Patrick got out of his car just as a man was leaving the building. “Captain Chandler?” he called out from several paces away. The man watched Patrick approach him but must have decided he was no threat-his right hand stayed casually tucked in his pants pocket as he walked toward his car. But when Patrick got closer, he could see under the glare of a nearby streetlight that Chandler had pulled his suit jacket back, allowing free access to the pistol on his belt. He reached the passenger side of his car as Patrick came up, with the car between them. But he simply unlocked his passenger-side door and threw his briefcase on the right front seat, casual but cautious.
Things were clearly still very tense in Sacramento. Every cop in town acted as if he had a big red bull’s-eye painted on his forehead.
Captain Tom Chandler was wearing a very nice brown double-breasted suit and tasseled loafers-a clean-cut, professional-looking guy, more high-powered executive than street cop. “What can I do you for, sir?” Then he recognized Patrick. “You’re McLanahan, aren’t you? Paul’s brother? I met you at the Sarge’s Place the night of the shooting, and at the hospital when you got in the chief’s face.”
“That’s right,” Patrick said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Concerning?”
“The attack on my brother. Who was responsible for it. I want some information on the investigation, and I want it now.”
“You’re demanding information?” Who the hell did this guy think he was? Chandler tried to put a brake on his rising anger. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can give you, Mr McLanahan.”
“But you’re the commander in charge of the Special Investigations Division,” Patrick said. “I heard SED would be in charge of the investigation.”
Chandler looked worried-dearly he didn’t like Patrick’s knowing he was the man in charge of SID. The Special Investigations Division of the Sacramento Police Department was the most prized, the most high-profile, and the most secretive in the entire department, second only to the Patrol Division in importance. SID encompassed three permanent offices-Intelligence, Narcotics, and Vice-along with several task forces that were assigned it as funding and necessity dictated, such as Asset Forfeiture, Interdiction, Counterinsurgency, Antiterrorism, and Gangs. Although Chandler officially reported to the deputy chief in charge of the Investigations Division, he frequently met directly with the chief of police, the city manager, the city council, and the mayor, giving him extraordinary power and access. Being the commander of SID was generally regarded as an essential stepping-stone to the chief’s office.
Then Chandler figured it out: the Sarge’s Place. That’s where McLanahan must have picked it up. He decided to be affable. “Ah yes, the Sarge’s Place,” he said. “I used to go there when I was a sergeant. We used to bullshit about ongoing investigations all the time over a few brews. I’ll bet that place is full of cops ready to give you all kinds of information about the shootings.” He had guessed right. A couple of hours ago at the Shamrock, a dozen cops had come in after first swing’s shift change, congratulated Patrick on chewing out the chief on local TV, and volunteered information on the Sacramento Live! shootings. “Unfortunately, I can’t offer you any information, and I caution you on relying on rumors and guesses you might hear at the bar.”
“Yeah. Everyone’s ‘cautioning’ me but no one’s telling me anything,” Patrick said. “My brother is in critical condition in the hospital after being shot with a damned MP-5 along with three other cops, and three guys are dead. But none of the families have been told a thing. Is this the way the city is going to handle this situation? How would it look for me to go to the TV stations and tell them the city isn’t briefing the families on the status of the investigation, that you’re leaving us completely in the dark?”
Chandler slammed the car door, walked around to the other side, and got right in Patrick’s face. “I respond well to threats, Mr McLanahan, but I guarantee you it won’t be a response in your favor. In fact, I get downright disagreeable. Tell me, sir, is that what you want right now?”
Chandler saw McLanahan tighten his jaw and square his body toward him. Was he going to get into a fight with this guy? His mind was turning over scenarios in rapid-fire succession when, to his surprise, McLanahan just… crumpled. His shoulders sagged, his arms went limp, his head drooped, and his knees looked rubbery. Was this some kind of sucker-punch ruse? An astonished Chandler, ready to defend himself, heard the guy sobbing! Here was this guy, short-probably no more than five eight-maybe two hundred pounds, but solidly built, like a wrestler or rugby player-and shit, he was actually crying! Paul McLanahan had quickly gotten a reputation of being a tiger who could handle any situation with calm and control-he certainly proved himself at the Sacramento Live! shootout-but obviously his guts didn’t run in the family.
“Jesus-c’mon, Mr McLanahan, it’s all right,” Chandler said soothingly, but not moving any closer. This might still be a sucker punch, although the guy really looked like he was losing it big-time.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” McLanahan said hoarsely through his muffled sobs. “Nothing like this has ever happened before. After my father’s death, I was so afraid that Paul would be next. Our mother’s had to be sedated, she was so upset. Paul could lose his arm. Oh God, I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what I’m going to tell our mother…” He was babbling, his conflict and fears pouring out all at once. Chandler thought the guy was going to collapse right on the hood of his car. For crying out loud, mister, get a grip!
Well, he couldn’t very well leave him sobbing like a baby in the parking lot. “Come with me, Mr McLanahan,” Chandler said. He led him to the side door, which had a sign on it that said No Admittance-Door Blocked-Use Main Entrance and an arrow pointing toward the Highway Department door. Chandler unlocked the door, then stood in the doorway and blocked it until he could shut off the burglar alarm, using the keypad. Inside was a reception area furnished with a couple of desks, several file cabinets, and what looked like a communications center setup; there were two banks of radios, computer terminals, and several recharger stations for handheld radios.
McLanahan followed Chandler past the reception area and down a hallway. They passed an empty conference room with a sign on the open door reading Classified Briefing In Progress-No Admittance, continued past some more doors and a break room/exercise room, and finally came to a door marked Captain. Chandler punched a code into a CypherLock keypad, unlocked the door, asked McLanahan inside, and offered him a seat. Patrick rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head while Chandler crossed behind his desk and sat down.
“I’m sorry to be keeping you like this…”
“Forget it,” Chandler said. “Can I get you something? A soda? Iced tea?” From the odor he detected, McLanahan had already had a few pops before he came over here-he’d obviously needed something to ratchet up his courage enough to mouth off at a cop. What was it with these burnouts? Past glories gone, living vicariously through their smarter, more successful siblings. Good example of white trash.
“You cops don’t keep anything stronger in the desk?” McLanahan asked, trying to sound jokey but coming across as hopeful.
“I’m afraid a bottle of rotgut in the desk drawer went out with Philip Marlowe and Kojak,” Chandler replied, his disgust with Officer McLanahan’s brother growing by the minute.
“A soda would be fine then,” McLanahan said. Chandler went out to the break room. When he came back a half minute later, McLanahan had an elbow on the desk, one hand hiding his eyes and his other hand wrapped around his mid-section as if he was going to be ill.