Damn it. What’s Vasquez and Washington done now? Couldn’t they even handle one vice assignment?
So far, he thought the temporary transfers had gone well. In addition to those two, other officers from around the department had filled in shifts when needed. He’d even done a couple himself, though it had been a long time since he worked vice. Still too many young girls, too many kids strung out on drugs. The streets, he found, didn’t change much.
He rose to his feet, his hand extended as the two entered his office. They both shook his hand, then one of them closed the door.
“Gentlemen,” Nick said, taking a seat behind his desk. One of the IA guys was silver-haired, tall and Caucasian, with lieutenant’s bars on his collar. The other was more compact and clearly of Latino derivation. Both faces were vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t put a name with either one. Both faces were also grim. “What can I do for you?”
“Lieutenant Jackson,” the taller one said by way of introduction as they sat across from him. “We’re investigating a report of inappropriate conduct.”
Nick nodded. “From vice?” Here it came. What had his bad boys done now?
The other officer looked surprised. “Exactly, Lieutenant Sansone. We’ve received allegations that last month you sexually assaulted a young woman in your custody before you brought her in to be booked.”
“What?” Nick rose to his feet, stunned. He was sure he hadn’t heard correctly. “That—would you repeat that?”
“Sit down, Lieutenant,” Jackson said, his voice pitched at just the right tone to “handle” him. “We’re not done with our investigation. Obviously we’ll want to interview you. You may want an attorney present.” He cleared his throat, then waited for Nick to return to his seat. “Or you may want to talk to us now.”
Nick considered the alternatives, still reeling. He’d never touched any of the young women he’d arrested. Ever. Never. He couldn’t imagine that anyone could sustain such an allegation. Or any reason.
“Lieutenant?” Jackson had the decency to look embarrassed.
“I—I’m sorry. I need a moment.” Nick stared at his desk as if he could possibly find the answer there. He didn’t.
A knock came at the door, then it opened. Butch Reickert stepped in. He pulled the door closed behind him. Nick thought he detected a few more lines on the older man’s face, and the expression it currently held was one laced with guilt. Was this more fallout from Morgan’s arm-twisting? “Nick, you know the routine. You’ll be on suspension pending the investigation. I need your shield and your gun. Shouldn’t take too long, right, boys?”
“No, sir, Chief,” Jackson’s companion murmured.
Nick stood and took off his suit jacket, ready to punch someone and trying hard to control it. Through the window to the squad room, he could see Clara Malron studiously applying herself to the work on her desk for the first time he could remember.
Maybe this wasn’t something that originated with Morgan. He had his own issues to deal with. Could this have come from his ongoing dispute with the Three Amigos?
Jaw set tight to keep himself from saying what he knew would only hurt him, he took the department-issued Ruger from its holster, ejected the ammunition, and handed the clip to Reickert, then did the same for his police shield.
Jackson cleared his throat. “We’ll need you to make yourself available for questioning, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll call you,” Nick said, his mouth dry.
“The sooner, the—” Jackson continued.
Reickert interrupted, his voice like granite. “He’ll call you.”
“Of course, chief.” Jackson studied Nick, pity in his eyes. “Let’s go, Lieutenant. We’ll escort you out.”
“Chief, come on,” Nick said. “You can’t believe this crap.”
Reickert wouldn’t meet his eyes, holding the gun and shield before him like burnt offerings. “Not up to me, Nick. Department policy. You know it and I know it.”
Anger boiling up in him, Nick couldn’t control the words that came out. “I didn’t think being a coward was department policy.”
That got his attention. Reickert stood up tall, his voice whipping like an Arctic wind. “Watch yourself, lieutenant.”
Lieutenant? Really? Considering the personal sacrifice I made on your behalf, pal? This was a serious crock of crap.
Nick picked up his jacket and his briefcase, leaving his coffee. He’d lost his taste for it. Holding his head high, though every fiber of his being wanted to crawl away and hide, he walked with the IA officers to the elevator, passing longtime co-workers who stared, speechless, as they proceeded. No question what might be going on here. The IA guys always had a certain look to them. Like career executioners.
