J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

Through the open door I can see Lt. Bascombe poised over his desk, all the weight on his fingers like a runner in the starting blocks. He looks up at me without acknowledging my presence. When I start over, he comes around the desk, intercepting me outside the door. He puts a hand on my chest.

“What’s up?” I ask.

He scans back and forth across the room, still looking through me. Like he’s making sure I’m alone. Then he pulls me inside and closes the door.

“It’s official,” he says. “The captain’s pulling people in one at a time to break the news.”

“He’s leaving?”

“That’s the story. But like I told you before, what’s really happening is, he’s getting the push. I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”

Remembering my encounter with Hedges the day before, I shake my head. “He seems like a shadow of his former self.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not entirely his fault.” He sits on the edge of his desk, motioning me into a chair. “I can’t believe they’re rushing him out like this. It’s the politics, March. You end up on the losing side in this department and, I swear, they’ll cut your throat.”

“Maybe I should go see him.”

“Don’t be in such a rush,” he says. “It’s depressing. When they do you like this, they don’t just can you. They also write the script. Not only do you have to leave, but you leave on their terms, giving their reasons, or else.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

He looks at me like I’m stupid.

“Anyway, can I run something past you, boss? I think that FBI agent is spinning us a yarn.”

“You’re one of those people who tells jokes at funerals, aren’t you?”

“What do you want me to do? I think she lied to us.”

Bascombe goes around the desk and slumps into his chair. The cushion hisses as it takes his weight.

“Go ahead, then.”

I bring him up-to-date on everything, including Miranda Ford’s description and my after-hours confrontation with Bea. As I talk, his expression goes from bored to mildly interested. By the time I’m done, he’s leaning forward, elbows on the desk.

“Well, something’s not right,” he says.

“I know. So what should I do about it?”

“What can you do? Seems to me the only thing is to ignore what she told us. Pretend that meeting never happened. What does it actually change, after all? You got a hit on your victim, the identification’s made, and he’s a real person with a real history.”

“Yeah, but Bea’s working some kind of angle-”

“So what? If you take her story and set it aside, what are you left with? Some forward movement on your case. Whatever the FBI is or is not up to, we do one thing here and that’s clear homicides. So that’s what you do.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Unless something changes, I don’t see what else you can do.”

“I was hoping you would make some phone calls and see what you can find out about Bea and her operation.”

“It was making phones calls that got us into this.” He sighs. “Leave it with me, okay? I’ll see what I can do. Don’t expect any miracles, though, because I have my hands full at the moment. For the time being, ignore the FBI and just do your job.”

On my way out I pause at the door. “Who’s moving into the captain’s office?”

He raises his palms. “I still don’t know. And that right there should tell you something.”

When my turn comes, I file into the captain’s office, surprised to find his personal belongings-the books and knickknacks, the framed photos and diplomas-already packed into a row of boxes along the credenza. The skin on his head shines through his flinty close-cropped hair, making him seem older to me than he ever has before.

“I should have done this a long time ago,” he says.

The euphemisms flow, and I sit there receiving them passively, not daring to question the script Bascombe says “they” have prepared. I owe this man. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. Out of respect, I don’t question anything he says. I nod in agreement, like I’m happy for him, like this is the best news he could have shared. Any other reaction would risk humiliation.

“Sir,” I say, reaching across the desk to shake his hand. “It’s been a real pleasure working for you. It won’t be the same here without you.”

He holds my hand a beat longer than is required, fixing his piercing eyes on me.

“Thank you, March. You know you’ve always had my respect.”

I pull my hand back. “You’ve always had mine, too.”

It’s not fair.

Closing the door behind me, I walk out of Homicide and take the elevator down to the ground floor. A man like that, with the years he’s put in. . I go through the lobby past the front desk, pushing through the revolving doors out onto the sidewalk, into the searing brightness of midday. To go out like this, a whimper not a bang, and for what? For being ambitious. For getting on the wrong side of people who play the game better than him. But they don’t run homicide squads better than him, because no one does. I take a deep breath, let it out. Take another. I close my eyes and try not to think. He doesn’t deserve what they’ve dealt him. I’d pay them back if I could, if I even knew who they were.

Cars rush by, leaving the smell of exhaust in their wake.

I will know soon enough. When someone else takes his place.

My phone rings before I get back inside, Lorenz calling from Brandon Ford’s office.

“There’s a safe here,” he says, “with a couple of rifles inside. There’s something else down here, too. I think you should come take a look.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure. . a shrine? Newspaper clippings, photos, kind of a psycho wall.”

“Snap some photos of it in situ , then bring it all down here.”

He hesitates. “I’d rather you meet me. You’ll see what I mean.”

Instead of heading upstairs again, I go straight to the garage. It takes twenty minutes to get there, and another five to circle around, retracing my path along Westheimer until I figure out which of the half-empty low-rise office parks is the right one. The building’s storefronts house a couple of pawnshops, a check casher, and a seedy-looking lingerie boutique. A sign in the parking lot lists the businesses inside. Brandon Ford’s name doesn’t appear.

I park next to Lorenz’s car and go through the glass doors into a small air-conditioned entry with a row of mailboxes on one wall. Down a tiled corridor I hear the splash of a water fountain. As I follow the sound, the air grows humid. The corridor opens into a cathedral-like atrium, open in the center, its terra-cotta expanse filled with blinding sun from the overhead skylights. Around the shadowy perimeter, two floors of office space face the lobby like the split levels of an old-fashioned motor court.

The smell inside reminds me of when I was a kid and my aunt would lock me in the car on a hot day with the windows cranked down just an inch. As my eyes adjust, I see the water fountain, hedged in by thirty-year-old plastic bushes.

After ascending a flight of stairs, I find the right door. Lorenz answers on the first knock, like he’s been waiting at the threshold all this time.

“It’s like a time warp out there,” he says.

The space Brandon Ford rented consists of three rooms. The reception space up front houses an empty desk. On the right, there’s a hallway that leads to two offices. The front one contains the gun safe, its thick door hanging open to reveal a couple of black rifles. I peer inside. Tucked in back I find a short-barreled AK with a folding stock. This particular variant is called the Krinkov. To possess a short-barreled rifle of this sort legally, Ford would have had to jump through some NFA hoops, and it would only be transferrable to others willing to qualify the same way. I detach the banana mag-which is empty-and pull the breach open to make sure it’s unloaded.