Bombshell (Devlin Haskell 4) (20 page)

“I think I’d prefer
home, the office
would be
bad
publicity.”

Manning nodded, you need a lift home.

“I can give you one
,” Louie said.

“Me too,” Aaron said.

“Is
O
fficer Trang
available?” I asked Manning.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure she is.”

“Nothing personal, guys,” I said.

“
You’re sure getting the special
treatment,” Officer Trang said
. I
t was close to one-thirty
by the time she was driving me home
. As she spoke she looked at me in her rear view mirror, viewing me through the heavy mesh screen.

“What can I say, I have that effect on folks.”

“Gee, who knew? And all thi
s while I was thinking that woma
n was right.”

“Woman?”
I asked.

“Menace and detriment
are two of the words that spring to mind. I
’m
sure she has
plenty of
others.”

“I’
m sure she
does.
So, who did you piss off to get the short straw and draw
this gig.”

“
Driving you around
?”

“Yeah.”

“I was involved in a
n incident
, standard procedure, you’re off the street for a few days.”

“Here I was thinking you were trying to get on Manning’s good side.”

“That would suggest he has one.”

“
You got me there. An incident, it w
as
n’t
that
shooting
? The
one over on the East side,
two
or three
nights ago?”

“Yeah
,” she answered, but with a tone that suggested she didn’t care to go any further.

“Sorry, been there. So, you got time for a late lunch?”

Her eyes
flashed in the rear view mirror, but I could detect a smile.

“Thanks, but
no. How
‘
bout a rain check after hours
sometime
?”

“For sure, I’v
e got a busy next few days, but maybe if you ga
ve me your number and…”

She had just pulled to a stop in front of my house; amazingly the old bat with the little dog wasn’t in sight to tell everyone what a lo
w life I was. She didn’t tell me her number
,
but climbed out, then opened the rear door for me.

“Here’s my card,” she said,
smiling as she handed
me
the card
,
“
give me a call when things lighten up. I’d like that.”

“You can count on it. Thanks, a real pleasure meeting you,” I said, then held out my hand.

She took it, gave me a
double
squeeze, maybe just the hint of a lingering look
. Then climbed back behind the wheel and drove off.

I felt my heart thumping, slowly
calming down as she turned at
the corner. Now all I had to do was wa
it around until I got arrested.

I
t was a little after four
the following afternoon
,
I’d just taken a coupl
e of burrito’s out of the micro
wave, popped open a
can
of
Dr. Pepper and stroll
ed into the living
room to turn on the
television. I glanced out the
front
window, notice
d a Channel Four News v
an up the street with
a black and white parked behind it. I looked down the street
in
the opposite direction
a black and white was parked on the
far
corner. I guessed there would be one or two uniforms in my back yard shortly if they weren’t t
here already.
They had really set the stage.
I quickly gulped down my burrito, drank some
of
the Dr. Pepper and though
t
I better use the bathroom
and put on a clean shirt for the cameras
before they
walked over and
knocked on the door.

I was coming d
own the stairs maybe three
minutes later. I heard the heavy clomp of shoes
on the
front porch floor and hoped it might be the luscious Officer Trang returning to put me in handcuffs.

I had one of those nanosecond tho
ughts; t
he police would ring the doorbell, I’d answer,
“Hi guys, be with you in a
minute let me just
turn off the
television and the
kitchen lights. Anyone want a Dr. Pepper?”

That wasn’t exactly how it went down. I was on the staircase,
thought I
he
a
rd shoes
clomp
ing
,
although
in retrospect they were wearing combat boots, not uniform shoes. As I descended the stairs I could see trousers, Kevlar vests, shirt sleeves,
protective plastic
strapped
over elbows and knees,
all black. That
should have been my first clue;
St. Paul
’s finest wears blue uniforms.
Clue number two would have been the
locked
door
suddenly
flying open and the six guys storming in with weapons drawn.
Two guys flew into prone positions on my entry way rug and leveled automatic weapons at me. I don’t know what kind they were, AK’s, maybe M-16’s. All I saw was the end of a barrel about a foot wide and pointed at me.

“Hands up, hands up!” someone screamed
on the floor
.

“Don’t move, hands up!” another guy yelled from the doorway.

“Hey, watch the
woodwork, damn it.” I said and hurried down the steps
carrying my Dr. Pepper can
to inspect my
damaged
doorframe.

