Authors: Duane Swierczynski
When Wildey steps into the classroom at NFU-CS, everyone is applauding. Half of the applause is in mockery. Wildey tells them to go fuck themselves and reports directly to Kaz’s office. She has some Billy Joel tune on her ancient boom box but flicks it off when he steps into the room. “You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down, Ben.”
Uh-oh. “Ben” and not “Wild Child.” This is not going to be good.
“I didn’t want to do this over the phone, for obvious reasons. But I need you to tell me how you found your way into this Roosevelt Hill thing. Because I don’t remember you bringing this up before in any of our meetings. You know how this office works. Everything goes through me. Everything.”
“I know, Loot. But it all happened kind of fast. You’re not going to believe this.”
She suggests that Officer Wildey try her.
“This one came from CI one thirty-seven. She set the whole thing up.”
“The honors student? The little girl you had in here last week?”
They don’t use her real name on purpose.
“Yeah.”
“How did
she
find it? She’s supposed to be your in with Chuckie Morphine, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So do you think she’s involved with Dr. Hill, too?”
“No. Not at all. I think she’s so desperate to protect her boyfriend that she went out and did some actual investigating. She turned him up on her own, hoping that it’ll get her off the hook for the other thing. I know, it’s fucked up, right? Who would have thought it?”
Kaz stares at him, which makes him feel like another shoe is about to drop. Right on his head.
“What? What is it?”
“I’m glad your newest CI is working out for you. Because you’re down to two.”
Kaz slides a manila file folder across her desk.
Twenty minutes into the movie (the first
Mission: Impossible,
the Brian De Palma one, which Kevin figures Marty will dig since he’s into spies and shit), Kevin hears the unmistakable
ffffhhhhrrrrrrr
of a cell phone set on vibrate. This, after the admonition that this was family movie night, and that meant their attention should be focused on the single screen in front of them, not any of their smaller screens. He can only assume it’s Marty’s phone. Marty seems disappointed in the movie, maybe even bored by it. Maybe he should have started with the fourth one, worked their way backwards. Kevin looks over at Marty, who’s sitting on the floor.
“Okay, seriously, guys, put them away.”
“What?” Marty asks.
“Seriously, don’t make me take them.”
“My phone’s recharging, Dad.”
Kevin turns to Sarie. “That’s not yours, is it?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s your phone, Dad.”
“No, I turned it off.” Or did he? “Crap, hang on.” Tom Cruise freezes. Kevin moves toward the kitchen, where his phone is recharging, too. Sarie takes the opportunity to run to the downstairs bathroom, leaving Marty on the floor alone, plate of half-eaten pizza in his hand, knowing that it wasn’t his phone, or Dad’s phone. It was Sarie’s
other
phone.
Wildey: I need to meet with you tonight
CI #137: I can’t! No way, seriously
Wildey: This is important, it’s about the case
CI #137: There’s no way. My dad made a big deal about us being home tonight and I can’t leave without him freaking out.
Wildey: You’ll think of something. Meet me at the doughnut place in 30
CI #137: No!
Wildey: Don’t make me come knocking for you H Girl
So I’m in the bathroom erasing the message history and repeating the word fuck in my mind over and over. “You’ll think of something.” Fuck you, Officer Wildey. Fuck. You. I press the edge of the burner phone to my head as I struggle to come up with some reason, any reason, to leave the house in twenty-five minutes. What excuse would Dad buy? Nothing school-related. Already played that card a lot for the past week. Tonight’s Friday, and there’s nothing school-related that could be THAT urgent.
“You’ll think of something.” I can hear his mocking voice in my head, even though it was just a text message.
And then, I do.
Drew Pike explains it to her again, for a third time, but she’s still too drunk and zoned out to fully understand. Why is she doing this? Who is this girl again? Can I just have another glass of wine so I can pass out in peace? Drew tells her: No, no wine. “Do me this favor.” What favor. “You need to call this number like you’re crying, like you’re really upset.” I am really upset. Upset that you’re being an asshole. “C’mon, Courtney.” Okay, okay, what do you want me to do again? “Call this number and ask for Sarie.” Who? “Sarie.”
Sare-eeee,
again. She’s your girlfriend, then. “No, she’s not.” So why are you doing this? “Please just call.”
Their moms are upstairs, drunk and loud. Oh my God, so fucking loud. They’re listening to some kind of stupid swing Christmas music, some dough-faced crooner they all love, and they’re joking and singing along and being old and stupid, so it’s not as if they’re going to hear.
“Come on,” Drew says, handing her the house phone.
“Why can’t I use your cell? What if your mom picks up the other line?”
“She won’t.”
Courtney takes the phone, unsure suddenly, drunk enough to do something like this but just sober enough to realize that maybe she’s making a poor decision because she’s mostly drunk. But Drew is good at talking her into all kinds of things. She puts the phone to her ear and starts to babble in her best fake-crying incoherent voice:
“Mr. Holland, is Sarie there, please, I need to talk to her right away …”
The phone rings. Dad sighs, hits the pause button again. Tom Cruise again freezes midaction. I watch Dad walk to the kitchen to pick up the house phone and catch Marty looking at me.
—What?
—Nothing.
—Why are you looking at me like that?
—I’m not, geez.
