video is when I’ll do that,” she said, and asked Tommi to get the chief on the phone. Schmidt almost knocked her over trying to beat her out of the door. Eric and Jim followed slowly, with backward looks at Gianna and their now former teammates—helpless, hopeless and angry looks. Gianna sighed deeply. “Order some food, Tommi, please. A lot of it. We’re going to be here late tonight.”
• • • •
Mimi Patterson and Joe Zemekis were deeply into their reporter personas as they walked about the East Side neighborhood where Jennifer and Craig Goodloe lived when they were alive. Mimi had sworn off the story. Wanted no part of it. Until Zemekis told her that the real story might not be the influx of whites into the Black and Latino neighborhood on the east side of town, but the hostile—about to turn ugly and violent—reaction of longtime residents to the unchecked gentrification of the community. And the gentrifiers weren’t a few poor white people from Pennsylvania who came to DC to collect welfare and live in subsidized housing. This story did interest Mimi. Beverly had been talking about it for the better part of a year, ever since she and her partners moved their practice from Midtown to the East Side. And they had moved because of gentrification. The once poor and dilapidated area in the middle of the city transformed so quickly and completely that the people who lived and worked there barely had time to pack up and move, and they’d had to pack and move because they couldn’t afford to stay. Beverly and her partners owned adjoining brownstones in what had been such a drug- and crime-infested block that patrol cars were stationed outside to escort the doctors, nurses and social workers to and from their cars. Gates and bars covered every window and door to augment the huge “NO DRUGS KEPT HERE” signs that hung on the buildings, until they were defaced and ultimately destroyed. When developers had offered what Beverly called an obscene amount of money to purchase the two buildings, the partners had accepted and moved to the East Side. But the move wasn’t about the money: The patients they treated had been bought or sold out, too, and most of them, if they’d been able to remain in the city, ended up on the East Side. The patient load, according to Bev, was heavier and more desperately in need than ever. And now gentrification was following. The big difference was that here, the residents were fighting back. The signs were everywhere:
NO!!! I’M NOT SELLING MY HOUSE SO DON’T ASK!!!
GET OFF MY PROPERTY!!!
NO TRESPASSING ALLOWED!!!
PRESERVE SAFE AND AFFORDABLE HOUSING!
LIFE, LIBERTY AND A DECENT PLACE TO LIVE!
WE PLEDGE TO UNIFY, NOT GENTRIFY!
Mimi and Joe took dozens of photographs and copious notes, always aware that they were closely observed from porches and yards outside, and from behind curtains, blinds, and shades inside.
“We don’t look like developers, do we?” Joe asked when two men stopped blowing and bagging leaves and followed them for half a block, until they turned the corner.
“I don’t,” Mimi said with a smirk.
“All developers are not white men,” Joe said hotly.
“I’m willing to bet that a good number are,” Mimi responded.
“I’m keeping my money in my pocket,” Joe muttered.
They turned off the residential block, crossed the street, and saw two things almost simultaneously. Above them the Metro train from downtown, headed east, pulled slowly out of the station, gaining speed as it cleared the platform and the discharged passengers headed for the exits. Ahead of them, across the street, the burned-out shell of a building claimed an entire corner. “I’m guessing that’s what’s left of the fire-bombed coffee shop you told me about,” Mimi said.
Joe nodded but before he could speak, they both looked up as a downtown-bound train screeched into the station. Not many people exited, and those who boarded were left standing because the train was full of East Side and east suburban residents headed into the city. “As long as that train runs in and out of that station every few minutes, gentrification is coming along for the ride,” Joe said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It can’t be firebombed away. Slowed down maybe, but not stopped. Did you see how packed those cars were?”
They both were startled to hear, from very close, “Don’t know what kind of business you all are considering but I’d advise against a coffee shop. This is not a lucky location for caffeine.”
Mimi and Joe turned slowly, not wanting to show how spooked they were by the voice so close to them, and by the fact that someone had appeared behind them so totally unnoticed. There was no humor in the “not a lucky location for caffeine” comment and there was no humor in the face that confronted them, though they both were surprised by its youth. She was no more than mid-twenties and looked as if she’d time-traveled from the 1970s with her huge Afro, dashiki and wire-rimmed spectacles, not to mention the bell bottom jeans. She was a dead-ringer for the fiery Angela Davis of two generations ago. “Not looking to buy property—” Joe began.
