then a round of push-ups and he began to feel a bit looser. It was almost time to start on the punch bag, but as he came up on fifty sit-ups the phone in the living room rang. Swearing, he abandoned the exercise and made a dash for the handset before the answering machine could cut in. “Yes?” he demanded.
“Mike Fleming? Can you quote your badge number?”
“I-who is this?” he demanded, shivering slightly as the sweat began to evaporate.
“Mike Fleming. Badge number. This is an unsecured line.” The man at the other end of the phone sounded impatient.
“Oh, okay.” More fallout from work. Head office, maybe? Mike paused for a moment, then recited his number. “Now. What’s this about?”
“Can you confirm that you were in a meeting with Tony Vecchio and Pete Garfinkle this afternoon?”
“I-” Mike’s head spun. “Look, I’m not supposed to discuss this on an open line. If you want to talk about it at the office then you need to schedule an appointment-”
“Listen, Fleming. I’m not cleared for the content of the meeting. Question is, were you in it? Think before you answer, because if you answer wrong you’re in deep shit.”
“I-yes.” Mike found himself staring at the wall opposite. “Now. Who exactly am I talking to?” The CLID display on his phone just said number withheld. Which was pretty remarkable, on the face of it, because this wasn’t an ordinary caller-ID box. And this wasn’t an ordinary caller: his line was ex-directory, for starters.
“A minibus will pick you up in fifteen minutes, Fleming. Pack for overnight.”
The line went dead, leaving him staring at the phone as if it had just grown fangs.
“What the hell?” Oscar walked past his ankle, leaning heavily. “Shit.” He tapped the hook then dialed the office. “Tony Vecchio’s line, please, it’s Mike Fleming. Oh-okay. He’s in a meeting? Can you-yeah, is Pete Garfinkle in?
What, he’s in a meeting too? Okay, I’ll try later. No, no message.” He put the phone down and frowned. “Fifteen minutes?”
Once upon a time, when he was younger, Mike had believed all the myths.
He’d believed that one syringe full of heroin was enough to turn a fine, upstanding family man into a slavering junkie. He’d believed that marijuana caused lung cancer, dementia, and short-term memory loss, that freebase cocaine-crack-could trigger fits of unpredictable rage, and that the gangs of organized criminals who had a lock on the distribution and sale of illegal narcotics in the United States were about the greatest internal threat that the country faced.
When he was even younger he’d also believed in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.
Now … he still believed in the gangs. Ten years of stalking grade-A scumbags and seeing just what they did to the people around them left precious little room for illusions about his fellow humanity. Some dealers were just ethically impaired entrepreneurs working in a shady high-risk field, attracted by the potential for high profits. But you had to have a ruthless streak to take that level of risk, or be oblivious to the suffering around you, and the dangers of the field seemed to repel sane people after a while. The whole business of illegal drugs was a magnet for seekers of the only real drug, the one that was addictive at first exposure, the one that drove people mad and kept them coming back for more until it killed them: easy money. The promise of quick cash money drew scumbags like flies to a fresh dog turd. Anyone who was in the area inevitably started to smell of shit sooner or later, even if they’d started out clean. Even the cops, and they were supposed to be the good guys.
Ten years ago when he was a fresh-faced graduate with a degree in police science-and still believed in the tooth fairy, so to speak-he’d have arrested his own parents without a second thought if he’d seen them smoking a joint, because it was the right thing to do. But these days, Mike had learned that
“Mike Fleming? Can you quote your badge number?”
“I-who is this?” he demanded, shivering slightly as the sweat began to evaporate.
“Mike Fleming. Badge number. This is an unsecured line.” The man at the other end of the phone sounded impatient.
“Oh, okay.” More fallout from work. Head office, maybe? Mike paused for a moment, then recited his number. “Now. What’s this about?”
“Can you confirm that you were in a meeting with Tony Vecchio and Pete Garfinkle this afternoon?”
“I-” Mike’s head spun. “Look, I’m not supposed to discuss this on an open line. If you want to talk about it at the office then you need to schedule an appointment-”
“Listen, Fleming. I’m not cleared for the content of the meeting. Question is, were you in it? Think before you answer, because if you answer wrong you’re in deep shit.”
“I-yes.” Mike found himself staring at the wall opposite. “Now. Who exactly am I talking to?” The CLID display on his phone just said number withheld. Which was pretty remarkable, on the face of it, because this wasn’t an ordinary caller-ID box. And this wasn’t an ordinary caller: his line was ex-directory, for starters.
“A minibus will pick you up in fifteen minutes, Fleming. Pack for overnight.”
The line went dead, leaving him staring at the phone as if it had just grown fangs.
“What the hell?” Oscar walked past his ankle, leaning heavily. “Shit.” He tapped the hook then dialed the office. “Tony Vecchio’s line, please, it’s Mike Fleming. Oh-okay. He’s in a meeting? Can you-yeah, is Pete Garfinkle in?
What, he’s in a meeting too? Okay, I’ll try later. No, no message.” He put the phone down and frowned. “Fifteen minutes?”
Once upon a time, when he was younger, Mike had believed all the myths.
He’d believed that one syringe full of heroin was enough to turn a fine, upstanding family man into a slavering junkie. He’d believed that marijuana caused lung cancer, dementia, and short-term memory loss, that freebase cocaine-crack-could trigger fits of unpredictable rage, and that the gangs of organized criminals who had a lock on the distribution and sale of illegal narcotics in the United States were about the greatest internal threat that the country faced.
When he was even younger he’d also believed in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.
Now … he still believed in the gangs. Ten years of stalking grade-A scumbags and seeing just what they did to the people around them left precious little room for illusions about his fellow humanity. Some dealers were just ethically impaired entrepreneurs working in a shady high-risk field, attracted by the potential for high profits. But you had to have a ruthless streak to take that level of risk, or be oblivious to the suffering around you, and the dangers of the field seemed to repel sane people after a while. The whole business of illegal drugs was a magnet for seekers of the only real drug, the one that was addictive at first exposure, the one that drove people mad and kept them coming back for more until it killed them: easy money. The promise of quick cash money drew scumbags like flies to a fresh dog turd. Anyone who was in the area inevitably started to smell of shit sooner or later, even if they’d started out clean. Even the cops, and they were supposed to be the good guys.
Ten years ago when he was a fresh-faced graduate with a degree in police science-and still believed in the tooth fairy, so to speak-he’d have arrested his own parents without a second thought if he’d seen them smoking a joint, because it was the right thing to do. But these days, Mike had learned that
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