you can go to hell. I did everything I could to put Wheeler away and, yeah, it didn't happen. Sometimes that's the way it goes. It sucks and I hate it but you move on if you don't want to end up going crazy. Second, who the hell are you to lay the blame on me? You were there every step of the way, pal, and while I might've been the one in charge of the case, it was the prosecution that dropped the ball and you know it. Last, what's past is past. Amanda Lane came to me for help today . You can stay stuck in the nineties if you want to, but whatever happened then is going to have to stay there, because she needs my help now."
I turned and walked away, cursing. I'd have to go to Dods now, something I didn't want to do. He was in charge of Homicide and had a thousand things to take care of every day, none of them named Amanda Lane. He didn't need to be running searches and sifting through MPDC records for me or baby sitting someone who might or might not become a victim of a lunatic who might or might not be stalking her.
"Singer," Kransky shouted. I kept walking.
"Marty, goddamnit," he called, and I heard quick footsteps behind me. I turned to face him. He had a hand outstretched, as though to grab my arm and stop me, or offer it in help. I looked at him, not saying anything. He scowled, looked down the street, then put his hands back in his pockets as the wind whipped the coattails on his blazer. We stood that way for a half minute.
"Look," he said. "I'm mad as hell. Still. You'd think after twelve years it'd be gone and forgotten, but it's not. Wheeler's always been at the top of my list. We didn't nail him when we had the chance and it kills me. I blame you, I blame the system, I blame myself. I guess it's a lot easier to unload on you than it is to face the fact that we all screwed up."
I took a breath and willed my muscles to relax. "Amanda needs our help now, Jim."
He scowled some more, then nodded. He was a dedicated, hard-headed, angry cop and this was the closest thing to an apology I was going to get from him. I was still seething myself, but at least I could understand his anger. It was the same as mine, a fury that should've been directed at Michael Wheeler. But since Wheeler wasn't around, I'd been a good substitute.
I said, "Truce?"
He nodded. "Truce."
"Then let's get a beer. I'm freezing my ass off."
. . .
We pulled into the first place we could find, some Pan-Asian restaurant that played bad Japanese samurai movies on the walls and served drinks with names like Bloody Mao and For Goodness Sake. We took a booth by a window and ordered beers. The Shogun-styled dining room smelled of charred vegetables, soy sauce, fried food, all of which made my gorge rise. I clamped down on the feeling and concentrated on the task ahead.
Kransky took a pull from his beer, then set it down carefully on a red paper napkin. "First steps?"
I turned my pint glass in small circles. "Find him. Make him stop. Maybe even build a case that sticks this time. It won't be murder one, but maybe something we can slap him with."
"Harassment, stalking, intent to injure?"
"Something like that," I said.
"Weak."
I shrugged, admitting it. "It's not much, but whatever jail time we can squeeze him into would make me disproportionately happy."
"How about shot while resisting arrest?"
"One can only hope. But that's going to have be your call, if the time comes."
"You carrying?'
"Naturally."
"Registered?"
"Of course."
Kransky went silent for a moment, tracing the grain on the wood table. "You got a drop?"
I stopped spinning my glass. "Let's not go there."
Kransky shrugged. "So what happens when you find him?"
"I don't know," I said. "I know what we both want to do, but I'm not ready to serve twenty to life for a minute's satisfaction. That'd be too much irony for me. He doesn't serve a day in jail and I die in prison? No, I have to know where he is, what his situation is first. Then we can talk about how to move on
I turned and walked away, cursing. I'd have to go to Dods now, something I didn't want to do. He was in charge of Homicide and had a thousand things to take care of every day, none of them named Amanda Lane. He didn't need to be running searches and sifting through MPDC records for me or baby sitting someone who might or might not become a victim of a lunatic who might or might not be stalking her.
"Singer," Kransky shouted. I kept walking.
"Marty, goddamnit," he called, and I heard quick footsteps behind me. I turned to face him. He had a hand outstretched, as though to grab my arm and stop me, or offer it in help. I looked at him, not saying anything. He scowled, looked down the street, then put his hands back in his pockets as the wind whipped the coattails on his blazer. We stood that way for a half minute.
"Look," he said. "I'm mad as hell. Still. You'd think after twelve years it'd be gone and forgotten, but it's not. Wheeler's always been at the top of my list. We didn't nail him when we had the chance and it kills me. I blame you, I blame the system, I blame myself. I guess it's a lot easier to unload on you than it is to face the fact that we all screwed up."
I took a breath and willed my muscles to relax. "Amanda needs our help now, Jim."
He scowled some more, then nodded. He was a dedicated, hard-headed, angry cop and this was the closest thing to an apology I was going to get from him. I was still seething myself, but at least I could understand his anger. It was the same as mine, a fury that should've been directed at Michael Wheeler. But since Wheeler wasn't around, I'd been a good substitute.
I said, "Truce?"
He nodded. "Truce."
"Then let's get a beer. I'm freezing my ass off."
. . .
We pulled into the first place we could find, some Pan-Asian restaurant that played bad Japanese samurai movies on the walls and served drinks with names like Bloody Mao and For Goodness Sake. We took a booth by a window and ordered beers. The Shogun-styled dining room smelled of charred vegetables, soy sauce, fried food, all of which made my gorge rise. I clamped down on the feeling and concentrated on the task ahead.
Kransky took a pull from his beer, then set it down carefully on a red paper napkin. "First steps?"
I turned my pint glass in small circles. "Find him. Make him stop. Maybe even build a case that sticks this time. It won't be murder one, but maybe something we can slap him with."
"Harassment, stalking, intent to injure?"
"Something like that," I said.
"Weak."
I shrugged, admitting it. "It's not much, but whatever jail time we can squeeze him into would make me disproportionately happy."
"How about shot while resisting arrest?"
"One can only hope. But that's going to have be your call, if the time comes."
"You carrying?'
"Naturally."
"Registered?"
"Of course."
Kransky went silent for a moment, tracing the grain on the wood table. "You got a drop?"
I stopped spinning my glass. "Let's not go there."
Kransky shrugged. "So what happens when you find him?"
"I don't know," I said. "I know what we both want to do, but I'm not ready to serve twenty to life for a minute's satisfaction. That'd be too much irony for me. He doesn't serve a day in jail and I die in prison? No, I have to know where he is, what his situation is first. Then we can talk about how to move on
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