Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Maybe he really was happy with her. She was beautiful and gracious. Probably smart, too. Wasn’t that what Batts had told her once? That Rebecca was too smart for him? That he’d been the jock and she’d been the brain?

That was probably all bullshit, she decided. All a convenient story to make them both okay with his fooling around with her. It had to be. He hadn’t loved Carson. He loved Rebecca, and his kids. She was just a strange piece of ass to him.

That’s what it had to be. The only other possibility-that he really did love her, or even could-would make a day like today impossible.

Carson felt smothered by the presence of Battaglia and the photos of him and his wife and family. She felt every bit the interloper that she was. Should she even be here? She’d paid her respects to Battaglia by being at the funeral and the burial, but was she disrespecting his memory by being here?

She looked around. Every other member of the platoon was here, including Katie. It would be out of place for her not to come, even as a rookie. This is what a good cop did. That is, unless everyone knew.

Chisolm did, that much was certain. The piercing stare he’d given her at Battaglia’s graveside had told her everything she needed to know.

Her curse had followed her here to River City.

Cops milled around, talking in muted tones, sometimes laughing, sometimes embracing. The alcohol had begun to flow freely, and she realized that at least half of those present were still wearing their uniforms. Oh well. She couldn’t imagine a more appropriate time to have a drink in uniform.

She moved into the dining room and mixed herself a stiff whisky and Coke. The drink warmed her empty stomach. She made an even stronger one. Then she slipped back to her corner in the living room.

Not many of the other cops talked to her. A few greeted her by way of a quiet nod, but no one engaged her in conversation. She started to imagine a few sidelong glances. By the time she finished her second drink and was mixing a third, she was pretty certain that Chisolm had already spread the word.

Yes, sir, ladies and gents. Now you know. B.J. Carson is the department whore.

How long would it be before someone pulled her aside and told her it would be better if she left? Not just this house that she’d dirtied up, but maybe the department, too?

She gulped down her third drink. Her head was buzzing. Her limbs felt electric. She wanted that fourth drink, wanted to get past the electricity and into the blessed numbness that would surely follow. But now some of those glances seemed cautionary.

Well, who cared if they thought she was a lush on top of a slut?

She put ice in her plastic cup to mix a fourth drink, but spilled the soda when she tried to pour. She cursed. She’d meant to whisper it, but was vaguely aware that it had come out as a slurring shout.

Great , Carson thought. Rebecca composes beautiful poetry for her husband’s funeral and all I can do is scream obscenities in her dining room.

Then James Kahn was there, helping her clean up the mess. He smiled at her, and even though she saw right through it, his smile was a comforting fiction. When he offered to make her drink, she cocked her head and smiled.

“You know what?” she said. “What I could really use is a ride home.”

Kahn grinned at her, shark-like. “I can do that.”

“Good,” she said. “But let’s stop by the liquor store on the way.”

1242 hours

Special Agent Maurice Payne sat at his desk in the FBI office, eating a ham sandwich from a local sub shop. The place was owned by a fireman, but that was all right. It was cops he really didn’t think much of, other than a few of his fellow agents. Most of them were arrogant, self-serving, testosterone-driven monkeys, one step removed from the jungle or the savannah.

Chisolm was a perfect example. What a ridiculous excuse for a cop he was. Payne was willing to bet he’d been riding his tour in Vietnam and that ridiculous scar on his face for his entire career. Well, he’d fix Chisolm’s little red wagon. He had a friend over at the Department of Justice. It wouldn’t be too difficult to come up with something on Chisolm to bring to a grand jury. And what was it they said about the grand jury system?

He smiled and looked down at his ham sandwich. “A grand jury could indict even you,” he said.

There was little doubt he could coax the US Attorney to indict Chisolm. And even if he was eventually acquitted, what would his life be like during that time?

Payne smiled even broader. Thomas Chisolm had no idea the hell he was headed toward.

His phone rang. Payne set the sandwich down and wiped his fingers, irritated at the intrusion. The number on the display had a DC prefix. That caught his attention. He snatched the receiver and put it to his ear.

“Agent Payne,” he said in his most official tone.

“This is Deputy Director Baker,” the man on the other end of the line said.

Payne sat up straighter in his chair. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“I heard you had some movement in your organized crime case out there.”

“You did?”

“Why don’t you tell me about it.” There wasn’t a hint of a request in his tone.

“Uh, well, sir, thanks to the local PD, it’s been pretty much a disaster.”

“The locals, huh?”

“Yes, sir. They failed to provide adequate support on a protection detail. And then-”

“What about Agent Leeb?” Baker asked.

“He was on the protection detail,” Payne said.

“And?”

“And what, sir?” Payne didn’t want to sound like a tattletale, but Leeb had essentially failed in his mission. It wasn’t up to Payne to protect or hide incompetence.

“What’s his condition?”

“Well, sir, he was shot in the right shoulder.”

“I know that. I got your daily summary. I meant, how is he?”

“Oh,” Payne said. “Well, as of yesterday morning, he was stable.”

“Yesterday morning? Your agent is in the hospital with a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty and the most recent update you can give me is over twenty-four hours old?”

Payne opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say.

Baker continued. “What are you doing out there, Agent Payne? Sitting around eating tea and crumpets?”

Payne cast a guilty eye down at his ham sandwich. “Uh, no, sir. I’m trying to unsnarl the mess the locals made out of this investigation.”

“The locals again,” Baker said. “See, I heard it differently.”

“Differently, sir?”

“Differently.As in not the same.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“I heard it through the grapevine, Agent Payne, that you blew the operation.”

“Me?!”

“You. I also heard that you spent all your time out on surveillance instead of protecting a federal witness. What exactly did you get from all of your surveillance, Agent Payne?”

“Well, sir, nothing chargeable, but-”

“I also heard that you were rude to pretty much the entire River City Police Department.”

“Not true, sir. I-”

“Are you telling me that I’ve been lied to, Agent Payne?”

Payne hesitated. Depending on who gave Baker his information, that was an extraordinarily dangerous question.

“No, sir,” he finally replied meekly. “But perhaps there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“Really?” Baker’s sarcasm was palpable. “Well, I will tell you what, Agent Payne. Why don’t you hop on a plane and fly back here to our nation’s capital, where you can better explain this misunderstanding to me. In person.”

Payne was struck momentarily dumb. Finally, he stammered, “Y-Yes, sir, I will. Right away-”