Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

First, the patrol officer on the outer perimeter had refused him entry. After he flashed his federal credentials and berated the poor rookie, Payne ducked under the tape and stalked toward the inner perimeter. Tower sipped his coffee and watched him approach. Even in the dull light from the streetlamps he could see that Payne’s face was red and his features contorted with anger. He started shouting before he even reached the crime scene tape strung up between the power pole and a patrol car.

“What the hell happened?” he screamed.

Tower thought he was yelling at him. The tickle of annoyance at seeing Payne burst into full-fledged anger. Before he could reply, though, he realized that Payne was looking at Chisolm.

“Answer me!” Payne yelled. “What did you do to screw up a federal investigation?”

Tower looked over at Chisolm, whose face was stoic.

Uh-oh, Tower thought. This guy’s in trouble.

“Stay out of the crime scene,” Chisolm growled at Payne. “This is a city police scene.”

Payne was apoplectic. “A city scene? Officer, this is a federal case. And once I figure out what you did wrong here, I’ll have your badge. In fact, I’ll have you up on federal charges!”

Chisolm snorted. “For what?”

“You wait and see!” Payne shouted. He raised the crime scene tape.

“If you come inside this scene,” Chisolm said quietly, “they will have to bury you here.”

Payne stopped.

Tower raised the Styrofoam cup to his lips to disguise a grin.

Payne looked around for witnesses, but only Chisolm and Tower were within earshot. His expression grew frantic, then a sort of childish, helpless anger took over.

“Fine!” he snapped at Chisolm. “But you can add threatening a federal agent to the list of whatever charges you’ll be facing!”

“Go away, little boy,” Chisolm said.

Payne looked back and forth between them. Then, much to Tower’s surprise and extreme delight, Payne actually stamped a foot on the ground before turning and marching away. He stared after the agent in disbelief.

Chisolm shook his head. “He’ll never get it.”

Tower looked at Chisolm with new admiration. “Tom, you more or less just told a federal agent to go fuck himself.”

Chisolm grinned. “Second time this week, actually.”

And that, Tower decided, was just about great.

A moment later he saw Lieutenant Crawford’s unmarked car pull up, and that was the end of that.

“Here comes horrible,” he muttered into his coffee cup.

0112 hours

Captain Michael Reott rode in silence. Chaplain Timothy Marshall sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Once he’d received the initial briefing from Reott, he’d remained quiet and thoughtful. Every so often he flipped open his bible and marked a passage with a bookmark.

As they turned onto Battaglia’s street, he asked Reott, “Her name’s Rebecca, you said?”

Reott nodded.

“And the two children are Margaret and Anthony?”

“Right.”

“Nicknames?”

Reott cleared his throat. “Uh, I don’t know.” He realized how little he knew about Anthony Battaglia, though the officer had worked under his command since he’d taken over the patrol division five years ago. He felt ashamed, though he knew it was impossible to know the intimate details of the 150 men and women he commanded.

Or is it? his inner voice asked. Reott ignored the question. Now was not the time to answer it.

He pulled into the driveway, verified the address, and got out of the car. Chaplain Marshall did the same. As they went up the walkway, the chaplain asked, “Do you know what denomination the Battaglias are?”

Reott shook his head. For all he knew, Anthony Battaglia was a Buddhist.

“No problem,” Chaplain Marshall said.

Reott reached the door. He wasn’t surprised to find the porch light on. Rebecca Battaglia was a graveyard cop’s wife. You always keep the light on until he comes home, the tradition went.

Reott ignored the metal knocker and rapped with his knuckles. There was no answer. He opted for the doorbell. A light upstairs went on after a moment, then a trail of lights throughout the house headed toward them.

Rebecca Battaglia opened the front door wearing a wine-colored satin nightgown. A white terrycloth robe hung untied in front of her. Her hair was disheveled and a line from a pillow seam ran down her left cheek. Reott spied a crucifix dangling low on her chest before she closed the robe about her, her expression questioning. At least that would help the chaplain do his part, if it meant that she was religious.

“Mrs. Battaglia?” he asked. “May we please come in?”

Then he saw the question leave Rebecca Battaglia’s eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “Oh, please God, no.”

After that, Reott didn’t speak another word. He let the chaplain handle the rest.

0314 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat in the living room of Sergey’s home. Marina’s weeping had tapered off in the last ten minutes, though there was still an occasional hitching sob. She lay with her head in his lap, her arms wrapped around his waist.

Across from him, Pavel sat in his father’s chair, his face white and unbelieving.

“I will kill all of them,” he whispered for the tenth time. “Every fucking cop in this city.”

Val would have expected Marina to correct the boy’s language and sentiment, but she was too wrapped up in her own grief. So he took it upon himself, though he didn’t imagine his sister would approve of his answer.

“All in time,” he told Pavel. “Better to kill a thousand one day at a time than try to kill a thousand in a single day.”

His nephew glared at him rebelliously. Val returned a hard, flat stare of his own. After a few moments, the younger man squirmed and looked away.

Val knew it would not always be so. He would have to win the boy’s loyalty or break down his resistance. If he couldn’t do either one, then that left only one other option.

As if on cue, Marina let out a low wail. The sound of her voice vibrated against his legs and stomach.

“What will we do?” she asked. “Where will we go?”

Val stroked her hair. “Everything will be fine,” he said. “We will go nowhere. I will take care of you.”

“How?” Pavel asked.

“I am your family,” Val said. “I will take care of my sister and you.”

Pavel shook his head. “No, I mean how will you do it? After tonight, the police-”

“The police will lower the hammer,” Val agreed. “They will do what they think is harsh to destroy us. But we will not be destroyed. We will remain when they are finished. Smaller, but stronger.”

“But my father had plans for this city,” Pavel said. “He told me about them. About controlling all of River City, and then even Portland or Seattle. Perhaps in a few years, we would move inland, to Idaho and Montana. He spoke of an empire-”

“Your father’s plans were ambitious,” Val said quietly. “But his plans must die with him.”

Pavel’s eyes flared. He pressed his lips together but said nothing.

“We will survive with what we have here ,” Val said. “There is plenty to make us comfortable, if not rich.”

“It is a beggar’s empire,” Pavel said, his voice hard but shaky.

“Wealth is best measured by love,” Val said, quoting an old proverb, “not gold.”

Pavel did not reply. He swallowed and looked down at his hands.

Marina squeezed Val tightly at the waist. “You are such a good man, my Valera.”

Her words touched him in a way no other person could. Now that she was widowed, Marina was his. It would only be a short matter of time before he would move into this house with her and Pavel. She would be his woman, his companion. He would take care of her, love her, cherish her, and she would do the same for him. He would keep Natalia or some other suka on the side for certain needs, but in all other ways he would be loyal to his sister. His Marina.