Possessing heightened senses is no picnic.
We were sitting in the resin chairs out on the balcony, enjoying a beautiful summer evening, rare for Cascade, kicking back and listening to the game on the radio. My legs were propped up on the rail in front of me, crossed at the ankles. I was in what Sandburg called a controlled zone, but I think of it as autopilot. It's something I actually enjoy when it's not called a test. Sandburg doesn't call them tests anymore anyway, that word having pretty negative connotations for both of us now. As usual, I was anchored to his heartbeat, steady and strong, and I extended my senses in a random pattern, touching on my environment as I wished. So far I had listened to the lap of the tide coming into the bay, idly kept count of the airline insignias on jets descending into SeaTac and figured it was a slow night at the Starbucks six blocks away because they had only ground espresso maybe three times. French roast, I think. Once in a while I would take a sip of Blair's current favorite microbrew, wondering why someone thought beer and apricot was a good combination. Sandburg was sitting cross-legged on the chair next to me, reading a police science textbook—for fun, he tells me—and making smartass comments about Mariner pitching. Didn't bother me, he was right, but they were winning tonight. All in all, a nice way to end the day.
Work was pretty boring for me right now because Simon hesitated to assign me anything substantial until Sandburg completed his rotation through all the Cascade Police departments. That was part of the deal we brokered with administration and I think it's worked out, although I'm impatient to get back into action. At first the higher-ups were adamant that Sandburg take the entire eight-week course but they didn't know my partner. He took one look at the syllabus and headed out to meet with the Academy career counselor. Next thing I knew he had convinced the entrance board to pare down his requirements to four weeks of actual attendance by adding up every single hour he had "volunteered" at the station for the past four years. I guess they weren't budging on their end until he said he would challenge the tests. They took him up on his challenge—suckers—and four weeks later he had passed all the written and oral exams and only had the physical and weapons training left. No fanfare, no fuss, just done. When I sometimes forget how damn smart he is he does something like this and I'm reminded all over again.
But they still insisted on a departmental rotation, which was unusual but considering the circumstances not unexpected. It wasn't only Sandburg's academic reputation that had been blown to hell and frankly I think the bureaucrats didn't think he could cut it on the force. Basically, they set him up to fail, so that when he quit they could tell Simon they gave him every opportunity. They even agreed not to enforce the dress requirement and make him cut his hair, which from what I hear did not go over well with his fellow classmates. That's probably what admin intended, the bastards. But Sandburg took it in stride. He's handled the pressure better than I have; I've been, uh, making sure that those not in our immediate circle of co-workers understand that Blair Sandburg is no quitter. And that this former Cop of the Year is counting the goddamn hours until he gets his partner back.
I had a scare today. Three days ago Sandburg hit the spot in his rotation labeled Vice. I don't know many people down there anymore but I do remember the work. Nothing a cop does is glamorous but those Vice detectives see a lot of really bad shit. I have very few good memories of my time there but when Sandburg asked me about it I soft-pedaled the whole thing, not wanting to skew his judgement. His rotations were supposed to be strictly ride-alongs so I was hoping he would blow through this assignment like he had with Robbery. I know he's seen a lot of pretty horrible things during his time in Major Crimes but there was just something about Vice investigations that triggered the old protective instinct I have towards my partner. Hell, it's never far from the surface anyway but this was different—I knew what Vice was like.
So when both Sandburg and I got paged to Simon's office this afternoon I felt a little shiver of apprehension. For all I knew, Simon was going to ask us to lunch but my instinct was saying no way. I was down in the evidence room when I got the page, so I took the stairs back up to Major Crimes and met Sandburg coming out of the elevator.
"Hey, Jim, you know what's up?"
I shook my head. "Sorry, Chief, I'm as in the dark as you are."
The door to Simon's office was open, so I headed in. Blair trailed behind me, pausing to exchange greetings with Joel. Simon was typing something at his computer, looking intent, so I just made myself comfortable in one of the two chairs facing his desk. A burst of laughter from Sandburg and Taggert broke Simon's concentration. He peered up at me through his glasses and then at Sandburg as Blair finally joined me, parking himself in the chair to my left. Simon gave the keyboard a final whack and then turned to us, hands clasped in front of him on the desk, serious Captain face bolted on firmly. I was hoping for an offer of coffee but Simon was all business.
"All right, gentlemen, here's the deal. Vice has requested our participation in an undercover operation they are mounting for next week. It's short notice because one of the men they were borrowing from Seattle blew out his knee at the gym yesterday. Since you are under my supervision, I have the final say as to whether or not you go. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't hesitate to loan one of my detectives to another department but"—finally, a glimmer of a smile—"nothing with you is ever really normal."
I forgot all about the coffee. My imagination had already played this scenario out in harrowing detail ever since Sandburg had agreed to become a detective. So far I managed to deny my fears, considering Sandburg still fairly safe as long as he was in training. That gave me time enough to deal with the fact that I no longer had the right to tell him to stay in the truck, call for backup, run for help. Of course I hadn't done that as much over the last couple of years, finding that I wanted Blair at my side whether he was supposed to be or not. But now I no longer had that option because here was Simon telling me time was up.
I took a deep breath and suppressed my initial reaction, which was to grind out a definitive "no." Sandburg was a cop now; I thought I was ready to deal with the ramifications and now I was finding I was wrong. But instead of giving in to the panic now birthing in my gut I turned a deceptively calm expression to my partner.
He was already looking at me, eyebrows raised in surprise and inquiry. Simon had thrown him off-balance and he was looking at me for guidance. This was gonna be tricky. Sandburg needed to know he was my real partner now and that he no longer had to worry that I would shoot him down just out of reflex. Of course, my reflexes were screaming at me to do just that. What a screwy pair.
Not seeing an immediate answer in my eyes, Blair turned back to Simon. "What exactly do they need us to do?"
Simon leaned back in his chair and started fiddling with a pen. Then he took off his glasses with his free hand and rubbed his forehead. I felt the tension in my spine notch up a bit. He sighed, replaced his glasses and looked at me apologetically. Then he explained the assignment. By the time he finished I was sitting up straight as a post, no doubt wearing a scowl that could peel paint.
"No way, Simon, no way." I started to slice my left arm through the air to emphasize my point but Sandburg grabbed it and settled it back on my chair, giving it a little pat before folding his hands in his lap. His eyes never left Simon. I gritted my teeth in frustration.
The assignment itself was enough to piss me off. Vice was beginning to work a nasty case down in the Box, a crappy part of town near the waterfront known for high incidents of prostitution and drugs. A mid-level Canadian wise guy had been found dead in one of the warehouses that cluttered the area. Not terribly unusual, but this guy was known for his connections to an out-of-town prostitution ring that was beginning to offer drugs to their customers on the side. According to certain sources, it was shaping up to be a serious turf war between the Canadian syndicate and the local mob. This was all pretty standard stuff; Sandburg would be a small part of a huge operation, involving members of Narcotics as well, but it was the last part of Simon's explanation that had me seeing red, as he knew it would. See, I wasn't being invited to the party. Vice wanted Sandburg but had made it clear to Simon I was not part of the deal. The fact I was being consulted at all was a mere courtesy on Simon's part. But they were telling me I couldn't back up my partner. That is not how it's done in my world. And sitting beside me was a man who had everything to prove to his new colleagues and probably felt this was a good a way to do just that.
But before I could mount any argument, Sandburg was talking. "I don't know Si—Captain, sounds like a pretty heavy time investment. It'll slow my return to Major Crimes and I'm kinda looking forward to getting back to normal, you know?" He turned and looked to me for confirmation. His eyes were clear, no hint of fear or trepidation, or even deferral. He was consulting me wordlessly, and my fears took a back seat—for a moment—to my renewed respect for this kid.
I turned back to Simon and damn near got whiplash as I nodded emphatically. "Sandburg's right, Simon, he's two weeks away from getting back to real work and I'm tired of sitting on my butt." Sounded like a deal-breaker to me. I was halfway out of my chair, hoping to escape with the matter closed but Sandburg was frowning as a thought came to him. When he spoke, I sat back down in dismay. He was asking the one question I was hoping to avoid.
"Simon, if I turn this down—" he was having a hard time articulating what I knew he wanted to ask. Being Mr. Blunt, I decided to ask it for him.
"Who knows he's been offered this, Captain?"
Simon understood exactly. "Just the two of you, myself and Captain Vincent. That's it. He floated the idea to me and I asked him to wait before talking to his staff."
I let out a little whoosh and turned to Sandburg. "There, ya see, Chief? Take a pass and let's get on with our lives here." I'm not above a little emotional manipulation so I added, "Besides, the longer you take the rustier I'm getting with my senses. Gonna be useless if we don't get some fieldwork in here." Not entirely true; I had done plenty of fieldwork without Sandburg at my side, but he kept me sharp and pushed me all the time. It was annoying as hell but it made me a better cop.
I watched him carefully, trying to see which way he was going to go on this and preparing my arguments if he didn't see it my way. Simon held his peace, too, his dark eyes sweeping between us. Blair was sitting quietly, chewing his bottom lip. Finally, he shook his head and held up his hands as if in surrender.
"Yeah, think I will pass, Simon. Do my ride-along and move on." Then he added a purely Sandburgian comment. "Besides, I've done the grunge look and it is so not me anymore." He waggled his eyebrows at Simon, who just shook his head in amusement.
Muscles I didn't know I had tensed suddenly relaxed. I wanted to pound him on the back and praise his good sense, but instead I just nodded casually and stood up. "That it, Captain?"
"For you, Jim, yes. Sandburg, I want you to stick around for a sec."
Uh, oh. I did not like this and neither did Sandburg. I met his eyes as I passed in front of him on the way to the door; his were wide and they followed me as I grabbed the handle and swung the door open. I didn't say anything but I tried to convey some kind of assurance. As I closed the door he was turning back to a stern-faced Banks. I mentally wished him luck and went back to my desk. Ten minutes later I was called out to an interview with the DA on a case and I didn't see Sandburg for the rest of the day. Didn't see Simon either; when I got back he had already taken off.
So now it was the end of the day and I was feeling pretty damn good. Sandburg had seemed in good spirits when we'd met up at home; as an added bonus he'd decided to fix the chicken I like with that goat cheese stuff. I kept him company at the counter while he prepared dinner and we talked over work issues. I left him every opening to discuss his private conversation with Simon, but he never went there. Still, he seemed ok so I figured it was none of my business and I could pump Simon for info later.
Sitting out on the balcony, watching the setting sun, I felt content. Not even the strange beer was bugging me, although I made a mental note to pick out the next six-pack myself—fruit belonged in a bowl, not in a beer.
When the cordless phone rang on the table between us, I switched the bottle to my left hand and grabbed it.
"Ellison."
"Hi, is Blair Sandburg, there?" It was a youngish, female voice, no doubt one of many who over the years had screwed up their courage to contact my lady-killer partner. Even though he was no longer affiliated with the University, he still had the co-eds calling.
"Hold on." I reached over and tapped the phone antenna on the book he was still reading; he had hardly noticed the ringing. "Phone, Sandburg."
He set the book open-faced on his lap and took the phone from me. I pulled my legs down and leaned forward, dialing down my hearing, having no desire to be a party to his conversation. Instead, after hearing his "This is Blair," I rested my elbows on the railing and sent my sight out on a little reconnaissance. There was a summer carnival going on over at the grade school, just full of interesting sights, so I decided to hone in on that. Before heading out, I cast my mental anchor back to Blair, finding the heartbeat that kept me centered.
What the hell? That heartbeat was accelerating, along with his respiration. This is what I mean about super senses not being so great. As my partner's heartbeat began to race, so did mine. Of course, this only happens when it's him. Some perp lying his ass off in an interrogation room doesn't so much as cause me to blink, but Sandburg gets a cold and I sneeze. I turned around to see him setting the now-closed book on the table and sliding his feet to the floor. Quickly, I scoped back in on his side of the conversation, having long since learned it is never acceptable to listen to both sides. Almost never, anyway.
"Of course I'll come, Stacey, that's not a problem. Just give me the details and I'm there." He pulled his glasses off and met my eyes. I could see worry and grief in them and wondered what had happened. Eyes still locked with mine, he repeated back a hospital name and room number to the caller, and my heart sank in my chest.
One of those phone calls. Damn.
Sandburg was finishing the conversation, and I frowned at his next words. "Ok, if you're sure he won't be there. I don't want to upset—"
He was obviously cut off and his eyes broke away from mine as he stood up.
"It'll be about half an hour, Stace. See ya then. Bye." He clicked off the phone and I rose, too, a questioning look no doubt hovering in my eyes.
"What's up, Chief?" I held out my hand for the phone and he returned it to me automatically. He put his hands on his hips and lowered his head, dark curls sweeping across his face as he gathered his thoughts.
Looking up, he said, "That was Stacey Monroe, she and her husband Jeff are old friends of mine." He let out a soft sigh and continued, pain deepening his voice. "He and I know each other from way back. He was an anthro major, too, and about six years ago we went to Brazil together." He shook his head but was smiling at the memory. "We had so much fun down there... but, um, Jeff's dying. He wants to see me and Stacey says they're running out of time. I gotta go." He turned and walked into the loft, me hard on his heels. Stuff like this is damn awkward and I wanted to help out.
"You want me to go with you?"
Sandburg had ducked into his room to grab his shoes and waited to answer until he came out. He smiled at me and shook his head, sitting down at the table to put them on.
"No, thanks though. I'll probably be late coming back, maybe 11:00 or so. See ya in the morning. Have a good night." He was out the door, pulling his hair into a ponytail as he went.
Well, probably won't 'til you come home, buddy, but thanks for the thought.
