Read Online Blue Heaven by C. J. Box - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. J. Box
Tags: Literature
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unnecessary animosity. It just hadn’t happened yet.
“So what the fuck do we do?” Gonzalez asked Singer.
“Just let me think,” Singer said.
After taking his baseball cap off, running his fingers through his hair, and putting it back on, Newkirk watched Singer. Singer was the man in charge. The lieutenant was the most icily efficient commander Newkirk had ever served under, even in the Army. Singer was the man the department turned to when a case was spiraling in the wrong direction. The man was a fixer, the guy you brought in when a situation had turned into a cluster fuck. Singer brought his calm with him, but the downside of his façade was that palpable feeling of something tightly coiled up just beneath the skin, like a high-tension spring that continued to wind tighter, capable of being released with a snap to strike out like a serpent’s head. Newkirk had seen that happen twice and never wanted to see it again. Singer was preternaturally unflusterable, his voice rarely over a whisper. He was the kind of guy who got quieter and colder the worse things got, as if his concentration alone would cut a swath of reason through chaos; that only he was capable of thinking with clarity. Thing was, he was right. When Singer was in charge, like he was now, he was a marvel to watch. There were no wasted motions, no wasted words. He absorbed the vagaries of the situation, processed them, then flicked out commands and expected them to be obeyed. He missed nothing. But there was a profound deep-seated bitterness in Singer, and Newkirk had been there, on the LAPD, as it happened.
There had been a minor scandal, one of many, within the department. That particular one involved the loss of impounded vehicles. Several vocal inner-city leaders had complained to an on-the-make television news reporter that cops were taking or selling cars owned by racial minorities that had been impounded due to traffic violations. The station led with the story for four nights straight, and Singer was assigned the interdepartmental investigation. He determined that the people at fault weren’t officers but city contractors charged with towing the vehicles. Despite this finding, the television news reporter had his own agendaand edited Singer’s comments in such a way that he sounded not only incompetent, but complicit. The edited report, complete with new questions asked by the reporter that were dubbed in after the interview, aired during sweeps week in Los Angeles, and Singer was referred to as “Stammering Singer” in news columns. The lieutenant, who had never had his reputation questioned before, was furious and asked the department to take action against the reporter and the television station, to at least defend him in public. The outgoing police chief, who later wound up being hired as an expert commentator for the network affiliated with the local station, bunkered down. Singer felt betrayed, and the dedication and passion he had felt toward the department took a 180-degree turn. He was never the same after that, and the quiet and effective hatred he had once focused on criminals and spineless politicians pointed inward toward his employers. Only those close to him—his immediate subordinates—knew of the sea change. Like everything about Singer, the shifting of loyalty from the department to his small circle of men was swift, decisive, and devastating. The LAPD never knew what hit it.
Although Newkirk was physically outmatched by Ex-Sergeant Gonzalez, who sat at the table beside him, it was Singer, a head shorter than Newkirk, he feared the most.
Gonzalez let Singer think and sipped his beer. As always, he had chosen the chair with his back toward the wall so he could keep an eye on everything in front of him. Gonzalez was a big man. He worked out daily in his home gym, and he wore jeans and tight black T-shirts that called attention to his thick arms, barrel chest, and massive hard belly. Gonzo was dark, smoldering, and
“So what the fuck do we do?” Gonzalez asked Singer.
“Just let me think,” Singer said.
After taking his baseball cap off, running his fingers through his hair, and putting it back on, Newkirk watched Singer. Singer was the man in charge. The lieutenant was the most icily efficient commander Newkirk had ever served under, even in the Army. Singer was the man the department turned to when a case was spiraling in the wrong direction. The man was a fixer, the guy you brought in when a situation had turned into a cluster fuck. Singer brought his calm with him, but the downside of his façade was that palpable feeling of something tightly coiled up just beneath the skin, like a high-tension spring that continued to wind tighter, capable of being released with a snap to strike out like a serpent’s head. Newkirk had seen that happen twice and never wanted to see it again. Singer was preternaturally unflusterable, his voice rarely over a whisper. He was the kind of guy who got quieter and colder the worse things got, as if his concentration alone would cut a swath of reason through chaos; that only he was capable of thinking with clarity. Thing was, he was right. When Singer was in charge, like he was now, he was a marvel to watch. There were no wasted motions, no wasted words. He absorbed the vagaries of the situation, processed them, then flicked out commands and expected them to be obeyed. He missed nothing. But there was a profound deep-seated bitterness in Singer, and Newkirk had been there, on the LAPD, as it happened.
There had been a minor scandal, one of many, within the department. That particular one involved the loss of impounded vehicles. Several vocal inner-city leaders had complained to an on-the-make television news reporter that cops were taking or selling cars owned by racial minorities that had been impounded due to traffic violations. The station led with the story for four nights straight, and Singer was assigned the interdepartmental investigation. He determined that the people at fault weren’t officers but city contractors charged with towing the vehicles. Despite this finding, the television news reporter had his own agendaand edited Singer’s comments in such a way that he sounded not only incompetent, but complicit. The edited report, complete with new questions asked by the reporter that were dubbed in after the interview, aired during sweeps week in Los Angeles, and Singer was referred to as “Stammering Singer” in news columns. The lieutenant, who had never had his reputation questioned before, was furious and asked the department to take action against the reporter and the television station, to at least defend him in public. The outgoing police chief, who later wound up being hired as an expert commentator for the network affiliated with the local station, bunkered down. Singer felt betrayed, and the dedication and passion he had felt toward the department took a 180-degree turn. He was never the same after that, and the quiet and effective hatred he had once focused on criminals and spineless politicians pointed inward toward his employers. Only those close to him—his immediate subordinates—knew of the sea change. Like everything about Singer, the shifting of loyalty from the department to his small circle of men was swift, decisive, and devastating. The LAPD never knew what hit it.
Although Newkirk was physically outmatched by Ex-Sergeant Gonzalez, who sat at the table beside him, it was Singer, a head shorter than Newkirk, he feared the most.
Gonzalez let Singer think and sipped his beer. As always, he had chosen the chair with his back toward the wall so he could keep an eye on everything in front of him. Gonzalez was a big man. He worked out daily in his home gym, and he wore jeans and tight black T-shirts that called attention to his thick arms, barrel chest, and massive hard belly. Gonzo was dark, smoldering, and
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