Fish Out of Water (19 page)

And it was hard enough for Jackson to come to the precinct.

Burnt coffee, scuffed tile, the hum of computer banks in the squad room—Jackson remembered how proud he’d been when he graduated from the academy. He’d thought that this place was going to be his home.

He hadn’t realized that his roommates had already shit themselves there and trying to clean up the mess could get him killed.

This bland, featureless room felt like the precinct’s toilet getting ready to flush all the wrongs away.

If they could flush a turd like Bridger, Jackson would be happy to be in the bowl when it happened. Unfortunately Bridger wasn’t the only turd in the bowl.

“Wait—I’m getting interviewed by the
defense
lawyer? That fucker killed Miles and you’re making me talk to the shitpiles defending him?” he growled at Bess Carillo, who had apparently gotten her law degree and was serving as IA counsel now. She wore her tightly ringletted orange hair in a ponytail just like she had eight years ago, but now she wore a flowing, boldly printed dress to go with her bangly earrings and bracelets.

Jackson usually didn’t mind this look on a woman, but given what this particular woman had put him through, seeing her dressed like she was going to a party at the beach set his teeth on edge.

Ellery’s fingers digging into Jackson’s bicep were the only thing that kept him on his side of the table.

“The DA didn’t want to see you,” Ellery said to Bridger. This was true—he’d gotten a text on their way to the precinct, and ADA Brooks had said she would interview Bridger the next day. “She seemed to think everything out of your mouth would be bullshit.”

Jackson kept his face straight. As far as he knew, this was
not
true.

“As far as I know,” Ellery continued, “you wouldn’t know bullshit from fish poop, so how about you talk to me and I can tell her if you’re worth her time.”

“But… but… she’s the
DA
!” Bridger was a square-built fortyish man with dark hair and really nice blue eyes. Physically, he was good-looking—even the kind of guy who could turn Jackson’s key in the right moment—but knowing what Jackson knew? It made him more than repellent.

“Yes,” Ellery said, nodding. “But you know who the DA
really
doesn’t like?”

“Cop killers?” Bridger sounded like, for the first time, he was considering an alternative.

“Dirty cops.”

Bridger blinked.

And then, in the middle of the stellar air-conditioning, he began to sweat.

“I’m not a dirty cop,” he graveled.

Then he blinked sweat out of his eyes.

Ellery smiled, all pointy teeth, and proceeded to eviscerate him like a hunted deer. After the first few volleys, Ellery let go of Jackson’s arm and Jackson relaxed back into his chair, watching as Bess Carillo, once the IA liaison, now IA counsel, tried to get her client to shut the fuck up while she avoided any eye contact with Jackson whatsoever.

Interesting.

Jackson remembered her from his time working with Internal Affairs, and she’d been bright-eyed and eager. It had been her idea to keep sending Jackson out into the field with the wire, and she’d been…
fervent
was the word Jackson would use. She was
fervent
in her pursuit of corruption.

Apparently she was not so
fervent
in her willingness to protect the people under her care. She sat, one hand in her corkscrewed orange hair, blocking Jackson—and her client—out of her vision, and the other hand scratching what could have been penises on her legal pad. Jackson was pretty damned sure it wasn’t actual notes.

It wasn’t until Bridger let out a wounded moan and said her name that she and Jackson were called back into the fray.

“You’re going to let him talk to me like that?” Bridger asked, sounding petulant.

“I simply asked how much money you and Miles had extorted from that particular service station in the past year.” Ellery stared at him as though this wasn’t a leading question.

“Miles wasn’t even with me the past year,” Bridger burst out. “We’d been partnered up about four months. Sweet kid. Sucked he had to go out like that.”

“Sweet kid?” Jackson said, perking up attentively. “Really? Because I was a sweet kid once. I seem to remember something about being that kind of sweet kid and having people want me dead.”