It was late and I was really hoping Jim had gone to bed. After I parked the Volvo on the street I had peered up at the windows of the loft, seeing neither lights nor the weird, blue flicker that a tv makes on walls when you're looking in from the outside. Of course, this was no indication of what my roommate was doing; he of the enhanced eyesight could be tying flies in utter darkness for all I knew, but given the time I was returning I was betting that he had zonked out already. All the better for me, because I so did not want to explain the state of my face to him at one o'clock in the morning. Seven o'clock is a more civilized time for me, and a caffeinated Jim is much more responsive to reason.
I stepped out of the elevator and headed toward the loft. I was so tired I dropped my keys and could only stare at them as they lay next to the door. Finally, I leaned a hand against the doorframe and slowly bent down to pick them up, knowing the upside of the trip was going to be a bitch. I took a breath and started up, clumsily aiming the key towards the lock and hoping I could get it in one try. Then I had to blink, because the handle was gone and I was about to put the key into thin air. I felt a hand grab my upper arm and gently lever me to my feet. Without fuss I was pulled inside the darkened loft as the door was shut and locked behind me. I stood there, feeling thick and slow, as Jim swerved around me and headed for the stairs to his room.
"'Night, Chief."
"Uh, 'night Jim." Had he waited up for me? Probably, or at least slept lightly. Funny, he knew I had been in a perfectly safe place (if there is such a place for me) and yet still felt compelled to make sure I came home ok. Even in our worst times, he always made sure I was ok. It was beyond comforting, but also added to the weight I was carrying on my shoulders.
Because I hadn't come home ok and it had not been perfectly safe.
I think the only reason Jim didn't know about that part was the fact that it was very late and he couldn't have been expecting it. He just knew I was home and he could rest. Caught a break on that one.
I finally got the message to my feet that movement was a requirement here, so I made it to the bathroom and got ready for bed. Once in said bed, reveling in soft sheets and stretching my arms high over my head, I snuggled down with the right side of my head in the pillow. The left side of my head was still throbbing and I was hoping the Tylenol would kick in soon. Me using over the counter drugs tells you how much it hurt.
But, ah, dammit, my brain turned on and I was suddenly wide-awake and stressing out. Night demons suck, not just the monster-under-the-bed kind but the I-think-I've-screwed-up-my-life kind. My eyes were open, staring at a ceiling I could not see, replaying the evening over in my head. I hate reruns.
Ok, what's the patented Sandburg cure for insomnia? Tea. Maybe with some Jack Daniels in it. I'm not much for hard liquor but damn, my face hurt. I deserved it.
I hauled myself out of bed and went into the kitchen, snagging some socks on the way out. Any activity in the middle of the night with a Sentinel roommate led to serious covert measures. No lights, that's for sure. That was ok, there was enough lambent light coming in through the tall windows to get around and Jim was not one to rearrange the furniture more than once a millennium. Luckily, I had done enough late-night laptop work that I had this tea routine down pat. The teakettle was always on the stove, so no banging around with the pots. The noisiest part of the whole operation was filling it with water. I had to get the flow just right so that it was just a sibilant hiss hitting the metal. I only filled it halfway, then set it oh-so-quietly on the burner. On with the gas and then I prepared the tea, filling the little tin ball with the loose leaves I got from that herbalist near the U. The tea itself was kept in a little jar by the toaster—easy access and no cupboards to mess with.
So with the water heating and the tea ball sitting in the mug, I grabbed the socks and leaned my hips against the kitchen counter to pull them on. I was concentrating on the kettle, using four years of experience to judge just when the water was hot enough without it making the slightest rumble. A Guide who valued his life had long since eliminated a whistling teakettle from the kitchen arsenal of his Sentinel.
So intent was I on the water that when Jim spoke I jumped, just barely keeping from over-balancing as I slid on the second sock. I think he timed it that way. Even facing the stairs from his bedroom I hadn't seen him come down and for like the hundredth time I wished his Sentinel gift was contagious.
"Grab me a mug, there, Chief, but I don't want that weird stuff you drink. Give me that Sleepy stuff instead." He was on the other side of the island, reaching down into the nook where we kept the whiskey.
"Ok, but I gotta turn on the lights then."
"I'll get them." He placed the bottle on the counter and walked past me to turn on the kitchen's overhead light. I grabbed another mug and a teabag from the box in the cupboard. In a comfortable, unstaged way we moved around, me adding the bag to his mug while he poured whiskey into both of them. Then I heard the water start to bubble so I grabbed the kettle and filled the mugs, having just enough to do the job before the water ran out.
Companionably, we sat down at the table. I rarely saw this side of Jim and never took it for granted. He knew I had to be upset about Jeff and he was just being there for me. I curled my toes around the rungs of the chair and leaned forward, about to grasp the hot cup between my hands. My hair flopped in my eyes and I impatiently pushed it back over my head and tucked what I could behind my ear.
Bad move. He finally took a really good look at my face.
"Jesus, Sandburg, what the hell happened to you?" He grabbed my wrist and turned me towards him, his other hand coming up to gently touch the reddish bruise on my temple. I closed my eyes and tried to lean back, but he just leaned closer and brushed a fingertip under the cut on my lip.
I pulled my arm out of his grip and grasped my mug, stalling for time. The physical injuries were so minor compared to the larger issues, I felt a moment's impatience with Jim's palpable concern. But I finally looked full into those concerned eyes and my irritation vanished.
"Before I tell you about that, there's something you gotta know. I've changed my mind about the Vice assignment. I'm going to take it."
Oh, Sandburg, you are so smooth. Distract the big guy from that fact you got knocked around tonight with the idea that you're throwing yourself directly in harm's way without him there to catch you. I took a cautious sip of my tea, knowing from experience he was a generous bartender. The whiskey stung the cut on my lip but also started a warm feeling spreading through my tense shoulders. I glanced at him over the rim of the mug as he considered my words.
His eyebrows were slammed together in the middle of his forehead, blue eyes stern. I braced myself for any of a thousand different ways he would cut me with his comments, having learned over the years he used his razor-sharp tongue to lash out when he was pissed. The understanding friend sharing a cup of comfort with me was now devolving into stoic cop-man. I hated it when he did that but I had become used to it.
Then miraculously, he looked me straight in the eyes and lost his impassivity—I literally watched him make a decision not to hurt. I caught my breath at the warmth in those eyes and totally lost whatever it was I was going to say. He spoke first.
"Tell me."
"Tell me." Even though I didn't want to hear. I was too afraid.
The pleasures of the previous evening were growing hazy in my memory as I looked at my exhausted, determined partner. Just a few hours ago we had sat in these same chairs, eating dinner and arguing amiably the about the use of the designated hitter. Now, here I was trying to figure out how the bullet I had dodged in Simon's office this afternoon had come around to bite me on the butt. That and how my partner could be sitting here in our kitchen with bruises on his face. Again.
A dozen nasty comments had popped into my head when Sandburg said he had changed his mind about the assignment, words guaranteed to wound and belittle him into doubting his decision. But they all just disappeared when I saw he was waiting for them, tired eyes wary. God, was I that predictable?
The press conference passed fleetingly in front of my eyes. I am not a dumb man and this past year has been a harsh teacher. I lifted my mug and took another healthy swallow as Sandburg settled back in his chair, his relief that I wasn't going into my usual sonofabitch routine painfully obvious.
I forced myself to wait, trying not to focus on his swollen lower lip, but Sandburg didn't seem inclined to begin. I fidgeted a little, trying to find a safe way to start what was going to be uncomfortable conversation all the way around.
"Tell me about Jeff."
That brought his eyes to mine and I saw a sorrow in them that I couldn't reach. I met those eyes calmly, hopefully conveying only support and care, hiding the fears his earlier words had provoked. Whatever he saw seemed to be enough, and he relaxed.
"I met Jeff at school, obviously. He and Stacey had just moved here from Montana and I kinda showed them around for a while. We became good friends, spent a lot of time together." A cloud of pain gathered in his eyes. I snagged the bottle of whiskey from the counter and splashed some into both our mugs. He nodded his thanks and went on.
"I was best man at their wedding, you know? It was great, really cool." He sipped at his drink and grimaced at the taste. "About six months after they got married we all were scheduled to go to Brazil to visit a site. No big deal for me but for them it was like the Holy Grail. Jeff was beyond pumped, but when his father got wind of it he just went ballistic on Jeff and flew here, telling him he couldn't go. There was this big scene in their apartment and the next thing I know I've totally had it with the way Jeff's dad is treating him. So I open up my big mouth, tell him his son is a big boy and he should just back off."
I couldn't help it, I snorted. This was so Sandburg. He looked a little amused himself.
"Anyway, he looks at me like I'm the stuff slugs scrape off their shoes and proceeds to try to bully Jeff into quitting. Jeff didn't back down and we went."
He paused, gathering himself for the rest of the story. Unconsciously, his left hand floated up and fingered the bruise over his eye. "But Jeff got sick down there, some kind of infection. Jeff's dad was waiting for us at the airport when we brought Jeff back—" he paused, "and pretty much blamed me for talking Jeff into going. Well, turns out Jeff had a congenital heart problem no one knew about and the infection triggered it. He's been pretty sick ever since. He and Stacey never got to have a family or anything. They moved back to Montana but came back to be close to Cascade Gen when things got really bad, just in case a heart became available. Not gonna happen, I guess—he's gone downhill too fast." I looked away from the glint of tears in his eyes, giving him a chance to compose himself. I was about to take another sip of the whiskey when I figured it out. I know about fathers.
"Jeff's dad was at the hospital, wasn't he? He's the one that hit you."
Sandburg nodded, not meeting my eyes. "Yeah, took one look at me and lost it. It's ok, I mean I understand, his son is dying. And it was after I, uh... I said goodbye."
It wasn't ok with me but there wasn't anything I could do about it. There was silence for a few minutes; I drained my cup and tried to figure out how to proceed. This was a helluva sad story but it didn't explain why my partner changed his mind about the assignment. I was just turning to him when he pushed his chair back and stood up. I watched him carefully, hoping he wasn't under the impression we were done here. I still had to convince him the Vice thing was a no go.
The alcohol had hit his over-tired system and his coordination was a little off. He carefully slid the chair back to the table, then leaned his forearms against the top and clasped his hands. He lowered his head, curls falling over his face, and I waited.
"Thing is," he started softly, "the guy was right. He was fucking right."
Alarms went off in my head. "Whoa, there, Chief. No way was he right about what happened to his son. That was not your fault."
He shook his head. "No, man, I know that." He straightened up and rolled his neck muscles, eyes closed. For a guy who usually won't shut up he was being amazingly tight-lipped. I was about to urge him on again—it's 1:30 and I gotta get up in five hours—but Sandburg was moving.
Away from the table, away from me. What the hell? He stepped into the kitchen and turned off the light, then walked over to the windows and stared out. The darkness was important to him and for some reason that bothered me. I got up and went to stand by him, not touching, eyes straight ahead, parade rest. We both faced out into the night and again I waited.
"He called me a fraud, Jim." So painfully, so quietly.
My mouth went dry. God, I hated that word. "He heard about the dissertation?"
He laughed without humor. "Nope. Well, yeah, but that's not it. Heard I was a cop."
Oh, Christ, this was worse than I thought. I rocked on my heels, desperately trying to find words that would comfort without patronizing. I fell back on gathering information. "How'd that happen?"
Another flat chuckle. "Told him myself, right after I slammed him up against the wall."
That did it. Enough of this goddamn hunting and pecking. There was a world of hurt in the man next to me and I needed to get at it. But first I had to get his cooperation. I turned, grabbed his left shoulder and spun him around. Before he could interpret this as a hostile move, my usual MO, I reached my other hand up and laid it against his cheek.
"Come on, Chief, quit fucking around. Let me in here."
Finally, a genuine smile. There was no moon tonight, but in the faint starlight I could see him relax as his eyes met mine. He reached up, wrapping his fingers around my wrist and giving it a squeeze. "Sorry, Jim, I don't mean to be so cryptic. Totally not my style, right? Didn't know whiskey made me sound like Bogie." I dropped my hands but he stayed close, still facing me. Why we were standing next to the loft windows, in the dark, in the middle of the night, when there was a perfectly good couch just a few feet away, I don't know. Upon reflection, it suited Sandburg. Suffer in the shadows, don't let 'em see you sweat.
"Bogie, Chief?" I snorted. "More like Bullwinkle. Tell me what happened."
He crossed his arms; I could feel the minute tremors as the chilled air began to hit him. I
rolled my eyes and jerked a thumb towards the couch. "Look, let's at least sit down, ok?"
We moved over to the couch and I grabbed the afghan, tossing it to him. I settled in, turning my back into the corner of the couch and curling up a leg so I was facing Sandburg as he wrapped himself up, finally sitting next to me. He blew out his breath and started.
"Jeff's dad wasn't supposed to be there, you know? He was supposed to be picking someone up at the airport, I think. I got there and Stacey met me outside Jeff's room. The doctor was with him so we waited outside. Um, they're thinking it could be soon." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, doctor came out and let me see him." He faltered again. He had pulled his feet up on the couch and had wrapped his arms around his knees, facing me; I absently tucked the afghan around his toes while he blinked away the moisture in his eyes. "So, I went in and he was, um—" He stumbled, grief etched in his voice.
"Hey, take it easy, Chief." I gave his toes a squeeze.