“Then what are you looking for?” the young woman asked.
“A story—” Joe began again.
This time Mimi interrupted. “I’m Montgomery Patterson and this is Joe Zemekis—”
“The newspaper reporters,” the young woman said. Then to Joe, “You wrote the story about the murder-suicide over in the housing development.”
“That’s right,” Joe said.
The young woman gave a speculative head nod. “You got it right. For the most part.”
“What part did I get wrong?” Joe asked.
“You didn’t dig deep enough. You didn’t ask why they’re here—”
“I certainly did, and I included that in my story.”
“You only asked the ones who’d talk to you,” the young woman said. “You need to talk to the others, the ones who don’t talk to outsiders. Especially from the fake news.” Now she was laughing at them.
Joe smiled at her, a real smile. “Maybe you’d be kind enough to make the right introductions. And explain that I’m the real news. And the real difference between them.”
Still smiling, the young woman said, “I just might.”
“And maybe you’ll help me find out who burned down the coffee shop.”
Smile fading, the young woman said, “I wouldn’t even if I wanted to know, and I don’t. Nobody does because nobody cares. We’re just glad the place is gone. They got what was coming to ’em.”
Mimi frowned and shook her head. “Who deserves to have their business destroyed?”
“Anybody who refuses service to people because of their color twenty years into the twenty-first century.”
“Say what?!” Mimi exclaimed.
“You heard me, and I’ll be happy to introduce you to the people who were refused service, starting with myself and including my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother?” Joe asked.
She nodded and explained that her grandmother was a DC native who had vivid memories of DC’s Jim Crow days, when the nation’s capital was as segregated as any American city. Mimi and Joe knew the history but, probably like most people, believed past practices like Jim Crow were in the past. To learn differently was shocking. Also shocking was the fact that their informant—Melinda Franklin, working on a doctorate in International Studies at George Washington University—was not shocked. “Given what’s been happening in the country in recent years it is to be expected. But dammit, not in my neighborhood! Let them practice their hatred where they live. In fact, let them stay where they live and they won’t have a problem.”
Mimi looked askance at Melinda Franklin. “And so . . . what? You plan to burn out all the newcomers?”
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
“I hate that expression!”
“Actually, so do I,” Melinda said sheepishly. “Especially since I’m owned by two of the hairy beasts. I apologize—to you and to them. What I mean to say is—”
Mimi whipped out her recorder. “What, exactly? I’m really interested to know since we just walked up and down blocks where it appears at least a third of the residents are newcomers—”
“Are white,” Melinda insisted.
“A good number of them are,” Mimi said, “but suppose some of them want to open a business? They live here. Are you saying they shouldn’t be able to?”
“Not if they want to dictate who can patronize their business.”
“But business owners can do that—” Joe began, and Melinda interrupted him.
“Yeah: No Shirt, No Shoes. No Service. I get that. It’s that MAGA shit—”
“Whoa. What exactly are you talking about?” Joe asked.
Melinda Franklin took a backward step and gave Mimi and Joe a long, appraising look. They gave her one right back. Finally she said, “Just like Mr. Zemekis only scratched the surface in his story about the murder-suicide couple, you’re about to make the same mistake about the gentrification of this community, Ms. Patterson. Look deeper.” She reached into the slouch bag that hung on her slender shoulder, retrieved a notepad and pen, and began writing. A millennial with a fountain pen and pad. Maybe young Melinda was going to be all right. “I’m giving you my number and the names and numbers of people you should talk with. And the names of streets you should visit. Look closely and carefully. I’m sure you both are familiar with that old saying, ‘The devil is in the details’?” She tore the page from the notebook and gave it to Mimi. “Nice to have met you both.” And she started to turn away, but Joe called her back.
“Why International Studies?” And when Melinda looked confused, Joe said, “A woman with your knowledge and skills is surely more useful at home—”
“Bullshit!” Melinda exclaimed. “I come from at least four generations of people who remained in place and dedicated themselves to making things better. Then, less than a month ago, my seventy-year-old grandmother is refused service in a coffee shop under the pretext that all the tables were reserved. I won’t be the fifth generation to waste my time.” And she walked away.
