worse?
Well, yes, if they were both partners of yours.
He leaves the house before Rachel and Amy are up. He doesn’t want to tell Rachel about it just yet – doesn’t want to discuss it with anyone – and if he
sits there moping over breakfast she will know that something is wrong.
He doesn’t go directly to the station house, but instead drives the streets for a while, killing time and thinking. Eventually, he pulls up at a near-empty diner and seats himself at a
booth in the corner. He orders sausage, eggs and coffee, but finds that his stomach will permit entry only to the coffee. After pushing the food around his plate for a while, he finally gives up
and heads off to work. He times his arrival to be as late as he can make it, seconds before the start of his shift.
As he walks through the doorway he hears a loud fake cough, warning of his presence. Silence descends as he moves toward his desk. He waits for the first wise-ass remark, but nothing comes his
way. Not yet, anyway. It might be because Mo Franklin is standing at the front of the squadroom, like a teacher keeping order among his pupils.
Jay Holden, a shaven-headed black cop who ran with street gangs in his youth, is the first to speak.
‘We’re all here now, Mo. How about you put an end to all the rumors?’
Doyle has always liked Holden. He is his own man – never to be swayed by the unsupported opinions of others. He waits until he gets all the facts, and then he makes up his own mind.
Franklin perches himself on the edge of an unoccupied desk. Tony Alvarez’s desk.
‘I wish I could say to you that all we have here are rumors, that none of it is confirmed yet, that it’s all likely to be so much bullshit. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.
Detective Tony Alvarez was killed in the line of duty last night.’
They know it already, but still they groan, curse, lower their heads.
‘What happened, Mo?’ somebody asks.
‘Tony was following up on the Joe Parlatti hit. He went to an apartment on West Seventeenth to meet someone who claimed to have information.’
Puzzled, Doyle looks up at Franklin. A lead on the Parlatti case? What lead? Why didn’t Tony bring him in on it?
Franklin carries on: ‘It was a trap. The apartment was booby-trapped somehow. A bomb. The guy Tony was meeting was killed instantly – blown to bits. Tony was brought out alive, but
only barely. He didn’t survive the journey to the hospital.’
There is a moment of silent reflection before Schneider pipes up.
‘The news channels are saying the explosion on Seventeenth happened at about ten o’clock last night. How come we’re only just getting to hear about Alvarez getting caught in
that?’
‘The bomb went off in the Eleventh Precinct, so none of our guys were on-scene. When Tony Alvarez was carried out of the building he had no ID on him. It was hours before the Bomb Squad
declared the apartment clear, and another couple hours before the fire department said the building was structurally safe to enter. Eventually, they found Tony’s shield in his jacket, which
had been blown across the room.’ He pauses. ‘I got a call only hours ago myself. I had to . . . I had to ID the body.’
This seems to mollify Schneider for the moment. He nods almost imperceptibly and tosses his gum around his mouth.
Holden asks, ‘We have an ID on the other DOA?’
Franklin looks relieved to drag his thoughts away from the vision of Alvarez’s shattered form. ‘We think it’s a pimp named Tremaine Cavell, street handle TC. The apartment
belongs to a girlfriend of his.’
What?
Doyle’s mind is racing now. A follow-up with Tremaine? All the more reason for not cutting him out. So why the hell would Alvarez do that?
Holden says, ‘And Cavell fits into this how?’
Franklin’s eyes flicker toward Doyle. The lieutenant seems reluctant to supply an answer, so Doyle does it for him.
‘Cavell was pimping for the pross found with Joe. We tracked him down
Well, yes, if they were both partners of yours.
He leaves the house before Rachel and Amy are up. He doesn’t want to tell Rachel about it just yet – doesn’t want to discuss it with anyone – and if he
sits there moping over breakfast she will know that something is wrong.
He doesn’t go directly to the station house, but instead drives the streets for a while, killing time and thinking. Eventually, he pulls up at a near-empty diner and seats himself at a
booth in the corner. He orders sausage, eggs and coffee, but finds that his stomach will permit entry only to the coffee. After pushing the food around his plate for a while, he finally gives up
and heads off to work. He times his arrival to be as late as he can make it, seconds before the start of his shift.
As he walks through the doorway he hears a loud fake cough, warning of his presence. Silence descends as he moves toward his desk. He waits for the first wise-ass remark, but nothing comes his
way. Not yet, anyway. It might be because Mo Franklin is standing at the front of the squadroom, like a teacher keeping order among his pupils.
Jay Holden, a shaven-headed black cop who ran with street gangs in his youth, is the first to speak.
‘We’re all here now, Mo. How about you put an end to all the rumors?’
Doyle has always liked Holden. He is his own man – never to be swayed by the unsupported opinions of others. He waits until he gets all the facts, and then he makes up his own mind.
Franklin perches himself on the edge of an unoccupied desk. Tony Alvarez’s desk.
‘I wish I could say to you that all we have here are rumors, that none of it is confirmed yet, that it’s all likely to be so much bullshit. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.
Detective Tony Alvarez was killed in the line of duty last night.’
They know it already, but still they groan, curse, lower their heads.
‘What happened, Mo?’ somebody asks.
‘Tony was following up on the Joe Parlatti hit. He went to an apartment on West Seventeenth to meet someone who claimed to have information.’
Puzzled, Doyle looks up at Franklin. A lead on the Parlatti case? What lead? Why didn’t Tony bring him in on it?
Franklin carries on: ‘It was a trap. The apartment was booby-trapped somehow. A bomb. The guy Tony was meeting was killed instantly – blown to bits. Tony was brought out alive, but
only barely. He didn’t survive the journey to the hospital.’
There is a moment of silent reflection before Schneider pipes up.
‘The news channels are saying the explosion on Seventeenth happened at about ten o’clock last night. How come we’re only just getting to hear about Alvarez getting caught in
that?’
‘The bomb went off in the Eleventh Precinct, so none of our guys were on-scene. When Tony Alvarez was carried out of the building he had no ID on him. It was hours before the Bomb Squad
declared the apartment clear, and another couple hours before the fire department said the building was structurally safe to enter. Eventually, they found Tony’s shield in his jacket, which
had been blown across the room.’ He pauses. ‘I got a call only hours ago myself. I had to . . . I had to ID the body.’
This seems to mollify Schneider for the moment. He nods almost imperceptibly and tosses his gum around his mouth.
Holden asks, ‘We have an ID on the other DOA?’
Franklin looks relieved to drag his thoughts away from the vision of Alvarez’s shattered form. ‘We think it’s a pimp named Tremaine Cavell, street handle TC. The apartment
belongs to a girlfriend of his.’
What?
Doyle’s mind is racing now. A follow-up with Tremaine? All the more reason for not cutting him out. So why the hell would Alvarez do that?
Holden says, ‘And Cavell fits into this how?’
Franklin’s eyes flicker toward Doyle. The lieutenant seems reluctant to supply an answer, so Doyle does it for him.
‘Cavell was pimping for the pross found with Joe. We tracked him down
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