Street Justice (11 page)

              “Sorry, sir, I'm confused, it seems everything you wanted or needed, you could have looked at my resume and realized I didn't have any of that. Why did you ask for an interview?”

Mike looked genuinely lost for a moment before quietly replying, “I don't know, I just knew you had been in the army and wanted to talk to you.” Adding quickly a bit louder, “To thank you.”

              Russ leered back, “While I appreciate your words, a real thank you would be to give me a job. Listen, I know this isn't all you, but the lip service thank-yous from yourself and everyone else doesn't get me anywhere. I need a job, I need a break, I need actions. Making me come down here to talk to you, to let me get my hopes up, when there was no way I was going to get the job - well that doesn't help much.” Russ stood, Mike quickly followed suit.

              Russ' face was red. He was taking deep controlled breaths, his large chest rising and lowering in long, deep cycles. His hands shook slightly. Russ scolded himself for losing his temper. He knew it was unprofessional but the chorus of hollow appreciation was getting to him. Everyone thanked him for service but none of it translated to anything that could tangibly improve his life.

              “Sorry,” Mike mumbled. He offered Russ his hand. Russ looked down at his hand and gave it a cursory shake. Mike scrambled around his desk and opened the door.  Without looking back he scooted out of the door. Russ closed his binder and followed closely behind Mike. Mike led Russ down the halls in a brisk walk, as fast as etiquette would allow him to move. The hallways that seemed so full of promise on the way in, now seemed gray and depressing on the way out.

              Mike finally opened the large glass door that let Russ out to the lobby. Holding the door open with one arm, Mike turned to shake Russ' hand again. Russ walked past him without shaking his hand or even looking at him. He strode purposefully, picking up speed as his strides were no longer restricted to the span of Mike's steps. As he passed the receptionist desk, the receptionist croaked, “Good bye, sir” at Russ' back. He did not slow down or even acknowledge she said anything.

              Once back at his truck, Russ let his emotions really flow. He opened the driver's side of his bright red Ram 1500 and threw his binder into the cab as hard as he could. He slammed the door, cracking the driver's side window. He grabbed the side of the bed and shook the truck. The raised truck shook on its springs as Russ yelled. A man and woman walking through the parking lot looked at Russ, then changed their path to walk around the parking lot rather than cutting through it.

              Kicking the tire, Russ hurled every obscenity he knew at the wheel, not bothering to make sense or form a sentence. He shouted, spat and screwed up his face. He beat the bed of the truck then returned to shaking it. He pulled at his clothes and swung his massive arms. Growling and grunting he exhaled sharply through clinched teeth.

              Then, nearly instantly, Russ went calm. He took a deep breath and straightened his suit.  Russ learned a while ago, in higher stake situations, that while releasing anger was helpful, once finished, it needed to be released and gone. He did not check himself when he released his anger but he truly released it. He was not putting on a mask of calm. He was calm.

              Russ rubbed the crack on his driver’s side window. He knew he would eventually need to get it fixed and was disappointed with the crack, but not with his actions. If he let the emotions, especially frustration and anger, build up inside himself, he knew he would crack, usually at the wrong time. While cracking his window was not ideal, he knew things would have been a lot worse had he snapped and dragged Mike across the desk. Solving problems with brute force was more acceptable the farther one got from US soil.

              Hopping in his truck, Russ fired up the engine and rolled down the window. The brisk wind whipped through the cab. The sound of cars, people and the city poured through the window. He put the truck in drive and headed for I-5 south, Bruce Springsteen’s “Reason to Believe” playing on the radio. Bruce warbled “Seen a man standin’ over dead dog, lyin’ by the highway in a ditch, He’s lookin’ down kind of puzzled, pokin’ that dog with a stick…” Russ smiled let his left hand drift in the rushing air.

