Robert Crais - The Watchman

When they made eye contact, Pike nodded.

Bud stared across the room, still with his thumbs in his belt, then spoke so loud every cop in the place turned to look.

He said, “There’s the best damned man I ever trained, Officer Joe Pike.”

An anonymous voice in the background spoke just as loud.

“Fuck him, and fuck you, too.”

A few of them laughed.

Bud walked directly to Pike’s table and mounted a stool. If Bud heard the comments, he did not react. Neither did Pike. It was like facing down a crowd in a riot situation.

Pike said, “Thanks for coming.”

“Take off those goddamned sunglasses. They look silly in here.”

Just like Pike was still a boot and Bud was still his T.O. Pike didn’t take them off.

He said, “I’m leaving the job. I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

Bud stared at him like Pike owed him money, then scowled at the men lining the bar. A division robbery detective was watching them and met Bud’s eye.

Bud, maintaining the contact, said, “What?”

The detective returned to his drink, and Bud turned back to Pike.

“Assholes.”

“Forget it.”

“Don’t let these bastards beat you. Just ride it out.”

Pike spread his hands, taking in the bar and everyone in it.

“We’re at the Shortstop, Bud. Somebody has something to say, they can say it to my face.”

Bud made a ragged smile then, but it was pained.

“Yeah. I guess that’s you. Asking me here instead of someplace else.”

“I’m turning in the papers today. I wanted to tell you, manto-man.”

Bud took a breath, then laced his fingers. Pike thought Bud Flynn looked disappointed, and was sorry for that.

Bud said, “Listen. Don’t do this. Put in for Metro. That Metro is an elite unit, the best of the best. After Metro, you could do whatever you want in this job. If you don’t want to be a detective, you could put in for SWAT. Whatever you want.”

“It’s done, Bud. I’m out.”

“Goddamn it, you’re too good to be out. You’re a police officer.”

Pike tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. Not what he really wanted to say. Even with three years on the job, Pike still thought of himself as Bud’s boot and wanted his approval, though he did not expect it now.

Bud suddenly leaned toward him again and lowered his voice.

“What happened in there?”

The Islander Palms Motel.

Pike leaned back and immediately cursed himself for it. Bud would read his move as being evasive. All through Pike’s boot year, Bud had taught him to read people-the nuance of body language, expression, and action could save a cop’s life.

Pike tried to cover himself by leaning forward again, but he already sensed it was too little, too late. Bud was good. Bud was a wizard.

Pike said, “You know what happened. Everyone knows. I told the review board.”

“Bullshit. Struggle for the gun, my ass. I knew Woz, and I sure as hell know you. If you wanted that gun he would’ve been on his ass before he could fart.”

Pike simply shook his head, trying to pull it in deep, trying to be empty.

“That’s what happened.”

Bud studied him, then lowered his voice still more.

“I heard he was into something. Was Woz being investigated?”

Pike could see Bud working on the read and knew any movement or expression would be a tell, so he cleared himself and answered with the fewest words.

“I don’t know.”

Bud placed his hand on Pike’s arm. Digging deeper.

“I heard the M.E. had questions. Said the angle of entry was consistent with a self-inflicted wound.”

Never looking away, Pike repeated what he told the review board.

“Wozniak pointed his weapon at DeVille. I grabbed it and we struggled. Instead of turning the weapon away from Wozniak, I turned it toward him. Maybe I could have done something else, but that’s what I did. The gun discharged during the struggle.”

Bud spoke slowly.

“You guys wrestling with the gun, I could maybe see it going off in his stomach or maybe his chest, but up at his temple?”

“Let it go, Bud. That’s what happened.”

Bud stared at him so hard it felt as if he were seeing inside Pike’s head.

“So what happened in there, it has nothing to do with Wozniak’s family.”

Like Bud knew. Like he could read Pike’s mind that Wozniak was being investigated for theft and criminal conspiracy, that Pike had been trying to make him resign for the sake of his family.

“No.”

“It has nothing to do with his death benefits. That if he committed suicide, they would get nothing, but if he died fighting with you, they still get the checks.”

Like everything Pike ever thought or felt was written on his face.

“Let it go, Bud. That’s what happened.”

Bud finally settled back, and Pike loved and respected him all the more. Bud seemed satisfied with what he had seen.

Bud said, “Tell you what. I know the sheriff out in San Bernardino. You could get on out there. Hell, I know some pretty good guys up in Ventura County. You could get on up there, too.”

“I’ve already got another job lined up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“ Africa.”

Bud frowned deeper, like why would any sane man give up being a cop to go over there?

“What’s over there, the Peace Corps?”

Pike hadn’t wanted to get into all this, but now he didn’t know how to avoid it.

“It’s contract work. Military stuff. They have work over there.”

Bud stiffened, clearly upset.

“What’s that mean, contract work?”

“They need people with combat experience. Like when I was a Marine.”

“You mean a fucking mercenary?”

Pike didn’t answer. He was already sorry he told Bud his plans.

“Jesus Christ. If you want to play soldier, re-up in the goddamn Marines. That’s a stupid idea. Why in hell do you want to go get yourself killed in a shithole like Africa?”

Pike had taken a contract job with a licensed professional military corporation in London. It was work he understood and at which he excelled, with the clarity of a clearly defined objective. And right now Pike wanted clarity. He would be away from Wozniak’s ghost. And far away from Wozniak’s wife.

Pike said, “I’ve got to get going. I wanted to tell you I’m glad you were my T.O. I wanted to thank you.”

Pike put out his hand, but Bud did not take it.

“Don’t do this.”

“It’s done.”

Pike left out his hand, but Bud still did not take it. Bud slid off the stool, then hooked his thumbs in his belt.

Bud said, “Day we met, you wanted to protect and to serve. You quoted the motto. I guess that’s over.”

Pike finally lowered his hand.

“I’m disappointed, son. I thought you were better than this.”

Son.

Bud Flynn walked out of the Shortstop, and they would not speak again until they met in the high desert.

Pike sat alone at the small table, feeling empty and numb.

I’m disappointed, son.

He listened to the men and women around him. They were like any other group of people with whom he had served-talking, complaining, laughing, lying; some he respected, others not; some he liked, others not; as different from each other as pebbles on the beach, but different from most other people in a way Pike admired-they were people who ran toward danger to protect and to serve. Pike loved being a cop. He couldn’t think of anything he would rather be, but you played the cards you were dealt, and now this life was gone.

Pike left the Shortstop. He went to his truck, thinking about his first night with Bud Flynn, the night they answered the domestic call. Pike hardly thought about that night, just as he rarely thought about his combat missions or the beatings his old man used to give him. Pike flashed on scrapbook photos of Kurt Fabrocini stabbing Bud in the chest. He saw the Beretta’s sights aligned at the top of Fabrocini’s ear at the instant he squeezed the trigger; he saw the red mist. Then, after, Bud still shaking, saying, “Our job isn’t to kill people-it’s to keep people alive.” Saying that about a man who had been stabbing him in the chest. What a man, Bud Flynn. What a police officer.