"Ok, so, anyway, afterwards, I come out and I was saying goodbye to Stacey and here comes dear old dad out of the elevator. You know me, discretion being the better part of valor and all; well, sometimes, anyway. I did not want a confrontation so I headed out, but the guy sees me and starts harassing me, all the same crap from before plus a few choice words about the press conference. Who knew it played in Great Falls, man?" He gave me a little smile I couldn't return. "I tried to catch the elevator but he's following me so I took off for the stairway. Nurses are yelling at us, people are staring, geez, the guy was like a maniac. Finally make it into the stairwell and I'm about to head down when he grabs me from behind and backhands me. My luck, he's got this friggin' huge ring which accounts for the fat lip. My head bounces off the doorjamb and I'm thinking, Jesus, I don't have to take this. He's about to take another swing, so I grab his arm, twist him around and he's against the wall. Worked just like it does in class, right? He's got like fifty pounds on me but it works. But I'm pissed, so I tell him I'm a goddamned cop now and he better back off." He shook his head and looked away, back out into the night. "He laughed. Face smashed against the wall and he's fucking laughing at me. Said it's gotta be some kinda record to be a fraud twice in one year."
Oh, shit. "Blair—"
He brought his clear gaze back to me. "No, it's ok, Jim, it's not like it's the first time, right? But all of a sudden I see me how everybody else must see me, like I'm some kind of joke. Man, I thought I was pissed before. And this guy, he's like the least of my problems. So I just walked away. I took off down the stairs. He's still yelling at me but at least he didn't follow me, so I finally got outta there. Then, I just drove around for while, thinking about stuff. Ok, bad move, I know, but I realized if I'm gonna do this, if I'm gonna be your partner, I gotta do it all. Nothing halfway, ok?"
He looked at me over his knees and, God help me, I thought there's no way he can be a cop. My partner, yes, hell yes, but a cop? He feels too much, he's too vulnerable. He was sitting there, dark curls all over the place, afghan tucked under his chin, and all he wants in life is to be at my side. But looking in those dark eyes I suddenly saw beyond the vulnerability, right in to the strength that dwells in my partner. He is committed, he's loyal and—in the most amazing gift of fate—he's mine.
How do I help him now—and keep my sanity at the same time?
"Jim! Have you seen my earrings?"
"Sandburg, I'm gonna forget you asked me that. And if you don't move your butt you're taking the bus."
Jim was totally grouchy this morning. He knew I could have taken the Volvo but his offer to drive me to the station was his way of gaining a little control. I tried to put the grumpiness down to having to drink decaf—I forgot to go to the store again—but deep inside I knew that wasn't it. Today was D-Day for boy-detective Blair Sandburg and his partner was not taking it well, not well at all. Jim had been tight-lipped (some people would ask how could I tell) since dinner last night. Me, on the other hand, I had been talking nonstop about anything other than what lay ahead today. Part of it was pure nervousness; I've been undercover before but never with another department and never without Jim close by. But I'd signed on for it and it was cool. The other part, well, that was just trying to unwind the coiled steel rope that Jim had become.
Not that he hadn't been supportive. When I called Simon the morning after seeing Jeff to tell him I would take the Vice gig, Jim had stood close by, hands on hips, jaw muscles clenched, nodding his head. He even forced a little smile when Simon asked to talk with him, I think to verify that it was ok with Jim. Jim's side of the conversation had been monosyllabic but he did manage to convey his assurance to Simon that he was not going to tie me to the balcony railing 'til I changed my mind. A guy couldn't ask for more than that.
Actually, up until last night, Jim had been a little more forthcoming with the support thing. In the few days between my change of mind and the day the assignment began, he had been unnaturally talkative, a veritable fountain of undercover stories and helpful hints. It was like he was trying to fill me up with enough of his experience so that I could draw on it as if it were mine. After every briefing in Vice I was rebriefed by both Jim and Simon, the two of them my own personal tag-team, helping me wade through the considerable amount of information I needed to know since I was coming in late. There were names to memorize, history to study—stuff I actually love to do. The whole situation of a local mob being edged out by a Canadian syndicate sounded just like a tribal border war to me. I mentioned this observation to my two coaches and you would think I had just shaved my head. Then I got it. They think the anthropologist in me died when I held that press conference.
Sometimes I get a little tired of being underestimated.
My part in this whole thing was pretty minor, to tell the truth, but Jim and Simon were treating it like we were planning the battle of Midway. Turns out I had been wanted more for my "look" than anything else, but that was ok. Vaguely insulting, but ok. Regardless, I was not ready to swim in the deep end again, at least not without my Blessed Lifeguard on duty.
"You shoulda packed that last night, Chief." Jim was standing in my doorway, leaning against the jamb and jingling his keys. I was stuffing an old CPD duffel with the clothes I would be wearing on the job today, throwing in a few extra items of my own as inspiration hit me. We had taken a couple of hours over the weekend to roam second-hand clothing stores, looking for stuff that would fit in with the crowd I would be hanging with. After the predictable remarks from Jim about what I found not being that different from what I own, we got some pretty grungy looking jeans, a threadbare, blue cotton shirt, and a ratty windbreaker with the Seahawks insignia on it. My own pair of well-loved Nikes would work just fine with the ensemble, I thought. Ok, let's face it, I like dressing up for the part. Somewhere underneath the cop and the anthropologist was an actor just waiting for his chance.
"Yeah, I know, but that leaves no room for spontaneity, right? Hey, there they are!" My eyes had caught a glint of silver in the corner of my top drawer. I yanked them out, disregarding the knotted socks that tumbled to the floor. "Man, I hope the holes aren't closed—that'll hurt like hell. Jeez," I muttered, "First day on the job and I'm already bleeding for the cause."
Poor choice of words there, Junior Detective. Jim straightened up, gripping the now silent keys.
"Just make sure that's all the bleeding you do, Sandburg."
I kicked myself as he turned and walked away. I stuffed the earrings in my pocket, grabbed the bag and followed him out, briefly wondering how I was going to get Jim through this.
It was a fairly quiet trip to the station. Thankfully, Jim had been scheduled to testify in a case that I had missed, being out of town on a field trip some time last year when he worked it. I was thrilled at the timing; court was not fun but at least it was distracting. So he was dressed in a suit, one of the nice ones left over from his undercover work with that bogus protection agency. I felt seriously underdressed in flannel and khakis, but Jim had talked me out of getting ready at home.
"Doing this undercover crap, you gotta feel like you can leave it at the station. You start dressing the part at home, you start feeling it there, too. Take what you need and change." I had looked at him at the time, right after we got home from shopping, and I heard more in his tone than just the voice of experience. Jim had looked back, conveying more with his cool eyes than just professional advice. My heart expanded a little with the realization Jim was treating me like an equal and yet conveying his own personal message of care at the same time. I really like this new and improved Jim Ellison.
Jim was due in court by 9:00 and I had one more meeting with my team before going on site. It felt odd to be part of something so separate from Major Crimes, but the squad in Vice had treated me pretty good. Everyone acted professional and I was about as comfortable as I was gonna get while being out of my own department.
Jim parked the truck and we moved together towards the door leading into the station, me hauling the duffel over one shoulder. I was trying to formulate a suave exit line to release Jim so he could head up to Major Crimes without feeling awkward. As we hit the elevators, though, he started talking first, casually glancing at his watch.
"Come on, I got some time here. I'll walk you up to Vice and grab some of their doughnuts while you change."
I nodded like this was the most natural thing in the world, even though I felt like I was about to be delivered like a fragile package to a china shop. Jim had been good about staying away from Vice, not wanting to at least appear like the over-protective partner that he was. I thought fast, trying to figure out a way to get him to Major Crimes so I could concentrate on my job. I came up with a compromise.
"No way, Jim, their doughnuts are older than ours and ours date back to the Pleistocene. Look, let me change first. Then, if you have time, you can raid their stash. Come with me to the locker room and keep me company while I get ready."
He looked a little mulish but when we got on the elevator he pushed the button for the third floor. I breathed a small sigh of relief. Locker room it is.
Fifteen minutes later, I finished tying my shoelaces and rose from the bench. I had ditched the windbreaker for an old denim jacket of mine that still had some protest buttons attached to it. Jim was sitting on one of the benches between the lockers, talking to colleagues and looking for all the world like a lost GQ model.
Funny, for not wanting to send me on my way he sure wasn't paying a lot of attention to me. He was deep in shoptalk with Tim Harvey from Homicide when I moved around to the mirror hung at the end of the row. I pulled the two silver hoops off my fingers where I had stuck them when I changed jeans and gingerly threaded them through the holes. They went in without a hitch, which I considered a good omen. Eight in the morning and no bloodshed.
For a second I stared at my reflection, not quite recognizing the man that looked back. The jacket, the earrings, the hair worn loose—this wasn't a cop, this was a grad student. Or a grad student pretending to be a cop. Suddenly, I was flooded by pure panic. Not a panic attack, just an absolute certainty that someone would recognize I had no damn business doing what I was about to do. There were plenty of people at the Academy that were no doubt going to be overjoyed when my little deception was discovered; that little fortress of higher education had not exactly been the cakewalk I portrayed to Jim. But just the thought of those smug bastards snapped me out of the dark place I had sent my head, and when I looked in the mirror again I saw Detective Blair Sandburg—and I was ok with that.
Which was a good thing, because when I came around the corner and faced Jim, I thought the man fell into an instant zone at the sight of me.
He was standing, leaning his shoulder against a locker, and when I came around the edge he was just looking up from his watch again. I pulled my hands out from my sides like I had just performed a minor miracle and graced him with a great, big smile, as if to share in the little victory I had just won at the mirror.
But Jim definitely wasn't on the same page yet. He straightened up, crossed his arms over his chest, and proceeded to give me a glare that would melt glass. My own smile faltered a little and my hands fell to my side.
"What? Too conservative? Should I run out and get a tattoo? Jeez, Jim these are bellbottoms!" I ducked my head a little, trying to read his eyes. No response. Come on, big guy, give me a clue here.
Finally, he uncrossed his arms and walked toward me, the frown fading and blue eyes warming the closer he got. I didn't say anything when he stopped right in front of me; our eyes locked and for a heartbeat we understood each other completely. People change in four years. I had seen that in the mirror and now Jim had caught up. He was ok, too.
I slipped him a brief smile and went to move past him to shut the locker holding my gear. Just as my shoulder was drawing even with his, he stopped me with a strong arm across my chest. I looked up at him, a question in my eyes. The frown was back but it seemed non-Sandburg specific. He pulled me around to face him and, with infinite care, started pulling off the slogan buttons attached to my jacket pockets. One by one they came off, all six of them, each one dropped into my outstretched palm, pin side up.
When he was done, Jim stepped back and tilted his head, looking at me critically. I raised my eyebrows in silent comment and was about to ask if he was done when he dipped back into the buttons in my hand. To my surprise, one button was gently pinned back on the underside of my jacket collar where no one could see. I pulled it away from my body and twisted my neck to see which one had made the cut. Of all things, the one that ended up under the collar of the jacket was the tiny peace sign that Naomi had given to me when I was a kid. Leave it to Jim to know which one was my favorite.
"So, I pass inspection or what,?" It was time to go and we both knew it.
"Yeah, you'll do. See ya tonight." And with that, Jim turned and stalked out of the locker room. Sentimental slob.
The suit jacket hit my desk chair with an unsatisfying whoosh. It was rapidly followed by the tie I had just ripped from my neck. It slipped over the rumpled jacket and fell to the floor, but I was headed towards Simon's office under a full head of steam and couldn't care less. I rapped on his door and opened it, hoping he would understand my lack of protocol.
I was inside and standing in front of his desk by the time he looked up from the paperwork he was signing.
"Gee, Jim, won't you come in?" His tone was bone-dry as he set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. I undid the top two buttons of my shirt and turned to sit on the conference table. Once comfortably settled, I leaned on my fists and sighed.
"God, I hate this, Simon."
He nodded. "I know. Been kinda jumpy myself today." He forestalled my next question with an upraised hand. "No, I haven't heard anything and no, I'm not going to call down there like a parent with a new babysitter. Day's almost over and they'll be bringing them in soon."
I shook my head. "This is wrong, sir. He's not ready for this." I had had a full day in an overstuffed courtroom to stew about this situation and felt I had been patient enough.
Simon folded his hands on his desk and I could see him trying to figure out how to deal with me. "No, Jim, you're the one that's not ready. Sandburg is prepared and trained. Had a word with Tom Vincent late yesterday and he's very comfortable with his team. You and I need to respect that."
My professional head was tracking right with Simon on this but my Sentinel heart was somewhere across town. I shook my head and looked out the window, trying to discipline my thoughts. Everything Simon said was right—Sandburg was ready, he was prepared, so I just had to get over it.
"I know, Simon, you' re right. I just didn't expect he would be out in the field without me, you know?" I turned back to see him nodding, smiling slightly.
"Don't I know it. I somehow feel guilty for passing him off to another department. Seems like Sandburg's my own personal cross to bear." His smile widened and I took his remarks in the manner they were given. We shared an amused glance, silently acknowledging the truly unique twist of fate that brought Blair into our lives.
A darker thought crossed my mind. I'm not sure why I asked, but I did. "Simon, you really ok with Sandburg coming on board here full time?" Part of me felt like I had strong-armed the captain into accepting his newest detective, although common sense told me I could not talk this man into going anywhere he didn't want to go.
Instead of replying to my question, Simon surprised me with a question of his own. "Jim, when you gonna forgive yourself for what happened with Blair's dissertation?"
That hit me like a punch to my solar plexus. My head snapped up and I scowled at him. "Where the hell did that come from?"
Simon pulled off his glasses, that wary look coming over his features again and I could see he was debating how to go on. His words were reminiscent of our conversation in his hospital room. "You have it all now, right? Your partner, your privacy. You still feel guilty, don't you?"
For some reason, his digging set me off. Maybe it was the stress of the day, the boredom of court, I don't know, but I lost it. I stood up and let it fly.
