Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

“‘Officers shall investigate and complete Juvenile Disposition Report Form 8716,’ I think it is, ‘and get a statement from the parents and/or guardian in the event of a suicide or accidental death of a person or persons under the age of eighteen,’” Jack said. “They didn’t always come to bail out my ass, either, so I memorized the codes.”

Leon and Max both looked at him.

“This is not a situation someone would slough off unless someone high up told them to do it,” Jack said, adding pointedly: “Someone high up told them to stay away. What happened when you got to the lot?”

“After a while I called Mom again and she said they was gone and Jamal was resting,” Leon said. “I figgered he just pass out, y’know what I’m sayin’?” His manner was different now, cooperative and even contrite. “Next thing I know, you two show up and there’s an ambulance.” He averted his gaze again, sniffed back tears. “I get here an’ paramedics are already about, ‘Jamal OD’d’ and Mom is screamin’ that the cops kilt him. She said she came into the bedroom and found a needle lyin’ on the bed beside his mouth.” Leon glared into space. “My kid brother stuck himself under the tongue, right, ’cause his arm was in a cast? Is that real? We kept drugs on the nightstand so we could shoot up before bed! That’s bullshit, man!”

“Isn’t that how you put your mother to sleep?” Maxine asked.

Leon shifted uneasily.

Jack leaned forward. “Are you sure Jamal didn’t take drugs?”

“I told you, man, that kid was clean. Maybe smoked some weed, but that was it.”

They were all silent a moment. There were a lot of pieces now, but they still didn’t fit. Try throwing a rock and see who throws it back, Bob Copeland had told Jack. What kind of target did they have?

“The guy standing next to the Escalade,” he said to Leon. “Did you get a good look at him?”

The kid shrugged. “Good enough, I guess.”

“Can you describe him for me?”

Leon dug a hand into his pants pocket. “Don’t need to.”

He brought his cell phone out, pressed a few buttons, then handed it to Jack.

A video started playing.

Maxine moved around next to him and they watched together, a dark, shaky shot of the tenement house from about half a block down, a tall, muscular guy in sunglasses standing near the hood of the SUV, looking off toward Jamal’s apartment.

Professional, Jack thought. But definitely not a cop, from the looks of him-local or federal.

So who was he?

The video cut to black and Jack punched a button to play it again.

“What do you think?” Jack asked as the image replayed.

“I think it’s amazing what you can shoot on a cell phone these days. That’s HD quality. Maybe I should chuck the vidcam.”

He made a face but he let it pass. That was Max’s way of blowing off tension; she’d earned the right tonight.

“Why, what do you think?” she asked.

“If I had to guess I’d say private security.”

Max squinted slightly, concentrating. “Y’know, there may be a way we can find out.”

“How?”

She pointed at the Escalade. “We don’t have a view of the license plate, but you see that little rectangle in the corner of the driver’s window?”

Jack looked, nodded. “Parking sticker.”

“Right. And I bet if I dump this video into my system at home, I’ll be able to enhance it enough to get a fix on that sticker. At least tell us where they park their car.”

“It’s a start,” Jack said, then shifted his gaze to Leon. “Is there some way you can transfer this video to Max?”

He shrugged. “E-mail.”

Jack nodded. “Good. I don’t know who’s behind all this, Leon, but I’m gonna do everything I can to find out.”

“Why?” the kid said. “Why do you even care?”

Jack studied him grimly. “Because that’s just who I am.”

After they left Leon, Jack and Maxine walked along the street unassaulted and climbed into her car. Two of the gang members had been watching it for them. The kids left wordlessly when they arrived.

They both needed a drink so they made their way to the nearest bar, found a booth, and ordered the best scotch the place had to offer. Jack liked Glenrothes single malt scotch but it was hard to find. He usually settled for Jameson 12, Irish whiskey.

Jack was working on his third when his cell phone vibrated against his thigh, telling him he had a text message. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and saw that the sender was Bob Copeland.

The message was short and simple:

1600 hrs MOMA

Jack did not bother to reply. Copeland wouldn’t expect or even want one. He knew that Jack would be waiting for him at the Museum of Modern Art at four P.M. tomorrow, so there was nothing else to be said. But Jack was happy to hear from him. Copeland would only be requesting another meet because he had new information.

“Who’s that?” Max said, glancing at the screen as he put away his phone. “One of your many conquests?”

Jack looked at her and grinned. “You know I only have eyes for you.”

“And for some reason they keep staring at my chest. Men are so predictable.”

“Well, you know how I feel about sex, Max, don’t you? ‘The position is ridiculous, the relief momentary, and the results catastrophic.’”

She laughed. “Yeah, I’ve read Chesterfield, Jack. But I think that’s probably the scotch talking, Don Juan. Or maybe you’re just turned on by the fact that I saved your hide tonight.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” Jack said, “but I had the situation under control.”

Max cocked an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. After working together with her for the past few months, Jack recognized it as the expression she wore when she was having fun with him.

“What you had, ” she said, “was a near-death experience. If I hadn’t come along when I did, you would’ve been riding in the back of that ambulance with Jamal Thomas.”

Jack played along, not bothering to mention that he could have taken Leon with a Krav Maga move-step in, push the gun arm to his chest with your own perpendicular forearm, hold it there while you take a second step behind him, then snake that arm up and across his throat and put him in a chokehold. The way they were standing, however, the EMT would probably have taken a slug or two in the chest.

“Are you purposely trying to deflate my sense of masculinity?” he asked.

“I don’t think that’s possible. Let’s just call it a dose of reality.”

Jack was about to respond when they heard a beeping sound. It was Maxine’s turn to grab her cell phone. She checked the screen and suddenly got serious. “Leon finally sent me the video.”

“Good. You really think you can blow it up?”

“Blowing it up isn’t the problem,” she said. “It’s the resolution I’m concerned about. Even though it’s HD, there’s no telling what we’ll have once the image is triple its size.”

“So it’s a crap shoot.”

“I’ve got a few high-end tools I can use to fill in some of the pixels, but no guarantees.”

Jack nodded. “You have an ETA?”

She smiled. “I could be working on it right now if you weren’t busy trying to get me drunk and figure out how to take advantage of me.”

Jack grinned again. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Sometime tomorrow then?”

“I’m working another shoot in the morning, but I’m pretty sure I can have a yea or nay for you by the time you get back from that little rendezvous with your hottie. I’ll call you the minute I do.”

Max dropped him off at his boat around eleven P.M.

After a halfhearted attempt to invite her in-an attempt that went down in flames, as he knew it would-Jack bid her farewell and climbed aboard the Sea Wrighter. He wasn’t two steps on deck before he abruptly sobered.