Katherine Spann added: "There was an internal investigation into his conduct. As usual he couldn't have a lawyer and so they appointed a member to present his defense. The guy they appointed was Francois Chartrand."
"The Commissioner?"
"He was an Inspector back then."
"What happened?"
"DeClercq was never charged. He had a legal defense under protection of his family and public sympathy was on his side. Besides, the odds were five to one no matter how you cut it."
Spann said: "Now Chartrand is Commissioner. And Robert DeClercq is back. I wonder if he really is as good as they say."
"Well, we're going to find out," Rick Scarlett said.
Rabidowski nodded. There was a smirk on his face.
Spann turned on him: "You know something, Ed? You're a first class pain in the ass. You're a mental dinosaur. Come to think of it, I know what the four of us are doing here. What's your job on this Squad?"
"Firepower," the Mad Dog said bluntly. "Lady, I'm a one man SWAT Squad. I'm our Emergency Response Team. Believe me, if the chips are down I'm more important than you. I won't go into detail. I'd be talking over your head."
"Try me," Spann said quickly — and as sharply as the last time.
"Gimme a break."
Rabidowski walked over to his locker and removed a clean shirt from inside. He began to put it on.
Monica Macdonald glanced at Spann and picked up something in her look backed up by intuition. She said: "What's the matter, Ed? Are you afraid to try her?"
Rabidowski turned. "Put your money where your mouth is and it might be worth my time. Or better yet, with lips like yours I can think of somewhere else to put your mouth if your sister cop here loses."
"Ten bucks," Macdonald said.
"Who holds the pot? Who decides?"
"Not Scarlett," Spann said. "You're in bed together." She sized up Rusty Lewis. "Let's take a chance with him."
Lewis took the money.
"Okay," Rabidowski said. "Let me pose a problem. We're talking firepower."
Katherine Spann nodded.
"You got a four man Emergency Response Team and you gotta cover all the angles. We're talkin' shots per second and we're aimin' for accuracy. Arm it," the Mad Dog said.
"You first," the woman replied. "And give me your reasons."
Rabidowski grinned. "Okay, long-barrels to start with. I'd give two guys pump-action Remington Model 870 twelve-gauge shotguns. Why is obvious. We're talking scatterforce. The third guy gets a sniper's rifle, the Remington Model V for Varmint, heavy-barreled, caliber.22 — 250. There you've got a small bullet with high velocity, so that means pinpoint accuracy with a flat trajectory. No compensation needed. The last guy gets your Heckler and Koch Model HK 93 assault rifle in caliber.223 with telescoping stock. There you've got high-class German manufacturing technique — which by the way is becoming standard in this state of the art — and a roller-locking mechanism. I'd take semi- over fully-automatic. More target control.
"And finally," Rabidowski continued, "I'd top each guy off with a whiz of a short-barrel. Each man gets a semiautomatic Beretta Model 92 S pistol, caliber nine-millimeter Parabellum with a magazine capacity of fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber. Your Beretta's double action. The whole trip means Kapow! So top that, lady. And Lewis, hand me the cash."
"James Bond used a Beretta," Rick Scarlett added.
Spann almost laughed. Her mind weighed the man up and found him a couple of ounces short. "My turn," she said.
"Come on, Spann. Better minds than you or me have put that team together. Go down gracefully," the Mad Dog said.
"Better minds than you or I are also rethinking it, Ed. For the sake of argument I'll keep the long-barrels the same. Now let's chuck the Beretta and replace it with four Ruger Model Security 6.38 Special revolvers with either.38 Special + P ammunition or maybe.357 Magnum. I'd take the four-inch barrel over the two and three-quarters. So we've stepped up the Smith and Wesson, and it's also double action. And it's easily field-stripped."
"Lady, you're a fool. Your Ruger's only got six shots compared to sixteen in the Beretta. The buzz words in this exercise are 'greater firepower.' That means semi-automatic."
"Look," Spann said, "we're also talking accuracy and reliability. If you don't hit with the first few shots what does it really matter: all four women on the team will be dead and…"
"Women! That'll be the day. We're talkin action here. Not pushin' paper."
"… and besides, your firepower is in the long-barrels: you're not going to meet a short-barrel firepower situation. You're going to use the pistol only if you're right against it, eh? If your semi-auto misfires and jams, well then you're fucked. If your Ruger misfires you just pull the trigger again. Your Beretta you'd have to clear and that takes precious time. So your Ruger's reliable."
"Oh, smart broad," Rabidowski said, raising his eyebrows and looking at Scarlett. "Let's look at transportation. Your semi-auto's thinner and more easily concealed and holstered than your bulky cylinder. And to reload you got speed: just eject one magazine and jam in another. What about that, eh?"
"Irrelevant," Spann said immediately. "Have you never heard of a speed-loader for a revolver? Besides, your Beretta 92 S is fussy in what it feeds. It won't reliably take your Glaser Safety Slug. It won't take a hollow-point or flat nose. It won't take either your wadcutters or your armor piercing cartridges. With your Ruger, if it goes in the chamber, it fires. So your Beretta's got no selection of ammo. Your options are nil."
Rabidowski went to counter this, then realized as he opened his mouth that he had run out of arguments. He blinked instead.
"And while we're at it," Spann said, "you're creating jeopardy. Your semi-auto will be spewing out hot casings with every shot fired. What if one of those hits the guy
running beside you? A second can mean survival, and there the next guy is with a red hot cartridge down his shirt. And what about the floor? You want your whole team rollerskating on spent Beretta casings? Your Ruger hasn't got that problem. And anyway, for the sake of argument, why does your squad need sidearms at all? You're in a tactical response situation: it's the long-barrels that you'd use. But if you really want a pistol… yep, your Ruger is the one."
"Amen," Macdonald said. And then she turned to Lewis. "Well, what's your judgment?"
Rusty Lewis was twenty-nine years old and slightly overweight. He had drooping eyelids that made him look half-asleep. Sort of like Robert Mitchum. Above all, Rusty Lewis was fair. "Kathy wins," he said.
"Jesus, Mad Dog," Scarlett exclaimed. "The woman set you up!"
As Monica took the money she let out a thankful sigh.
"You just saved me, Kathy, from having a rabies shot."
Everybody laughed.
Except Rabidowski.
11:56 a.m.
"I'm impressed," Rick Scarlett said, "with the way you handled Mad Dog."
"Yeah sure. Nice friends you got."
"No really, I mean it. And he's not my friend. We just spent some time together in the same detachment. Where'd you get that knowledge? I certainly didn't expect it."
Katherine Spann gave him a long, hard look. "And just what did you expect? That I'd be reduced to tears when the subject turned to hardware? Don't be such a jerk."
"All right. I admit it. I started out an asshole. I'm sorry. Okay? So let's change the program. We got to work together, that's orders."
They were both sitting in the White Spot coffee shop at Cambie and King Edward waiting to order lunch. The waitress came and they ordered burgers Triple "O" with a side of french fries. Scarlett had coffee. Spann had tea.
When they were finished eating, Rick Scarlett said: "Let's pose you another problem. You've got this flying patrol, see, that wants to get this Headhunter. Where does it start?"