Tom Piccirilli - The Cold Spot

Chase wondered if he’d ever been a reliable partner for Lila. If for one stupid reason or another it was Hopkins who’d inadvertently made some mistake that had gotten her killed. The thought of it moved through him, gaining heat and strength, until his vision turned a gleaming red at the edges and his chest was tight.

“What are you doing here?” Hopkins said.

“I came to talk to Murray and Morgan.”

“About what?”

“About whether they’re making any progress tracking down the ice heisters.”

Hopkins gave him a look that said he’d never really seen Chase before in his life. This wasn’t a grease monkey schoolteacher in front of him anymore, and he was wondering where that guy had gone.

“If they had any information, I’m sure they would have phoned to let you know.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“No.”

Hopkins’s body language gave off all the wrong signals. He smelled of peppermint gum and a hint of scotch, a pretty disgusting mix. No more fucking cake and coffee. Hopkins wasn’t even slick enough to drink vodka on the job so that nobody would pick up on it. He was one of those mooks crying out to be caught and helped because he needed the attention. Chase felt a powerful wash of pity and loathing.

Scanning the desk, Chase noticed there were no photos. He pulled open the top drawer and Hopkins let out a frustrated grunt from the center of his chest. Inside the drawer were three framed photos of his wife and daughters, and a snapshot of Lila taken at one of the barbecues. The photo was ripped down the middle and Chase, who’d been sitting beside her, had been torn out.

He tapped the photo against the desktop, staring at Hopkins, trying to figure out if the guy was worth anything to him. Maybe he could still be put to use, or maybe Hopkins was too damaged for that now. He had to think about it.

With his lips crawling, Hopkins went, “Look, I’ve been meaning-”

Chase tossed the photo down, turned, and made his way to the other side of the room to where Murray and Morgan were each talking into a phone.

They both looked up at his approach and each of them frowned. He got close and listened in on their conversations. Murray was talking to his wife, telling her he was sorry he had come home so late last night and hadn’t woken her the way she’d made him promise. But he had to put in the extra hours, the chief was breaking his ass. He pulled a face and glared at Chase, trying to spook him off. The vibe got ugly fast. That was all right. Chase continued standing there.

Good to see that Morgan was actually working the case. There was an intensity about him. He had two days of gray beard stubble and was bracing somebody hard over the phone, trying to get a line on somebody else. He scrawled in a notebook. He nodded, his chin bobbing. The next time he looked up at Chase he narrowed his eyes and tried to sort of climb away, hugging the phone to him. Chase stepped closer.

He was talking about some hooker and her pimp and a couple of gangbangers who’d hit a couple of banks in Roosevelt. It wasn’t the right crew, but at least he was doing something. The cops would have a lot of misleading information. The manager of the diamond merchant’s was in the morgue. Having Marisa’s face on camera was worthless. Everything else would lead them to a dead end, and the aggravation would only get worse.

Murray told his wife he’d bring home her decongestant and hung up. He looked at Chase, sighed and said, “What can I do for you?” Doing the Fuck off, twinky thing again, but not having as much fun with it this time. He was tired and frustrated and seemed resigned to dealing with numerous pains in the ass this afternoon.

Might as well lay it on the line.

Chase asked, “Do you have any suspects who were born in or have some kind of a home base in Cleveland?”

“What?”

“Cleveland.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“You got anybody who might have been based there?”

“Why the hell are you asking about Cleveland for? What is this?”

Murray stood, stepped up, and tried to get in Chase’s face. One heavy paw with a lot of liver spots lay on Chase’s chest, pushing. Chase resisted, turned aside, and focused his gaze on Morgan.

Hanging up the phone, Morgan looked at him the same way that Hopkins had. With a lot of confusion and a little respect. He squinted at Chase, trying to get a bead on him. Raised his chin a little and scratched his stubble.

“You look like crap,” he said.

“I haven’t been sleeping much.”

“Neither have we. What do you want?”

“A name,” Chase said. “Or maybe two names. A husband-and-wife team? Possibly from Cleveland. Maybe working with another pro, also from there.”

They remained like that for a solid minute. Morgan in his seat, staring, reading Chase’s eyes and seeing something new. Murray with his hand on Chase’s chest, intermittently attempting to shove him away, then relaxing. Then pressing. His aggression was almost a postscript. His wife was clogged.

They were three men of openly deep thoughts, saddled by convention, indignation, and a lack of results. This was Chase’s last chance. He held his desperation inside and tried to plant it in the ice, keep it cool and under wraps, but he could still feel it trying to break free. His breathing grew deeper. The moment stretched. His vision grew red again. Murray shoved. Chase set his teeth and thought, Once more and I’m going to have to knock him down, and that will not be good at all.

“You stole the security tapes and file copies, didn’t you?” Morgan asked.

“No,” Chase said. He could barely see through the red.

Morgan said, “Sure you did,” and started to go through his paperwork. He tossed manila folders aside, flipped through pages. “Cleveland. Not husband and wife, but brother and sister. Earl and Ellie Raymond. Grew up there, still have ties. Very sharp customers. They’re heisters for certain, but they’re nowhere near New York, so far as we know.”

“They work with anybody with a scar on his forehead?”

Morgan stared even harder at him, tamping his teeth together, his wheels turning. Chase really didn’t like that look.

Chase nodded, turning the name around in his head. Ellie Raymond. Murray backed away and said, “So what? We’ve got six sheets of suspects from all over the country. There’s no more of a line on them than on a dozen other possibles.” His tie was loose and he had ring around the collar. He turned to Chase and pointed a finger now, which was so much more accommodating than the palm in the chest. “You. You’re trouble. I knew it first time I saw you-”

No wonder she wouldn’t give up the driver. He was her brother.

“Thanks,” Chase said and walked away.

On the other side of the squad room, he stopped off in front of Hopkins again. Since the guy was nothing but a desk jockey now, maybe he’d be bored or guilty enough to help. Chase couldn’t entirely trust him but he couldn’t trust anybody, so what the fuck.

Chase said, “My mother was murdered fifteen years ago. I want to check the case files.”

“You’ll have to send in the proper paperwork for a formal request, and you’ll have to read the file at the courthouse records office in the company of an officer.”

“Can you make copies?”

The question stumped Hopkins. Everything seemed to stump him. “I don’t know.”

“If you can’t, steal them.”

“What are you saying?” Hopkins’s face opened up, his eyes wide but not quite as wide as they would’ve been if he wasn’t drinking on the job. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“How am I supposed to steal records?”

“Slip them under your shirt, like you do with your flask of scotch.”