              Adrian was up at 5:30AM the next morning. His small but efficient apartment smelled like coffee, which he had set on a timer the night before. Slipping out of bed, he made a quick detour to the bathroom attached to the bedroom to relieve himself then out to the large kitchen/living room combo that made up most of the unit. Heading to the kitchen he dropped a bagel into the toaster.

              Ten minutes later he had eaten the bagel, smeared with almond butter and locally sourced apple butter, and had drank two cups of coffee. He headed back to his room and put on his lycra running gear. Adrian took the stairs down to street level as a warm up and headed out on a 10k route around Lake Union he frequently ran.

              Adrian’s listened to his squishy footsteps as the foam in his running shoes compressed. The route followed a sidewalk which boarded the lake and the floating homes that had been featured in the movie “Sleepless in Seattle.” The smell of the brackish water drifted into his nose as his breathing picked up.

              Adrian’s mind started drifting to the plans he had thought through last night after dropping Steve off at the bar. But he forced them out of his mind. There was plenty of time to think about the plans, right now he needed to think about something other than work and be present in his own world. The thoughts drifted back and he said to himself, “So that’s how you want it.”

              Adrian picked up speed. If his mind would not be present voluntarily, he would force it into submission. He pushed his pace, the whoosh-squish of his footsteps accelerated. His breathing quickened and his lungs heaved. Having run for years, he figured his pace moved from about eight minutes a mile to about six and a half minutes a mile.

              The sidewalk tipped up as he headed toward the Fremont Bridge. Breathing became a bit more difficult as he fought to maintain his new pace on the incline. His legs started to feel a bit thicker as blood rushed to deliver oxygen. A small voice in the back of his head suggested this pace was too aggressive. Adrian smiled to himself. His mind was present now.

He focused his brain on helping him run smoothly. Adrian knew smooth was fast and efficient and since he was only about twenty percent done with his route, he knew he needed efficient. Crossing the metal lattice of the Fremont Bridge, the path leveled and Adrian worked on recovering his heart rate back to a maintainable level. Forcing his body to take deep breaths he exhaled in a controlled manner. The bridge ended and the path headed slightly downhill along the Burke Gilman trail. Rather than continuing to try and recover, Adrian stretched his stride, making sure to keep his ankle landing behind his knee, trying to allow gravity to pull him down the hill as best he could.

Thirty two minutes later, he wrapped up his run. Panting and sweating, Adrian walked back toward his apartment building, stopping twice to complete short stretching routines. As he entered the lobby, he looked over at the door leading to the stairs but allowed himself the indulgence of taking the stairs. He pushed the button and waited. Shortly the doors opened and Adrian got on. Just as the doors started to close, a voice shouted, “Hold the elevator please.” Adrian stuck his hand in the narrowing gap and the doors sprung back open. A young woman, who looked to be in her early twenties, scurried on, holding a small fluffy dog of some sort.

Adrian had positioned himself in the middle of the elevator and when the young lady saw him she pressed herself to the far wall, holding her dog a bit tighter. Initially Adrian thought she was afraid or offended by him. Then he realized, as he noticed she was dressed nicely and her make-up was done, that she simply did not want to be near him because he was pretty disgusting. He smiled to himself and moved toward the other wall. Adrian was rewarded with a slight movement from the young lady, moving herself off the wall, so she was not touching it, but still hovering close.

A few floors later Adrian got off and headed for his apartment. He may not look great, but he felt good and the intense run had done a great job of taking his mind off the case and what to do. He doubted they could simply show up and find enough evidence to convict anyone of anything meaningful at the tire and rim shop, if they could get a warrant at all. But they did know the route and had a meeting place, meaning they could track the traffic in and out of the shop to start a list of those involved.

Adrian showered, made a quick egg on bagel sandwich and headed into the office. There, sitting on his desk even though Adrian had asked him several times not to, bright and cheery, was Steve. Steve’s ability to always look happy, no matter how hungover he should have been or what was happening in the case, was a source of wonder for Adrian. It was a blessing and a curse to working with Steve. When he needed a pick-me-up, Steve’s attitude was just what he needed. But when things were getting tough with a case, Steve’s relaxed, positive attitude made it seem as if he was not taking it seriously. Of course, maybe he did not take it seriously.