I hear Dad in the kitchen:
—Who is this again?
Oh boy. It’s on. I silently thank D. for doing this, even though in my book he’s not even remotely off the hook. I just hope his upstate girlfriend can sell it without overselling it.
—Hold on, honey. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do? You sound really upset. Just take a deep breath, okay?
Marty’s listening, too, and there’s a quizzical look on his face as he tries to figure out: a) who could be calling the landline on a Friday night and b) why Dad is trying to counsel him/her.
—You sure? Okay. But you know I’m always here. You can always call me, anytime. Okay? I’ll go get her.
When Dad reappears, I have to act surprised that it’s Tammy on the phone, sounding really upset but wanting to talk to me. I’m hyper-aware of Marty staring at me, too, no doubt judging my (probably shaky) performance. He knows that it’s weird that “Tammy” would be calling the house phone and not my cell phone. But I can always say that Tammy tried my cell first, got nothing, then called the house line. Of course, I have no proof that Tammy tried my cell. Which reminds me that I’m going to have to reach Tammy for real, as soon as possible, to get her to go along with this story, just in case Dad follows up with her (being Mr. Super Counselor and all). Fuck, this is all so complicated. Fuck you, Officer Wildey. Seriously.
I pick up the phone in the kitchen.
—You okay, Tammy?
Of course it’s not Tammy on the other end. It’s not even the upstate girlfriend anymore. It’s D. himself.
—Everything okay? Did it work?
—We’re just watching a movie, no big deal, tell me what’s wrong.
—What? Oh. Got it. You can’t talk. Well, whatever’s going on, I hope it’s nothing too crazy. Is that cop still bothering you?
—Yeah.
—Fuck. I’m really sorry, Sarie.
—Yeah, I know. I know.
—I should just fucking turn myself in. Make a deal with him.
—No. Don’t do that. You know you can’t.
—I know it’s not fair to you, and I swear, I will figure out some way to make this right.
—Okay. Give me five minutes and I’ll pick you up.
—What? Oh. Right. Where are you going, anyway?
—See you soon.
—Text me and let me know where you’re going, okay? I’m worried about y—
I hang up. Take a deep, cleansing breath. Live the lie. You were just talking to Tammy, and she’s upset over a boy, always a boy (you know Tammy), and needs to be talked down off the ledge, so you’re going to do what you always did senior year—meet for coffee and talk it through. Did Dad remember those days? You certainly do, Mom. You used to talk about a friend of yours who sounded a lot like Tammy.
So I explain the situation to Dad, that Tammy really needs me now, and Dad admits that she did sound upset, that he’s never heard her sound like that before. (Biting my tongue here.) Marty’s giving me the goose eye, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that I have about two minutes to make it to the fucking doughnut shop before Wildey gets his panties in a bunch.
Wildey is parked outside the Holland home. He’s been watching it for a few hours now, just the cold howl of the wind pushing around tree branches, leaves, trash to keep him company. Waiting for her to appear. Hoping nobody else is watching, too.
The porch light comes on and the front door opens. Honors Girl walks toward her car. Unlocks it. Slides behind the wheel. All without incident. Was he just being paranoid? Maybe. But when two of your CIs die within the same week, you have a right to take a few precautions.
She parks at the doughnut shop and looks around, seemingly annoyed that he isn’t there yet. Wildey takes his time, though, checking the area to make sure they don’t have any interested parties following. Then he decides that maybe a brightly lit doughnut shop isn’t the best place to meet after all. He pulls over and picks up his cell.
WILDEY: Leave your car there and step outside I’ll pick you up
CI #137: Where are you?
WILDEY: Going to be pulling over on Pine Road in 30 sec
CI #137: kk
We go driving around the neighborhood. He asks me where he should go and I tell him up Pine Road is probably the best—it’s not very crowded this time of night.
—Told you that you’d figure it out. You’re good under pressure.
I almost say it out loud: Fuck you, Officer Wildey. Instead I sink back into the passenger seat in a vain attempt to hide myself away.
—Anyway, I’m guessing you probably watched the news. You really stumbled into something huge, Honors Girl. The whole department’s going crazy.
—Is this your way of saying … thank you?
—Didn’t do me much good, personally. This stopped being a drug case the moment I saw body parts. You think anybody’s going to care about the pills? That’d be like nailing Jack the Ripper for jaywalking.
—Gee, sorry about that. Next time I’ll make sure to find a dealer who isn’t also a serial killer.
Wildey glances over at me, eyebrow raised, either in annoyance or admiration, hard to tell which.
Sarie seems insulted at Wildey for questioning her professionalism. She pouts and stares out the windshield at the cold, dark road ahead. What, did he insult her by saying she didn’t look like a junkie? Besides, he’s just trying to protect her. Then again, she does have a point. On the surface, this mysterious connection guy seems like no big deal. Just some drug seeker who heard a rumor and found a way to play it out.
What troubles Wildey—and what he can’t tell Sarie—is that he needs to know exactly
how
she found him. How did his green-as-they-come CI (who isn’t even a CI for real) stumble into something like this? Pure luck? Is she some kind of detective-savant beneath that good girl exterior?
Pretty unlikely. Much more probable that somebody’s targeting her. Like someone clearly targeted his other CIs.
Wildey says, “Tell me how you found him.”