U.S. 94 formed a moat in front of the cement bastille that was St. Paul Police Headquarters. Broker grabbed an exit and parked in the visitors’ lot.
A beefy cop behind a bullet-proof bubble in the lobby squinted at Broker’s badge and ID, called up to J.T., and pointed to the elevator. Broker knew the way to Homicide.
J.T. Merryweather was a really black man with fine Carib features and pouchy lavender circles under his eyes. He had given up the cigarettes and had put twenty pounds on his hips that he disguised with expensive tailoring. Coming into the Homicide bay, Broker noticed that J.T. was spending twice what he used to on suits and shoe leather. J.T. was a captain now. He had his own alcove and desk.
J.T. spotted Broker and reached for a ringing phone. “Be right with you. I’m up to my ass, putting this new gang task force together.”
Officious. Not making solid eye contact.
A chubby detective waddled by. Broker quipped, “Hey, Reardon, still keeping Sara Lee in the black, huh.”
Expressionless, Reardon said, “Nothin’ personal, Broker, but fuck you.” He shouldered by.
The treatment. Janey had called it right. Keith was a plague carrier. Broker had touched him. The dismissive distance set a boundary, implied in J.T.’s gesture and the THE BIG LAW/251
brush-off from Reardon. And the other Homicide cops in the room-most of whom knew him-barely acknowledged his presence. None of the old horseplay or lurid jokes.
No bitching. Always a bad sign.
Not one of us anymore.
Broker found himself on the receiving end of the tribal cop stare-suspicion and disapproval. Guilty until proven innocent. Either way-unworthy.
J.T. finished his phone call, got up, grabbed his overcoat and walked Broker past the cold-eyed Homicide cops, out of the bay, into the hall, toward an elevator.
“Keith do that to your face?” J.T. said offhand.
“How-?”
“Deputy out in Washington told us. Word’s out Keith was yelling something about you owing him.” J.T. smiled, and it wasn’t a smile at all.
Broker, blindsided, stopped and stared at his old partner.
J.T. shrugged. “You don’t have a whole lot of friends here right now. But that shouldn’t bother you, you always liked to operate alone.” They entered the elevator and rode down in silence.
At ground level, on their way out of the building, they passed the chief. Prester Dobbs was skinny and balding. An import from San Francisco. His loose neck flesh and big popped-out eyes reminded Broker of an ostrich.
Head in the sand, the street coppers agreed privately. Keith had said it out loud. Among other things.
Dobbs’s blue button eyes struck Broker’s and glanced away. They knew each other, not well, but enough to chat in the hall. The chief turned away without a greeting.
J.T. said from the side of his mouth, “Chief don’t even want anybody saying Keith’s name in the building anymore.”
J.T. grabbed an unmarked car from the lot, and they shot through the downtown loop, turned left and parked in front of a hydrant next to Galtier Plaza. Broker followed J.T.
into an overdecorated Italian restaurant.
Too loud, too many people. Tables too small. Triple canopy hanging baskets of ferns. Going in, it was clear they knew J.T. They were seated immediately.
Away from his colleagues, J.T.’s manner relaxed. His world-weary gaze became more curious than suspicious. But still at a distance. There was no small talk. No catching up.
No congratulations on J.T.’s promotion or showing pictures of Kit. Ten years ago they’d got off on foxhole camaraderie, taking chances for each other. Wrestling assholes full of PCP
down to the cuffs on the pavement.
J.T. scowled at him, like he read his thoughts. “Look,” he said, “you picked a loser to come back on. Being out to Washington County having prayer meetings with Keith. Not saying it’s fair, but there’s this shit-rubs-off thing. Some of the guys think you need a bath.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m listening.”
Broker took a cigar from his pocket. The ferns about wilted as he clipped the end. J.T.’s eyes enlarged with disapproval.
“You can’t do that in here.”
“Not going to smoke it. Going to chew it.”
