Ch. 11 / Pt. 1 : When They Wear the Mask
“It’s not our guy,” Castellanos slurred in the passenger seat.
Booker sped westward through the streets. Someone had found a body in a foreclosed apartment building in Oceanrest’s Numbered District, the depressing slab of real estate just south of the Historic District and east of the rundown remnants of Oceanrest’s once-rich docks.
“It’s not our guy,” Castellanos repeated.
Booker released the tension in his jaw. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because it doesn’t take us where they want us to go.”
Booker didn’t reply, just leaned more weight on the accelerator. Just as the engine rumbled him over a hill, he switched to the brakes. A rare patch of night traffic flared up ahead of them, people on their last-minute routes back home before the curfew. Or, technically, after the curfew, but hoping to skirt it closely enough to avoid any repercussions. Booker followed the taillights ahead, barely over the speed limit, until he had space to pass.
Nearing the crime scene, Booker pulled over next to a squad car. Crime scene tape yellowed the perimeter, backed up by wooden barriers. Virgil LeDuff stood just inside the line, maybe waiting for Booker and Castellanos. Unobserved, he slouched and bowed, looking even older than his years.
Virgil straightened up when Booker closed the car door.
“It’s not your guy,” Virgil said, stepping over the tape.
“Then why’d we get the call?” Booker asked.
“At first it looked like it was,” Virgil shrugged. “I figured it out when I got here maybe…five minutes ago? It’s the face. The suspect didn’t do anything to the face. But the first cops to arrive, they didn’t know about the face thing.”
“So you’ll hand it off to Donaldson and…” Booker struggled to remember the older man’s name, the older-older of the two older homicide detectives.
“A’yeah,” Virgil confirmed. “It’s half-solved already.”
Castellanos blurred into view, remarkably quick and upright for someone so visibly drunk. “How’d it happen?”
“Castellanos, are you—” Virgil mouthed words at the air. “Are you—get back in the car.”
“Why?” Castellanos squinted at the flashlight beams swimming around the crime scene. “What happened?”
“Press will be here any second and you’re drunk as a…Christ, your breath…”
“Al,” Booker said. “Come on.”
“We have a copycat already?” Castellanos moved for the crime scene tape but didn’t cross it. “Someone close enough?”
“Out-of-towners,” Virgil grunted. “We found his car half a mile from here, crashed into a guardrail. We think the victim got control of the vehicle during the initial struggle…but then ran into the docks.”
“Nobody there to hear you scream.”
“Al!” Booker snapped.
Virgil had the stern glare of a man making a show of restraining himself. “He tried to make it look like your guy but didn’t know about the faces. Maybe he figured if he ditched the body and made it back to Pennsylvania, we’d shrug it off and pin it on Robert Robertson, anyway.”
“There’s more…” Castellanos murmured.
“There is, but that’s for Donaldson and Matthews to figure through. You get some goddamned sleep. And get back in the car, Chrissakes—do you know how bad you look?”
Castellanos shot a glance at the man overshoulder that hinted at a snarled snap-back, but she, too, restrained herself. Stepping away from the yellow tape, she moved back toward the car. Grinned at Booker. “Told you it wasn’t our guy.”
Booker and Virgil watched her re-enter the vehicle.
“We can’t have people seeing her like this in the middle of a serial case,” Virgil said.
“No shit.”
Virgil rubbed his forehead. “How bad of a fall did she take off the wagon, this time?”
“Pretty bad, I think.”
“Of all the times…”
Booker took a breath. “You know, she thinks our killer’s hiding out in Squatter City.”
“She’s probably right.”
“If we don’t handle this carefully, things could go sideways real fast.”
“Things are already sideways,” Virgil replied, not looking at Booker anymore but not looking away from him, either. “The copycat killed a protester—or, rally-er, marcher, I don’t know—and your guy killed two cops. None of this has anything to do with anything but the city will act like it does. We have an enhanced curfew starting Sunday and, like you said, our suspect’s probably hiding out in Squatter City. And if anyone fucks up or panics or shits the bed, innocent people are going to die.”
Booker didn’t disagree.
“We’re not sideways,” Virgil muttered. “We’re all the way under.”
Booker squinted at his car’s windscreen in the dim streetlight lambency, trying to make out Castellanos inside. He couldn’t. But an idea occurred to him. “I think me and Castellanos should dig into Squatter City alone.”
“What?”
“There’s not that much ground to cover, really, and you know we can keep our heads clear around a handful of snarling vagrants. We might be able to shake out Robert Robertson before anyone else has to take a risk.”
Virgil pursed his lips, chewing the idea.
“We’re two people you can count on not to shit the bed, and that’s one fewer problem you have to deal with,” Booker said.
Virgil squinted. Maybe he remembered what he’d read about Booker’s officer-involved shooting in Boston. Maybe he just appraised Booker where he stood, an old vet trying to get a read on someone. Either way, he cleared his throat and nodded. “That’s a good idea, yeah.”
“Besides, getting her feet back on the asphalt might help Al straighten out a bit.”
Virgil chuckled, relaxing. “Could be.”
“We’ll start after the morning meeting tomorrow.”
“Get some rest, Book. We’re all going to need it.”
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