“How are you this fine morning?” Steve asked.

“I’m well,” Adrian said.

“You still mad at me about last night?”

“Nah, I’m over it. Now, let’s get down to business. I’m not getting this case taken away from us. We need to move quickly and show some progress. Since we’re not worried about the street teams, we should focus on the Audi, the Impala and the wheel shop.”

Interrupting Steve said, “To that end, I’ve traced the Audi and Impala back to two names. One is a nice old lady, lives in Kent. Her name is Angela Lloyd. The second is a twenty three year old girl living in Shoreline.”

“Wow,” said Adrian, seriously stunned, “When did you get that?”

“Well I gotta do something while I sit on my barstool and drink, right?” Steve offered with a grin.

“No but seriously, how?”

“You know I have a few friends in the SPD, I had one of them run then plates. They got in early and sent over the names of the people the cars are registered to and a picture of their licenses. Fronts I’m guessing since I didn’t see a little old lady at the wheel of the Audi.”

“Thank you for doing this, you saved me a step. I figured they’d be a front, but often the person who owns the car is related, grandma, aunt, cousin, something to the drivers. So we’ll start there. I also want to get someone to watch the wheel shop. Not sure who Sam will authorize but hopefully there will be someone available,” Adrian said looking toward Sam’s office.

“Already on that too. We have two officers from SPD watching it. Technically they are off duty, but I’m sure we can get them clocked in real quick if we need them.”

“OK, now you’re freakin’ me out. How and what have you done with the real Steve?”

“I’m trying to learn this FBI thing from you since I’m here,” Steve gave a real smile, one that seemed to indicate he was proud of himself. “I was talking with my friend Sarah at the SPD about the case, she’s the one who ran the plates, and she said she knew a couple of beat cops who wanted some notoriety, start the move to detective. So she gave them the job unofficially. The only down side is, they get the collars when the time comes.”

“And since we don’t care about the street level, that is fine with us,” Adrian finished the thought.

“Exactly, we paid the tab with arrests that had no value to us. Seems like a win-win.”

“Steve, I am impressed,” Adrian said, “So I guess that means we can move to the next step, which is to track down the car owners and see if they know anything.” Adrian turned and headed back toward his car without even touching his desk. Steve dropped in behind him.

“Dude, man, that sucks,” Mario said to Russ. They were sitting in Russ' house again, drinking again. “Screw them. They have no idea what it’s like, sitting behind their stupid desks all day while we're out there with our lives on the line. They don't know the half of it.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to sit behind their stupid desks, Mario,” Russ replied, with a defeated tone, “Getting shot at is easier. There, we knew the good guys, the bad guys and that if we worked harder and smarter we'd get ahead. Here, there are politics, games, unwritten rules and traps we aren't ready for and can't find out about.” Russ took a long pull from his bottle, finishing it. He set it on the coffee table which was already littered with about a dozen others he and Mario had already polished off.

“Yeah. I hear ya'. I haven't even gotten to the interview stage yet,” Mario lamented. He too finished off his beer. Setting the empty on the table with the others, he headed to the fridge. The door of the mustard yellow, ‘70s era fridge opened to a bread wrapper with just the heels, a bottle of mustard, a bottle of ketchup and a jar of dill pickles. “Dude, we're out of beer,” Mario said as he returned to the living room.

“Well, I guess we'd better go get some,” Russ said. Russ got up and headed for the door. Mario fell in behind him. Russ grabbed the keys from the hook on the wall and tossed them up over his shoulder without looking, “You drive, I have a call I want to make.”

Smoothly, as part of a routine they had obviously done many times, Mario caught the keys without breaking stride. He thought quickly about the beers they had drank but then he gauged himself to be fine, no matter what his BAC may actually be. “Roger,” Mario replied instinctually.