The men didn’t speak to him, though Jackson shoved a business card into his hand. They walked him to the front door, then waited inside as it closed behind him.
He found himself out on the street with nowhere to go.
****
Suzanne was deep into typing a brief when Donna poked her head around the door frame. “Nick Sansone’s on the line. He…” Donna pursed her lips a moment, thinking. “He sounds like he’s lost his last friend.”
Now that was odd.
She’d tried to get in touch with him several times over the last couple of weeks, but he’d been standoffish. First he’d pled preoccupation with last-minute budget negotiations, then he’d been unavailable because of some kind of vice stakeout.
Whatever the reason, she was glad to hear from him.
And about bloody time…
Suzanne picked up the phone. “Nick?”
He didn’t waste a second on small talk. “Can you take a break?” Donna was right; his voice was haunted.
Suzanne wondered which disaster this call might relate to. Possibilities clicked thought her mind like a slideshow. If something had happened to Maddie, he’d have come personally to tell her. Same if he’d gotten a heads-up on something with her children. So, something else then. She’d never heard him sound so unsure of himself. “If you need me to, of course.”
“At the coffee shop at the Warhol in fifteen minutes?”
“All right.” The Warhol? What an odd meeting place. Even more curious now, wondering what new hell had appeared on the horizon, she scrambled for her jacket and purse, then the door. Donna started to ask, but Suzanne just waved a hand. “I’ll let you know when I know, okay?”
She drove as quickly as she could in morning traffic, heading for the museum. Neither of them even liked Warhol’s wacky art. At first she’d thought maybe he had a surprise for her. As she drove, her fears reinforced that thought—all indications were, however, that it was a very bad surprise.
As she entered the café, accessible from outside the museum on Sandusky Street, she found Nick sadly out of place among the minimalist glass and chrome tables. The hand that held his coffee cup shook like someone who was freezing.
“Maybe coffee’s a bad idea. Hell on the nerves,” he said, with a ghost of his usual smile. “You want some?”
Suzanne shook her head and studied him. She’d seen him angry, elated, jovial, disappointed, but she’d have to call
this
Nick frightened. It was something new. She didn’t like it.
He began to speak several times, but couldn't seem to transfer his thoughts to spoken words. A jelly-like quiver formed in her belly which grew larger as she waited. Whatever it was, this was big.
“Bastards!” The word tumbled out of his mouth, accompanied by the slamming of his fist on the table. Amid the rattle of glassware, and the shocked stare of the effete young man behind the serving counter, Suzanne wondered if anger was better than fear. She reached for Nick's hand before he could slam it again. Tight with emotion, even the pressure of her hand didn't relax him.
“Nick, come on, tell me what happened.” She squeezed his hand, ignoring the looks of the old couple at the other end of the counter. “I’ll help if I can. Is it Morgan?”
That was the word he needed to release the dam that trapped his words. He looked into her eyes. “I don’t know.”
Then he told her, first, about the “request” Reickert had made of him about the budget, then about the happenings of the morning, not letting her interrupt, no matter how hard she tried. Finally she just sat back to absorb it all, almost too disgusted with the whole situation to be incensed.
No wonder he’d sounded so bad
.
How could this have happened? While he fiddled with his cup and stared, lost, out the window, her mind filled with rushing images. The precinct. The park. Scenes of dark streets where prostitutes patrolled like starving tigers, waiting to pounce on the unwary. What kept coming to the top was Sandoval’s banquet and that intent conversation between Greg Morgan and the three young troublemakers.
Morgan by himself was a dynamo of bad attitude and acts. Adding in the energy of three others with an ax to grind jolted the potential impact and trouble to the next level. Maybe this level.
“Did you see any kind of written statement? Did they tell you who?”
“No, and they wouldn’t let me know who, anyway. Protocol. But my record is solid. They've never had a complaint against me. I can’t understand why they believe this woman. Even Reickert’s someone I just can’t count on for help this time.” His eyes were fixed on the dark liquid quivering in his cup.
