Savage Rage (22 page)

“And you've met their son, Matthew.”

Matthew was seated next to his mom and there was no doubt about him not wanting to be there. He didn't shake hands with Jack. He didn't bother to look up. He was still sporting a white splint across his broken nose.

“Pull up a chair, Jack, and we'll see if we can get this settled.” Ramirez gave everyone a dazzling smile as he sat down.

“I'm good, sir.”

Jack remained standing. Ramirez was a good guy, solid and supportive of his men and Jack trusted him not to intentionally fuck him, but if this meeting was headed in the direction Jack thought it was, then it was going to be brief unless he got an Association rep in here with him.

“There is nothing to settle, Superintendent Ramirez.” Marian's voice matched her suit: well cut and stylish. Jack wondered what type of lawyer Marian was. “This officer — and I use the title with no respect intended — assaulted my son, causing bodily harm and if you do not discipline him accordingly we will be laying charges against him. It is only out of respect to your profession in general that we agreed to this meeting.” She shot her husband a challenging look. “I wanted to proceed directly with the appropriate charges.”

Yup, this is going to be brief.

“Mrs. Covingston, Officer Warren is a decorated veteran officer. He was honoured as police officer of the year last year.”

That caught Frank's attention. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw the man studying him with new interest.

His wife, however, was not impressed. “Police officer of the year? For what? Assaulting teenagers?”

Ramirez placed his hands calmly on his desktop as he faced Matthew's mom. The wattage of his smile had been reduced from accommodating to placating. “Your son is hardly a teenager, Mrs. Covingston. And he has been charged with assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest.”

“Of course he was resisting.
He
was assaulted by this . . . barbarian.”

“I understand your concern, Mrs. Covingston. Matthew has no criminal record and a conviction of either of these charges could affect the rest of his life, especially career-wise. Now, I've spoken with the crown attorney and he has assured me that if Matthew pleads guilty to the assault police we'll drop the resisting arrest charge and he'll be given a conditional discharge. That way, if he stays out of trouble for a year — and I'm sure he'll have no problem doing so after this incident — the conviction will be erased and his criminal record will remain clear.”

You should be selling used cars, boss.

But Marian wasn't buying. “No, Superintendent, you don't understand. This officer is the one who should be worried about arranging a plea bargain, not my son. Matthew was targeted and assaulted for no other reason than he was at hand and this thug wanted to intimidate some children and prove how tough he is.”

Oh, for fuck's sake.
Jack knew he should keep his mouth shut. Knew it. Knew he would be drilling it into Manny's head if Manny was the one hauled up on the carpet. Absolutely knew it. But he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

“Did his version of the story include the part where he spat on me?”

“He did no such —”

“Marian, enough.” Frank's voice was soft, gentle almost, yet it commanded attention.

“Frank —”

“No. You've said your piece. Now let me say mine.”

Marian opened her mouth as if to present another argument, but Frank hushed her with a look. Jack wasn't sure he'd keep talking if that look was turned his way.

“Matthew, look at me.” No response.
“Matthew.”

The son reluctantly raised his eyes to his father's and Jack could see the effort it took for Matthew to maintain eye contact. Jack got the impression that Marian did most of the talking in the household but that when Frank did speak, people listened.

“You tell me right now, son, and look me in the eyes while you do. Did you spit on this officer?”

“Yes, sir.” The admission was quiet, almost a whimper.

Frank nodded, stood up. “We're done here. Superintendent, I'm sorry we've wasted your time.” He shook hands with Ramirez across the desk.

“Frank, we can't leave.” Marian remained sitting, her hand on her son's shoulder to keep Matthew from following his father.