“You were a
rat
and everybody knew it,” Bridger snarled. “Oh yeah—you think I haven’t heard of you, Rivers? The whole fucking
world
has heard of you, and now you’re keeping the scum out of jail—”

“Or keeping the scum from putting the innocent people there,” Jackson replied, mind whirling. Yeah. Miles would have been there long enough to smell the dead fish sitting next to him in the squad car. And Bess Carillo—
fervent
Bess Carillo, Miles’s supposed advocate—might have had a hand in getting the damned kid killed. “But we’re not going to talk about that. What we’re going to talk about is who took the crime-scene photo.”

He saw Bess frown and then turned his attention to Bridger. Who was looking anywhere but at his lawyer.

“I don’t know. Lutz, I guess. Isn’t his name on the picture?”

“But Lutz wasn’t called to the crime scene,” Jackson lied smoothly. He had no idea if Kevin Lutz had been called in to take pictures or not. But Bridger’s demeanor
—
and the sweat that had not let up—told him Bridger knew
exactly
who had taken the picture, and that it wasn’t a fiftyish black man with gray hair at the temples.

“In fact,” Jackson continued, “we’d
really
like to know the name of this girl.” He reached into Ellery’s file and pulled out the rendering Crystal had done of their mystery photographer. He slapped it in front of Bridger and watched the man flinch as though punched.

“I have no idea,” Bridger muttered. “How in the fuck am I supposed to know about some sleazy fucking whore hanging out in the quickie-mart?”

Jackson looked at the picture. A young woman in bright clothing and a tight shirt in August did not automatically spell
whore
. “How do you know she’s a working girl?” he asked.

“Jeans are painted on,” the guy sneered.

“Lots of girls wear tight jeans when they’ve got nice legs. I don’t see clown makeup, don’t see bangles, don’t see a lot of spandex. Nothing to market her livelihood, Bridger, just a T-shirt with the sleeves cut and skinny jeans. What makes you assume she’s on the payroll?”

Bridger glared at Jackson with loathing. “’Cause she
looks
like a skanky junkie whore,” he said, his brows drawn in, ugly.

“Well, even if she was,” Jackson said thoughtfully, “can you tell me what she was doing taking pictures of a crime scene?”

“How in the hell would I know that!” Bridger snarled. “You’ll have to ask Owens. He was the first flatfoot who answered the call.”

Jackson and Ellery shared a look. “But wait a minute,” Jackson said, something that had been bothering him finally curling up and making a home in his brain. “We’ve got this picture of Kaden Cameron knocked out, a gun by his hand, and a dead body. Why isn’t Mr. Cameron in cuffs?”

Bridger froze.

“I mean, this was supposed to be—it was supposed to pass for—a legitimate crime-scene photo, but your suspect is unconscious and not cuffed. And a civilian is taking the picture. And none of the people who are supposed to be at the scene are at the scene yet.
Explain
this to us, Bridger. We want to understand.”

Jackson had begun to lean forward more and more and more, until he was glaring into Bridger’s face, an ugly rage settling into his bones.

“Fucking explain this!” he shouted.

Bridger spat at him, and it caught him squarely on the cheek.

Jackson didn’t move. “Carillo?”

“Yes,” she husked, as though surprised she could find her voice.

“I’d like this man charged with assault. Spitting on someone in public is still a misdemeanor, isn’t it?”

“Jackson….” But her voice fell, and he knew he’d won. “Yeah. My client is aware of the charges. If Mr. Cramer will fill out his paperwork, I’ll file it.”

“You’ll
what
?” Bridger turned to her, outraged. “You stupid fucking cow! It’s your job to keep me out of—”

“It’s my job to make sure my cops behave like cops,” she hissed. “That’s my job. You just crossed that line, and he’s right. Your bad. Next time keep your temper.”

“Fuckin’ bitch rat cunt,” Bridger growled.

“You don’t want to spend a night in lockup?” Jackson said sweetly. “Then you tell me the girl’s name.”

“Hey—” Carillo made a halfhearted effort to protest, but Jackson slammed her with full-boiling fury in his look and shut her down.

“Hey what?”

“Nothing,” she said. She closed her eyes for a moment, and Jackson saw the remorse there—and didn’t give a shit.

“Luanne,” Bridger said into the sudden silence. “Luanne Chisholm.”

Jackson couldn’t stop his gasp of breath, and behind him he heard Ellery mutter, “Holy fucking Jesus.”

