”Hell, no.” He started to say more, but Rasche cut him off.
”Think you could find one? It’s important.”
”Listen, mister, whoever you are,” Smithers said, “I’m not a recruiter or a P.R. officer. Was there something you wanted?”
”As a matter of fact, yes,” Rasche said. “My name’s Rasche, Colonel. Maybe you can guess what I’m after.”
”No, I…” Smithers began. Then he stopped, and his tone changed abruptly from annoyance to uncertainty. “Did you say ‘Rasche’? Detective Rasche?”
”It’s Sheriff Rasche now, actually,” Rasche said, shrugging diffidently. “I don’t want any trouble, Colonel. I was just wondering whether you could tell me where my old partner has got to. Detective Schaefer.”
”Get out of here, Rasche,” Smithers said, getting up off the desk. “You don’t want to be involved.”
”Oh, now, don’t be too…” Rasche began as Smithers approached him.
Then Smithers reached to grab Rasche’s shoulder and shove him out of the office, and Rasche made his move.
In all his years on the NYPD, Rasche had always left the tough-guy stuff to his partner as much as he could. One reason he had liked being partnered with Schaefer was that Schaefer was so good at the tough-guy stuff. Schaef was about six and a half feet tall, classic buzz-cut Aryan with big broad shoulders and visible layers of muscle; he looked like he’d been carved out of stone by a sculptor with a body-building fetish. Schaefer didn’t have to hit people much because one look at him convinced most folks that they weren’t going to win if it came to blows-and they were right, too, because Schaefer was at least as tough as he looked.
Intimidating people just by looks saved everyone a lot of trouble, and Schaefer did it better than anyone else Rasche had ever met.
Rasche, though… Rasche was about average height, with a potbelly wider than his shoulders, with bony arms and a Captain Kangaroo mustache. He looked about as intimidating as one of those inflatable clowns with the weighted bases that kids used to punch.
That had its uses, too. He couldn’t intimidate anyone with his looks, but he could catch them off guard. In fact, he’d made it his specialty. Tough guys always underestimated the fat old cop when he smiled and shrugged and talked in that polite, vague way he’d worked so hard to perfect.
Smithers was just one more. He reached out for Rasche’s shoulder and made no attempt at all to guard himself. Rasche’s hands, locked together, came up hard and fast and took Smithers in the side of the head with most of Rasche’s two hundred pounds behind them.
Smithers staggered sideways, caught off-balance, but he didn’t go down until Rasche kneed him in the groin and then rammed both fists down on the back of his head.
Rasche shook his head as he closed and locked the door; was this the best the feds could do? Smithers had recognized Rasche’s name, so he’d probably read up on some of what Schaefer and Rasche had done together. Had he thought that it was all Schaefer, with Rasche just going along for the ride? The hoods on the street had always thought so, which was just the way Schaefer and Rasche had wanted it, but the feds ought to know better.
It was almost enough to hurt his feelings, he thought as he hauled the moaning, semiconscious Smithers into the chair behind the desk. How the hell did Smithers think Rasche had ever made detective in the first place and picked up his several commendations?
Five minutes later Smithers was fully conscious again and tied securely into his chair with the cords from his phones and computers. Rasche smiled across the desk at him.
”Darn it, Colonel,” he said, “I thought this could be a friendly chat. After all, all I want to know is what happened to my friend.”
Smithers stared at him.
”You’ll go to prison for this, Rasche,” he said. “Assaulting an on-duty federal officer is a felony…”
Rasche cut him off. “Yup,” he said, nodding. “It sure is a felony, and a serious one. But are you really going to want to go into court and testify in front of a judge and jury and your superiors about how an over-the-hill small town sheriff caught you off guard and trussed you up like a Thanksgiving turkey?” He smiled again, and that walrus mustache bristled; his eyes narrowed, and he really didn’t look a thing like Captain Kangaroo anymore.
”Besides,” he added, “I have a hunch that your boss, my old friend General Philips, really wouldn’t care for the bright lights of a civilian trial, since if it came to that I’d be doing my best to turn it into the biggest media circus since O. J. Simpson.”
Smithers frowned uncertainly.
”Anyway,” Rasche continued, “that’s all beside the point.” He reached under his jacket. “I want to know what happened to Detective Schaefer, and I want to know now.” He drew the. 38 Police Special out slowly, and then, moving with careful grace, brought it out to arm’s length and aimed it directly between Smithers’s eyes.
”That gun doesn’t scare me, Rasche,” Smithers said scornfully. “I know you’re a cop; you wouldn’t dare pull that trigger.”
Rasche shook his head. “Yeah, I’m a cop,” he said. “And cops don’t go around shooting people who don’t answer questions-at least, good cops don’t.” He pulled the gun back for a moment and looked at it contemplatively. “So you know I’m a cop, Colonel, but are you ready to gamble your life that I’m a good cop? I’ve had a pretty bad time lately, you know; I left the force here in New York after that mess on Third Avenue, but that didn’t really end it. It’s still bothering me. I almost strangled my dentist the other day.” He aimed the gun again. “I’m not sure just what I’m capable of anymore. I’ve gotta say, though, that I’m pretty sure I’m not that good a cop anymore. Remember that I’m just full of surprises, Colonel-I took you down a few minutes ago, didn’t I?”
Smithers cleared his throat but didn’t speak.
Rasche leaned forward across the desk, bringing the. 38’s muzzle to just an inch or two from Smithers’s face. “I’ve heard about you military guys who get assigned to the CIA for their dirty tricks,” he said conversationally. “Special training, psychological counseling-you think you can handle just about anything, right? Well, I didn’t have all that. What I had instead was a dozen years on the streets, where I learned all about what people will and won’t do. Maybe you learned some of the same things I did in those fancy classes of yours.” He leaned closer, and Smithers pulled as far away from the gun as his bonds would allow. “I want you to look into my eyes, Colonel,” Rasche said, “and I want you to use that special training to see inside me, to understand exactly what I’m feeling right now and what I’m capable of. If you read my file, I want you to think over everything it said in there-I got some commendations, yeah, I got promoted, but I also got in my share of trouble, didn’t I? Insubordination, brutality… you think about that.”
Rasche’s voice had gradually dropped from a normal tone to a whispered growl, and Smithers had begun to sweat. “Think about all the things that make life good, Colonel,” Rasche murmured. “Oreos, moonlit nights, the laughter of friends over a few beers, the soft touch of a woman’s hand. You think about all that very carefully, Colonel, and then I want you to ask yourself a question.” Rasche paused and adjusted his grip on the. 38 so that there was no chance it would jerk out of line if he pulled the trigger.
”Ask yourself,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you really want to die today?”
And Smithers started talking.
Chapter 22
Siberia!” Rasche said as he charged out onto the street. “Christ almighty, Siberia?” He looked both ways for a cab, didn’t see any-but when he briefly considered taking the subway the newsstand beside the subway entrance caught his eye. A stack of papers displayed the headline RUSSIANS DENY U.S. MISSILE CLAIMS.