the mix. Doubted he ever would be. Chris should have known this, yet she acted like it was no big deal. Despite her facility for discussion and building their relationship, in spite of the many times she'd pushed him to talk when he felt black and silent, when he tried to explain why he thought it was a bad idea, she refused to discuss it, not even the fact that Neddy and Nina, having seen so much violence and death in their short years, were incredibly needy children who would tax the most stable of parents. Something he most assuredly was not.
He pulled his attention back to the road as a huge sheet of cardboard, planing like a waveboard across the lane in front of him, suddenly reared up. There were cars on either side and no place to go. He had no choice but to hit it, the force sweeping it up over the hood and plastering it against the windshield. For a heart-stopping moment, he was driving blind at sixty-five. Then it let go, flying off over the roof to resume its dance of death behind him.
He pushed Chris and everything else that didn't have to do with today's case into a locker, slammed it shut, and turned the key. The last thing he needed was complications in his life that kept him from doing his job.
He'd already had the button-pushing call from the brass, in the form of Captain Paul Cote. Cote had called Burgess at home to complain about all the manpower and overtime hours being wasted on some unfortunate wino who'd fallen into the harbor. Though he should have known that Burgess and the deceased were friends, Cote hadn't spent a word on sympathy or regret before launching into a lecture about budgets and the department's limited resources.
There were many on the force, Burgess included, who believed that Cote had been built in a robotics factory somewhere and that the techie who programmed him had forgotten to install the part of the program that mimicked humanity. He'd counted to ten, deleted the expletives, and said, "It's all SOP for an unattended death, sir. We wait until tomorrow and then the ME tells us it's suspicious, we've lost the first twenty-four, along with potential evidence and witnesses."
Cote had harrumphed and muttered something about locksmiths and too many divers. "The diving thing is safety, sir." Burgess, choking on the "sir," reminded himself that he saluted the rank not the man. "Securing the residence just good practice." No use mentioning that without Robeck's quick thinking, Reggie's room would have been quickly stripped of anything useful. Cote had no concept of life on the streets. He probably thought Reggie'd used the money from returning those cans to put steaks on the barbie. Buy a better grade of beer.
He forced himself to listen as Cote continued. "Well, I'm laying odds you're going up to Augusta tomorrow to find you've got a wino that fell in the harbor. Just exactly what it looks like. Nothing suspicious. We don't need two detectives for that." So Stan Perry got to sleep in this morning, getting rested after his night of unbridled lust, while Burgess faced near-death out here on the highway at the hands of a vagrant piece of cardboard.
Burgess had not said to Cote what he would have said to any of his detectives—don't let your assumptions get ahead of the facts. Cote had no use for facts, at least not of the case-solving kind. It was as though, as he moved up the ranks, his mind was swept clean of everything he'd learned in his previous job. He loved data of all sorts, though. Numbers, especially good numbers—good solve rates, low overtime, coming in under budget—made him smile. The badge numbers, the cops who did the work, solved the crimes, earned the overtime, were mere annoyances.
* * *
Reggie was out of the body bag and lying on the table. Now Wink was pulling the bags off Reggie's feet. Clean, pale feet that looked especially naked because the rest of the body was so heavily dressed. There were no socks. Next, Wink pulled the bags off Reggie's hands,
He pulled his attention back to the road as a huge sheet of cardboard, planing like a waveboard across the lane in front of him, suddenly reared up. There were cars on either side and no place to go. He had no choice but to hit it, the force sweeping it up over the hood and plastering it against the windshield. For a heart-stopping moment, he was driving blind at sixty-five. Then it let go, flying off over the roof to resume its dance of death behind him.
He pushed Chris and everything else that didn't have to do with today's case into a locker, slammed it shut, and turned the key. The last thing he needed was complications in his life that kept him from doing his job.
He'd already had the button-pushing call from the brass, in the form of Captain Paul Cote. Cote had called Burgess at home to complain about all the manpower and overtime hours being wasted on some unfortunate wino who'd fallen into the harbor. Though he should have known that Burgess and the deceased were friends, Cote hadn't spent a word on sympathy or regret before launching into a lecture about budgets and the department's limited resources.
There were many on the force, Burgess included, who believed that Cote had been built in a robotics factory somewhere and that the techie who programmed him had forgotten to install the part of the program that mimicked humanity. He'd counted to ten, deleted the expletives, and said, "It's all SOP for an unattended death, sir. We wait until tomorrow and then the ME tells us it's suspicious, we've lost the first twenty-four, along with potential evidence and witnesses."
Cote had harrumphed and muttered something about locksmiths and too many divers. "The diving thing is safety, sir." Burgess, choking on the "sir," reminded himself that he saluted the rank not the man. "Securing the residence just good practice." No use mentioning that without Robeck's quick thinking, Reggie's room would have been quickly stripped of anything useful. Cote had no concept of life on the streets. He probably thought Reggie'd used the money from returning those cans to put steaks on the barbie. Buy a better grade of beer.
He forced himself to listen as Cote continued. "Well, I'm laying odds you're going up to Augusta tomorrow to find you've got a wino that fell in the harbor. Just exactly what it looks like. Nothing suspicious. We don't need two detectives for that." So Stan Perry got to sleep in this morning, getting rested after his night of unbridled lust, while Burgess faced near-death out here on the highway at the hands of a vagrant piece of cardboard.
Burgess had not said to Cote what he would have said to any of his detectives—don't let your assumptions get ahead of the facts. Cote had no use for facts, at least not of the case-solving kind. It was as though, as he moved up the ranks, his mind was swept clean of everything he'd learned in his previous job. He loved data of all sorts, though. Numbers, especially good numbers—good solve rates, low overtime, coming in under budget—made him smile. The badge numbers, the cops who did the work, solved the crimes, earned the overtime, were mere annoyances.
* * *
Reggie was out of the body bag and lying on the table. Now Wink was pulling the bags off Reggie's feet. Clean, pale feet that looked especially naked because the rest of the body was so heavily dressed. There were no socks. Next, Wink pulled the bags off Reggie's hands,
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