“Well shit,” Joe said.
“You think she burned down this place?” Mimi asked, studying the burned-out shell of the former coffee shop, realizing with the shift of the wind that the acrid smoke smell still lingered even after a month.
Joe shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. She’s certainly angry enough.”
“If someone did that to my grandmother, I’d be angry enough, too,” Mimi said, studying the information on the notepaper Melinda gave her.
“Why did you get the info sheet?” Joe whined in a near pout.
Mimi grinned. “Solidarity,” she said, raising an Angela Davis-like fist.
• • • •
Sgt. Alice Long didn’t want to keep the ice pack on her face and she didn’t want to talk about the altercation that had resulted in her bruised face. The entire incident was recorded on her body camera for any and all to see. What she wanted to talk about was how it happened that Eric Ashby and Jim Dudley no longer were part of their unit. It’s what every one of them wanted to talk about, even more than they wanted to eat all the food Sgt. Tommi ordered, which was a first. So Gianna told them about it. She told them exactly what happened. “So now you know what I know.”
“He can just do that?”
“That’s so not fair!”
“Did you tell him he couldn’t take Lt. Ashby and Det. Dudley?”
“Suppose they didn’t want to go?”
“They definitely didn’t want to go!”
Gianna held up her hand and quiet descended immediately. They were, for the most part, young cops, and they all had forged a tight bond in their unit. Maybe too tight. “Listen to me, all of you. The chief of police and the deputy chief for operations do not need my permission or approval to do anything, and they didn’t ask for it. I will miss Eric and Jim as much as all of you, but a police department is like the military. We serve at the pleasure and we follow orders, whether we like them or not. Period, end of discussion about things we can do nothing about. We don’t have to like it, but we do have to deal with it.”
They were seated at the long tables that faced the two huge wall monitors and the two dry erase grease boards, and they looked a dangerous mixture of angry, sad, and sullen. Damn Deputy Chief Schmidt. She went to stand in front of the room. Every pair of eyes followed her.
“I worked with Eric Ashby for most of my career, and I’ve known Jim Dudley for almost that long. They are good friends as well as trusted colleagues. And they’re gone. We, on the other hand, are still here and we have work to do. So . . .”
She walked over to Alice and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’d planned to have Eric ease you into the duties of the operations sergeant but, Sgt. Long, that ship has sailed, leaving you kinda on your own.” Then she turned to face Sgt. Bell. “I’ll help as much as I can with the administrative responsibilities,” she said.
Tommi Bell stood up and saluted. “Yes, Boss. Whatever you and Sgt. Long need. Just as long as she doesn’t expect me to join her in training for that iron woman triathlon thing.” Tommi mimicked a person with a body full of broken bones trying to run. And just like that the tension in the room broke. Good-natured hoots and catcalls rang out. Alice, the pain of her battered face forgotten, got up and ran over to Tommi, grabbed her up and mimicked jogging and weightlifting, and Tommi feigned fainting. Then they hugged each other, and Gianna knew that her two sergeants would be okay, but more importantly, she knew that each woman would be fully in command of her responsibilities to the unit as a whole, and to the individual teams whose members relied on one or the other of their sergeants for just about everything in the pursuit of their daily responsibilities.
“Tim, I’d like for you to assume leadership of what now will be Team T.” The shock and surprise on Tim McCreedy’s face was slowly, gradually replaced by pleasure and excitement, which was all his new team—his former teammates—needed to see. They pounced on him like he was a squeaky toy. They mobbed him. They hugged him. They climbed on his back. Then they pounced on the food, and Gianna had to make herself heard over the din claiming one of the turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches, and warning Bobby Gilliam, a notorious potato chip thief, to leave her bag of chips alone. He gave her a sheepish grin; then, with one hand holding two sandwiches across Alice Long’s shoulders and the other hand holding three bags of potato chips across Tim McCreedy’s shoulders, he headed toward the corner of the room nearest her cubicle. Tim couldn’t be in better hands. He’d be all right.
