Hazard and Somerset Off Duty Page 2

  Hazard launched himself down the steps and around the back of the trailer. In this wet January, the snow slushed and squirted under his wingtips. A few hundred yards ahead, behind a scraggly scrim of willows, catkins clipped the Grand Rivere where the water roared steadily.

  The back of the doublewide showed even more neglect: no lawn, just a patch of bare earth with dead weeds and a mosaic of flattened Bud Lite cans, twist-off caps, and brown glass. Under a flimsy deck, an electric mower huddled beneath three inches of soft snow. The trailer’s back door opened onto that deck, and the wood bowed under Hazard’s weight and gave wet groaning noises.

  The doublewide’s back door had a lock in the handle, but no deadbolt. A jalousie window was set into the composite wood, and the acrylic louvres had yellowed with age and sunlight. Hazard considered the frame—a hell of an easy way in, but it would leave a clear sign that someone had been here. A he considered the lock—he had a ring of bump keys. Then a cold January smile frosted his lips and he nudged the acrylic louvers. With a rusty grating noise, they rotated. He popped out the lowest louver, reached inside, and unlocked the door. Then he slid the acrylic piece back into place and let himself into the trailer.

  Moseby’s trailer offered what Hazard had expected: a filthy kitchen, a filthier bathroom, and a small living space at the front where mud and snow had matted the carpet. In the bedroom at the back, a wet towel lay on the bed, and the air smelled like cologne from a gas station dispenser, the kind where you dropped a quarter and closed your eyes and hoped the atomized oil hadn’t gone rancid. On the dresser, arranged like a still life, Moseby had set out a box of condoms—accommodating men of all sizes for twenty years, Jesus Christ; Hazard snapped a picture—a mostly melted votive candle, an envelope of Red Man chew that was neatly folded and paperclipped shut, and a matchbook for the Lion, which was all the way over in Babbtown and a hell of a long drive for burgers like sawdust and soggy french fries.

  Part of the setup was obvious: Moseby was going on a date, and Moseby was definitely hoping he’d get to use one of those condoms for men of all sizes. But something about the picture made Hazard stop and think. The wet towel, for example. Moseby was bringing someone home, but he hadn’t hung up the towel. Or cleaned the bathroom. Or doused the place with gasoline and burned it. All of which meant that Moseby wasn’t trying to impress. It might have been a one-night stand, but that wasn’t quite right. That sad little votive candle, for example. Hazard examined it again. Honeysuckle scent, although it didn’t smell like any honeysuckle that Hazard knew. That was a very specific aroma, and not one normally associated with romance. The setup told Hazard that Moseby was the kind of guy who had a routine for nights like this, and that meant Moseby had done this plenty of times before with the same person.

  The condition of the trailer, along with the placement of the chew, paperclipped inside its envelope, next to the pathetic candle and the box of condoms, and the towel on the bed, told Hazard something else. Moseby was a sloppy motherfucker. And sloppy guys tended to miss important details.

  Behind the dresser, Hazard found a forgotten tube of lipstick. Bohemian Blush. In the linen closet, behind an overflowing hamper, he found plus-sized black panties. On the papery care tag, someone had marked RM.

  Hazard felt a cool, vicious pump of satisfaction as he unfolded a plastic envelope and bagged the evidence. Now he had the little shit.

  That was when glass broke in the kitchen.

  V

  JANUARY 15

  MONDAY

  12:29 PM

  KNEELING ON THE slimy linoleum in the bathroom, Hazard reached for his .38 and hesitated. He had broken into another man’s home. He was committing a crime. And he had no idea who the hell might be in the trailer with him. The gun was only going to make things worse.

  Heavy steps came down the hallway, and Hazard dragged the shower curtain across the tub and shut himself in the linen closet. The louvered door allowed him to see into the bathroom proper, although it did obstruct some of his field of vision. The steps came closer and paused outside the bathroom. When the man—it was a man, Hazard could tell that much—stepped onto the linoleum, his shoes squeaked.

