King City (8 page)

Wade turned off the TV and sat down across from her and girded himself for another kitchen confrontation. But this time there were no guns, no terrified children. Just the two of them.

Somehow, he’d been more comfortable in Malden’s kitchen a few hours earlier than he was in his own kitchen at that moment.

Alison asked him when he knew that Roger and the other officers were corrupt. He told her that he suspected it almost immediately but didn’t know for sure until he’d been there about two months. That’s when he decided to go to the Justice Department and begin gathering evidence.

She was silent for a time and then said, “You should have talked with me about it before you went to the Justice Department.”

“What difference would it have made?”

“We could have discussed the alternatives.”

He shook his head. “There were no alternatives.”

“That was not for you to decide on your own,” she said, her voice steadily rising until her final words were almost a shout. “We are a family.”

“And that’s what I was trying to protect. This wasn’t about us. It was about dirty cops doing some very bad things,” Wade said. “If I told you what was going on, you would have become part of it. I didn’t want that.”

“That’s what you don’t understand,” she said, making a noticeable effort to keep her voice down, her anger in check. “I am a part of it. So is Brooke. What you do has consequences, and we all have to live with them.”

“If I told you what was happening, you would have had to live with it every day. Every time we saw Roger, Phil, Artie, and their families you would have had to pretend not to know what I knew. They would have sensed your deception right away.”

“You mean I’m not as good a liar as you are.”

“I was protecting you.”

“You were lying to us,” she said. “Every day for two years.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” He reached out to touch her hand but she yanked it away. “It’s over.”

“No, Tom, it’s all just beginning. There will be a long trial, constant media attention, and a lot of ugliness.”

“What other choice did I have?”

“You could have chosen us,” she said.

From that night on, Wade slept in the guest room. The two of them hardly talked except when Brooke was around, but then it was only a performance for her benefit. Brooke knew it and soon became as withdrawn from them both as Alison was from him.

Late one night after the trial ended, as the glare of media attention was finally dimming, Wade sat at the kitchen table eating some leftovers. Alison came in and dropped a set of divorce papers down on the table in front of him.

He glanced at the top sheet, then up at her. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“Now you know how I felt,” she said.

“Is that what this is, Ally? Payback?”

She shook her head. “It’s consequences, Tom. You made a choice without us. You had to do what you thought was right. I’m doing the same thing.”

He left the next day. All he took with him were some clothes, a few boxes of books and CDs, a TV and an entertainment center, his recliner, some photo albums, a laptop computer, a mini‐fridge, and all the guest‐room furniture.

He put it all into the storage unit and himself into the hotel across the street, which was another storage unit, a place to shelve himself until his life started again.

And now it finally had.

Wade had all the furniture he needed for the apartment for now. He still had to buy dishes, cutlery, and cookware, a kitchen table, and a couch, but he was in no hurry. Paper plates, plastic silverware, and fast food would do fine for the time being.

He hired some day laborers who were milling around outside the storage facility with their own truck. They loaded his stuff in less than an hour and then followed him to his new home.

As he drove, Wade kept his eye on the rearview mirror, worried that his movers would turn around when they realized where he was heading, but they stuck with him. They unloaded his belongings into the upstairs apartment with amazing speed, eager to get their money and flee.

He couldn’t blame them.

While they unloaded his stuff, he taped some newspapers to the window to give himself some privacy until he could hang some drapes.

The movers dropped his box spring and mattress in the center of the living room and dumped most of his stuff around the bed. Wade hadn’t given any thought to interior design yet, anyway.

He walked them back to their truck and paid them off. As the truck drove away, he noticed that his move in had attracted a crowd across the street. They all seemed stunned by the sight. An alien invasion would have drawn fewer people and less incredulity.

A couple of the guys who’d trashed his car were among the lookie‐loos, but Timo wasn’t one of them. His bashed‐up Escalade was long gone, of course. It was a symbol of a humiliating defeat that Timo’s crew couldn’t let stand for all to see.