“I can’t believe he’d cave to Morgan about the budget. That’s garbage.” Her foot tapped nervously against the table, drawing the attention of the couple again, and finally even getting under her own skin. She stopped. “But Morgan and your little friends may be working on this together.”
When he showed interest in her theory, she shared what she’d witnessed at the banquet. “If what you say is true, Morgan has way too much influence on what’s going on in your office already, and if Washington and the others are out to get you, there’s no question this situation could have been created, tailor-made.”
“Or ‘Taylor’-made,” Nick growled, his outlook clearly on a downhill slide.
“Now you can take your share of the heat for this, pal.” She tried to inject a teasing note into her voice. “Don’t forget you’re the one who sent Maddie to me in the first place.”
His sharp look warned her, his sense of humor had pretty much faded away.
“Okay, okay! Honey, I’m teasing you.” She squeezed his hand again. “You can’t lose it here. If you’re going to get through this, you need to focus.” She thought of the case as if he had come to her as a client in crisis mode. Seeing his heart break was more painful to her than she’d estimated.
“If it’s not them, it might be someone else you’ve busted looking for a payback. Cops make enemies on the street every day.”
Nick nodded, slowly coming around. “That's possible. Any of the last three drug busts we've done had enough big-name defendants that someone could have felt too threatened.”
“Do you have any guess who the complainant might be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve worked with Vice for a couple of weeks, just a few shifts to help them out. I didn’t make too many arrests, but there was this young hooker I picked up on Prospect. She came up and hit on me at a stop light. I probably should have just put a good scare in her and sent her on her way, but she looked impressionable, the kind to be scared straight. So I did. The scared part worked—she was shaking like a leaf and terrified about going to jail.” He rubbed his forehead. “Someone came and bailed her out before my shift was over, but I never found out who. Didn’t think it mattered.”
“This is unbelievable.” Outside the doors to the cafe, the sun shone in the clear autumn sky and people went about their business as if nothing had just happened that would destroy a city servant’s life and a career. What crap! Suzanne preferred a straight-on attack to guerrilla warfare any day. Continuing in attorney problem-solving mode—that hurt less—she asked, “What does this mean in terms of your pay and benefits?”
“Huh?” He looked at her blankly. “Who knows? I haven’t got that far. I guess they’re still in place. I’m suspended during the investigation. They took my badge and my department firearm.” He shrugged, and Suzanne could almost read his mind. He had enough other weapons, some even better than the one the department paid for. But what would really eat at him was the deprivation of the daily challenge of his work and the desire to root out the culprit responsible and even the score.
“Criminal charges?”
“Possible under the Crimes Code, I suppose. It depends on the evidence, if they even have any. What am I saying? They
can’t
have any. But I don’t know what this girl told them or why.” He looked at her in disbelief. “I don’t even want to consider that. You shouldn’t consider that, either. I didn’t break one damned rule!” His breath caught, ragged in his throat. “What am I going to do now?”
She wished she had an answer for him. The shock of being betrayed by one's own colleagues was a formidable one. Knowing a criminal, a stranger, was responsible might have been easier to comprehend, but if it was someone in the department, that was much worse. Not knowing who the bad guys were just wasn't in the police vocabulary.
“Have you talked to a lawyer?” When he raised a eyebrow, she added, “Besides me. You know this isn't my thing at all. You should be talking to Jerry Goldstein, or Roy White. They can tell you what you should say and what to watch out for.”
“Suzanne, I don’t have anything to hide, because there’s nothing to find. I didn’t do anything!”
“I know you didn’t.” The story in his eyes told her it was the truth. Despite what they disagreed on, she believed she knew his character. He wasn’t the type to take advantage of a young prostitute. Not at all. The fact he kept saying it meant he needed something from her, something she was wholeheartedly able to give him. “Nick, I
know
you didn’t.”
Nick’s jaw tightened. “That means everything, Suzanne.” His voice trailed off, and Suzanne guessed if she had looked up, she would have caught a glisten of tears in his eye. But she allowed him to clear it away before she met his gaze.