  “You dumb fuck,” the man said, and the voice was low and different from Moseby’s. “I heard the rings on the curtain. You might as well come out.”

  He took a step. Hazard held his breath. Then the man took another step, and now he was past the louvered door, and Hazard saw that it was the big, bald man in the Suburban. He had followed Hazard here, Hazard realized. He had passed the Jetta, parked down the block, and doubled back on foot. Now that was really interesting. And right then, he had his back to the linen closet. That was even more interesting.

  “Hey, faggot. Come on out from behind there. Don’t do anything stupid. If you’re real nice, I might leave your asshole in one piece instead of shredding it like wet toilet paper.”

  Hazard eased the linen closet door open the first half-inch until the latch cleared. He drew in one slow, silent breath. And then he kicked.

  The flimsy wood snapped open and cracked against the bathroom wall. Hazard shot out of the closet—his brain recorded this detail, the proximity of the words faggot and closet—before the bald guy could even start to turn. Hazard crashed into the man, carrying him forward. The toilet caught the bald man at the knees, and he folded across the porcelain. Hazard didn’t slow; he kept shoving, knocking the man across the toilet and into the shower. The curtain came down, ripping free from the rod with a series of tinny pops, and the bald man rolled into the vinyl folds. He flopped, and one big fist came up and caught Hazard in the mouth. He reared back, but not fast enough, and his lip split against his teeth, and he tasted blood.

  Hazard didn’t bother playing nice. He dropped an elbow into the bald man, driving his head into the enameled steel of the tub. The man’s legs did a funny little rattle against the tub liner, and then he was still. Breathing, yes, but not going to cause trouble.

  Hazard’s phone buzzed. Massaging his elbow, Hazard worked it free and tried to control his breathing.

  “What is it, Somers?”

  “Pot roast.”

  “Christ Almighty.”

  “You can do a pot roast. It’s easy: you buy a roast, chop up an onion, brown the meat—”

  Examining the unconscious man, Hazard said, “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Fine. Leave out the onion. Skip the browning. You put a packet of Lipton’s soup mix on top and let it cook for six hours or something like that.”

  Hazard hooked the man’s wallet, wiggled it loose, and checked the driver license. Bradley Fowles. “Six hours is a long time.”

  Sighing, Somers said, “You’re going to screw this up somehow, aren’t you? You’re going to completely ignore me. You have a perfect opportunity to get the upper hand on this kid—”

  “The upper hand?”

  “—and you’re going to screw it up.”

  There, behind the license, Hazard saw a second, similar laminated ID. “I’m not going to screw it up.”

  “You’re damn right. I’m going to make sure you don’t.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Hazard said, working the second ID out of the wallet and disconnecting the call.

  Fowles was Wahredua FD. Of course.

  VI

  JANUARY 15

  MONDAY

  6:22 PM

  IN THE PARKING LOT of the Lion, Hazard hunkered inside the Jetta and shivered. He had driven straight to the restaurant after leaving Fowles unconscious in the bathtub, and he had waited hours in the cold, taking a single break to piss behind a patchy line of cottonwoods. He had been willing to bet that Moseby would come here tonight. In fact, he had bet on it, but Moseby hadn’t shown. It looked like Hazard was going to lose his bet, and it was going to cost him a hell of a lot when he had to tell Somers the truth.

  Hazard’s phone vibrated.

  “I said I’d get the tickets, didn’t I? W
hat do you want?”

  “Where are you?” Somers asked.

  “Working.”

  “You’re not at the station.”

  “Ok.”

  “I called.”

  “All right.”

  “So where are you?”

  “Still working.”

  “Should I just run up there? It’ll take five minutes.”

  “No. I already got them from the desk.” Hazard silently cursed himself for digging deeper into this shit. “I’ll have them to you soon.”

  “The concert’s at eight.”

  “It’s a country band from the 1970s. You can get there late.”

  “It’s Black Hats White Guns.”

  “They weren’t very popular in the 70s.”

  “Cora wants to go.”

  “You weren’t even alive in the 70s. Neither of you was.”

  “You weren’t either. Ree, is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “You’re worried about Nico, right?”