Guthrie stood outside his restaurant, leaning on his oxygen tank and smoking a cigarette. His daughter, Mandy, walked over to Wade just as the movers sped off. She was carrying a Styrofoam takeout box and a brown paper bag.

“I’ve seen a lot of people move out of this neighborhood,” Mandy said to Wade. “But I’ve never seen anybody foolish enough to move in.”

“I was won over by the warm welcome that I got yesterday,” Wade said.

“You’re crazier than I thought,” she said. “Are you moving into that upstairs apartment?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“The last person who lived there died, you know.”

“Of old age?” he asked.

“Lead poisoning,” she replied.

“From the paint?”

“From the bullets,” she said. “You really must have a death wish.”

“The wish isn’t mine,” he said.

“You’re just doing your best to grant it for somebody else,” she said and handed him the box and the bag. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I like your wish better,” he said.

“Then you’re going to pack up and get out?”

“I’m going be extra cautious and vigilant,” he said, then hefted the box. “What’s this?”

“Fry bread dusted with sugar, some maple syrup, and a cup of coffee. A housewarming gift. Or my contribution to your wake. I guess it depends on how the day goes.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I might stop by for dinner, if I’m still around by then.”

“You do that. Be sure to look both ways before crossing the street,” she said and turned back to her restaurant. He watched her walk away and remembered the advice that his dad had given to the waitress at the roadhouse. His father probably would have given the same advice to Mandy.

He went back inside, took a quick sip of coffee, and tore off a piece of the hot fry bread to eat on his way upstairs to change into his police uniform.

The deep‐fried dough, the size of a dinner plate, was sweet and delicious and instantly addictive. If he didn’t want to become morbidly obese, he’d have to start doing his patrols on foot.

Wade was back downstairs within a few minutes, and at the front counter working on the rest of the fry bread, when a blue 1968 Chevy Impala convertible pulled up to the curb. The white soft top was torn, the paint was oxidized, and rust was eating away at some of the grill.

Officer Billy Hagen emerged in uniform, a smile on his face that only got bigger once he came through the door and looked around his new station. There was a freckle‐faced boyishness and natural exuberance to him that made it hard for Wade to imagine Billy projecting much authority on the street.

Billy offered his hand to Wade. “Officer Billy Hagen, sir, reporting for duty.”

They shook hands. Billy had a firm grip and pumped his arm enthusiastically.

“Sergeant Tom Wade. Welcome aboard.”

“Damn glad to be here, sir.”

“Really?”

“This is not at all what I was expecting,” Billy said.

“What were you expecting?”

“After what I heard about you, I figured you’d be some moralistic, by‐the‐book, hard‐ass shit kicker.”

“What makes you think that I’m not?”

Billy gestured to the walls. “We’ve got the same taste in decorating and movies, though I prefer
Asscrack Bandits 3
way more than
Asscrack Bandits 4
.”

Wade had forgotten all about the porno posters. “Those posters aren’t mine. They were left over from the adult DVD store that used to be here.”

“Did they leave any DVDs behind?”

“I don’t think so,” Wade said.

“Did you look?”

“No,” Wade said.

“So there’s still hope,” Billy said.

“You mentioned that you’d heard about me.”

“They’ve got your face on one of the targets in the academy shooting range, mixed in with the civilians, cops, and perps,” Billy said. “You counted as a perp.”

“Do you have an opinion about what I did?”

Billy gestured to the fry bread. “Can I have a bite?”

“Help yourself,” Wade said.

Billy tore a piece of the bread off and popped it into his mouth. “It’s not my problem.”

“You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“Out there.” Billy tipped his head to street. “Not in here.”

“So it’s a matter of loyalty to you.”

“It’s common sense.” Billy took another piece of fry bread. “Even a dog doesn’t shit where it sleeps.”

“I see,” Wade said.

“No offense meant,” Billy said with a grin.

“None taken.” Wade took another piece of fry bread before Billy ate it all. “Do you mind if I ask why you became a cop?”