• • • •
“Sounds like you averted a disaster,” Mimi said later that night as they discussed the events of the day—a relatively new experience for them on two fronts. First, they’d both given up working the ridiculously long hours that always got them home at nine or ten o’clock at night, too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed—and to sleep. But perhaps more importantly, they now spent time talking with each other openly and honestly about—almost everything. They’d spent the early part of their relationship being overly careful and cautious about each other’s professional boundaries. Then they had a period when their jobs constantly clashed. The reporter insisted that the public had a right to know certain information and the cop insisted that releasing that information not only could jeopardize the public but could compromise the investigation. They had more than a few tense times until they learned that they could trust each other completely and understood that neither would ever do anything to jeopardize the work of the other.
“I averted a mutiny,” Gianna said, “but I fear the disaster still looms.”
That got Mimi’s attention. She stopped pouring wine and looked steadily at Gianna. She believed she’d heard a hint of fear in her voice—not only unexpected but unprecedented—and if Gianna was frightened by something, then Mimi was terrified. “Loom and disaster in the same sentence?” Mimi tried to sound light. “Talk to me, love. What exactly is going on? Whose butt do I have to kick?”
No matter how dire the circumstance, Mimi could almost always make her feel better and now was no exception. Gianna laughed, accepted more wine, and said the words she knew would be a conversation stopper: “Your friend the chief of police.”
Mimi almost choked. She had never heard Gianna speak a negative word about the chief, or His Excellency as Mimi dubbed him. Gianna always defended him in every circumstance. Not only was he her mentor, her protector, but he was her friend. And she now was saying the chief was responsible for the potential disaster that was looming over her, for the near mutiny in her unit.
“How, exactly?” Mimi asked calmly, feeling anything but.
“I’m more concerned about the why,” Gianna said. “Why would he allow Schmidt to take two of my top people without a word of warning? And an explanation would have been preferable, though I know he doesn’t have to explain his actions to me. But if I’ve done something to warrant that treatment, I’d like to know what it was!”
Now Mimi realized it wasn’t fear she’d heard in Gianna’s voice; it was pain, and while she would readily kick the ass of anyone who caused this woman pain, she didn’t believe it was the chief of police. Not this time, and she said so. “He’s a lot of things, among them jerk, asshole, son of a bitch, arrogant bastard. But he is not duplicitous, Gianna. He is not a backstabber. In fact, one of his best traits is his willingness to look you in the eye and tell you exactly what’s on his mind.”
“That’s what I always thought,” Gianna said.
“Keep thinking it, sweetheart. His Excellency did not tell Schmidt to raid your cupboard or give him permission to do so.”
Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Gianna shook her head in disbelief. “I know Schmidt is a self-important blowhard but—”
“He’s a fool is what he is, Gianna. A dangerous fool but a fool nonetheless.”
“You warned me to watch my back, that he’d have the long knives out, and how right you were. How did you get so wise?”
Mimi rolled her eyes, shook her head, blew through her teeth, and gave the finger to the invisible Deputy Chief Schmidt—and if there were more ways to express disgust, she’d have used them. “No wisdom involved. Don’t forget that I’ve spent a career covering government and politics, which is another way of saying that I covered bureaucrats and politicians, so I know incompetent assholes with long knives when I see ’em. Unfortunately, some do a lot of damage before they’re brought low.”
Still in disbelief, Gianna wondered how long even a fool expected to get away with such a bold move, wondered how long it would be before the chief discovered it, and, if what Mimi said was true, wondered what she should—or could—do about it. “I can’t run tattling to the principal like a schoolgirl.”
“He’ll make another misstep, probably a bigger one since he got away with this one, and that’s when you rat his ass out,” Mimi said, and yawned.
“And now you’re too tired to tell me about your day,” Gianna said through a yawn of her own.
Mimi shook her head. “Not too tired. I’m just not exactly sure what story I may have stumbled upon, but it shows signs that the gentrification skirmishes on the East Side may be about to turn into open warfare.”
“You sure you don’t miss bureaucrats and politicians?” Gianna asked with a sly grin, and Mimi shot her a dirty look that would have chilled a lesser woman. Her woman laughed and took her to bed with the warning that sleep wasn’t in her immediate future.
