Макс Коллинз - You Can’t Stop Me

“It’s a good idea if I surround myself with the right people.”

“Have you eaten? I could eat.”

Pall called a waiter over and ordered salad, steamed vegetables, and a small rare filet.

Harrow said, “Make it two.”

When the waiter was gone, Harrow said, “Michael...” No one called Pall “Mike” that Harrow knew of. “...have you thought about retirement?”

Pall studied Harrow. “And here I thought you came to offer me a job.”

“You’ve got your time in, and qualify for a full pension. You’re single, at least as far as I know, which means you’d be free to travel. I’m here to offer you a chance to do a little moonlighting.”

“How many months you guaranteeing?”

“Nine. But it will mean more money than two full years at your current job. And there’s a possibility — just a possibility — that we might keep the team together, if we’re successful.”

“The team? Or the ‘act’? This sounds like show business to me, not law enforcement.”

“You know me better than that, Michael. This will be professional all the way.”

“Who else do you have?”

“My second is lined up — Laurene Chase.”

“Oh. Well. That’s a very good start. Here’s our food!”

They ate.

They had a drink after. They had another drink, and after Pall finished his, he asked, “When do you need an answer?”

“The sooner, the better,” Harrow said. “You’re my first choice in this position — but I have other names I can go to.”

“I’m the first you’ve approached?”

“In this slot, yes. Only other team member signed on is Laurene. We go to work June first.”

“I’ll let you know,” Pall said.

When Harrow left the meeting, he had no idea which way the scientist was leaning. Pall was a lot of things, but easy to read was not one of them.

The next stop took Harrow to Shaw and Associates, a commercial crime lab in Meridian, Mississippi. Sixty-five, with white hair and an easygoing smile that spoke of confidence and success, Gerald Shaw had left public life for the private sector over twenty years ago. Now, his crime lab was the most respected of its kind in the nation, if not the world.

After small talk over a cup of coffee, Harrow got to the point and asked for the loan of chemist Chris Anderson.

“Loan?” Shaw asked, arching a black eyebrow that seemed stark next to the white swooping over his forehead.

“We’ll pay him,” Harrow said, holding up a palm. “You can take him off salary and even bennies, while he’s with us.”

“Well, doesn’t that sound like a sweet little deal,” Shaw said genially. “And just who’s gonna cover his workload?”

Harrow had known Shaw was a sharp businessman, and was prepared for the haggling. “We’ll pay for a sub. If you have any expenses lining up a sub, we’ll pay that, too.”

Shaw grinned sleepily. “Well, that does sound a little sweeter. But it’s up to the boy himself. If Chris wants to go, fine — you got yourself a deal.”

Born and raised in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Chris Anderson had played basketball in high school well enough to make All-State, but not to get a scholarship. His grades, though, had been another matter — exceptional in math and science, Anderson had earned a full ride at the University of Alabama right there in his hometown. He took his first trip north to attend graduate school at the University of California-Berkeley, probably the nation’s best chemistry grad school.

Tall, with blond bangs, Anderson had the playful brown eyes and wide smile of a boy-band singer. Not yet thirty, he was something of a prodigy in the forensics field — Shaw paid the young man double what he could have made in public law enforcement.

After Harrow outlined the plan, Anderson — who had never watched Crime Seen! — turned to Shaw. “Mr. Gerald, how do you feel about this?”

A hand settled on Anderson’s shoulder. “Might be a good idea, Chris. I’ve known J.C. for years. He’s a good man, and it’d get you out of the lab for a while. Some field work would be good experience for you.”

The young man considered that. “And my job would be here when I got back?”

“You bet, son,” Shaw said. “Whenever you want it.”

Turning his fresh face to Harrow, Anderson said, “Well, then, sir — when do I start?”

Two days later, in New York City, Harrow found himself in a rundown Brooklyn tenement building, standing in a dark hallway in front of apartment 406.

He knocked and waited.

Nothing.

He was just getting ready to leave when the door swung slowly open and he found himself staring at a bleary-eyed young man wearing only a bed sheet wrapped around him like a sarong. The son of an Asian father and Caucasian mother, Billy Choi was an ex-New York cop and former Golden Gloves boxer. Harrow had run into the criminalist at various IAI functions, where they’d shared war stories over drinks, even teaming up for conference role-playing sessions.

“J.C.,” Choi said, rubbing the sand from his eyes, his normally swept-back jet-black hair a bird’s nest. From the lack of surprise, the guy might have seen Harrow five minutes ago.

“I come in?” Harrow asked.

Choi stepped out of the way, gestured with one hostly hand, and Harrow entered. To call the place a rathole would have been an insult to rats, the young man’s housecleaning skills limited to hiding the real mess beneath empty pizza boxes and dirty dishes.

“Is it helpful in your work, Billy?”

“Is what?”

“Living at a crime scene?”

“Pretty funny, J.C. When I wake up, I might laugh.”

“Mind a question?”

“Hit me.”

“Can you play nice with others?”

Shrugging, Choi said, “Not according to the NYPD. Gross insubordination, they call it.”

Harrow gave him a long hard look. “They also call it striking a superior officer.”

“Nothing superior about him,” Choi said.

“Oh?”

“Well, maybe. As in King Asshole.”

“Ah.”

“J.C., I just hit him. You’d’ve killed his ass.”

But Harrow merely looked at the young ex-officer. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Choi could not take Harrow’s gaze, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “Yeah, man, I know — I screwed up royal.”

“Question stands. Can you play nicely with others?”

“Does it matter?”

“Might. You watch my show?”

“I’ve seen it. Hey, nice gig, bro.”

“You see Friday’s show?”

“What’s today?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Harrow said, and brought him up to speed.

“I’m in,” Choi said.

Harrow shook his head. “Answer the question first.”

“I can play well with others,” Choi said, a kid forced to recite in front of the class.

“No bullshit, Billy — I’ve got the second chance you’ve been looking for. But if you screw me over, you won’t be able to land mall cop.”

“No bullshit, sensei ,” Choi said, earnestly. “I promise ya, J.C. You give me the chance, I’ll be a right guy. No more screwin’ up.”

“And you would walk away from all this?” Harrow asked, gesturing around the dire apartment.

Billy grinned. “For you I would, J.C.”

Harrow was halfway down the crummy corridor of Billy’s building when his cell chirped. The caller ID said it was Pall.

“Michael,” Harrow said. “Good to hear from you.”

“Thought you should know,” Pall said, “I put my papers in this morning — end of the month’s my last day.”

“You heading for a beach, or coming aboard?”

“Send me an airline ticket. If it’s to Hawaii, I’ll head for the beach.”

“And if it’s to LA?”

“Then I’ll come work for you.”