Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel (6 page)

Two minutes later, Michael was in the captain’s office, wondering how hard he’d have to beg to fix this. “Captain, please. You have got to be kidding me? The kid?” Just minutes ago, life had seemed so good. He’d been happy enough to propose, for God’s sake. He was finally making some progress on his smuggling case, and he had a smart, sexy partner to work with him. Last week, Sally had taken down a mugger with a sneaky Jiu-Jitsu move that might not be academy-approved, but which was nonetheless impressive. And even though she was tough as hammered nails, Sally was also willing to flirt with the nerdy art insurer if it would get them a lead for their case. She had been the perfect partner—and now she was gone, and Michael was about to be thoroughly screwed. And not in a good way.

Maseryk frowned. “This isn’t your decision, Michael. And it’s not up for debate. Sally deserved that promotion to One Police Plaza, and I’m sorry for the short notice, but they needed her on something urgent. We’ll throw her a racket at the bar Friday night; you can say your good-byes then. I’m promoting Black to be her replacement.” He shrugged. “The truth is, the brass uptown dictated his promotion, and I don’t like it any more than you do. The kid doesn’t know shit. I’ve sidelined him on a dead-end case; you focus on that art ring you and Sally were handling.”

“But sir—” Michael knew he was pushing, but he couldn’t just let it go.

But Maseryk was already turning away, back to the mound of papers on his desk. “Enough, Michael. End of story. You can shut the door on your way out.”

Michael just barely managed not to slam the damn door. He came perilously close, though, shutting it with a solid thud.

“Whee-oh! I remember that sound.” His father was in the hallway, up on a ladder, fixing a light and grinning down at him. “What crawled up your ass, son?”

God, not this too, not today. When would the old man retire? “Dad. I don’t need this right now.”

His father peered down at him through thick glasses. “You mad ’cause the kid got promoted?”

“You know?” Shit. It would’ve been nice if the
CO
had told him first, instead of informing his dad the janitor. The old man should just retire—he was old enough now that his dark skin stood out shockingly against the pure white of his bushy eyebrows.

“Son, you know how fast gossip moves through this place. Everybody knows, and I can tell you that no one is happy about it. Poor kid.”

Michael snapped out, “He’s jumping the queue. He’s too young. He’s a goddamned smart aleck who is completely full of himself.”

His father cackled. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

“We are nothing alike.” That would have come out better if it hadn’t sounded quite so whiny. Michael bit his tongue.

His father nodded serenely. “Yessir, whatever you say, sir. I know better than to argue with my superior officer.”

There was nothing to say to that.

The old man continued, “When are you bringing those three pretty girls of yours over for dinner? I haven’t seen my granddaughter in four whole days. Your mama was thinking Saturday would be nice. She’s got plans for jambalaya, and she wants to teach Minnie the recipe.”

Michael sighed. “Don’t call her Minnie, Dad. You know that’s not her name.”

His father frowned. “I’ll call her what I like; I’m old enough, and I’ve earned the right. She don’t mind. When are you going to call her your wife, that’s what I want to know. You ever gonna put rings on those gals’ fingers?”

Not him too. It was bad enough listening to the voice in his own head. His parents had been harassing him to marry Kavitha, before Minal moved in—they’d been blessedly quiet on the subject for the past two years. But apparently, his grace period had ended. “I can’t marry both of them, not legally.” He wanted to, though. He was pretty sure.

The old man snorted. “Did I ask what you could do legally? Do you think we give a damn what the law says? Your mama is dying to throw a wedding for her only child, boy, and if you know what’s good for you, you’re not going to make her wait much longer.” The old man hesitated, and then said, in a softer voice, “Her heart’s been acting up again, you know.”

Michael’s own heart squeezed once, painfully. “I can’t talk about this now, Dad.” He had a case to solve. Now wasn’t the time. He wasn’t sure when it would be the right time. “We’ll come for dinner, okay? Tell Mama.” Maybe he’d propose this week; maybe he’d be bringing two fiancées to dinner on Saturday. Michael loved them, he did. But two wives? It wasn’t the life he’d planned for.