“We can and we are. Officer.” Frank shook Jack's hand. His grip was strong, unyielding. “I'm sorry to have met under these circumstances. I was no angel growing up and had my run-ins with the law. Even had my head cracked by more than one cop. Sometimes I deserved the crack, sometimes I didn't. You don't strike me as the type of man who'd hit unless it was necessary.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No, thank you. Like I said, I had my scraps with the law, but what I never did,
never
, was spit on an officer. That's just downright disgusting and shows what kind of man you are. I've worked hard all my life, got my own landscaping company and I bust my ass so my son can have a job where he wears a suit and tie and doesn't come home with mud under his fingernails.” Frank shook his head sadly. “Maybe a summer of hauling dirt and stone will do him some good.”

Matthew blanched at the words but rose disconsolately to his feet. Jack thought Marian was going to hold her ground, but her resolve wavered then failed. She got up, levelled a disapproving glare at Jack and walked, back straight, to the door, defeated but not beaten. Jack did not envy Frank the shitstorm that was undoubtedly headed his way. The resigned look on his face said Frank knew it was coming too but also that it was not the first, nor would it be the last, he endured.

Frank stopped on his way to the door. “That happen at the house party?” He tapped a blunt finger against his eyebrow.

Jack shook his head. “Couple of days later.”

“A knife?”

“Nope. Broken beer bottle. Guy didn't like the look of my face, I guess.”

Frank nodded knowingly, one old scrapper to another. “This city is going down the shitter, fast. We need more officers like you.”

“Why can't there be more parents like him?” Jack mused after the Covingston clan left.

Ramirez, a lifelong bachelor, dropped a heavy arm across his shoulders. “Because the smart ones don't have kids.”

Jack stretched in the sun. The interview with the little shit and his parents had gone better than he had hoped. With a dad like that, there might be hope for Matthew.

Now to get the fuck out of Dodge.
He keyed his mitre. “PC Armsman on the air? Armsman on the air in 51?”

Manny crackled back almost instantly. “Armsman, talk to me.”

“Manny, I'm done at 53. Come and get me.”

“10-4, Jack. On the way.”

53 boasted underground parking, but that was for personal cars. The scout cars were relegated to a tiny strip of asphalt behind the station, with barely enough room to pull in and out of the slots. Whoever designed the building must not have been thinking about full-size Crown Vics when it came time to allot space for parking. Add in concrete planters every third slot and the overlap of day and evening shifts in the afternoons and you had a parking nightmare.

Jack headed for the street — no sense forcing Manny to navigate the lot — and spotted Brett sitting in the nearest scout car. He had his head down on his arms folded over the steering wheel, but there was no mistaking his mass filling the driver's seat.

The window was down, so Jack rapped gently on the roof. “Hey, Brett, you okay?”

Brett jerked erect, rocking the car with his sudden movement. He glanced at Jack, then quickly dropped his eyes. “Yeah, I'm fine,” he said, wiping viciously at his eyes while talking down into his lap.

“You sure?” Brett's eyes were red rimmed and the dark smudges under them were more pronounced than before. It also looked as if Brett had forgotten to shave that morning. “No offence, man, but you look like shit.”

Brett laughed, a hollow, sardonic croak. “Gee, thanks. Nice to see you, too.” He produced a pack of cigarettes from his uniform jacket and lit up. The grey smoke drifting lifelessly about his head matched the pallor of his skin. “It's just a headache. Kept me up all night.” Again that croak of a laugh. “Maybe I caught it from you.”

“Since when do you smoke?”

Brett shrugged. “I stopped when we had the kids, but since the ex won't let me see them I figured why not. Got to have something to do when I can't sleep.”

Brett was parked next to a planter and Jack settled against it. Crossing his arms, he studied his friend. “Have you seen a doctor about not sleeping? I can't remember you ever saying you had a decent sleep. Maybe you shouldn't be working nights. I know night shift fucks up a lot of guys and I certainly slept better when I wasn't doing nights.”

Brett examined Jack in turn, as if he was considering how much to say. After a lengthy drag on his smoke, he confessed, “It's not just nights. I can't sleep. Period.” He held up a forestalling hand. “I've already talked to my doctor and he thinks I need to get off the compressed work week, says the rotating shifts are fucking me up.”

“I'm assuming there's a problem, though.”