  “I’m not worried about Nico.”

  “Well, I am. And to be honest, I’m worried about you.”

  Hazard grunted. “I’m not that delicate. If Nico wants to be mad, he can be mad.”

  “No, I mean I’m worried you’re going to screw this up.”

  “It’s my business if I screw it up.”

  “God, I wish that were true. This is very much my business. I’ve got a personal stake in who you date.” A slow flush worked its way through Hazard’s chest before Somers added, laughing, “I’m the one who has to deal with your brooding if you get dumped.”

  And then a Dodge Ram pulled into the lot, and Hazard coughed to clear his throat. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Can you be here by 7:30?”

  “I’ll see.”

  “No, Ree. 7:30. Promise.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Promise!”

  Hazard disconnected the call. From the Ram’s cab, Redgie Moseby emerged, dropping heavily to the ground. Every step he took was heavy. He walked like he wanted everybody in a hundred yards to know where he was stepping.

  Excited energy knotted in Hazard’s belly. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

  The Ford Focus that pulled into the lot next was grayish-gold, and the woman behind the steering wheel was built big without being fat. She had her hood pulled up, and she scurried up the walk darting glances in every direction. She was looking to see if she was being watched, and she had no idea how to do it because she missed Hazard completely.

  He gave them fifteen minutes to order drinks and an appetizer, and then he got out of the Jetta, stretched his legs, popped his back, and went inside.

  Like a million other American-fare restaurants, the Lion was decorated with a mixture of inauthentic historic kitsch—newspaper reproductions, mass-produced road signs with ready-made wear and tear, computer-aged photographs—and sports memorabilia—jerseys, mitts, two crossed hockey sticks above the bar, although the closest anybody played hockey was in St. Louis. The air smelled of frying onion and wet boots. Hazard moved towards the back of the restaurant.

  As he’d guessed, they’d taken a table near the kitchen, where the lighting was poor and there was minimal traffic. The woman had her back to Hazard, which was lucky for her, but Moseby was looking dead on. His pudgy bull face reddened when he saw Hazard. Hazard planted himself, met Moseby gaze for gaze, and jerked his head at the door.

  Muttering something to his date, Moseby dropped his napkin on his seat. While Moseby was still whispering, Hazard left and took up a spot on the far side of the restaurant, out of view of the door and the parking lot.

  It was the crunch of gravel that alerted Hazard, and he turned towards the noise. Moseby had come around the back of the building and approached Hazard from behind, and now the length of firewood in his hand caught Hazard on the shoulder instead of flat in the back. Hazard grunted with the impact and kept turning.

  Moseby backpedaled, the heels of his cowboy boots churning gravel, and tried to pull the cordwood back for another blow. Hazard popped him in the nose and then, just as fast, in the mouth. Blood spurted out and coated the back of his hand. His knuckles dinged against Moseby’s big, bull teeth. Moseby rocked on his heels, and then gravity had him, and he went down on his ass.

  Kicking the length of wood away, Hazard stepped towards the fallen firefighter. He planted a foot on the man’s chest.

  “What the fuck—”

  “That’s assault,” Hazard said. “Normally, that would be a Class C felony, but you were stupid enough to hit a cop. That’s Class B.”

  “You fucking faggot.”

  “Rhonda McClinckie.”

  At those two words, Moseby froze. Then, blowing out a mixture of snot and blood, he let his head fall back on the gravel. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “You’re right. It looks like a cheap dinner at a shitty restaurant. But it’s more than that. You’ve been fucking your boss’s wife—”

  Moseby went wild, squirming under Hazard and shouting, “Don’t you talk about her like that, don’t you—”

  Hazard stomped a little, knocking the wind from Moseby and silencing the man.

