CHAPTER 13

Instead of heading straight out to the Northwest, business as usual, waiting for Thomson to get back in touch, I make an unscheduled visit downtown, breezing through Homicide on the pretense of having left some files in my desk. Lorenz gives me the cold shoulder, as expected, but Bascombe proves surprisingly cordial, stopping me outside his office to ask how the task force is going and whether I’m fitting in all right. Now that I’m no longer his problem, I guess the lieutenant wants me to see he’s not carrying any grudges. Neither should I, the implication seems to be.

“Any breaks on the Morales case?” I ask.

He gives his head a wary shake, like he suspects a trick question. “There’s a cool breeze blowing over that one, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

We stand there a moment, pondering the way a live case can suddenly flash-freeze, all the leads going cold at once. In this instance, with so many bodies and so much physical evidence, it’s hard to believe the line’s already gone dead, even for Lorenz. Strangely, I feel no satisfaction. If my test results come back positive and Thomson really can put the shooters in the frame, the fact that Lorenz got nowhere will only make my victory that much sweeter. Still, there are so many contingencies, so much that could go wrong. I can’t gloat for fear of jinxing my chance.

“You hear anything about your dna test?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You still think there’s a connection?” He doesn’t sound quite as skeptical as when they gave me the boot. Maybe he’s realizing he backed the wrong detective.

“It’s hard to say.” I turn to go. “We should know soon enough.”

The files are in my desk drawer. I tuck them under my arm, aware of Bascombe hovering nearby, watching my every move.

“If you do get back a positive match,” he calls after me, “I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

“Sure thing.” I slip down the aisle toward the exit, giving a little over-the-shoulder wave of acknowledgment. When I glance back, he’s still watching, and I notice Lorenz’s head poking above the cubicle wall.

The sign next to the door reads COMPREHENSIVE RISK ASSESSMENT, not Golden Parachute Brigade, but the matching, nick-free furniture and the glossy new computer screens let me know I have arrived in the right place. The suite is compact, just a bullpen flanked by half a dozen enclosed offices, quiet enough that I can hear the rush of air through the registers overhead. A civilian secretary seated near the entrance behind a low-walled cubicle motions for me to halt.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m here to see Tony Salazar.”

She unclips her telephone earpiece and saunters over to one of the offices, tapping lightly on the closed door. After a pause, she opens it and leans inside. My story is simple: since I did Salazar a favor over the weekend, cutting loose one of his confidential informants, he now owes me one. I’ve come to see whether his ears on the street have heard anything about the Morales shooting. If in the course of this errand I happen to run across Joe Thomson, so be it. The meeting will have occurred by chance, and he’ll know without my having to say anything that the arrangements he requested have been made.

After a hushed conversation, the secretary returns to her desk, nodding for me to advance. Salazar meets me at the door, enclosing my offered hand in his thick boxing glove of a fist. He’s short but powerfully built, with tight dark curls and a nose that either came out flat or was beaten into that shape long ago. To accommodate his broad shoulders, he’s had to buy a white button-down that billows out around the waist, making his legs look disproportionately small.

He pulls me over the threshold, snapping the door shut behind me. My disappointment must show, but he misinterprets the reason.

“The boss is in,” he says with a shrug. “You two aren’t exactly the best of friends.”

It’s flattering to know that after all these years, Keller still keeps our rivalry alive on his end, long after it has stopped making sense for him to perceive me as a threat. The closed door means Thomson won’t be able to pass by and notice me, but in a small way Salazar’s reason for shutting it makes up for that. Once I’m done, I will just have to make a point of lingering.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, hoisting himself up onto the edge of his desk. Like the area outside, the office is nicely furnished, though a bit on the bare side. Apart from a couple of photos on the credenza, the contents are impersonal to the point of being generic. Whatever work the team actually does, it seems to leave little trace.

“I’m here for a favor.”

He points to his head, then shrugs. “Well, duh. I guess I now owe you one, don’t I? You know that Rios kid never called me.”

“I had a feeling he might not. Trouble there?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

“You know Octavio Morales got himself killed? I was wondering whether, with all your gangland connections, you’d heard any rumors about that.”

“Lorenz caught that one, I heard.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I was working it, too, then they pulled me off.”

He smiles. “And you want to show him up, is that it?”

“Pretty much.”

He drums his fingers on the desk in thought. “I do owe you,” he concedes. “The fact is, I haven’t heard anything, and now that I’m on this detail, I haven’t really kept up with my network, apart from the odd informant like that guy the other day. Obviously, I haven’t even kept up with him. But if you want, I guess I could make a couple of calls and see what comes up.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“All right then.” He smacks his hands together, rubbing the palms, then hops off the desk. “Anything drops, I’ll let you know.”

He’s anxious for me to go, and since I can’t think of any excuse that would stall him awhile longer, I oblige. The moment I’m out the door, though, the office next to his opens. Thinking it might be Thomson’s, I pause. Salazar puts a hand on my back, urging me along, but I slip his grasp, pretending something’s just occurred to me.

“What?” he says under his breath.

I smack my forehead, buying a few seconds.

From the open door, Reg Keller emerges. He takes one step outside, then freezes, drawing in breath like he’s just stepped on something. His flame-blue glare zeroes in on my shoes, as if he somehow recognizes them as mine, then slowly works its way upward, taking me in inch by inch.

“Sorry, boss,” Salazar says.

Keller makes no reply. He’s an inch or so taller than me, menacingly fit, with a shaved head and a tight row of clenched teeth. He wears his stiff navy suit like a uniform, shirt crisp with starch, tie knotted just so, knife-edge creases everywhere you look. As much as I hate the man, there was a time I admired him, and coming face-to-face like this it’s hard to keep myself from reflexively cowering. In a dream, now would be the time to throw my punch, but in the flesh I find there’s more flight in me than fight.

He plants his hands on his hips, leaning forward aggressively, a vein going rigid in his neck. “You want to tell me what he’s doing here?”

Salazar sputters, hands spread.

“Instead of just standing there, maybe you should do something about it.”

With surprising power, Salazar takes me by the elbow, pulling me back. I dig in at first, but he shoulders me along.

“Come on, man,” he whispers.

The secretary stands, one hand to her chest, shrugging emphatically in Keller’s direction, her chin ducked as though worried he might be able to hit her from across the room.

As Salazar bunches me through the door, I glance back at Keller, who still hasn’t budged an inch. His cheeks flush with outrage, nostrils flaring, and at that moment it wouldn’t surprise me if he charged. A note of protest sounds at the back of my mind. What have I ever done to him? What’s he got to complain about? He should be the one they’re afraid of. They should pack him out the door.