“With the police? Never.” His mouth twisted as he ground his cigarette out on the car door. He flicked the butt away. “I sent a letter from my doctor explaining everything to the medical bureau, advising them I needed to go on straight days or something for a while.” The set of his mouth hardened his face as he scowled at the memory.

“And. . . ?” Jack prompted.

“And this morning I got an e-mail from medical saying my situation does not justify shift restrictions.” Brett lit another cigarette and savagely huffed out the first drag. “The fucking doctor down at medical made that decision without ever seeing me or asking me a single fucking question. Supportive, huh?”

Jack was shocked, not sure he had heard Brett right. “How can they make a decision without examining you?”

“They did, and it doesn't matter.” What he said next was lost beneath the engine's rattling as it coughed to life. He dropped the car into reverse. “Listen, Jack, I gotta go.”

“Give me a shout later and we'll hook up for coffee.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Jack watched his friend drive off and wondered how he really was doing. As he had pulled away, the rigidity had drained from Brett's face. What was left in its wake was a man who looked tired down to his soul. If Jack was a praying man, he would have offered up a plea for his friend, for if Jack had heard correctly, what Brett had said when the engine started was “Nothing matters anymore.”

“Anything new to the description, Jenny?”

Her voice fought through a crackle of static. “No. Male, black, black hoodie, black pants.”

“That narrows it down,” Jack reflected as he scanned the pedestrians in the Queen and Sherbourne area. “Everyone is wearing black hoodies and pants.”

“Moss Park?” Manny suggested and Jack nodded.

Moss Park, the third piece in the division's shithole trifecta with Regent Park and St. Jamestown, sported three high-rises along Shuter Street. Manny turned into the driveway that snaked up from Queen to wrap around the front of the apartment buildings.

Jenny was in the baseball field behind the Moss Park community centre with the victim of a purse snatch. The suspect, the oh-so-distinctive male, black, black hoodie, was last seen running toward the apartment buildings. That was more than five minutes ago. More than enough time for someone to vanish in the dense concrete landscape.

“5106 to radio,” Jenny called, more static than words. “I'm taking the victim to the station for a statement.”

“10-4, 5106,”
the dispatcher acknowledged.
“You may want to get a new portable while you're there. The one you have isn't very clear.”

“Big shock there.”

“Only the best for Canada's largest municipal police force,” Manny added. “Dude, don't you know we're on the cutting edge of transistor technology?”

Jack smirked. “Don't let Greene hear you talking like that; he'll do you for insubordination.”

“Dude, don't even joke about that.” Manny slowed for the speed bumps laid out haphazardly in the driveway that linked all three apartment buildings along the north side of the complex. “He chewed me out this morning for taking so long on B and E calls.”

“You did explain that you're SOCO? That fingerprinting and photographing the scene takes time?”

“I did. He said as a Scenes of Crime Officer I should have the experience and knowledge to investigate a B and E faster than others.” Manny yanked on the steering wheel in frustration.

“He's just looking for things to get on your back. He'll never formally document you,” Jack assured him. “He knows he's talking bullshit and he'd look like a moron if he ever submitted the paperwork.”

“But, dude,” Manny beseeched. “He threatened to send me to Ident for a six-month lateral.”

“Ouch.” Jack could understand Manny's concern. Manny needed to be constantly moving, usually at a full sprint — how he had escaped being diagnosed as ADD when he was a kid, Jack would never know — and the meticulous, detailed work done by the Forensic Identification Services would drive him insane. Greene had certainly come up with a legitimate threat.

“Stand by for the hotshot,”
the dispatcher announced.
“Go ahead to 51.”
There was a pause as the dispatcher was given the details; then she relayed them to the cars.
“Unknown trouble. 285 Shuter Street, apartment 712. Hysterical female screaming into the phone. Call taker can't get any details from her. Time, 1249.”

“Not another diaper domestic,” Jack groaned. He snatched the mike. “5103, we're right outside 285. Throw us on the call.”