His father shook his head. “All right. You be nice to that kid. The whole station’s going to give him hell, he doesn’t need to get it from his partner, too.” Then he turned back to the light above their heads, leaving Michael to face the long walk back to his desk. No more Sally at the desk facing his; that was Francis Xavier Black’s desk now.

Terrific.

The Big Bleed

Part Three

AFTER A TORTUROUS COMMUTE
from Manhattan, Sheeba and Jamal had arrived at the spill site close to sundown, the worst possible time to conduct a visual investigation.
Too bad we aren’t making a movie,
Jamal thought. It was the golden hour, that last bit of the day when directors and cinematographers preferred to film the kissing scene or something equally romantic.

Not that Stuntman had been involved in many such scenes. But he had frequently found his shooting days rearranged around the need to have the crew ready for golden hour. “Something funny happened here,” Sheeba said, demonstrating her unfailing ability to state the obvious.

What was your first clue?
Jamal wanted to ask, but didn’t. Surely it couldn’t have been the Warren Country Emergency Services unit parked halfway onto the shoulder of the two-lane asphalt road, and the crime scene tape delineating two squares—one large, one small—in the ditch.

The drive from Manhattan had taken twice as long as it should have. Sheeba Who Must Be Obeyed had elected to follow her Navstar, overruling the obsessive freak behind the wheel who kept insisting that it was taking them around three sides of a square. “Couldn’t we have booked a helicopter?” Jamal said, only half joking.

“Unavailable,” Sheeba snapped, meaning she had actually made the query.

The extra minutes they spent stuck in traffic allowed Sheeba to recount—largely for Jamal’s benefit—the flurry of text messages, e-mailed maps, and other communications that resulted from one simple fact: sometime last night a vehicle had gone off this lonely New Jersey highway and spilled a container of ammonium nitrate.

“Why did it take so long?” Jamal had asked, not, he thought, unreasonably.

“No one found the container until noon today,” Sheeba said. Her voice suggested that there was something lacking in the moral fiber of the residents of Warren County, New Jersey, that they would fail to note a container of dangerous material by the side of one of their roads.

Feeling a bit like an actor in a bad action movie, Jamal had felt compelled to persist: “And why are we chasing this and not
DHS
?”

“One of the locals said the whole thing felt joker-like.”

“Some kind of keen perception?” Jamal said. “The smell, maybe—?”

“The crash site.”

And so, yes, here they were, in the company of a pair of Warren County hazardous materials types, and Deputy Sheriff Mitch Delpino, a tall, hunched nat around forty who wore a gunslinger’s mustache that clashed with his old hippie manner.

“It appears a vehicle went off the road here,” Delpino said, spreading his hands and gesturing, as if the tracks could possibly have been mistaken for anything else.

“And it should have wound up nose-first in that ditch,” Sheeba said. “It’s pretty deep. How do you suppose it got out?” She turned to Delpino. “Any calls for tow trucks out here last night or this morning?”

Delpino glanced at Jamal, as if to say,
you poor bastard, having to work with this
. “Yes, we checked with all the services. No one got a call out here or anywhere near here in the past forty-eight hours.”

Jamal said, “Officer, assuming this truck was carrying something illegal when it ran off the road, how likely is it, do you think, that it would call a legitimate service whose destination could be traced?”

Delpino allowed himself a smile so faint that only Jamal could see it. “Quite unlikely.”

Jamal turned away and let his eyes adjust again. There was something odd about the tracks where they crossed the mud. “Any insights into what kind of tires were on this truck?” he said.

Delpino stepped forward like a grade schooler eager to recite. “These are not tire tracks,” he said. “They are narrower than any commercial U.S. brand or any European one we know. And there’s no tread.”

“In fact, it looks as though they were thin and solid, like wheels on a kids’ wagon,” Jamal said. “It does sort of feel like a joker thing.”