  “All right. That was shitty of me. But here’s the thing: she left panties at your house. They have her initials in them: RM. Why’d she do something like that? Did she take them to the laundromat and didn’t want to lose them? Doesn’t matter, I guess. What matters is I’ve got them. I know you’ve been with her for a while. Maybe it’s love. I don’t care. I also know you went to the station today to look for a way to fuck with me.” He pressed a little harder with his foot, feeling the creak of Moseby’s ribs. “And I know you tried to get on our computers. You tried to dig up some dirt.” Another heavy step, accompanied by the creak of bone and cartilage. “Then you started going through our stuff. If it had been my stuff, I might not have minded. Not enough, anyway, to come all the way out to the middle of nowhere. But you were stupid enough to try to fuck with my partner.”

  Wheezing, Moseby scrabbled at the loose stone beneath him, trying to crawl away. Hazard stomped down hard. He thought he felt something pop in Moseby’s chest, and the big man gave a shuddering gasp, but Hazard couldn’t find a fuck to give. “All right,” Moseby wheezed through tears and snot and blood. “I got ’em. The tickets, I got ’em in my wallet.”

  Hazard kicked him in the side, just hard enough to be an incentive, and Moseby flopped onto his stomach. Keeping one foot planted on the firefighter’s back, Hazard drew out the wallet and recovered the tickets. He checked his watch.

  Then he dropped the plastic envelope with the panties on the ground and left.

  VII

  JANUARY 15

  MONDAY

  7:21 PM

  IT HAD BEEN a hell of a drive back from Babbtown, speeding through the winter darkness on blacktop rimed with frost, the headlights wiping small circles out of the night. As Hazard pulled into the underground parking at the Crofter’s Mark, he let out a sigh. He’d made it. And before 7:30pm.

  When the elevator chimed at the fourth floor, Hazard eyed himself in the mirrored walls. A split lip, sure, there was no hiding that. But he’d gotten Moseby’s blood off his hands, and the bruise on his shoulder was hidden by his shirt and coat. Good enough for now.

  As Hazard unlocked the door to their apartment, he smelled roast meat and onion and hot, yeasty bread, and he thought that was strange because he was sure that Somers would have said something if he and Cora were planning on eating at the apartment.

  Inside, the only light came from the kitchen, where candles were arranged on white linen and two places had been set for dinner. A pot roast steamed on a serving platter, surrounded by potatoes and carrots and onions that had caramelized into a soft, buttery spread. A basket of fresh rolls sat next to the roast, and next to that was a tossed salad.

  Somers’s bedroom door opened, and the candle flames bent, and th
e light fluttered to the side. The shifting light left Somers in darkness, but it didn’t matter because Hazard could have been in a cave, could have been blind, could have been at the bottom of the Marianas Trench and he would have recognized Somers: the slender musculature, the broad shoulders, the chiseled, golden good looks, and the eyes. The candlelight steadied, and then those eyes were glowing like Caribbean water.

  “You cut it close.”

  “The concert’s not until eight.”

  “I’m not talking about the concert, I’m—God. What happened to you?” Somers paused, standing in front of Hazard, close enough for Hazard to smell the cologne his partner wore, like the sea and the sun and something that Hazard always thought of as amber, crushed and powdered.

  “I went to work.”

  Somers raised a hand, and his thumb grazed the puffy, split lip. Hazard fought the urge to pull his head away. Not because it hurt. Not even close. Because it felt so damn good, and that was dangerous.

  “You got this catching up on paperwork?”

  “And picking up your tickets.”

  Those turquoise eyes flickered with something. Somers still hadn’t pulled his hand away. His thumb still probed Hazard’s throbbing lip, and his other fingers had settled—

  —like the candlelight, as bright and hot and flickering as the light—

  —on Hazard’s cheek. “You know, I called the station.”

  “You said that.”

  “And they told me you weren’t there.”

  “You said that too.”

  “And I asked Carmichael to check my desk for the tickets, and she told me they weren’t in there.”

  Hazard’s heart throbbed, and he could feel his pulse in his neck, could feel it in the dangerously hot spots where Somers’s fingers met his skin.

  “Yeah. I’d already picked them up.”

  “You’re shit for lying.”

  Hazard’s heart gave another enormous throb, hard enough that he felt himself coming to pieces, and he thought he might just lean forward, might just kiss him, might just—