“Don’t move, hands up, get ‘em
up
, get ‘em up
.”

“Gun!” someone screamed.

I had about four steps left
to descend
figuring I’d just calm everyone down
when
suddenly
a very large arm grabbed my shirt, flung
me over the railing and slammed me onto the
oak
floor.

“Ug
h
hh
,” was about all I got out as the wind was knocked out of me. Knees and feet pinned me to the floor, someone seemed to be standing on my head.

“Freeze asshole, don’t move,” someone yelled.

Move?
That
was the least of my problem
s. I couldn’t breath
e
, I was struggl
ing for air, panicking.
S
ome guy was sitting on my chest
and it felt like it was collapsing
.
I
couldn’t
move, couldn’t
get the weight o
ff. I couldn’t breathe
, more panic.

“Hold still, damn it,” someone screamed as a pair of hands reached on eit
her side
of the boot standing on my skull
and twisted my head, slamming my face into the floor. My nose gave
an audible snap when it
met the quarter sawn
oak
floor
,
cutting off my air intake. I panicked
even
more and began to frantically struggle for air.

“Hold still, damn it,” someone slammed a boot or
a
fist
a couple of times
into my ribs just as my arms were twisted up behind my back, almost pulling them out of the socket
s
.

I vomited burrito an
d Dr. Pepper from
the
blow
s
, coughed and
then
gasped for
more
air
.

“Oh shit,” a guy yelled and the upper pre
ssure on my right arm was relaxed
.

From
somewhere
behind me
on the stairs
another guy laughed.

I was too busy passing out to find anything funny.

When I regained
consciousness
I was on my knees
,
vaguely
aware my hands were cuffed behind my back. My h
ead
was
held down, but not
too
forcefully
. I could feel something cold moving back and forth across the back of my head.

“Just stay still,
take some
deep breaths
, relax
.”

Yeah, I thought, that’s what I’ll do, relax.
Footsteps were pounding up and down the staircase behind me. There were two or three pairs of black boots moving in and out of my peripheral vision.
On the floor in front of me blood continued to drop
from my nose forming
a small pool. The nose wasn’t working at the moment and
I had to breathe
through my mouth. The left sides
of my upper and low
er lip were swollen and torn
and my lower jaw was not quite lining up
.

“Three pistols so far
,”
a voice said. I heard the weapons bounce off one another along with some rattling or crinkling. I guessed each weapon had been placed in a plastic evidence bag and was being handed to someone.

I attempted to say ‘I’m licensed to carry,’ but it came out as unintelligible garble.

“No one’s talking to you, piece of shit. He good enough to travel?”
A voice from somewhere above me thundered.

There must have been some sort of response indicated.

“Good, then get him out of my sight
. Nesbitt’s out front
with the brass
doing the PR gig, stuff him in a squad and take him downtown, they’re waiting for him.”

I was helped to my feet, sort of, pulled up by the shoulders by
the
two large cops
dressed in black
on either side of me. Lifting me up must have seemed like
nothing more than
throwing a beach ball around to the two of them. The guy on my left squeezed a blue gel pack in
his hand. I half caught his eye as I stood.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

He
looked at me with cold eyes, dropped the pack on the floor, “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”

“Just a minute,” a very large cop with a thick mustache and some sort of sinister looking automatic weapon over his shoulder held his hand up.
I think he was the one who had asked if I could travel
, he held the evidence bags with my pistols
.
For the first time I saw SWAT in white letters across someone’s back.

“Devlin Haskell, you have the right to remain silent…”

Eventually I was le
d
out the door toward
a
squad car
waiting in my driveway with
the
lights
flashing
. There were two
uniformed officer
s
standing on the city sidewalk
talking to three different camera crews.
My guess was it was the guy named Nesbitt
and some higher up
puke
that fascist with the mustache had mentioned.

The
news crews
rushed past him as soon as they saw me on the p
orch. A c
ouple of uniforms made a half—
hearted attempt
to hold them back.

“Why did you kill Fiona Simmons?” a woman said into her microphone then
thrust the t
hing in my direction
. The microphone
was
fuzzy
, gray
and looked like a Muppet on a stick
. She looked familiar, the woman, but I couldn’t place her.

“Where did you
get the fingers?” some guy shouted
, his toupee went slightly askew when he tried to duck under the arm of a police officer and he quickly took a step back, indicating with a
wave of his arm that the camera
man should focus on me being placed
in the back of the squad car.