us are the worst kind of criminals. Their reprehensible acts must be halted to restore peace to our wonderful city. Our prayers go out to the Steele family and to White River’s brave protectors.” He folded his sheet of paper and looked up. “God bless America!”
Beckert turned toward Kline. “Sheridan?”
The district attorney spoke with iron resolve. “Nothing challenges the rule of law like an attack on the men and women sworn to uphold it. My office is applying the full weight of its resources to a thorough investigation, the discovery of the truth, and the achievement of justice for the Steele family and for our whole community.”
The video cut to the female news anchor. “Thank you, gentlemen. Now we go to our follow-up questions from the RAM Issue Analysis Team.” The video cut back to the three men at the table as questions were posed by off-camera voices.
First Male Voice: “Chief Beckert, are you suggesting that Jordan and Tooker are the prime suspects in the sniper shooting?”
Beckert replied expressionlessly: “They’re definitely persons of interest in our investigation.”
Second Male Voice: “Do you consider them fugitives?”
Beckert, in the same flat tone: “We have a high degree of interest in finding them, they have not come forward, and their whereabouts are currently unknown.”
First Female Voice: “Do you have evidence of their involvement in the shooting?”
Beckert: “As I said, we have a high degree of interest in finding them. We are focusing significant resources on that objective.”
Same Female Voice: “Do you think Jordan and Tooker were tipped off prior to the raid?”
Beckert: “A reasonable person might reach that conclusion.”
First Male Voice: “What’s your plan for addressing the ongoing chaos? Fires are still breaking out in the Grinton area.”
Beckert: “Our plan is full-force pushback. We will not tolerate disorder or anyone who threatens disorder. For anyone tempted to use political protest as a cover for looting, burning, hear this: I have instructed my officers to use lethal force wherever necessary to protect the lives of our law-abiding citizens.”
Another male voice asked Chief Beckert if his SWAT team had encountered armed resistance by BDA members. He replied that weapons were present during the operation and more facts would be released after the filing of formal charges.
The same voice asked if injuries had been sustained on either side of the confrontation. As Beckert was giving another “more information later” nonanswer, Gurney noted the time on his computer screen. It was nine fifteen, meaning he needed to leave for his nine thirty meeting with Hardwick. Although he was curious about what might be revealed during the remainder of the press conference, he knew RAM programming was routinely archived for later viewing. He closed his laptop, grabbed his phone, and headed for the Outback.
9
Formerly a creaky old country store with a distinctly musty smell, Abelard’s had been taken over by a transplant from the Brooklyn art scene by the name of Marika. An abstract expressionist, she was an intense thirtysomething woman with a dramatic figure she wasn’t shy about showing off, numerous piercings and tattoos, and a startling array of hair colors.
When she wasn’t painting or sculpting, she’d been gentrifying the place. She’d removed the live-bait cooler and the displays of turkey jerky. She’d sanded and refinished the wide-board floors. She’d installed a new cooler full of things organic and free-range; a bin for locally baked breads; a high-end espresso machine; and four funky cafe tables with hand-painted chairs. The hammered-tin ceiling, pendant-globe light fixtures, and rough-hewn shelving had been left intact.
Gurney parked next to Hardwick’s classic muscle car—a red 1970 GTO. As soon as he entered the store he spotted Hardwick sitting in the back at one of the little round tables. He was wearing the black tee shirt and black jeans that had become his de facto uniform ever since he’d been forced out of the state police for offending his superiors too many times. This combative man with the pale-blue eyes of an Alaskan sled dog, a razor-keen mind, a sour wit, and a fondness for obscenity was definitely an acquired taste—one you could almost get to like if you didn’t choke on it first.
His muscular arms were resting on the table, which seemed too flimsy to support them. He was talking to Marika, who was laughing. Her hair that day was a spiky patchwork of iridescent pink and metallic blue.
“Coffee?” she asked when Gurney arrived at the table. Her striking contralto voice always got his attention.
“Sure. Double espresso.”
With an approving nod she headed for the machine. He took the chair opposite Hardwick, who was watching her departure.
When she disappeared behind the far counter, he turned to Gurney. “Sweet girl, not as batshit as she looks. Or half as batshit as you are if you’re planning to get involved in that White River insanity.”
“Bad idea?”
Hardwick uttered a grunt of a laugh, picked up his mug of coffee, took a long sip, and laid it down with the care one might give an explosive. “Too many virtuous people involved. All with high opinions of their own visions of justice. Nothing in this world worse than a pack of crazy fuckers who know—absolutely know—they’re right.”
“You referring to the Black Defense Alliance?”
“They’re part of it. But only part. Depends on what you want to believe.”
“Tell me more.”
“Where should I start?”
“With anything that would explain Kline’s desire to get me involved.”
Hardwick thought for a moment. “That would probably be Dell Beckert.”
“Why on earth would Beckert want me involved?”
“He wouldn’t. What I mean is, Beckert might be Kline’s problem.”
Before going on, Hardwick made a face like the subject had a bad taste. “I know what the fucker was like when I worked with him ten years ago in the Bureau. That was before he became the big deal he is today. But even then he was on his way. See, that’s the thing—Beckert is always on his way to something. Eye on the goal. He’s got that win-at-any-cost fixation that has a way of turning people into scumbags.”
“From what I’ve heard, his reputation is more law-and-order than scumbag.”
“Like a lot of high-class scumbags, he’s good at nurturing and polishing that reputation. Beckert has an instinct for turning everything to his advantage, even negative shit. Maybe I should say, especially negative shit.”
“Like what?”
“Like his family life. Back then, it was a fucking mess. His son, who was maybe thirteen at the time, was a nasty little bastard. Hated his father. Did everything he could to embarrass him. Painted swastikas on police cars. Told Child Protective Services that his father was selling confiscated drugs. Then the kid tried to set fire to a Marine recruiting office, probably because his
