the whole governor's son angle cuts both ways. You could also say it
puts pressure on him to be a star, to stand out as his own man, make it
big in a way that no one could say it was because of the old man. And
hey, he probably thought she really did do it. He wouldn't be the
first cop to bend some rules to make a case stronger to get the bad
guys."
It did look different from that angle. Given what I'd seen good cops
do to help convict the guilty, why couldn't I believe that Chuck might
occasionally do the same? Even in high school, Chuck had resented the
inherent unspoken separation from his peers that came with being the
governor's son. If that pressure had been bad as a teenager surrounded
by the offspring of lawyers and doctors, what had it been like with
rookie patrol officers? If Chuck felt in his gut that Lan-dry had been
guilty and wanted to bring down a freak like Taylor, might he help her
along with a few details to shore up her story?
As I walked out of Duncan's office, I could barely stomach what I was
thinking. He was right. I couldn't be objective.
Since my regular caseload hadn't included MCT cases before the
Derringer file came along, you'd think life with my run-of-the-mill
drug and prostitution cases would have felt like a return to normalcy.
Instead, it just felt anxiety-ridden. I didn't think anything would
feel normal to me again until the bureau finished its investigation and
I could finally find out what others decided about the future of Frank
Derringer and Chuck, not to mention me.
Chuck had been suspended from all MCT investigations and put on
temporary assignment to patrol. Since detectives don't work patrol,
the police union was filing a grievance, claiming that Chuck had
essentially been demoted without a hearing. The union's interest was
to make the bureau's staffing as inflexible as possible, so the bureau
has to hire new bodies whenever it has a shortage in any single area.
The bureau was fighting the beef, claiming that the change was a simple
reassignment, since Chuck's salary hadn't been docked. Chuck, of
course, wasn't given a say in any of it and was back on patrol, angry
but cognizant of the fact that he could have been suspended.
Personally, I'd rather be suspended. Maybe if I'd boinked the entire
Major Crimes Team, I'd be one of those lucky public employees who got
suspended for a couple of years with pay until a lengthy investigation
resulted in my return to full employment with no discipline other than
an extended paid vacation. But sex with just one detective left me
where I was, back with my drug and vice cases.
Lopez had agreed to an adjournment. True believer that she was, she
wouldn't have acquiesced unless she thought the delay would help
Derringer. Based on that, I tried telling O'Donnell that the time was
ripe to approach the defense with a decent plea agreement. But he
refused, reminding me that the boss had ordered him not to pressure a
plea until the police determined whether the Long Hauler was for
real.
O'Donnell had continued to surprise me with relatively decent behavior.
He agreed that I'd handle communications with Kendra and Andrea about
the case. Even though I suspected he did it to save himself the work
of victim handhold-ing, I was grateful that Kendra wasn't going to have
to hear about the turn of events from someone other than me.
The night after I'd been kicked off the case, I had taken Kendra out to
dinner and did my best to explain why the case was being set over. I
wanted desperately to answer all her questions about what was going to
happen, whether Derringer was still going to go to jail, why some
"stupid" letter had to affect her case, and everything else she asked
me as she played with her food. All I could do was tell her not to
give up hope. We'd have to wait and see.
We both kept up a good front, but the signs of demoralization were
clear in her untouched plate.
Now that the case was over, there wasn't much of an official role for
me to play in Kendra's life. I talked to her about enrolling in the
LAP teen program. Learning Alternatives to Prostitution was intended
for court-mandated treatment of criminal defendants, but anyone could
enroll. I'd already contacted them, and a counselor had told me she
could get Kendra a volunteer tutor to help her with school and Kendra
could participate in weekly group therapy sessions. Sometimes the
"therapy" took the form of activities like painting and gardening, but
those might be just the things Kendra needed to reenter life as a
somewhat regular thirteen-year-old.
Now, Monday morning. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be
acting like a lawyer. I spent the afternoon returning phone calls and
covering grand jury hearings. One guy I indicted definitely earned the
dope-of-the-day award, if not the year. The defendant marched into the
lobby of Southeast Precinct to report a fraud and pulled fifteen ounces
of heroin and a scale from his gym bag. Turns out the seller charged
him for a pound. Outraged by the one-ounce shortage, the defendant
thought the police would help him get what he called "reparations."
Ordinarily, this would have carried me through the day. But even the
reprieve from crank calls, break-ins, head cracks, and brown Toyota
Tercels wasn't enough to make me appreciate my return to the mundane. I
couldn't keep my mind off the so-called Long Hauler and his claim of
responsibility for the attack on Kendra. Something just didn't feel
right about it. I needed to get more evidence against Derringer, so I
could trash him no matter what the Long Hauler's story turned out to
be.
I decided to take a little detour on the way home from work. I
wouldn't even say that I decided to do it; it was more like my body
willed me. Right after my usual merge onto the 1-5 from the Morrison
Bridge, I noticed the exit sign for the Lloyd Center mall. I reminded
myself of how good I'd been about following Duncan's orders. I thought
of the trouble I'd be in for snooping around, the way O'Donnell's
nostrils would flare in anger if he found out, and the possibility that
it was all a waste of time anyway. The next thing I knew, I was
parking my Jetta outside of Meier & Frank in the Lloyd Center parking
lot and walking into the handbags department.
Now, if this had been a premeditated case of meddling into affairs that
were no longer mine, I would have checked Kendra's purse out of the
evidence locker and taken it with me to the counter. But since this
was impromptu meddling, I was left describing the purse to the nitwit
at the counter.
Nitwit was about seventeen years old. Her blond hair tumbled out of
the knot at the back of her head like a fountain designed by someone on
a heavy acid trip. From the bottom up, everything she wore was
irritating: platform sandals that made my feet wince, jeans slung low