He spent about five minutes maneuvering out of the car and getting himself positioned on his crutch. Outside, in the cold air, he could smell the rubber of his own car, and the fainter smell of an old fire hanging in the air.
Gideon psyched himself for the ascent. The bastard lived on the third floor.
For a few moments, he forgot Raphael and considered leaving the whole thing alone. Let the rest of the department deal with it. He was supposed to be on leave. He was too caught up in this, and he probably wasn't thinking clearly.
But if he didn't go, who was going to keep the whole thing from being buried?
He had drawn his brother into this, and he was the only person who cared enough to make certain that the people responsible were held accountable.
Gideon looked up the steps and remembered an event from years ago, something he hadn't thought about, or even remembered, in nearly twenty years. It had happened back in grade school. He had come home from school—run home was more like it—with a black eye and a busted lip. He didn't remember now who had beat him up, or why, but he did remember his older brother, Rafe, carefully explaining how he couldn't run, or forget about it, because if he let them get away with it, they would do it again. He could fight back or call the cops, but he couldn't run away or ignore it. Eventually, Gideon had fought back. He felt as if Rafe was talking to him here now. "You can fight back, or call the cops, but you can’t run away or ignore it. . ."
If he left this alone, there wasn't going to be a prosecution, or any public hearings. Right now, there was only him and Kendal. And Kendal doubted that there was anything more to what happened than what the papers said.
Even if there wasn't a conspiracy to bury the investigation, why would his department deal with it?
They were understaffed, and already had the shooters. The computer's theft wasn't their jurisdiction, and any new information would be making a tied-up case more complicated— A case the Administration wanted to turn into a political asset.
If he passed the buck on it, he doubted anyone would even follow up on Davy.
"You can’t run away or ignore it. . ."
And, damn it, he was the cops.
Gideon sighed and made his way up to the apartment. As he levered himself across the stoop, one step at a time, the old guy looked up at him and said, "I know you, Chief."
Gideon shook his head and said, "I don't think so." He didn't look down at the man. It took all his concentration to pull himself up the steps. At one point the crutch landed on a plastic bag and nearly slipped out from under him, but he managed to recover and reach the front door.
"Yeah, Chief. You that cop they shot up."
Gideon had no choice but to nod. He looked at the intercom. It was painted over and looked as if it hadn't worked in ages.
The old man kept talking at him. "You should get another job, Chief. Cop in this town ain't no job for nobody. No folks deserve that kind of shit."
"When you're right, you're right," Gideon muttered. He tried the door to the stairs. It was unlocked. It didn't even have a doorknob. He had to grab hold of the hole where the knob should be and pull the door open. The smell of piss and mildew slapped him in the face like a wet, moldy towel.
He started up the steps.
It seemed to take an hour to climb all the way up to Davy's apartment, though it probably wasn't more than ten minutes. He had to stop next to Davy's door for nearly as long just to catch his breath.
When he had collected himself, he pounded on Davy's door with his cast.
"Mr. Jones," Gideon called. "Police. I need to talk to you."
There was no response.
Gideon pounded a few more times. As he did, the copper taste of his exertion left his mouth, and he became aware of a smell.
There's nothing quite like the odor of a dead human body that's been allowed to sit a few days. A slightly wet, greasy smell—something close to rancid bacon fat. It hadn't reached full flower, and the neighbors might not have noticed it yet, but standing this close to the door, the hint of death was unmistakable.
"Fuck," Gideon said as he instinctively raised his good hand to his mouth.
Well if that ain’t probable cause, I don’t know what is.
Gideon tried the door, and found it locked. He turned and pushed his good shoulder into the door. He felt it give a little even with his weak attempt. The deadbolt wasn't set. Gideon tried twice more, resting between each attempt.
On the third try, the door gave. Gideon lost his balance and fell all the way through as the door swung open in front of him.
Here, sprawled facedown in the living room, the smell was just beginning to reach gagging levels. Gideon turned his head and saw an entertainment system, the rectangular TV screen casting a blind blue glow over everything.
He turned the other way and saw Davy, eyes rolled, kit laid out on the coffee table in front of him.
Gideon grabbed his crutch and made it to his feet. The fall, combined with the exertion of climbing the stairs, had ignited a throbbing ache in his injured leg. He tried to ignore it as he looked at Davy.
It was an obvious OD. Though Gideon had trouble believing in the coincidence. Finding Davy dead only convinced Gideon that he had found the right guy.
He walked over to where a phone sat on a table, pulled a tissue from his pocket, and picked up the receiver. There wasn't any way he could avoid calling this in. And the way his leg felt, Davy might not be the only one who needed to be carried out of this apartment.
Before he called it in, he had an idea. He looked at the receiver on the wireless phone, pulled out a pen, and used the dull end to press redial.
After a short series of beeps—a local number—someone picked up.
"The Zodiac, Renny speaking." Behind the voice were the sounds of people talking and dishes clattering.
"I'm calling for Davy."
"Davy ain't here, hasn't been in for near a week."
"How about Lionel?"
"What? Didn't hear about what happened?"
"No."
"Got hisself shot up on the Metro. He ain't taking no calls here no more."
"Okay, thanks."
He hung up with the pen. The Zodiac, a bar, club, or restaurant—somewhere Lionel and Davy both hung out at. It was the last place Davy had called. For Lionel maybe? For the person who had hired him?
Gideon put in the call to the department, wondering exactly how he was going to explain to IA what he was doing here.
In the hour he waited for someone to get there, Gideon went through Davy's apartment looking for anything that might give him a lead on who had hired him to move the Daedalus—or just some concrete evidence that he had found the right guy.
In Davy's bedroom he found something. Davy's wallet rested on the nightstand next to an unmade bed. He didn't need to go through it. Someone had already pulled it open and had spilled its contents all over the bed.
No cash. But there was a business card.
It was just a blank white rectangle bearing a symbol Gideon recognized.
" N," the same mark he had seen on the side of the warehouse.
What the fuck is this?
This was it, the connection. The pulse throbbed in Gideon's neck, and he felt a copper taste in his mouth. He could leave the thing here, have it bagged in the department, and watch as the case sank.
Gideon knew that Davy was murdered, he knew it. He also knew that the path of least resistance would have the corpse tagged as an OD with nothing to do with Raphael's death.
Gideon knew that the card was important.
Gideon wrapped the card in a tissue and put it in his own wallet. He could feel the line he crossed as he did so, but he kept telling himself. . .