"You're damn right I feel guilty, Simon! Why do we keep having this damn conversation? Do you know how much I hated that thing? It was always there, like you said in the hospital, and I hated it every damn day. Knowing he was working on it, that he was going to publish it, that he had to publish it. I kept hoping he would just wake up some day and tell me he had trashed the whole thing. And then he did. Goddammit, Simon, he did exactly what I always wanted and it almost destroyed us and you are goddamn right I feel guilty!" This last was said with my best bellow and Simon winced a little. I took a deep breath and dropped my head, hands on my hips. Then I looked up into the sympathetic eyes of my friend and captain.
"You feel better?"
I gave him a sheepish half-grin. "Yeah, a little. Sorry, Captain, I guess you hit a nerve."
He replaced his glasses and snorted. "Yeah, I seem to have a talent for that. Look, Jim, I may tell Sandburg this some day but I'm telling you right now. I am proud to have him on my team and don't think he would be here if I weren't. You need to accept this, Jim. You need to get a grip."
His last words shook me a little. "I had a grip, Simon, I swear to God I did. Last night was ok, he was a little nervous but ok. But this morning, in the locker room, we both just freaked a little." He smiled at that; I don't often break into Blairspeak. "When he changed clothes, suddenly I was looking at this grad student selling me a load of bullshit about Sentinels and telling me he can help me." I spread my hands out, trying to convey the sense of déjà vu that had overcome me that morning.
"Probably won't be the last time that happens, Jim." Simon stood up and moved in front of his desk, leaning back and crossing his arms. He looked a little uncomfortable as he continued. "Jim, Sandburg tell you anything about the Academy?"
I felt a tightness at the back of my neck. "Not specifically. I hear he took some crap about his hair. He seemed to apply himself to the courses just like he did at Rainier. I think the studying was good for him, helped him ease his way from one job to another." I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"
Again, that twinge of uncertainty passed through his eyes. "He mention anything about his classmates?"
"Come on, Simon, cut the crap. What are you trying not to tell me?" The strain increased and I rubbed a hand against the nape of my neck.
Simon sighed. "Sandburg finds out I told you this he's gonna come unglued. Seems there's this one guy—" he was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He leaned back and snagged it.
"Banks. Ok, what's their ETA?" He locked eyes with me. "Yeah, ok, thanks for letting me know. What? Yeah, he's here, I'll tell him." As he hung up, Simon straightened. "They're coming in now. I'm supposed to pass on to you that Sandburg is not exactly sticking to the script and ask if you have any advice."
"Damn kid's improvising, isn't he? That'll make a nice dinner topic. I'll yell, he'll listen, I'll make my point, he'll argue, then I'm the one who feels like the idiot." I shook my head. Why should tonight be any different? Then something occurred to me. "Captain, how come they called you?"
Simon actually blushed, a phenomenon I have never witnessed. I could actually feel the heat rise in his cheeks from where I stood.
"I, uh, asked Tom to give me a call. Professional courtesy, you know."
"Right, Captain." I smiled my easiest smile of the day, knowing Simon was embarrassed at being caught. No way was I gonna call him on it, though. I appreciated him too much for that. Instead, I steered him back to the subject at hand.
"So tell me what's going on at the Academy." We were interrupted again by the phone. Simon moved around behind his desk and answered it.
"Banks. Yeah, hold on a sec—" he placed his palm over the mouthpiece. "Jim, I gotta take this. Vincent said the team should be back in about twenty minutes." He sat down and resumed his conversation. I had no recourse but to head back to my own desk, still wondering what was going on that I didn't know about.
It was pretty late in the afternoon and I knew Sandburg still had to file his report and do a team debriefing. I figured I had about an hour and a half before he was ready to go so I sat at my desk and caught up on messages and paperwork that had accumulated while I was in court. It was butt-numbing work, but it served its purpose. Six o'clock on the dot I grabbed my jacket and tie, tossed off goodbyes to the bullpen and headed towards the elevators.
I thought I might as well head to the Vice squadroom now; it would be nice to visit with some old acquaintances, sharing war stories and catching up on marriages, kids, divorces, the usual. Vice had not been my favorite assignment but I had made some friends over the brief period of time I was there. One in particular was Detective Terry Meyers, currently assigned to desk duty before taking maternity leave. I saw her at her desk and she waved me over. Soon, we were laughing at the old days. I was gently teasing her about her husband being so sure this one was going to be a boy—they had two girls—when Terry's laughing eyes slipped past mine to the elevator across the room. Seeing her attention drawn away, I shifted my hips around on the credenza I was perched on to see what had caused her smile. Having honed in the heartbeat of my partner since he entered the elevator from the floor below us, I wasn't surprised by what I saw.
Walking out of the elevator—backwards, for God's sake—was Sandburg. Hair flying, hands waving, he was followed by a carload of laughing, jostling detectives, listening to every word the kid was saying. I cocked my head to listen, a smile of my own beginning to form on my lips. I was obviously catching the end of a very convoluted story.
Blair had stopped right at the edge of the first desk in the Vice bullpen, and the four officers gathered around him as he finished with a flourish, "And that, man, is the reason why you gotta cancel your cable. Big Brother is monitoring you through the Sci-Fi Channel, I swear to God! What do you think that planet thing is in the corner?" The four cops burst into laughter with hoots and jibes spinning out of them as they dispersed. I glanced around at the faces of the other detectives on duty, ones just passing or listening in from their own desks. They were all smiling, the normally tense mood of a difficult job lifted by the presence of Blair Sandburg.
Then Blair turned around, catching his Sentinel's eye and smiling. Though the bruise at his temple was fading nicely, to my eyes it stood out like a beacon. As he made his way over to Terry's desk, my breath caught in my throat, much as it had this morning when Blair had emerged from the corner of the locker room before heading into the field. I regretted leaving him so abruptly then but suddenly my heart had been too full and I had to leave before he saw how much this was getting to me.
Sandburg joined us and we exchanged soft, low fives. The brief touch left me hungry for more, a need for connection, but I just leaned back and crossed my arms. He stood in front of me and Terry, hands on hips, rocking just a little. Not the old hyper-Blair on speed bounce, just movement of adrenaline and energy. I took in the torn jeans and denim jacket, and thought back to the young student that once would have worn these clothes without hesitation. They really no longer belonged to my Guide, I realized, any more than the earrings did. It was jarring to see the trappings of the younger Blair on someone so much more complex, so much more solid than the high-strung anthropologist that had thrown himself into my life. The waifishness was gone, replaced by compact strength. I know all the reasons for the lines of maturity that now finely etched the youthful face—and damned them all—but was I was still infinitely glad I was here to see them.
I was listening to Blair and Terry with half an ear, watching Terry come under the Sandburg spell. Blair was explaining odd birthing rituals from one tribe or another and Terry was soaking it up, tears of laughter tracking down her cheeks. I smiled along, having heard variations on this theme for four years. As the silly story was winding down, I saw lines of fatigue deepening around Blair's eyes, even as they widened earnestly.
"No, really, I swear they use mud, see, and then they catch them like this," Blair was saying, knees bent and hands in front of him like a quarterback about to take a snap. Terry was still chuckling, shaking her head in disbelief. I laid a hand on my partner's shoulder.
"Come on, Sandburg, leave the poor woman alone. You still gotta change." I gave him a gentle push towards the door, adding, "Don't take too long, Chief. I'm starved and you're buying."
Blair turned at the elevator door, eyes alight. "Me? I've been working all day, Ellison, while you've been in court—oh, wait a minute. You're right. Your day was suckier than mine." The elevator doors opened behind him and he jumped in, starting a conversation with the uniform already in there. As the door closed he yelled "Gimme fifteen, Jim. "
I turned to say goodbye to Terry, who looked up at me with an amused expression. "Suckier?"
"Welcome to my world, Terry." I stood up. "All that education and that's what he sounds like. Hey, I see Davis over there. I'm gonna go—"
"Make sure Sandburg was ok out there." Terry shook her head. "When did you turn into such a softie, Jim Ellison?"
Beats the hell out of me, I thought. Nah, I know exactly when. I rolled my eyes and headed over to the desk of Jamie Davis. He was the point officer in charge of Sandburg's team. I didn't know Davis well, mostly just from impressions I received from Sandburg when we had gone over his assignment. Davis was a stocky man in his fifties with thinning hair resolutely scraped over his bald head and a penchant for chewing pencils. He had one gripped between his teeth like a rose as he sat at his desk, filing a report on his computer using only his index fingers. Despite having the appearance of a low rent accountant, his reputation was one of hard work and occasional inspiration. He had come to Vice with Tom Vincent, having worked together in Tacoma. He looked up as I approached.
"Hey, Ellison." Davis spoke around the pencil, then removed it with a little grimace. "Sorry. It's gross, I know. Better than smoking, anyway." He tossed the pencil onto his desk and looked back at me. "So, you wanna know how your partner did, right?" Davis leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head, grinning.
I nodded. "Yeah, I hear he's improvising. What's up with that?"
Davis shook his head and wrinkled his nose. "Nothing bad. Just found a lost kid and straightened him out."
"Lost kid?"
"Yeah, couldn't have been more than fourteen. Not unusual for that part of town but this one was obviously a newbie. Sandburg got him to hightail it over to that family shelter on 7th. Don't know what Sandburg told the kid but it worked. He called the shelter on my cell coming back in the van. Kid was still there, waiting for his aunt to pick him up. Whattya think of that?" Davis absently put another pencil between his teeth.
I blew out a loud breath of frustration. "He can't be doing crap like that, Jamie. He's risking his cover pulling a stunt like that."
Davis shook his head and pulled the pencil out, waving it to make his point. "No, don't think so here. No one knows him yet. He's ok. Worked the streets, made conversation, went to ground just like everyone else when we did the fake sweep. No harm, no foul."
"Yeah, well, I'll talk to him. He's a cop now, he can't make it up as he goes along."
Jamie snorted. "Right, like you never did. We heard about you even down in Tacoma." Davis looked at me with suddenly compassionate eyes. "Cut the kid some slack, Jim. He'll be ok."
I nodded. "I know. Hey, catch ya later, Jamie." I had a sudden, strong desire to connect with Sandburg and get some normalcy going. This was just the first day in a possibly long assignment and I felt a little elated in having it behind us. Despite what I had said to Sandburg, I had every intention of buying the kid dinner.
As I headed to take the stairs to the locker room, I was stopped in my tracks by a young man with a communications headset dangling around his neck. He looked vaguely familiar and he seemed to know me on sight.
"Detective Ellison?"
"Yeah, what can I do for you?"
He held out a pink message slip. "I wanted to give this to Detective Sandburg in person but I'm going off-shift and his voice-mail doesn't work yet. Are you going to see him?"
"Yeah, on my way to meet him now. I'll give to him."
"Thanks." The communications officer handed me the slip and walked away. I read the message automatically and my heart sank. It was from Stacey Monroe. I slipped it into my pocket.
I took the stairs down to the third floor and waded through the shift change that now filled the locker room. I flinched a little at the noise level—you'd think by now I would have learned. Sandburg was just closing his locker, changed and cleaned up, hair pulled back, earrings gone. He didn't know I was there yet and I could tell the adrenaline was wearing off. His movements were slower and he seemed oblivious to the activity flowing around him. He looked up as I came closer, a tired but mischievous smile lighting his eyes. I had to smile back. Then, I tried to look stern.
"Sandburg, you really want us to cancel the cable?"
He chuckled. "What, are you nuts? And lose the Cartoon Network?"
"That's
what I thought. Where you wanna go for dinner?"
He grabbed his duffel and started following me back out of the room, weaving our way through the other cops. Sandburg kept talking, knowing I could hear him over the noise.
"Well, let's see, still on Academy scale, still owe about a million bucks in student loans, I'm thinking we got some tortilla chips at home and you have that can of Cheez Whiz. I think there's some of that apricot beer you like, too. Hey, we're set!"
We came out of the locker room and headed towards the elevator bank. The next shift had begun and the corridors were pretty clear. Sandburg went to press the button for the down elevator but I beat him to it and pressed the up button. He adjusted the duffel strap on his shoulder and looked at me, eyebrows raised in a question.
"Oh, come on, Jim, don't tell me you gotta go back to work! That Cheez Whiz isn't getting any fresher, you know what I'm saying?"
The elevator arrived and we stepped in. As I pushed number seven, I pulled out the message slip. "Relax, Sandburg, we'll go to Plaza Jalisco and I'll buy," I handed him the paper, "but you got a call to make first and I thought you might want to do it at your desk."
He took the message from me and read it, hefting the duffel again. Watching his face fall, I felt a contagious sadness for a life lost too young and at the same time an intense gratitude for the one still beside me.
Sandburg swallowed and looked up at me, a half smile on his lips. "Thanks, Jim, you're right." The elevator stopped and we got out, heading to our desks. "I'll only be a minute."
"Take your time, Chief, I'm gonna go talk to Connor." I wanted him to have a little privacy while he made the call and Connor was the only detective in the bullpen. She looked up at me with frustration shining in her eyes and before long had drawn me into the case she was working. I kept part of my attention on Sandburg as I sat down in the chair next to her desk. She was assigned to a case involving car theft, a crime I am somewhat familiar with, so we hashed out some ideas. By the time Sandburg finished his call and joined us, some of the stress had left her shoulders and we made a date to follow up the next day.
I rose and looked at Sandburg. He was doing ok, not great, but composed. He managed a smile at Megan, who naturally smiled back.
"How you doing, Sandy?" She was a favorite of Sandburg's, one of the few people he entrusted me to when he couldn't be at my side.
"Hey, Megan, I'm doin' good. Not as much fun as we had, though. I think I'm a better starving artist than I am a panhandler."
