With that, she too left.
Marty hoped that prison would at least be air-conditioned.
22
JACK MULRONEY COULDN'T BELIEVE his bad luck.
Actually killing Barker wasn't anywhere near as bad as he thought it would be. He just walked up to the fence and shoved his improvised blade between the links when Barker was stupid enough to be standing too close. The bastard was leaning against the fence drinking from a bottle of water, sweat dripping down his face after his weightlifting exertions.
That got him sweaty. Not the box. If anything, that pissed Jack off more. Gave him even more reason to stab his sorry ass. He limped over to the fence and just did it.
What he hadn't expected was the blood. Christ, it was everywhere.
In fact, that had kept Jack frozen to the spot where he was standing for at least a couple of seconds, watching the blood just gush all over the entire weight yard, like a red version of those seltzer bottles in old comedy TV shows, just spritzing all over the place.
Fischer, though, he took charge. He made Jack drop the shiv and then all the other guys huddled around him. Nobody would say anything to the COs, and he'd be clear.
Even if he wasn't Barker would be dead. Twice, he showed Jack up-on the field and in the box. Three times if you counted him exerting himself in the weight yard, the bastard.
Of course, things didn't go according to plan after that. He figured there'd be the usual internal investigation. Russell didn't know nothing from nothing, so Jack didn't expect much there, but instead he called in the NYPD.
Jack hadn't expected the full-court press the case got. It was probably because of Washburne. Everybody in the prison, on both sides, was sucking his dick pretty regularly, so his dying probably got the cops' hackles up.
Just bad luck was all. If Washburne hadn't died, they probably never would have figured out that Jack killed Barker.
And nobody would've cared. Jack knew he wasn't anybody special, but Barker was even less than that. Just some drug runner from Brooklyn, same as fifty other drug runners from Brooklyn. Nobody would miss him.
And Jack killed him. He deserved it.
Now, though, Jack was in Rikers, and soon he'd be transferred to a maximum-security facility. They hadn't told him which one yet. He didn't really care all that much. Sure, he'd be tried, and maybe he'd get the death penalty-but at least he showed Barker what for.
It was worth it just for that.
Stanton Gerrard hated going into the chief of detectives' office these days.
Ever since Mac Taylor had walked into that office and blackmailed Brigham Sinclair and Gerrard himself, Sinclair had been in a perpetually foul mood.
However, he'd been summoned to His Majesty's sanctum, and Gerrard wasn't stupid enough to turn down such a request. He'd put in his time on the streets and then some, and right now, his goal was to retire with as big a pension as he could scrape up-and also to stay as far off those streets as possible. Not that the job didn't need doing, but there were lots of better, younger police who could do that. Guys like Don Flack. Gerrard had always had a soft spot for Flack ever since the young detective came under Gerrard's command, and he knew that guys like him would keep things from getting out of hand on the pavement.
Gerrard, though, was too old for that. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the crazed eyes of that junkie on Forty-third Street who almost stabbed him. This was back in the late eighties, before Disney had taken over Times Square, and the area was a squalid cesspool of drug dealers, whores, and junkies.
That junkie had almost killed Gerrard. Instead, Gerrard shot him in the leg. He figured it would wound, but he hit a major artery, and the junkie bled out and died.
Whenever Gerrard found himself awash in the stupid politics of being one of the bosses, he remembered that junkie, remembered those eyes, remembered the drugged-out lunacy of the man as he waved his knife around-remembered the stomach-twisting fear he felt as he squeezed the trigger.
He'd done his duty. From that moment on, Gerrard was the good soldier. The same bosses he used to make fun of at the bar after the shift ended suddenly became his best friends. (Okay, he still made fun of them at the bar after the shift ended, but more quietly now.) After years of disdaining the sergeant's exam, he took it and placed high. Promotion suddenly became a desired goal instead of a dirty word.
If nothing else, he justified being a boss by saying that he used to be rank-and-file. At least he understood how they thought, and maybe he could be a better boss than the guys who used to make his life miserable.
On some days, he even believed that.
Today, though, he thought as he entered Sinclair's office, wasn't going to be one of those days.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, Sinclair exploded. "A memo! Can you believe this, Stan? The man sent me a memo. He couldn't even do me the favor of a phone call."
"Who sent a memo?" Gerrard asked, not unreasonably, since he didn't have the first clue what Sinclair was talking about.
"The commissioner!" Sinclair cried, holding up a sheet of paper.
"What about him?"
"I requested that Malik Washburne get a blue funeral."
"And he said no?"
"In a memo, Stan! The man gave the best years of his life to the department, and this is what he gets?" He held up the memo near his scowling face. "'After due consideration, I'm afraid I must decline your request to give the former Officer Washburne a departmental funeral. I believe it would be inappropriate to provide an honor guard for someone who was convicted of homicide and who died in prison custody.'" He slammed the paper down on his wooden desk.
Gently, Gerrard said, "Did you really expect anything different?"
"A different answer? Of course not. I owed it to the man to ask, but I'm not stupid, Stan. No way they fire twenty-one for a guy who killed two people while he was soused. But I expected to be told that. I don't even rate a phone call anymore, Stan."
"Maybe he just wanted to have it in writing."
"Then he calls, tells me that, and follows it up with a memo that says, 'As per our conversation, no honor guard.' Fine. Instead, I just get a brush-off." He pointed at Gerrard with an accusatory finger. "This is Taylor's fault."
Gerrard blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"The commissioner's pissed that Taylor got off. He wanted at least a reprimand-and I couldn't tell him why that happened." Sinclair shook his head and sat down at his desk. "Or he does know why, and he's pissed about that. Either way…"
Taking the guest chair opposite the chief, Gerrard said, "Look, Mac's not exactly at the top of my Christmas card list right now, but I don't think you can put this on him. He thought his back was to the wall, and he acted. And I don't think the big boss gives a rat's ass about some guy in the crime lab anyhow."
"He gives a rat's ass about Clay Dobson. That gave the department a black eye, and I cost him his handy scapegoat." Sinclair shook his head. "Keep an eye on Taylor, Stan. He needs to be either the absolute best cop in the history of the NYPD, or he needs to go in disgrace. It can't be anywhere between those two."
Gerrard left Sinclair's office more than a little confused. Did he actually just defend Mac Taylor? Will wonders never cease?
But he saw Sinclair's point. If Mac excelled, then Sinclair could point to that and say that it would've been bad for the department if he'd been punished. If Mac screwed up, then Sinclair could serve him up to the commissioner on a silver platter.
It was going to be an interesting next few weeks.
Dina Rosengaus missed the morning shift.