“I didn’t want to spend my life in retail, which is where I knew I was heading,” Billy said. “I thought being a cop would be more exciting. You’re on the move, you never know what’s going to happen, and the pay is pretty good.”

“What about enforcing the law? Protecting and serving your community? How do you feel about that?”

“It’s my job. It isn’t my religion.”

Wade studied Billy, trying to figure out if his good‐natured boyishness was real or a persona he adopted either to get away with things or to get people to underestimate him.

“Is this one of those Indian doughnuts?” Billy asked, licking his fingers.

“It’s called fry bread,” Wade said.

“Think where the tribes would be today if only they’d learned a couple hundred years ago to make ’em smaller and stick a hole in the center,” Billy said. “Every Winchell’s, Krispy Kreme, and Dunkin’s on earth would belong to them. They’d be huge.”

A Toyota Camry pulled up to the curb outside. The car was an older model, but it looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line that morning.

Officer Charlotte Greene got out of the car, an angry scowl on her face. She wore a perfectly pressed uniform, the Kevlar vest underneath it smoothing away whatever natural curves she had, but her striking beauty couldn’t be blunted. Her eyes had a natural intensity that demanded attention, and once she had it, it was hard to look away from her face. She had sharply defined features that implied both strength and grace.

She marched into the station, clearly pissed off even before she came through the door. But once she did, her severe gaze shifted from Wade and Billy and immediately locked on the posters.

Charlotte put her hands on her hips and looked indignantly at the two of them as if they were children.

“This is sexual harassment, and if you think I’m going to take it simply because I’m a rookie, you’re mistaken,” Charlotte said. “It’s bad enough that I was sent here in the first place.”

“The posters were left by the previous tenant and I didn’t get around to removing them.” Wade said. “Things have been kind of hectic around here. I apologize for offending you.”

He went over and ripped one of the posters from the wall. But he wasn’t actually sorry. The reactions that the two officers had to the posters were revealing.

“Whoa,” Billy said, rushing over and taking the torn poster from him. “Let me do that, Sarge. Those are works of art.”

Wade turned back to Charlotte. “I’m Sergeant Tom Wade. This is Officer Billy Hagen. Welcome to—”

“Darwin Gardens,” she interrupted. “I know who you are and why you’re here. That doesn’t explain what
I’m
doing here.”

“You were in the top of your class at the police academy,” Wade said.

“I’m also an African‐American woman.”

“I noticed,” Wade said.

“I think that’s what this is about,” she said.

“I agree,” he said.

“You do?”

“And they rewarded you for your exemplary performance by sending you to the worst neighborhood in King City.”

“Exactly,” she said, warming up to him. “They are marginalizing me, slapping me down because of my gender and my race.”

“Where did you expect them to assign you?” Wade asked.

“Meston Heights,” Charlotte said.

“But there is no crime in Meston Heights. It’s one of the richest, cleanest neighborhoods in the city.”

“It’s where every cop wants to be,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. She knew he was playing her now. “They have the best resources of any station in the department.”

“The private security officers up there outnumber the police four to one. You would have nothing to do. Is that really what you trained so hard for?”

“OK, fine,” she said. “What about Central Division?”

“The only reason you’d want to work out of headquarters as a patrol officer is for the opportunity to kiss up to the brass. But that’s not going to happen. They only see patrol officers as the household help. The plum assignment around there is getting to drive the chief around. Is that a job you really want? Would that make you feel good about your gender and your race?”

“You’re mocking me,” she said.

“I’m telling you that this is where you’ll make the most impact, where you are the most needed, and where you can put both your sociology degree and your police training to use.”

“We both know that isn’t why I was sent here,” she said. “Or why you were.”

Wade shrugged. “Does the
why
really matter? You aren’t going to make a difference in Meston Heights or driving the chief to Rotary Club lunches. But here you might.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

“I started as a patrol officer in Crown Park. Robbery stats were way up, so the department offered cops a chance to work four overtime hours at the top of their shift to increase the police presence on the streets. All we were supposed to do was drive up and down the streets in our patrol cars as a high‐visibility deterrent.”