"Oh, I don't know, Sandy, I'd give you change." She winked at him and I mentally thanked her for putting a twinkle in those eyes.
"Sandburg, we eating sometime tonight or what?" I grabbed his arm and turned him towards the doorway as we said goodnight to Connor and headed for the truck. Not a word was spoken as we buckled up and made our way to the restaurant. I figured Sandburg would talk when he was ready, and as we pulled into the parking lot, he did.
"Service is on Thursday," he said quietly as I pulled into a parking space. For some reason I cannot fathom, ever since discovering my enhanced senses, I always get good parking spots.
I set the brake and unbuckled my seatbelt. "You gonna go?" I think I already knew the answer and I don't think I liked it.
He sat for a moment, then undid his own seatbelt and grabbed the door handle. He turned to me as he opened the door. "Yeah, I'm gonna go."
He started to get out but I reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'll go with you."
He shook his head. "No, Jim, you don't have to do that. Nothing's gonna happen. I'll stay away from Mr. Monroe."
I tightened my grip. "I'm not going to protect you, Chief, I'm going with you to support you, ok?"
Sandburg looked a little nonplussed and the thought passed through my mind that I still had some ground to regain with this friendship thing.
Then he smiled that patented Sandburg smile at me and said, "Cool. Come on, let's go eat before you change your mind about paying."
"I'm not gonna change my mind but we are going to discuss the little side trip into social work you took today."
"Aw, Jim!"
It was a beautiful day and I had to go to a funeral.
It had worked out ok with my assignment because I was due to be seen more and more at night in the nasty neighborhood I was calling my office these days. Jim had finally been assigned a decent case—Megan's car theft ring—but had taken the morning off to go with me. I could hear him upstairs, grumbling as he tied his tie in the mirror. I was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping the last of my coffee and really wishing I didn't have to go to this thing.
I mean, funerals are always hard, but I was half-afraid my being there would be too disruptive, since Jeff's dad held me totally accountable for his death. I thought about blowing it off but I really wanted to talk to Stacey. We had all been very close once and I don't have too many people I can say that about. I never have been one for that best friend thing, but until Jim came along, I would have said they qualified. When they moved back to Montana, we sort of lost contact. And, as much as I hate to say it, Jim just totally blew past them on the friendship scale.
Speak of the devil, he was coming down the stairs, tie perfectly tied and dark gray suit immaculate. I was appropriately dressed too, in a white, no-collar shirt and black leather jacket. I had scraped my hair back as tight as I could, as if that would make me somehow more acceptable to Mr. Monroe. Despite the crap I had taken at the Academy about my hair, I was really glad I didn't cave and cut it.
"You ready, Chief?"
I stood up and walked into the kitchen so I could rinse out my coffee cup.
"Yeah, let's go."
The service was being held in one of those mega churches out in the suburbs of Cascade, the ones that look like shopping malls to the uninitiated. The cavernous building dwarfed the relatively small party of mourners, but it made it easier for Jim and I to sit unnoticed in the back of the dark room. The service was pretty short and actually kind of nice; whoever had picked the speaker made sure the guy could talk about Jeff warmly and easily. I was surprised to read in the program that Jeff had chosen to be buried in Washington, thinking his home was really Great Falls. But I do know he had always loved it here, so maybe I shouldn't have been surprised after all.
We came to the difficult part, where the family was waiting by the door to greet the friends and family that had attended. Jim kept a hand on my shoulder as we made our way to Stacey, who looked calm and composed in the face of what must have been intolerable grief. Next to her stood her mom and then Jeff's mom and dad.
When I got to Stacey, I couldn't say anything, I just pulled her into a hug and held on for a minute, getting as well as receiving comfort. We pulled apart and I turned to Jim.
"Stace, this is my partner, Jim Ellison."
She held out a hand to him and smiled. "It's very nice to meet you, Jim. Thank you so much for coming."
Jim enveloped her small hand in both of his. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Ms. Monroe."
"Thank you," she whispered, then turned back to me as Jim released her hand. "I'm so sorry for the way Dad treated you at the hospital, Blair. He's just been so upset—"
"Sshh, Stacey, it's ok." I gave her another hug. "Call me before you head back to Great Falls, ok?"
She nodded and turned to the next person in line. Thankfully, her mom was still speaking with the lady in front of us so Jim and I just stepped past and headed for the exit. If Jeff's dad saw me he didn't say a thing; we hit the door and I never looked back.
Jim dropped me off at the loft and went on to the station; I wasn't due to meet with my team until early that evening. I was getting more and more comfortable—no, that's not the right word—accustomed to the area that comprised my assignment. Having been in and around it in the dark these past two nights was a little spooky, even knowing I had backup checking on me like clockwork.
My assignment really was simple. The Box was a conglomeration of warehouses, light industry and petty crime, but according to Vice sources it was about to step up to the major leagues, criminally speaking. There were a lot of homeless, some runaways and a host of just plain old mangy characters, one of whom I was doing my best impersonation. Over the past week I had made my presence known in small ways, panhandling, mooching, anything really that would establish me as a denizen. There were other detectives doing the same things at different times and in different locations, but always with the same goal in mind: keep your eyes and ears open for what we were told was a major movement of drugs coming through the wharves. It was an assignment that could take weeks, but I knew it wouldn't, just because budgets and manpower just couldn't sustain an operation for that long. So every time we went out, there was a sense of urgency to find the one link that would allow us to close down what threatened to be a really bad deal.
In actuality, it was a great assignment for a former anthropologist who prided himself on watching the culture around him. I think it's one of those great, cosmic jokes that my first post-observer assignment was—being an observer.
The one bright spot so far in an otherwise drudgy job was Josiah, the kid I convinced to go home on the first day. Oh, Jim had lectured at length that night about not jeopardizing my cover by acting out of character, but I couldn't help myself. This kid had no place being on the street like that and after talking to him and seeing how scared he was I just had to get him out of there, blown cover or not. When I had delicately pointed out to Jim that he was also known to risk his cover for civilians, he had just glared at me and proceeded to raid my chile relleno as if it were his worst enemy. I let him have two bites, but on his third pass I blocked his fork with my own. He feinted to the left but after years of practice I knew how to defend my plate, and before we could get into a full-fledged duel I had started laughing and the big guy couldn't help but join in.
That was almost a week ago and tonight I was due to walk the streets of the Box and look for miscreants and misdeeds—and not do a thing about them. I had made this friend, of sorts, named Calvin, who seemed to have an inside line to the workings of the neighborhood. He told me where you could rip off the passed-out winos and which corner the friendliest hookers hung out on. Calvin liked me because he thought I was a dilettante, someone who came down to this crummy area just to slum. I had told him one night the reason I disappeared so often was that I had a rich boyfriend in the public spotlight who was getting a little boring. For some reason, that made me glamorous to Calvin and he made a point of greeting me like a long lost friend every time he saw me.
Late that afternoon, sitting in the Vice conference room and listening to the intel gathered by the second team—we had two and I was on the first—I paid close attention. Team two had heard some interesting news about one of the ratty companies on the docks starting to recruit non-union labor for some light lifting, but so far no one had been approached. This sounded just perfect for my bud Calvin and I brought it up to Jamie Davis.
He plucked the ever-present pencil out of his mouth and nodded. "Yeah, Sandburg, sounds right up his alley. You work that angle tonight, ok?" The briefing had broken up right after that and I only had time to leave Jim a voice mail before we headed for the van that took us out. I always tried to check in with him even though he knew my schedule better than I did. Left over from my Rainier days, sure, but it was a nice habit to be in. I worried about him being out there without me; he worried about me being anywhere without him. As Martha says, it's a good thing.
I was always let off blocks away from where the real nasty part of the neighborhood began and separately from the other detective working the same shift. All of our schedules were mixed up enough so that I rarely worked the streets with someone more than twice and whoever it was, we never acknowledged each other once on the street. We weren't wired and our backup was the van we were delivered in; it was obviously a police van but hey, the locals had to expect some police attention.
It was a nice night for a stroll. Ok, not in this neck of the woods but I could still enjoy being outside, even if the streets were filthy and the company, um, unsavory. I headed towards the Jack of Clubs, a corner tavern that truly defined seedy. There were always a lot of people moving in and out of this place, up to serious no good, I'm sure. I had only ventured in there a couple of times but this was one place someone like me was not welcome, not having a Harley, a tattoo, or even a visible body piercing. I was reminded of that scene in Star Wars where the bartender in the alien dive kicks out the 'droids because "we don't serve their kind." C-3PO, my brother!
Sure enough, standing on the corner and making time with Yolanda, a prostitute whose warranty had definitely expired, was Calvin. He had no money and no hopes of a freebie, but I think Yolanda liked the attention. She liked me, too, I think because I was always respectful and I made a point of asking about her dog. They were laughing when I walked up, neither taking the other seriously.
"Blair, you angel, about time you got here!" Yolanda draped an arm over my shoulder and gave me a one-armed hug. She was about eight inches taller than me and had hair that was an improbable shade of red. I was not totally convinced she was born female. "That lover of yours keep you out too late last night?" Before I could answer, she was handing me off to Calvin." Looky here, Cal, Blair came, just like I told you. See, baby, Calvin found a way to make some extra money, says he gonna spend it all on me, aren't you lover?"
Calvin grinned at me. "Oh, Blair, man, we gonna make some easy money tonight! Just hauling and lifting and they gonna pay us in cash, man!"
Oh, this sounded too good to be true. Leave it to Cal to find the good deal. If this was what Vice was looking for, I was gonna be such an ace. And Jim would be so proud.
I thumped Calvin on his skinny back."Hey, I'm in! Wallet's been pretty closed at home so I could use some walking around change."
"Well, come on, then, let's get it!" Calvin looped his arm through mine and tossed off a jaunty wave to Yolanda as he spun me down the sidewalk.
"You boys be careful, now, hear? These streets ain't safe sometimes!"
Calvin and I headed toward the waterfront, talking easily. He didn't know too much about the actual job but had heard enough to make him interested. I wondered what he thought he could actually do; this guy had to be fifty at least, thin and malnourished. I may even have come to like him a little, if he didn't keep telling me about his really sordid past. Whether he made it up or not, I think at one time Calvin was a pretty serious bad guy in the tackiest sense of the word. He told me he was new to Cascade, having made himself unwelcome in warmer climes. Always working the angles, looking for easy, preferably dirty, money. He was a career punk, but one with an inexplicably sunny disposition.
It was about 11:30 when we reached the docks. A waning moon did not cast a magical glow over the area; it was depressing twenty-four seven. There was a large, concrete field, several acres at least, that was fenced off with chain link and razor wire, all badly lit by inconsistently placed streetlights. Beyond that stood a haphazard collection of buildings and warehouses that ran right up to the water. A big, faded sign announcing "Gamelli Shipping" was propped on top of the largest building. Most of the dirty windows had light shining through them, but it still looked like the abandoned offices of a long-gone business. All the respectable trade had moved uptown about six years ago when Cascade rejuvenated another decrepit part of the waterfront and left this one to rot.
There was one large gate in the fence, big enough for semis to roll through. It was set on rollers so someone could just push it to the side for access. There were two men standing on the inside of a break in the gate large enough for only people to pass through. They were dressed in black—how typical—and were watching Calvin and I approach with their right hands resting lightly on their hips. If these weren't bona fide bad guys I would eat my weight in Wonderburgers. Gross.
We strolled up to these goons as innocent as could be. Calvin was smiling and I was simply trying not to look like a cop—and considering how I was not an Ellison clone I figured I was doing ok.
"Good evening, gentleman!" crowed my companion, arms held wide. "Word is you have some employment for two young men in need of a little flash!"
One of them, the bigger one of course, stepped out toward us. "You Calvin, right?" Big Bad Guy merely glanced at me before focussing on my comrade.
"Yeah, that's right, that's me, you got it!" He turned to me and added, "This is my associate, Blair. You Andy? I was told to see somebody called Andy. That you?"
BBG, AKA Andy, glanced at me again and nodded. "Yeah, that's me. Kinski told me you was interested but didn't say nothing' 'bout this guy." He jerked a thumb at me and I tried to look tough while wondering what had happened to the beauty of the English language.
"Oh, Blair? No, man, he's cool, he's my friend. I'll vouch for him, he's ok, he just wanna work. Ain't that right, Blair?"
I lifted my eyebrows and smiled my best "who, me?" smile. "Sure, just want some easy money. Like to play the ponies, you know?"
Andy liked that. He actually smiled and pulled a racing form from his back pocket. "Hey, me too!" He unfolded the form and peered at it. "Damn, can't see. Who do you like in the sixth tomorrow?"
Oh, man, me and my improvising. If Jim could hear me now he'd be royally pissed. I started to flounder but was saved by Bad Guy Number Two, who stepped out and joined our little ensemble.
"Put that thing away and pat 'em Andy, we ain't got all night here." His voice was unpleasantly nasal and his ferrety little eyes were skipping all over the place. Andy stuffed the racing form back in his pocket and led us over to the fence where we placed our hands high on the chain link above us. I grabbed on to the metal and tried not to let my total disgust over this portion of the evening show on my face.
Once that wholly unpleasant ordeal was over, Ferret Face motioned us past the fence and instructed us to head straight towards the one door visible in the faint light, set close to the dock. Calvin thanked them like they were his best friends and we moved off across the concrete.
I couldn't make out any movement behind the windows as we got closer to the building, so it wasn't until we actually opened the door that I could really see anything. Calvin and I stepped inside and just took in the sights for a second, getting our bearings.
In front of us spread a huge warehouse that ended in large doors that opened onto the water. There were stacks and stacks of crates in neat rows, sitting on pallets. The light was shed by bare bulbs strung on wires that were looped haphazardly across the low ceiling. The markings on the crates were in Japanese, I think, giving no indication of their contents.