Ten yards off the road, its passage still obvious from crushed vegetation, a yellow plastic barrel sat upright in the weeds. “Was this how you found it?” Jamal said.

“It was on its side,” Delpino said, which was a good thing: neither haz-mat specialist seemed eager to talk. “It hit and rolled. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a small crack on one side. Some fluid spilled.” He smiled. “Which we were able to identify as ammonium nitrate, which is why we called you. Well,
DHS
.”

Sheeba reasserted command at that moment. “So strange truck rips along, loses a barrel, and then goes off the road? Seems wrong, somehow.”

“How so?” Delpino said.

Sheeba’s phone jingled. As she held up her finger, Jamal answered for her: “The logical sequence is, vehicle goes off the road first, spills its cargo … then gets out of ditch with no obvious help.” She gestured at the crash site. “With all the rain, there would be tracks if another vehicle helped out the first one.”

“So we have a mystery,” Jamal said. “First step, though, is to secure that material.”

“Where do you want it driven?” Delpino seemed eager to have this case off his plate as soon as possible.

“Let me check.” Jamal reached for his phone. “They’ll probably want us to cordon the place off.…”

Before he could make the call, however, Sheeba rejoined the conversation. “Get this,” she said, clicking off her phone. “Highway 519 is already cordoned off between Bergen and Hackettstown. New Jersey Highway Patrol.” Sheeba turned to Delpino. “What do you know about this?”

“Not a thing. Traffic here is light; the spill is minuscule. And we really don’t have the authority—”

Jamal looked down the road. Several sets of headlights burned. “Looks like an accident scene.” Christ, now he was stating the obvious. All these months with Sheeba must have affected him.

“What are the odds of two unrelated accidents at the same time on this stretch of road?” Sheeba asked. She turned to Delpino. “Do you know anything about this?”

“Not a thing. I got a call from dispatch just before noon and came straight here. Called in the haz-mat unit before one.” Delpino hooked a thumb toward the haz-mat truck. “This is Warren County.” He tilted an index finger toward the scene two hundred yards away. “One of those vehicles says ‘New Jersey Highway Patrol.’”

“Shoot,” Sheeba said, “not this again. Different jurisdictions.”

Jamal said, “The bane of
SCARE
’s existence. Wherever we go, we have to make sure the local
PD
and the highway patrol and the sheriffs are all in the same loop…”

Sheeba finished for him. “… and they never are!”

“Why don’t I go?” he said. It would be informative, and would get him away from Sheeba as her blood sugar drove her to more frequent rages. He chose to walk. The cars weren’t that far, he needed the exercise, and it saved him from a pointless discussion about being sure to bring the Explorer back. Maybe Sheeba suspected his eagerness to drive away and never look back.

Walking also allowed him to show up more or less unannounced, without adding that big movie moment of the black Explorer arriving at a crime scene.

Which is clearly what this was: a New Jersey State Police prowler half blocked the road, its flashing cherries clearly visible in the twilight. (Even in bright sunlight, the
SCARE
team would have seen them from the truck spill site, except that there was a small hill between the two locations.) A coroner’s van was next to it.

The yellow chalk figure in the middle of the highway told Jamal much of what he needed to know: they had found a body. And, from the apparent height and shape—not that a chalk outline was remotely reliable—some kind of joker.

As Jamal approached, he saw and felt eyes turning toward him, especially those belonging to one of the New Jersey cops, a tall guy with his right arm in a sling.

Stopping an appropriate distance away, he hauled out his shield. “Special Agent Norwood,
SCARE
.” As if the black suit didn’t give him away.

“Gallo,” he said, clearly not happy with Jamal’s presence. “What brings
SCARE
to New Jersey?”

Jamal jerked his head back up the highway. “We’ve got a crime scene. Ah, Federal issues. Controlled substances.” He quickly described the crash and the cargo. “And this might explain one problem we’ve found.”