Sullivan's Law by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg Page B

think.”
    â€œPrinceton,” Pete said, a look of envy on his face. He imagined what it would be like to start his life over. The day he’d been sworn in as a police officer had been one of the proudest moments in his life. Several members of his family had gone into law enforcement as well, quickly moving up through the ranks. A Hispanic cop carried a good deal of status. All Pete had was a high school diploma. Unless a person became a security officer, ten years as a cop didn’t account for anything, and his situation was far worse than most. Pete and Boyd were convicted felons.
    â€œAll I did was tell the kid’s mother that the university might have some pretty strict rules regarding the use of narcotics,” Boyd explained. “You know, that her boy could lose his scholarship.”
    â€œMetroix had already served a longer sentence than most people convicted of the same offense,” Pete added, fidgeting in his seat. “Not only that, the guy became buddies with the warden. His report listed Metroix as a model prisoner.”
    The older man’s face froze into hard lines. “That bastard killed my son. And you two morons have the balls to sit in my house and tell me he was a model prisoner. Get out of my sight,” he shouted, a trickle of saliva running down the side of this mouth. “You disgust me. You were both worthless when you wore a badge and you’re worthless now.”
    Pete coughed, glancing over at Boyd as he tried to decide what they should do next. They’d tangled with a cranked up burglar one night and Boyd had beaten the man so severely, he’d suffered permanent brain damage. Pete had altered his report to cover his partner, unaware that there were several witnesses to the incident, one of them a reporter for the local newspaper. During the majority of the beating, the prisoner had been in handcuffs. Both officers had been convicted and sentenced to three months in the county jail. The day they were released, Chief Harrison had been waiting outside in his car with a suitcase containing twenty thousand in cash. Somehow, every year, the chief had come up with another twenty grand to make certain Daniel Metroix remained in prison.
    Over the years, the two former officers had moved into the shadows, rubbing shoulders with organized crime and narcotics traffickers. Pete and Boyd didn’t steal or deal; however, they served as extra muscle with a few remaining contacts inside law enforcement. The money Harrison paid them was peanuts. They had continued to work for him out of respect.
    â€œForget it,” Harrison said, his voice trailing off. A shaky hand reached for a bottle off the end table as he poured several pills into his palm. He popped them into his mouth, then washed them down with water. “My liver’s shot,” he told them. “Alcoholics aren’t placed at the top of the transplant list. I can’t go to my grave knowing this man is on the street. Do you understand me? I’ve got two hundred grand in my brokerage account.”
    â€œWe’re glad you’ve got some money to keep you comfortable,” Pete said, pushing himself to his feet. “Problem is, Chief, Boyd and I don’t kill for money.”
    He started to walk over and shake the man’s hand, thinking this might be the last time they saw him. Harrison wasn’t an evil person. He was a dying man who’d never come to terms with his grief. Pete took several steps forward and then stopped, terrified that he might be looking at a future vision of himself. What would he do if someone killed one of his children? He quickly spun around and followed his partner to the door.
    â€œTwo hundred grand is a lot of money,” Harrison told them, his voice strong now. “Do you think I haven’t kept tabs on you? I can document every crime you’ve committed, as well as every crook you’ve associated yourselves with since you were