man in his early twenties, with fine features, a fierce gaze, and thick reddish-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. His name and affiliation crept across the bottom of the screen: “Cory Payne, White Men for Black Justice.”
Payne began in a strident voice, “The police claim to be defenders of the rule of law.”
Gelter grimaced. “You want to hear a mental disorder, listen to this asshole!”
“They claim to be defenders of the rule of law,” repeated Payne. “But their claim is a lie. It’s not the rule of law they defend, but the laws of the rulers. The laws of the manipulators, the ambition-crazed politicians, the dictators who want to control us. The police are their tools of control and repression, enforcers of a system that benefits only the rulers and the enforcers. The police claim to be our protectors. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
Gurney suspected, from the practiced flow of Payne’s accusations, that he’d made them many times before. But there didn’t seem to be anything rehearsed about the anger driving them. Or the intense emotion in the young man’s eyes.
“Those of you who seek justice, beware! Those of you who trust in the myth of due process, beware! Those of you who believe the law will protect you, beware! People of color, beware! Those who speak out, beware! Beware the enforcers who use moments of unrest for their own ends. This is such a moment. A police officer has been shot. The powers that be are gathering to retaliate. Revenge and repression are in the air.”
“You see what I mean? Unmitigated garbage!” Gelter was seething. “You see what civilization is up against? The rabble-rousing crap that spews out of the mouth of that self-indulgent little shit—”
He broke off as Trish came up to him looking hurried and anxious. “You have a call on the house phone.”
“Take a message.”
She hesitated. “It’s Dell Beckert.”
There was a shift in Gelter’s expression.
“Ah. Well. I suppose I should take it.”
After he’d disappeared through one of the doors in the back wall, Trish put on a bright smile. “I hope you like vegan Asian cuisine. I found the cutest young Cambodian chef. My little wok wizard.”
7
They said little during the drive home. Madeleine rarely spoke when they were in the car at night. For his part, he’d been making an effort not to be critical of social events she’d involved him in, and he could think of little positive to say about the party at the Gelters’. As they were getting out of the car by the mudroom door, Madeleine broke the silence.
“Why on earth would they keep that television on all evening?”
“Postmodern irony?” suggested Gurney.
“Be serious.”
“Seriously, I have no idea why Trish would do anything. Because I’m not sure who she is. I don’t think the packaging is particularly transparent. Marv might like to keep the TV on to keep himself angry and right about everything. Bilious little racist.”
“Trish says he’s a financial genius.”
Gurney shrugged. “No contradiction there.”
It wasn’t until they were in the house and Gurney was starting to make himself a cup of coffee that she spoke again, eyeing him with concern. “That moment . . . when the officer . . .”
“Was shot?”
“Were you . . . all right?”
“More or less. I knew it had happened. So the video wasn’t a total shock. Just . . . jarring.”
Her expression hardened. “News, they call it. Information. An actual murder on-screen. What a way to grab an audience! Sell more ads!” She shook her head.
He assumed that part of her fury was indeed provoked by the profit-based hypocrisy of the media industry. But he suspected that most of it arose from a source closer to home—the horror of seeing a police officer, someone like her own husband, struck down. The price of her deep capacity for empathy was that someone else’s tragedy could easily feel like her own.
He asked if she’d like him to put on the kettle for some tea.
She shook her head. “Are you really planning to get involved in . . . all of that?”
With some difficulty he held her gaze. “It’s like I told you earlier. I can’t make any decision without knowing more.”
“What kind of information is going to make—” The ringing of his cell phone cut her question short.
“Gurney here.” Though he’d been out of NYPD Homicide for four years, his way of answering the phone hadn’t changed.
The raspy, sarcastic voice on the other end needed no identification, nor did it offer any. “Got your message that you’re looking for insider shit on White River. Like what? Gimme a hint, so I can direct you to the type of shit you have in mind.”
Gurney was used to Jack Hardwick’s calls beginning with bursts of snide comments. He’d learned to ignore them. “Sheridan Kline paid me a visit.”
“The slimebag DA in person? Fuck did he want?”
“He wants me to sign on as a temporary staff investigator.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking into the cop shooting. At least, that’s what he says.”
“There some reason the regular White River PD detective bureau can’t handle that?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Why the hell’s he getting involved in the investigation? That’s not his turf. And why you?”
“That’s the question.”
“How’d he explain it?”
“City on the verge of chaos. Need to make solid arrests fast. Pull out all the stops. No time for turf niceties. Full assets into the breach. The best and the brightest. Et cetera.”
Hardwick was silent for a bit, then cleared his throat with disgusting thoroughness. “Odd pitch. Distinctive odor of horseshit. I’d be careful where I stepped, if I were you.”
“Before I step anywhere, I want to know more.”
“Always a good idea. So what do you want from me?”
“Whatever you can find out fast. Facts, rumors, anything at all. About the politics, the shot cop, the department, the city itself, the old incident with Laxton Jones, the Black Defense Alliance. Anything and everything.”
“You need all this yesterday?”
“Tomorrow will do.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?”
“I