As Calvin and I stood there, a heavyset man in dirty coveralls approached us. He squinted at us but then his face cleared as he recognized Calvin.
"Hey, Cal, how you doin'?"
"Hey, Kinski, doin' real good. This here's my friend, Blair, he gonna work for you too." Kinski looked me over real carefully and again I hoped I did not have "rookie" tattooed across my forehead.
"Yeah, ok, come on, follow me." He walked us past the large crates towards the open doors. The rancid smell of oil-soaked bay water made my nose wrinkle. As we reached the back I could see a large boat bobbing next the to the loading dock. There were smaller boxes stacked closer to the door, lots of them, and maybe five other guys working both the boat and the dock to unload more from the ship's hold.
This didn't look like any drug deal I had ever seen, either in real life or on tv, so I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten myself into. Something obviously illegal, duh, but not the big bust Vice was counting on. And the worst part of it was I now had to work this thing.
Kinski indicated the growing pile of boxes that lined the far wall of the warehouse. "Either of you know how to drive a forklift?"
I rolled my eyes, my eclectic upbringing once again getting me into more trouble. I raised my hand "Uh, yeah, I know a little."
He pointed to a forklift half hidden in the shadows. "All right, you're up. We need this stuff moved downstairs tonight." Leaving Calvin behind, he walked me through the path I needed to take to get to the big lift that would take me down one floor to the basement. Figuring I really was going to have to do hard labor here I inquired about the rate of pay.
Kinski scratched his neck and made an attempt at looking sly. "Well, you do a good job tonight and we'll see about maybe you coming back tomorrow night at double the scale."
I shook my head. "No way, man, you pay me tonight or you got no driver tomorrow."
He smirked, accepting my stiff terms. "Yeah, sure, you're right. Ok, you get a C-note if we get all this crap below before sun-up."
I smiled eagerly even as my heart sank. This was gonna be a very long night following a tough day and the worst part was, being the upstanding detective I almost was, I couldn't even keep the money.
About four hours later, Kinski called a break. Muscles all over my body were shaking from manhandling the decrepit forklift over and over, up and down. I climbed down stiffly and met up outside with Calvin, who was just finishing a cigarette as I approached.
"Hey, Cal, you think we can run over to that Speedy Stop on Fourth and grab some water? I'm dying here, man."
"Hey, sure, we'll just let Andy know we's leaving for a few minutes. Come on."
We moved back across the pavement towards the gate, where Andy and Ferret Face were still keeping watch. We let them know our intentions and they let us through without a word.
I stretched as much as I could as we walked the two blocks to the gas station. As we neared the gaudily lit store, I slapped my head as if I just remembered something.
"Oh, Jesus, Calvin, I forgot to call Mickey. Oh, man, he is gonna kill me!" Mickey was the name of my "boyfriend" that had so recently gotten cheap on me. In fact, I knew I had better call the station pronto. I should have been picked up hours ago and my backup was probably going nuts. Oh, God, I hope they didn't call Jim.
I handed Calvin a five and asked him to get me a bottled water and whatever else he wanted. As he entered the store I made a beeline for the phone booth and dialed the dedicated Vice line. Within seconds I was connected to the communications officer who confirmed the fact that the cavalry was about to be called out to find me. I assured her I had gotten into nothing more dangerous than the blisters on my ungloved hands. She told me she would get the word out I was ok and would need a ride in about four hours. God, that seemed like forever. Then she told me that Detective Ellison would also be brought up to speed on my current whereabouts. Oh, great. That's just great.
"Ok, Mickey, I know, I know, I promise I'll come home in the morning, ok? Yeah, me too, bye." Calvin had joined me, handing me my water and noisily sucking on a Big Slurp. I noticed he did not offer me any change.
He grinned at me. "Everything ok at home, loverboy?"
"No problem, I got him so wrapped around my finger. Come on, let's head back." Oh, yeah, just what I wanted to do.
But two hours later, when I thought I couldn't stand one more trip down that stinking elevator, I got lucky. No, actually, I got clumsy.
We were down to three guys now; even Calvin had left, suddenly claiming a bad knee that was acting up. This wasn't the easy money he had been hoping for. I was glad he was gone; it would make it easier for me to slip away and catch my ride out of this dump. Kinski and two others were still working topside while I went up and down ad infinitem—or maybe ad nauseum.
The basement where I was storing the unending flow of crates was huge; my contribution only covered a little of the floorspace. Boxes and crates of every size were scattered haphazardly as far as I could see, which wasn't far at all. If I had had the time I would have explored, but there was no down time on Kinski's timetable.
For the umpteenth time, I maneuvered my load of crates, lining them up with the last load and setting them down. And, honest to God, I wish I had thought of this instead of just blundering into it.
I was getting really tired and my coordination was suffering. The last crate I unloaded stood by itself, waiting for my next load to add to its stack. I backed away from it and went to pull up the tines of the lift, but instead I hit the wrong lever and the fork just plowed through the box in front of it. The engine of the forklift was so loud it covered the rending of the balsa wood, but I froze anyway, thinking they would be down here soon and my brilliant detective career would be over. But they didn't show up and that's when I got curious.
I backed the forks out, left the engine running and hopped down to examine the damaged box. The tines had hit it right under the lid, puncturing two large holes through the side. I looked at my hands and then looked at the wood. The blisters had definitely developed, but it didn't look like it would take too much pressure to pull the lid up and have a peek.
So I did. I wrestled with it, popping the blisters and shredding the skin, but eventually I managed to pry up one corner enough to fit my hand inside. There was a lot of shredded paper, and I had to wade through it, pieces of it falling out over the side and through the holes. I put as much pressure on the lid as I could with my left hand and delved into the box up to my elbow.
Well, surprise, surprise.
Not drugs. Guns. Several of them. My hand touched on a few different sizes, but there was no way I could identify them beyond the fact they felt like semi-automatics. I snatched my arm back out, and as quick as I could I twisted the damaged and now bloody side around and hopped back into the forklift. Then I piled some of the other boxes on top it, then one in front, so it was effectively hidden.
An hour and a half later, five sticky twenty dollar bills in my pocket, I met my pick up and headed back to the station with my story.
Two days after Sandburg discovered the shipment of weapons I realized I was about to fly apart. I had so many different reactions to my life at the moment I could barely deal with one thing before another one cropped up.
First, my assignment to the car theft ring was not the distraction I had hoped for. Connor's a good detective and we work pretty well together, but sometimes she just makes me nuts. She may know that I have enhanced senses but she has no idea how to help me use them. Sometimes she looks at me like I should just pull this stuff out of my Jags cap. That's why I needed Sandburg and as time passed it became more and more obvious to both of us. I tried to help her out as much as I could but I think I only annoyed her. I know she annoyed me.
Then there was Simon and his sudden change of heart about telling me what was happening at the Academy. First, I tried to pick up the conversation that had been cut off so abruptly by taking Simon out for lunch. He had thoroughly enjoyed the expensive crab salad he ordered but told me straight up he had changed his mind about letting me in on Sandburg's problem. Later that afternoon I tried to guilt him into telling me by saying Sandburg needed my support. He had just crossed his arms, looked that superior look at me, and said no.
"What do you mean, no?" Now I was getting kind of offended. Why shouldn't I know? It's my job to know.
Simon had sighed. "Look, Jim, in a few weeks he'll be sworn in and it will all be behind him. I don't think he would appreciate me telling you his problems if he won't tell you himself."
Well, that hurt, but I tabled it until Sandburg was done with his assignment. Then, we would talk. Oh, yeah.
As for Sandburg, he was really driving me around the bend. Kid goes out, ends up hauling boxes for hours and really messing up his hands in the process, then manages to uncover this shipment of illegal weapons when drugs were expected. I was so proud of him I could have busted a gut, right after I pounded him into the ground for not following procedure and worrying the hell out of me.
Jamie had dropped Sandburg off the morning after his big discovery. I had sort of been up most of the night, first just sleeping lightly until my body realized he wasn't home on time. See, these senses again, they can be such a pain in the ass. Anyway, by the time he was two hours overdue I was wide-awake and watching reruns of MacGyver, having called the station and asked, very casually, to speak with Sandburg. Then I was told he wasn't back and they were working on a contingency plan to find him. That got me upstairs, tossing on clothes and reaching for the phone to call Simon. Before I could make that fatal error, the phone rang and I was told Sandburg had made contact, was ok, just got caught in a "situation." Chilling words when it comes to my Guide.
When Blair finally stumbled in the door after his long night, he was beyond tired. I knew Vice would have debriefed him within an inch of his life, so by the time he was dropped off he had been up more than twenty-four hours. I was showered and dressed and probably should have already left for the station but I didn't want to chance missing him. He hadn't called me when he was brought in, so I naturally wanted to know what had kept him out so long. One look at his face and all my questions evaporated. The kid was wiped.
Then there were his hands. I had opened the door before he had a chance to use his keys and was about to start teasing him about losing himself in the part when my eyes caught the abundance of Band-Aids covering his palms and fingers.
"Hey, Jim," he said quietly. He pulled off his leather jacket and slowly, clumsily tried to hang it on the hook by the door. I took it from him and did it myself. "Man, what a night. Wait 'til I tell you what happened." He shuffled slowly into the kitchen and carefully picked up the kettle to fill it with water for tea. I came over and leaned my elbows on the counter as he prepared a mug. I was waiting to hear whatever part of the story he was coherent enough to tell me before hauling him into the bathroom to rewrap his hands.
Finally, the water heating, he propped himself opposite me and looked at me, eyes half closed but a smile on his face.
"I take it you found the drug pipeline?" Please say yes so you can get out of there, Chief.
He shook his head slowly from side to side. "Nope. Not drugs. No drugs this time. Nope, found guns. Maybe lots and lots of guns."
My surprise was obvious and he chuckled at my expression as he turned off the gas and poured the water into his cup. I knew the water wasn't hot enough to be any good for tea but the kid was so obviously on autopilot I just let him be. I watched as he dunked the little tea ball thingy a couple of times then toss it into the sink in frustration.
When he went to cradle the mug in his palms he winced and it gave me an opening.
"What's up with those hands, Chief?" He set the mug down and held them out to me palms up, like a child. I gently grabbed his wrists and pulled him a little closer.
"Blisters. Drove a forklift all night without any gloves." His eyes were guileless as he looked up at me, glazed with exhaustion. I peered at the bandages, seeing the blood that had soaked through the pads and leaked around the edges.
"Just blisters?" I pulled him towards the bathroom and had him sit on the closed toilet cover. Whoever had worked on his hands had done only a minimal job and hadn't applied any ointment; the bandages were loose, except where they stuck to the wounds. I unpeeled the Band-Aids slowly, trying not to pull the abused skin. My jaw tightened as I saw not only torn and bleeding blisters, but a few splinters embedded in them as well, scattered over the soft flesh of both palms.
I reached into the medicine cabinet for tweezers, antiseptic ointment and gauze. Sandburg had closed his eyes and was starting to list a little when I spoke.
"Tell me what happened while I fix you up here." His eyes opened and he straightened up, nodding. While I picked out the splinters, he gave me the blow-by-blow of his night, wincing occasionally but holding still. I definitely received the Reader's Digest condensed version, which was fine with me, although even then he did his Sandburgian editorializing along the way. I just needed him to stay awake long enough for me to rewrap his hands so he could get some sleep.
His story was winding down as I finished up the second hand. Sandburg was really slumping by then, eyes drifting closed for longer intervals. I taped off the gauze and then silently handed him some aspirin and water. Tired? Oh, yeah. He took them without a word, gingerly holding the glass in both hands.
I took the glass back and set it on the counter then pulled his head forward a little. As gently as I could, I undid the tie binding his hair so he wouldn't have to sleep on a knot. Giving his head a tousle, I left him in there and moved back to the kitchen, rinsing his mug and cleaning out the tea ball. He came out a few minutes later and headed for his room, covering a huge yawn with his bandaged hands. Just as he reached the door, he looked at me.
"I hope we wrap this up soon, Jim. Major Crimes was never so labor-intensive."
"Yeah, Chief, me too. You going back tonight?"
"Yeah. Now that we know what they're moving, we gotta figure out where it's going, right? Hey, I'm gonna crash. Call me later, ok?" With that, he slipped into his bedroom and I headed out to work.
Sandburg spent that night at the docks, this time with a concentration of backup circled around him but still no wire. I had lobbied Simon to see if we could get the case reassigned to our department but he had refused, sighting lack of manpower and resources to take over an operation already well under way. Logically, this was out of Vice's league but he was right. All the Major Crimes detectives were involved in their own cases and had no time to spare. Gave it my best shot though; turns out my biggest contribution to the Vice case was a pair of thick work gloves I delivered to Sandburg later that day when he came in to work.
My case was moving along, but like I said it was not distracting enough, except when I was baiting Connor. With Sandburg now point man in a potentially violent case, I was beginning to get a little edgy. Ok, more than a little. He had come back pretty much on time the second night, telling me the next day that the shipment was complete and now Vice had to plan their next step. The cargo was being watched at all times now, but Sandburg had not been able to learn any information on who it was for or where it was going. Since he now had a foot in the door, so to speak, the pressure was on to get a handle on the situation fast. The amount of firepower he described sent an icy shot of pure fear into the heart of every cop. There was always the chance that not every crate contained weapons, but Sandburg had managed to check a few on the second night and they all held either guns, ammunition, or fake Old Navy sweats. Guess everybody's gotta diversify.
