Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

Officer Falwell and his partner exchanged glances. “Look, whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me in front of my partner.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to glance at Ed. Ed shrugged. Sam assumed a concerned expression. “Son, I hate to have to tell you this. It’s why we flagged you down, didn’t want to use the radio.” He folded his arms, looked at the ground. “Somebody in IA has a real hard-on for you. Whatever you did, you pissed somebody off. Big time.” He took a deep breath. “Apparently, they’ve got you targeted as an officer that picks men up on minor drug charges, then forces them to perform oral sex on you in exchange for kicking them loose.”

Officer Falwell’s mouth opened and snapped shut. Rage crawled over his face.

“That’s a fucking lie,” his partner shouted, and took a step forward.

Sam raised his hands. “Don’t shoot me. I’m just the messenger. Why do you think we’re talking to you out here?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Officer Falwell managed to croak.

“I know. I know.” Sam nodded sympathetically. “That’s department politics for you. How long have you been on the force? Year? Two years?”

“Five.”

“Then this shouldn’t be any surprise. You pissed on somebody’s shoes. From here on, assume somebody’s got their eye on you. Like him.” Sam indicated Ducey, still in the back seat of the cruiser. “He legit, or are you using him for something else?”

“This is bullshit,” the partner said. “Bullshit.” He looked like he wanted to punch something. Sam felt sorry for whoever got in the officer’s way tonight.

Officer Falwell said, “I’m gonna fucking find who did this. Gonna fucking put their head through a fucking wall.” He went to the back of the cruiser, yanked the door open, and dragged Ducey out. He unlocked the cuffs and said, “Get the fuck out of here. I see you again, you’re fucking dead.”

Ducey didn’t need to be told twice. He’d been around enough to know that whatever was going down didn’t involve him, and hauled ass toward Garfield.

Officer Falwell slammed the cruiser’s back door and moved back around to the driver’s side.

“You’re welcome,” Sam said.

“Fuck you,” Officer Falwell shouted back, got in, and took off.

“You’d think he’d show a bit more gratitude,” Ed said.

They found Ducey a few minutes later, moving quickly along the south side of Garfield. Ed pulled over and Sam stuck his arm out of the window and waved him closer.

It was clear Ducey wanted nothing to do with the Crown Vic, but he finally shook his head and sidled up to the car, not looking at the detectives. He kept his eyes flicking up and down the street instead.

“The fuck y’all want now?”

“Goddamn. Nobody’s appreciating anything tonight,” Sam told Ed. He looked back up at Ducey. “You know exactly what those boys were planning. My partner and I, we just spared you one hell of an ass-whupping or worse. You’re lucky to be walking around right now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatcha want?”

“Take a good look at us, kid. Memorize our faces. See, you owe us. Big time. And here’s the thing. Nobody knows. Not your gangbanging buddies, not those cops back there. Nobody. Not yet anyway. You piss me off, everybody on the South Side is gonna know you’re a snitch. Here’s my card.”

Ducey took the card. He looked like he wanted to spit on it and drop it in the gutter, but he slipped it into his jeans. “Yeah, I’m shakin’. Cut the bullshit. Whatcha want?”

“Looking for Javier Delgado. You know why. If he’s around, you let me know. I find out he’s in town and I haven’t heard from you, I know cops a thousand times worse than those two fuckheads back there.”

Tommy and Don were discussing an upcoming three game series with the hated Twinkies with a couple of electricians, also employed by Streets and Sans. Both the Sox and the Cubs were off to shaky starts, but hey, it was early. Plenty of time left before the do-or-die days of September.

On TV over the bar, the anchor was wrapping up their lead story, “More details about this tragic death as they become available. In other news, Streets and Sanitation Commissioner Lee Shea today answered some tough questions about the rat population. Cecilia Palmers was on the scene at City Hall earlier today.” The camera cut away to a shot of the east side of City Hall. Lee always conducted press conferences on the county side in the morning, because the light was better.

One of the Streets and Sans guys pointed at the TV. “Our fearless leader.”

Don and Tommy turned to watch the news.

Lee was out in front of City Hall again, wearing his earnest, concerned expression. “I can assure you that everyone in my department is doing their absolute best with their limited resources. It is unfortunate that the rest of City Hall does not share my concern for the well-being of the citizens of Chicago. Nevertheless, you have my unwavering promise that Streets and Sans is doing everything within its power to control the population of vermin. I can only ask that if anyone is concerned about pests in their neighborhoods, to not only call us, but to call their aldermen as well, and ask them why it was decided that Streets and Sans would not receive sufficient funds to do this job properly.”

CHAPTER 16

8:07 AM

April 18

“Oh, and by the way, the files are in the basement.” Martin kept going over that last sentence that Chad had tossed off so casually. That prick.

When Martin had volunteered, all he’d wanted was a chance to pitch in, make the partners notice his enthusiasm. Here was a man who got things done. Martin, despite his law degree, had worked in the same office job for the last eight years, and it was time to make his move. The firm was gearing up for a huge class-action lawsuit, so sure he’d absolutely volunteer for a thankless job of going through the hard copies of old files that nobody had gotten around to scanning yet for the name of an obscure subsidiary holdings company or something that no one could quite definitively tell him. Sure. He’d do that. He thought he’d at least be able to use an office, instead of the table in the cafeteria. And he certainly hadn’t expected the files to be in the basement.

Thirty-two years old. Worked in the same job for over eight years. Two promotions. Family and a house in the far suburbs. A wife, two kids. Michael was in preschool and Jonathan was a babe in his mother’s arms. He’d be happy to show you pictures of both of ’em.

And so, every morning, for the last four days, he had gone down to the vast basement. Martin had no interest in lingering as he skirted through the blank, slate-gray walls and the endless locked doors. Usually, he had to use a key to access his firm’s storage room, but this morning the door was still unlocked. Good. It was unlikely anyone had bothered to come down to check on the room.

He opened the door to darkness and waved his hand around for the light chain.

Yesterday, he’d run out of the room, leaving it unlocked. He’d been hearing squeaking all week, and while it made him uncomfortable, it was tolerable, but yesterday morning he had heard an awful squalling from something, then a whole bunch of hissing from things all over. He’d grabbed his files, slammed the door, not bothering locking it, and had run down to the elevator. Upstairs, in the cafeteria, he’d wiped the sweat from his face, put the files on the table and his lunch in the employee fridge. He thought about telling someone, but didn’t want anyone to think he was being weak.

He stepped into the darkness, not wanting to linger.

A click. The jittering bulb cast a pallid orange light over the banks of filing cabinets, stacked wall to wall and two high, leaving a single walkway down the middle, about a foot and half across. He saw the dead rat immediately.