Max Collins - Before the Dawn

“I can think of one place you might look,” Lydecker said sweetly, and exited the office like a man fleeing a burning building.

He wasn’t going to get any help on the federal level, that was obvious. His own men wouldn’t be here for another twenty-four hours, due to unsafe weather conditions grounding their aircraft in Wyoming.

Well, if he couldn’t get help from the feds, he’d go farther down the food chain...

Twenty minutes later, he stood across a desk from a police lieutenant.

“Four men for twenty-four hours,” Lydecker said. “That’s all I need.”

The lieutenant — balding, forty, his teeth brown from cigarettes, hazel eyes in droopy pouches from too many years on the job — said, “How about twenty-four men, for four hours? Couldn’t do that, either.”

Lydecker opened his fist to reveal a rubber-banded roll of bills; then he closed his fist again. “You look like a reasonable man — I can’t believe that we can’t reach some sort of compromise.”

The lieutenant was hypnotized by Lydecker’s fist, which periodically opened — as if he were doing a flexing exercise with the roll of money — to provide green glimpses.

“All I need, Lieutenant, are four men, hell, two men, for twenty-four hours... until my own people get here.”

“We’d have to shake on it,” the lieutenant said.

Lydecker extended the hand with the roll of money, shook with the lieutenant, and brought the hand back, empty. He tossed a card on the desk. “My hotel is on the back... one hour.”

An hour later, in the hotel bar, Lydecker and his cup of coffee sat across a booth from two detectives and their beers; ancient Frank Sinatra ballads were filtering in over a scratchy sound system, and the smoke was stale enough to be left over from Rat Pack days, too.

The older plainclothes dick, in his fifties, looked to still be in pretty good shape, but his face was pallid, his dark eyes sad, his brown hair cut short and graying at the temples; his name was Rush, though he didn’t seem to be in much of one. The younger dick, Davis, was thirty or so, with reddish hair, light complexion, and pale blue eyes.

“So,” Rush said, “the lieutenant said you needed help.”

“Yeah. Looking for somebody wanted in a federal matter.”

“We don’t usually back up ‘federal matters,’ Colonel. What’s wrong with the FBI?”

“I heard in this town, you want something done, you go to the PD — was I told wrong?”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Rush said. “Your perp got a name?”

“Sort of.” Lydecker looked from Rush to Davis and back again. “Eyes Only.”

The detectives exchanged wary glances.

“I need to find him.”

Rush snorted. “Good luck. Give him our best.”

“There’s got to be a way. Look at how you people lock down sectors, those hoverdrones everywhere—”

“Colonel.” Davis spoke for the first time. “We’ve been seekin’ Eyes Only for years now... and we don’t know one thing more than the day we started. He’s careful, he’s smart, apparently funded up the wazoo... and anybody who has had any dealings with him is absolutely loyal to him.”

“It’s like trying to get a cult member to rat out their screwball messiah,” Rush said.

Lydecker twitched a nonsmile. “Well... there’s a second suspect — tied to Eyes Only.” He withdrew from his inside jacket pocket a handful of stills taken from the SNN video of Seth. “Recognize him?”

They each took some of the photos and riffled through them, then exchanged sharp expressions.

Perking up, Rush asked, “You know this character’s name?”

“I was kind of hoping you would,” Lydecker said gently. “I know you must recognize some of his playmates... those Seattle cops he’s throwing around like confetti.”

“Listen,” Rush said, leaning forward. “All we know is this kid beat the shit out of some very good people... and we would seriously like to pick his ass up.”

“And put it down hard,” Davis added.

“Sounds like we’re on the same page,” Lydecker said. “But is that really all you know about this boy? You don’t know why he got into this tussle with your brothers in blue? Convenience-store robbery? Flashing schoolkids? What?”

Rush exchanged another look with Davis, who shrugged. Then the older cop said, “Guy named Ryan Devane, sector chief, powerful guy... Kid was interfering with his business.”

Davis said bluntly, “Hijacking payoffs.”

“Kid mixed it up with our boys,” Rush said. “And you never seen anything like it... got away clean. And now, Devane ain’t been seen in several days.”

Lydecker, proud of his rebellious student, said, “Then Devane is dead... This is a remarkable young man.”

“Tell me about it,” Davis said. “He broke my brother-in-law’s collarbone.”

“But nobody’s found this kid,” Rush said, “and believe you me, the PD looked every damn where.”

“Are they still looking?” Lydecker asked.

Rush shrugged, shook his head; Davis, too.

“Well then,” Lydecker said, sliding out of the booth, “let’s get out there and start the search back up again.”

Lydecker spent the next six hours with Rush and Davis. Displaying the Seth photo, offering generous bribes for any Eyes Only lead, they rousted every snitch, every lowlife, every rat bastard the two detectives had ever met (and they had met a few), with no luck. He rode in the back of the unmarked car as they continued to drive around the city.

“How the hell is this possible?” Lydecker finally asked. “This Eyes Only son of a bitch has been working in this city for years ... and no one knows anything? ”

Rush, riding up front, smirked back at his passenger. “You’re gonna make me say ‘I told you so,’ aren’t you?”

Lydecker resisted the urge to brood and thought, instead. Finally he said, “We may be going at this from the wrong angle.”

“You got an angle we ain’t tried?” Davis, behind the wheel, asked.

“I think so. This remarkable young man we’re looking for, he’s got a medical problem.”

“What kind?” Rush asked.

“Seizures. Only thing that will control the symptoms is an enzyme called tryptophan. It’s not a controlled substance, but a kid trying not to attract attention is gonna be buying it on the black market, anyway... Any ideas where we might look for such a thing in your fair city?”

Once again the detectives exchanged looks, then nods.

“Sit back and chill, Colonel,” Davis said. “It’s across town, and’ll take the better part of an hour.”

On the way, Davis explained that the guy they were going to see had been busted twice in the last three years for selling controlled substances.

“And he’s at large, why?”

“Guy’s got a hell of a Johnnie Cochran.”

Lydecker smiled at the slang term, wondering if the cop knew enough about history to realize there really had been a Johnnie Cochran back before the Pulse.

Lydecker asked, “What’s his name?”

“Johan Bryant.”

The unmarked car finally pulled to a stop in front of an upscale house in the suburbs, one of those retro ranch-styles the neo-affluent had been building lately. The whole street was lined with homes that probably sold for high seven figures.

“Nice digs for a drug dealer,” Lydecker said.

The well-tended, sloping lawn had a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign.

Rush said, “We are definitely in the wrong racket.”

Nodding, Davis said, “Colonel, practically every asshole in this part of town is into some kind of crooked shit. How else in this economy could they afford pads like these?”