With the shipment unloaded and stored, Sandburg was back on the street tonight. I was headed for home pretty late myself and not looking forward to my own cooking, but I decided to be good and skip Wonderburger in favor of one of those salad bars at the grocery store. I was feeling pretty virtuous as I loaded up the container with lettuce and spinach, but soon enough all my good intentions were blown away as I passed up the vegetables in favor of the cheese, the ham, the turkey and lots of bleu cheese dressing. Well, Sandburg would never know.
I got home and offloaded the salad onto the kitchen counter. I snagged the remote, turned on the late news and trotted upstairs to change into sweats and a T-shirt. Although there was something to be said for having the loft to myself, it just didn't feel right. Normalcy was just around the corner, I was sure, and that included Sandburg being home at night. And cooking.
Back downstairs, I dumped the salad into a big mixing bowl and proceeded to toss it until it met my exacting specifications, each leaf evenly coated with dressing. Satisfied, I grabbed a fork and settled in on the couch, waiting for the sports segment to come on.
I was halfway through my dinner when the news came back from a station break. A "breaking news" banner hung over the heads of the two anchors, who now looked solemnly into the camera to deliver their dire information.
"We have breaking news just coming in to the Team Six news desk. An explosion down near the abandoned Gamelli container docks has set off a structure fire at this time. We have the Team Six chopper in the air and will update this story as soon as possible. Again—"
Suddenly, there wasn't enough air in the loft. In a few, brief sentences my world contracted, senses running wild in a tightening circle of panic. My vision darkened around the edges, then cleared as I tossed the bowl onto the coffee table and bolted for the phone.
Even as I reached it my cell went off in the pocket of the jacket hung next to the door. I pivoted and yanked it out, thumbing the switch.
"Sandburg?"
"No, Jim it's me." Simon sounded winded. "I'm on my way to get you. I'll be there in ten minutes."
I tossed the phone onto the counter and ran upstairs to change. Jeans, warm sweater, grab a pair of thick socks and hiking boots—the litany of the mundane kept the gnawing worry at bay. Clothes changed, I ran back downstairs and stuffed my pockets with everything I thought I would need, grabbed my jacket and then I was out the door and down the stairs in a flat sprint.
Simon had said ten, he made it in seven, lights and sirens going. I hopped in and he wordlessly pulled out, pulling an illegal U and heading towards the docks on the southern most part of town. Already, we could see the orangeish glow of the fire and the thick, black smoke that signaled it was not close to being out.
My eyes latched on to the horizon and I truthfully don't remember much about the drive. Simon may have spoken, I don't know. I wasn't exactly panicking; it was more like instinct had once again taken me over and I was running with it. I had felt this way before and I had prayed I would never feel it again.
Part of the trip took us up on the Interstate viaduct. From there we had a good look at the fire before Simon took the exit that dropped us back to street level. It looked like the old Gamelli shipping building was fully engulfed but what was more astounding was the boat moored next to it. That, I knew with a dreadful certainty, was what had exploded. It was a smoldering, blackened hulk, burning down to the water line. My heart began to climb up into my throat. Sandburg was only supposed to be in the neighborhood but somehow I just knew he was caught up in the mess.
When we reached the docks, Simon slipped his car between the other emergency vehicles already on site. The place was chaotic, with a huge amount of resources responding. I do remember the radio in Simon's care blaring out that this was a two-alarm and the scene reflected the seriousness of the situation. The streets and pavement were clogged with vehicles and personnel, but frankly I didn't register much. My feet hit the ground before the car had stopped moving and Simon was close on my heels as we headed towards the burning building.
In the back of my mind I heard Blair, telling me to be careful, and I listened. The brightness of the flames, the acrid odor of burning tar, the sirens, all of it would have been excruciatingly painful had I not been well trained. But until I knew where Sandburg was, I hesitated in extending myself too soon and risking a zone. The time was coming when I would need to be in top form.
For him.
We were stopped at the perimeter laid out by the fire department, the badges hooked to our belts getting us just that far. I looked around for something, anything, to ease my mind. With my senses turned down, I was having trouble distinguishing faces among the throng gathered to help or, in most cases, just gape.
Suddenly Simon grabbed my arm and pulled me around, pointing at a man maybe thirty feet away. It was Jamie Davis, and he was speaking frantically to a firefighter who was nodding and yelling something back. The firefighter took off, headed towards the others beginning to struggle with more hose lines. We jogged over to Davis, avoiding the scrambling firefighters, and when Davis saw us his face sagged in relief.
"Thank God! Captain, I think Sandburg's in there somewhere! He—"
My stomach clenched and I grabbed him by the upper arms, pulling him even with my eyes. "What the hell is going on, Davis? He wasn't supposed to be in there tonight!" I could feel the snarl growing on my face, but Davis didn't back down. Instead, he brought up his arms and broke my grip, stepping away and turning back to Simon. I took a step towards him but Simon threw an arm across my chest.
"Back off, Ellison!" He looked at Davis. "Fill us in quick, Detective."
"He wasn't supposed to be there, dammit! He was way over by the Jack earlier tonight, but she said they came looking for him and that guy Calvin!"
"Who? Who was looking for him?" Simon began extracting the story from the overwrought detective as I stood there silently, hands clenched at my sides. The helplessness of not knowing began to eat at me and slowly, carefully, I began to extend my hearing. My eyes were still locked on Jamie.
Davis put his hands on hips and coughed. He was rumpled and dirty, as if he had been there a while. Smoke and ash intermittently blew across our faces. "Damn, it was that prostitute, Yolanda, she said two guys that matched the description of the men posted at the dockside gate were looking for Sandburg and Calvin."
I stepped in. "Did she know?" Every muscle was tense as I strained for a sound, anything to help me find Sandburg. "Did she know where they went?" Smoke and desperation hoarsened my voice.
He shook his head despairingly. "No, she didn't. She said they had left the Jack at least thirty minutes before these guys showed up. She said they left her alone and took off." He looked at me, sorrow etched into his face. "But the surveillance team saw the van pull into the Gamelli lot at the same time another boat was pulling up to the dock. Two guys answering their description were hustled out the back of the van and over to the water side of the building. Surveillance couldn't see if they were restrained, they were too far away." He coughed again, leaning over and gagging. The shifting wind was keeping my senses muffled, and I fought beyond the muffled roar to listen. Simon was turned away from the smoke too, and soon we were going to have to move away from the growing maelstrom. Davis' next words, however, froze me to the ground and crystallized the world around me.
"That's when it blew, Captain, it just blew up."
Both my eyes and Simon's suddenly pinned the detective.
"Are you saying," Simon's voice was low and full of horror, "that Sandburg was on or near that boat when it went up?"
Davis could only stare into the flames consuming the building in front of us. "He had to have been right there, Captain, right goddamned next to it. Sonofabitch!"
Davis turned and walked away from us, hands over his face. I dismissed him as I turned back to face the fire. Simon latched on to my wrist and started pulling me back, his other arm now covering the lower part of his face.
I resisted his pull. There was something, just beyond my consciousness, something low and frantic. The fire, Simon, everything around me drifted away. I smelled, felt, tasted—nothing. I heard—oh, God, please. Please. Blair's heartbeat. From very far away, coming from the opposite side of the building that was even now beginning to collapse in on itself. I turned my head in the direction of that sound and piggy-backed my sight through the smoke.
There.
Two hundred yards away, across the vast expanse of weed-choked pavement, was Sandburg.
He had just cleared the corner of the building and was making his way towards us. My heart sank as I took stock of his condition, even as my feet were moving towards him. I started off slowly, pausing just enough to turn and yell at Simon. "Simon! I see him! He's hurt, we're gonna need EMTs!" Then I pivoted and took off across the pavement in a dead run.
About halfway there, Sandburg saw me. He raised one arm and gave a wave, then stopped as if that were all he could manage. My senses had been extended towards him, assessing both his condition and that of the collapsing building he was so near. The majority of the fire was still consuming the area closest to the waterfront but I could see the flicker of flames through the dirty windows. There was no part of the structure that was going to be salvageable. In the back of my mind, I began to conjure up boxes of ammo that would explode when the fire reached the basement.
As I drew closer to Blair, I began to catalogue his injuries. He had stopped moving forward after seeing me, resting his hands on his knees, bowing his head, gasping. There was smoke in his lungs; I could hear his breath straining. As he straightened up, his left arm came up to cradle his right and I could see the blood-soaked rip that started at the jacket shoulder and ended at his elbow. There was a smear of blood on his head but I couldn't tell its origin. He was also soaked to the skin, shivering in the night air.
Even as I registered the visible injuries, my heart was soaring. He was there, he was ok, it was going to be fine—and then when I was about fifty yards from him he turned and started to limp back behind the building, towards the aqueduct that led out to the bay.
"Sandburg!" I shouted, though I had no hope he could actually hear me. What the hell was he doing? He needed to stay clear of the burning building, where I could see him—didn't he know that? I lost track of him as he moved around the corner so I sped up. The sounds of the fire at my side buffeted against me and I lost his heartbeat.
"Dammit!" I pulled my right arm over my face as much as possible to guard against the intense heat, but when I came around the corner, the burning eased as the wind now pushed the flames away from me.
Sandburg was nowhere in sight.
Whatever thread of sound that had linked me to Sandburg had been broken. I heard only the roaring fire to my right, punctuated by busting glass and the low, rumbling thump of exploding ammunition. I was now between the burning warehouse on my right and the abutment that led down to the aqueduct on my left. In front of me stretched more pavement, paralleling the building until both came to the edge of the water. I could see a fireboat angling towards the dock but it hadn't started to pump. The fire crews had yet to move around to this side and there was still no sign of Blair.
I stopped. He was near, I just had to find him. I forced my eyes closed, having eliminated sight from helping me. I could smell only fire and chemicals, and I fought against the reflex to gag. My right side absorbed the heat from the fire; the blowing ashes were acrid on my tongue.
Back to hearing. I filtered out the cacophony around me and prayed I would pick up the all-important thrum of his heart.
Instead, thank God, I heard his voice. Hoarse, soft and cracking, it was nonetheless Sandburg and he was talking to me.
"Listen, Jim, any time now, ok?" I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to locate him. "Ok, come on, we're down here by the water. Calvin's gonna need an ambulance but we gotta get him out of the water first 'cause he's been shot." Sandburg started coughing, a harsh, painful sound, with a hint of moisture in it. That terrified me more than anything but it also gave me a focus. I ran to the side of the abutment and looked down.
Between the pavement I now stood on and the water thirty feet below me was an artificial barrier that shored up the docks. It was made of huge slabs of broken concrete laced with rebar that had been laid without any pattern. They were scattered like monoliths, the rusted rebar sticking out everywhere, sharp and deadly. The barricade was made to stop anyone from getting near the aqueduct.
Yet that was exactly what Sandburg had done. My eyes swept to the right and there he was, kneeling next to another man who was laying half out of the water, unconscious. Other guy must be that character Calvin that Sandburg had told me about. The two of them were propped up on a small, sandy outcropping. Blair had a grip under the man's arms and was trying to pull him further out of the water, but my eyes saw past them, under the water, to the where the man's leg was wedged into a crack in the submerged concrete.
I looked around for a way to get down to them. Somehow Sandburg had made it up and back and I needed to find the same path. Just as my eyes caught a smear of red on concrete I heard an approaching siren behind me. Looking back I saw an aide car just turning the corner, Simon squeezed between two EMTs in the front seat. Seeing that they had spotted me, I turned back to the bloody concrete and started down the slope, following the path Sandburg had taken.
It was tricky going, there being no rhyme or reason to the position of the broken concrete slabs. The thrusting rebar snagged at me, once ripping a hole in my jeans near the knee. Splotches of crimson kept me on track, and I finally was able to lower myself onto the sandy shelf where Blair was cradling Calvin's head in his lap. He had given up trying to unwedge the man's foot and now they both sat half in and half out of the water.
I dropped down next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me with reddened eyes and forced a small smile.
"Hey, Jim, glad you could make it. We gonna get out of here soon?"
"Yeah, Chief, cavalry's right behind me."
I shrugged out of my coat and draped it across his shoulders, then turned my attention to the unconscious man. He had what looked like a bullet wound in his upper right chest and some pretty severe facial contusions. He was still breathing, but I could hear water in his lungs. I waded down into the icy water, running my hand down the leg that was trapped. The leg seemed whole, so with a quick bend of his knee I was able to pull his foot out.
I moved back up next to Sandburg and gently nudged him out of the way so I could pull Calvin further out of the water. Blair stood and backed up as far as he could, then waited while I checked for further injuries. Satisfied that there was nothing else I could do, I turned to my partner.
"Ok, Chief, you and I are gonna have to go back up to the dock. We gotta make room for the EMT's to work down here." I pointed to where three faces were peering over the edge of the abutment above us.
Sandburg closed his eyes and nodded, then slipped out of my jacket and draped it over Calvin's recumbent form.
"Ok, let's do it."
I pushed him on ahead of me, prepared to steady him if he faltered. If going down was tough, going up was damn near impossible, and I marveled that Sandburg had been able to make it. Some of the slabs were almost as wide as he was tall, but he used the rebar to haul himself from level to level. He was going slowly, but when he was within arm range Simon was there to help him over the edge. I was right behind him as Simon eased him down onto the ground. I paused, catching my breath, as the three of us hunched together for a few minutes while the emergency techs began their descent. Behind us the building was now hissing white steam as the firefighters began to win their long battle.
As I knelt next to my partner another emergency vehicle came around the corner. Sandburg sat cross-legged on the ground, head down, breathing heavily. I placed a finger under his chin and forced his gaze to meet mine. His eyes were clear and pupils even, so I temporarily eliminated a concussion.