“Man, that’s disgusting.”
Broker rolled his stogie in his mouth to the dismay of a waitress who informed him that, even unlighted, the cigar upset other customers, who had complained. Broker put it out of sight and they ordered. Lasagna for Broker. J.T. had the fettuccine.
J.T. took a piece of fresh baked bread from a wicker basket and dipped it into a small bowl of olive oil and nibbled. He chewed, swallowed and let his smoky gaze settle on Broker.
“So, what do you want.”
“I need some computer time, a credit work-up on Tom James, the reporter who was with Caren.”
“Not my area. Put it through channels,” said J.T. crisply.
“You’re a lot of help,” said Broker.
“Don’t give me that, go talk to the feds. They’re all over this thing. Check out bad-ass Agent Garrison. We call him the Lorn Ranger,” said J.T.
Annoyed, Broker drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay, let’s get right to it. Why did Keith turn?”
“Ask the feds, they made the case.”
“I want to hear your opinion.”
J.T. occupied himself with fastidiously straightening his silverware. Keith Angland was not J.T.’s favorite topic in the best of times.
“You want to know what I think, huh?” he said.
“Yep.”
J.T. squinted. “How do you want the race card? Face up or face down?”
Broker shrugged. “Up, wild, I don’t care.”
“Okay. The last thing Chief Sweeney did when he left office was send Keith to the FBI Academy…”
“Uh-huh.”
“He was different when he came back from Quantico. The consensus was, the management courses went to his head.”
Broker nodded. Keith’s attendance at the prestigious FBI academy spanned the former chief’s term of office. The new mayor appointed a new police chief.
J.T. continued. “So Keith comes back and thinks he’s going to set the world on fire. He locks horns with Dobbs right from the start. At first, they like, tried coexistence. Keith still ran Narcotics.”
“Pretty successfully, I heard,” said Broker.
“Yeah, that’s why Dobbs wanted him there, he had all this good shit he could get from his new fed buddies after being the honor student out there.”
“Sounds good so far. Where’s the problem?”
“The promotion board comes up. Dobbs skips Keith and promotes Janey to captain.”
Broker said, “Back when I was in patrol, I knew Janey.
She’s sharp.”
“No one disputes that. But Keith had the higher score. So he started a serious rumor that Janey banged the chief to get her promotion.”
“The usual department bullshit,” said Broker. His stomach churned, and he had that tiresome sensation of rowing through clotted human forms in an iron boat-office politics.
“Okay, I can see where this is going. The next promotion test, you make captain and he doesn’t. So what’d he say then? You screw Dobbs, too?”
J.T. fired back with precision, “Keith Angland made public remarks that were reported in the media. Racist remarks. He tried to racially polarize the department.”
“You’re giving me a speech,” said Broker slowly.
J.T. carefully shuffled his razor blade features. “You asked.”
He looked away. “I hate this goddamn thing,” he whispered.
“If he could do it, anybody could do it. That’s what’s got everybody on edge. And all that fuckin’ money…”
Broker came forward in his chair, on the verge of detailing Keith’s strange behavior in the transport room. The whole James scenario. But no-what happened in that holding cell, beyond the range of the microphones, was meant to be private. His alone. So he said, “When this started, Caren called, left a message on my machine. Said Keith was in a lot of trouble. Know what my immediate reaction was?”
“Sure, you thought ‘good, couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.’”
Broker exhaled. “Was he really that bad?”
J.T. inspected a forkful of pasta. “Nah, he was that good, but he was a prick. What the hell did Caren see in him?”
“He was going to be mayor…”
“Governor,” quipped J.T. In a softer voice, “Is it true, about the claw marks on his arm? The skin under his fingernails?”
“Yeah,” said Broker.
“Hate this thing,” said J.T. He reached across the table and placed his palm, flat down, on Broker’s nervously tapping fingers. “Quit that. Here, eat your food. It’s getting cold.”