"Ok, Chief, let me see what we got here. Simon, can you help him get his jacket off?" Simon nodded and kneeled behind Blair. He carefully peeled the denim off, revealing the huge gash in Sandburg's upper arm. Underneath the jacket he had only been wearing a black T-shirt with "Tequiza" emblazoned on it in neon yellow. As I began to probe the still-bleeding wound, Simon ran to the aide car and rummaged around in the back, bringing back two blankets. He lay one over Blair's uninjured side then draped the other over my shoulders. I smiled my thanks to him but pulled it off and tucked it around Sandburg's legs. I was only wet up to my calves; he was soaked through.
Sandburg's arm was going to need stitches but it didn't look too bad. Despite the techs now joining us on the tarmac, I continued my examination. Sandburg sat quietly while I ran my hands over his head, searching for the source of the blood now drying on his forehead. I couldn't find anything.
"Chief, your head hurt?"
He shook is head, damp ringlets bobbing. "Nah, s'ok." He held out his right hand and I understood. Over the healing blisters he had a deep scrape in the palm of his hand; he had probably been pushing his hair out of his eyes.
One of the emergency personnel laid a hand on my shoulder. An amused female voice spoke in my ear.
"Getting kind of bored here, gentlemen. Mind if we get some practice in here?"
I smiled sheepishly and stood up, making room for them as they began to check Sandburg over. I was satisfied he was ok so I went and stood next to Simon, who was looking down the abutment to where the first aide team was working on Calvin. By now we had been joined by a fire truck that was preparing to lower a backboard. The area was beginning to fill with personnel, as the fire demanded less of the resources engaged for the emergency.
"God," said Simon. "I can't wait to hear this story. What the hell happened here tonight?"
We shared a glance, then turned together to look at Sandburg. The EMTs were packing up their gear, having wrapped Blair's arm in a temporary pressure bandage. He was struggling to his feet and I trotted over to him and helped him up, keeping a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
The paramedic turned to me. "We're gonna take him in to get the arm stitched; other than that, he's ok."
Blair laid his uninjured hand on my arm. "Jim, can you take me? Been a kinda rough night and an ambulance ride is not sounding so good to me here." He looked up at me, tired eyes beseeching, not even denying his need for medical attention. What was I gonna say?
I turned to the EMT just as Simon joined us, flanking Sandburg on the other side. He spoke before I could. "We'll get him there. Give us a lift back to my car."
The EMT took in the three of us, standing shoulder to shoulder, and knew she was defeated before even starting to argue. Wise woman.
After that, it was pretty routine. Simon got us to Cascade Gen, then went back to help at the scene while Sandburg got stitched. I assumed my usual position in the waiting room: shoulders against the wall, arms crossed, head cocked so I could listen to his doctors. I sighed in relief when the verdict came down that we weren't spending the night. I hate those damn visitor chairs.
Sandburg was delivered to me about an hour after we got there, the three a.m. rush apparently over by the time we arrived. Our eyes met as he entered the waiting room and I rolled my eyes when he wiggled his eyebrows and gave me a tired grin.
"So, I suppose since they're not admitting me I gotta go do the paperwork, right?"
I straightened from the wall and walked over to him, assessing his condition through Sentinel eyes. Aside from the thick bandages around his upper right arm, he looked ok. His clothes were ripped in various places and he had some other scrapes, but on the whole he was good. He limped a little, having twisted his knee on that damn concrete, but aside from a little swelling it was fine.
I rubbed my hands together and nodded. "You got it, Junior. You thought this crap was tough when you were an observer? Now that you're on the payroll you'll never see the top of your desk again."
We were walking out of the waiting room when Sandburg stopped in his tracks and grabbed my arm. "Jim, does anyone how Calvin is? I don't know where he was taken."
"Yeah, Simon called when you were inside. They airlifted him to Harborview. I don't know if he made it." I searched his face and saw a resigned sadness there. He closed his eyes for a second and I gave him that time to deal with whatever emotions my words had evoked.
When he opened his eyes, he had another question. "So, you wanna know what happened, right?"
I snorted and spread my hands wide. "What do you think? You must have one helluva story, but it can wait 'til we get to the station. You're gonna be telling it in a hundred different ways over the next coupla days as it is. Come on, Simon should be waiting for us out front by now, so let's get this over with so we can go home."
He nodded. "Oh, yeah, sounds good."
Two hours later, Simon and I exchanged a stunned glance. We were in the Vice conference room, along with Jamie Davis, Captain Vincent and the rest of the team involved in the case. Simon and I stood in the back watching as Sandburg, sitting at the head of the long table, finished his story
I knew it had been close, but I guess I had been in denial since the whole hellish night began. I had turned on the cop inside me to get through it, and now, with the threat finally over, realization began to hit and hit hard.
I had almost lost him. Again. I saw the same realization in Simon's eyes.
The visions Sandburg's story brought to my imagination were chilling. He had been hanging out with Calvin in front of a pool hall when they were nabbed by two of the guards from the Gamelli building. Seems someone had taken a look at the boxes stored in the basement and had seen some of them pried open, one apparently with bloody hands. Didn't take a great leap of intelligence to figure out who had found their stash. Then it was a simple matter of getting rid of the witnesses, namely Sandburg and Calvin.
That was the part that made my blood run cold. Apparently, the detonation of the boat coincided with their execution; it was just dumb Sandburg luck he wasn't shot first. He and Calvin were thrown into the water by the concussion of the explosion, then Blair managed to swim with the wounded man around the edge of the dock to the relative safety of the aqueduct.
Silence now reigned over the room. Then, everyone was moving at once, getting up, shuffling papers, muttering goodnights to each other even as pale light began to filter through the conference room windows. I watched as Vincent laid a hand on Blair's shoulder, leaning in and softly commending him for a job well done before heading out. Davis was next, extending his hand to Sandburg, a huge grin plastered on his face. Blair shook his hand, then slowly rose as Davis and the last of the detectives drifted out of the room. Soon, it was just the three of us.
As Sandburg slowly came over to join us, I cleared my throat and turned to Simon. "Captain, you think in light of this latest escapade of Sandburg's, the other departments will waive his ride-alongs?"
Simon crossed his arms. "Well, considering the trouble he caused Vice, I wouldn't be surprised if I had messages from all the other Captains asking for Sandburg to pass up their department." He smiled at Blair, who was now leaning against the conference table, shaking his head.
"You two are so not funny. Look, any chance I can get a ride home here? Captain Vincent said I could come in later and finish the paperwork, so unless you're gonna loan me cash for a cab, can we please just get out of here?"
Simon sighed. "Guess that's my cue." Then he dropped the act, becoming serious. "You did good tonight, Sandburg. I'm gonna contact admin this afternoon and get you out of the rest of your rotation. Now you and Ellison get your asses down to the garage in twenty minutes or I'm leaving without you."
Sandburg raised his eyes the Captain's. "Thanks, Simon. For everything, man." Sandburg's sincere words flustered Simon, so he just nodded and left.
Then it was the two of us.
First words out of his mouth surprised the hell out of me.
"I fucked up, didn't I?"
"Excuse me?" I had no idea what he was talking about.
"I trusted him, man. God, what was I thinking? Soon as they asked him about the opened boxes he turned me over. I mean, how stupid can you get?" He shook his head in frustration.
My jaw dropped. "You gotta be kidding me here, Chief. That guy Kinski knew you had torn up your hands too, right? Plus, you were the one down in the basement with boxes both nights. Once they saw the blood on the first crate, you were fingered. Who would have anticipated they were gonna want to kill you both? The whole deal had already gone south by the time they hauled you up to the dock. Jesus, Sandburg, you were right in the middle of a turf war tonight, but you kept your head and managed to save a man's life, a man who, I might add, had just set you up to be killed. Tell me how you define that as fucked up?"
Sandburg was silent, searching my face for the truth. His left hand came up to absently rub at the bandage on his arm. There was an almost quizzical look on his face as he considered my words.
"So you think I did what I could?"
I raised my hands in frustration. "Hell, Sandburg, I wasn't there. But these assignments are gonna go like this, you know that, you've seen enough of them with me. What's the problem here?"
He shrugged. "I guess I just never felt responsible before, you know? Was there something else I should have done, or anticipated, to change it?"
"Look, Chief, you may have found a way to avoid getting grabbed, but there was no way you could have stopped a twenty foot boat with a time-detonated bomb from taking out that dock tonight. That was someone else's agenda, ok? One group of bad guys found out another group of bad guys was storing up firepower and made an executive decision to deal with it using C-4. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but your assignment was to investigate a possible drug pipeline flowing through a prostitution ring. What you found was not part of the plan and you did the best you could." I paused, assessing the impact of my words. "You gonna be ok with this?"
He bit his lower lip, then slowly nodded his head.
"Yeah, I am. Feels weird getting commended for not getting shot or blown up, but I'll take it."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Come on, Chief, Simon's waiting. Let's go home."
Two weeks later we were out on the
balcony, listening to the Mariners get their asses kicked by Cleveland and enjoying the late afternoon sunshine that was so scarce this summer. Sandburg was leaning his elbows on the railing, gazing down at the street activity, occasionally sipping his beer. I was parked in one of the chairs, ostensibly relaxing but in reality studying my partner.
That's what he was now, with the full but reluctant blessing of the city of Cascade. Yesterday he had been sworn in by Simon Banks himself, right there in the Major Crimes bullpen, surrounded by his friends. It had been a low-key but emotional moment, and for a group of people known for being tough they sure got misty-eyed. Rafe and H. wasted no time getting right back to teasing him though, and soon everything was back to normal. Well, almost. Joel looked as proud as a new parent and took every opportunity to slap the kid on the back. Daryl was there too, a nice surprise for Sandburg and a big concession for Simon. Those two were still arguing over Daryl's career plans.
I, of course, was immune to the sentiment of the moment.
Yeah, right. I don't think anyone noticed when I slipped out for a few minutes.
The preceding two weeks leading up to yesterday's celebration had not been easy. True to his word, Simon had informed the brass he was requesting Sandburg's immediate posting to Major Crimes. They had balked, but Simon had stood firm and, two days later, they finally conceded. Sandburg finished up at the Academy, fulfilling the physical requirements as soon as his arm was healed enough. Then, the final hurdle, the weapons qualification. Done four days ago, with my department-issue Sig-Sauer, which was promptly handed back to me upon passing the requirements. He won't win any target trophies, but it's done. The order is in for his own weapon, but I don't think he's in any hurry to get it.
Which brought me back to the balcony on an early August night, drinking blessedly non-fruity beer and observing my friend. He was relaxed, at ease with himself and with me. I hated to bring up a possible sore subject and ruin the mood, but I felt this was as good a time as any. I had made this vow to myself, after Sandburg denounced his dissertation, not to let things fester if I have a problem. And I had a problem with him not telling me about the hard time he had at the Academy.
"See anything interesting down there, Chief?" He shook his head, not turning around.
"Nah, quiet night, man. Mr. Natale just headed for home, that's about it." He took a swallow of beer.
"Hey, Sandburg?"
"Yeah?"
"What went on with you at the Academy?"
Silence. Then he dropped his head forward.
"Oh, man, I can't believe Simon said anything." He didn't turn around.
"He didn't, not really, so don't go getting all mad at him. He hinted you were having some difficulties but he never told me. Guess the next question would be, why didn't you? And I swear, if you tell me it's because you didn't want to bother me, I'll kick your butt six ways to Sunday."
Sandburg ran a hand through his hair, then finally turned around to face me. He set the bottle on the table between the chairs, then leaned back against the low wall and crossed his arms. His stormy blue eyes were assessing as he gazed at me, and I got the feeling I was being tested.
"No, if it had gotten bad, I woulda told you. Just this guy who took exception to my credentials, or lack thereof, and said a lot of stupid shit about me. I didn't take it personally, well, not at first, anyway." He began to look uncomfortable.
"What happened? What changed?"
"He, uh, starting talking about you. Made you sound like a big, dumb cop who didn't know he was being written about as the next Spiderman."
"Well, I don't know about the Spiderman part but Sandburg—I am a big, dumb cop."
That made him chuckle.
"Yeah, well, you may know that and I may know that, but the rest of the world doesn't need to. You're still Cop of the Year, man."
"Defending my honor there, Chief?"
Another chuckle. "Something like that."
"What did you do about it?"
"Nothing. He dropped out about the same time I started my rotations."
I stood up and stepped over to him. He moved as I came beside him so we were both back to looking out into the twilight, arms resting on the railing.
"Let me tell you something, Chief. I remember when you used to tell me every damn thing that went on at school and even though it usually bored the hell out of me, at least I knew what was going on with you. Now, I'm not saying I want that back, but I do want you to feel free to talk to me. I know it's hard 'cause I'm not the greatest listener, but—"
"No, Jim, you listen ok. Lately, anyway. This Academy thing, it was so minor compared to the other stuff going on in our lives I didn't even think to tell you. The only reason Simon found out was because one of his buddies is an instructor there and overheard some of the stuff being said, that's all. No big deal."
I nodded, letting it drop. I felt comfortable in the reborn trust building between us.
We stood there for a few minutes more, side by side. Then I said something I should have said a long time ago.
"You know I'm proud of you, right?"
Sandburg went stock-still. Didn't move a muscle, but his heartbeat accelerated furiously. I turned and faced him. He was staring straight out, lips compressed in a tight line.
"You ok there, Chief?"
He nodded, once, sharply. Then, finally, he took a deep breath and let it out. When he spoke, his voice was deep with emotion.
"Damn, Jim, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
I draped my arm around his shoulders. "Don't get used to it, Sandburg. This is as sentimental as I get, ok?"
"Love you too, man."
To: Aithine - overflowing with gifts - who knew it really WAS about friendship? :)
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