Oh yeah.
This
was a lead.

“One more thing,” Jackson said. “And then we’ll be on our way.”

“I can hardly wait.” Bridger was looking at Carillo like he was going to
eat
her, and Jackson hoped she’d be calling for another lawyer for him and some protection for herself. He really hoped these things arrived before he and Ellery left, but he wasn’t invested enough to offer a friendly word of advice.

Fervent
Bess Carillo, who liked to rope rookies into spilling their guts. And then, apparently, didn’t have the power to protect them once they had.

“Why that gas station? What were you doing there? Did you have a thing against Mr. Cameron?” He needed this. He needed it said in front of Bess Carillo and in front of Ellery.

“I didn’t know Kaden Cameron from a rock in the road,” Bridger muttered. “But Connie, he used to play poker with us. He’d always let us have our fuckin’ coffee and candy bars for free.”

“Was that why you were there?” Jackson asked. “Is that why you picked Connie to shoot Miles and frame him for murder?”

Bess Carillo gasped, but Bridger just regarded him with disgust.

“I got nothing more to say to you. And I want another fucking lawyer.” He leered. “Think I can get a pricey one from the firm you work at?”

“No,” Ellery said before Jackson could lunge across the table and shatter his hyoid bone while strangling him. “I’m afraid our firm couldn’t defend you, Mr. Bridger. It would be a conflict of interest. But I shall certainly give our information to the ADA. She will have much to say to whomever you decide to hire.”

With that, Ellery packed up his briefcase, and he and Jackson stood. There were officers at the door as they left, and Jackson looked over his shoulder. He should be able to pity them—the dirty cop and the IA lawyer who wanted to put him away but ended up defending him instead.

He couldn’t.

His stomach felt like it was made of fucking bile. He’d have to vomit all that out before he had any room there for compassion.

“SO,” ELLERY SAID
when they got back in the car. “Bess Carillo.”

“Yeah.”

It was the first word Jackson had spoken since they’d left the interview room, and Ellery wondered which one of them would hit something first.

“I didn’t know she’d be representing him.”

“We’ve had a lot of balls in the air.” Jackson’s voice was affectless, and Ellery’s stomach clenched. Oh, this was so bad.

“From IA liaison to IA counsel. That’s sort of an unusual move.”

“She probably got tired of people hating her.” Jackson’s arms were folded, and he stared straight ahead as Ellery turned down J Street and headed for the nearest FedEx. He had Jackson’s file in his briefcase, and his stomach was
itching
to get copies made and mailed. He couldn’t explain, even to himself, why this had become an imperative—and why he wasn’t willing to leave the file in his office and have Jade run the copies.

It would just take too long, and that was no reflection on Jade.

“No,” Ellery said, “seriously. That’s like… like switching sides. I mean, she didn’t have her law degree when she was working with you. I wonder what happened.”

“She made a rookie wear a wire for three months and he nearly ended up dead,” Jackson said bitterly. “And now she wants… I don’t know. Absolution? Wants to help from the other side? I’ve got no clue. And you know what? I don’t give a ripe shit, because as far as I can figure, she didn’t learn a damned thing. That woman had guilt just pouring off her like Bridger had sweat—I’ll give you
odds
that Miles went to her about Bridger. Stupid fucking rookie, thinking, ‘Hey! I don’t want to be an IA rat, so how about I talk to my union lawyer and see what I’m liable for if my crooked partner gets caught.’”

Ellery frowned. “So, what? Do you think she told someone?” He grimaced. “I’d say that would be a violation of ethics, except everything she did with you was a violation of ethics. Fuck. God, this gets worse every time we pull a thread.”

“Augh!” Jackson pounded the roof of the car with his fist. “God, I need to fucking hit something.”

Ellery felt a surge of satisfaction. Nailed it! “Well, we have—”

“Yeah, I know. We have fucking things to do. Where are we going, anyway? Shouldn’t we be running down Chisholm?”

Ellery shook his head. “We need to
research
Chisholm first, not go charging down the halls of the capitol shouting his name.”

Through the upholstery, he felt Jackson’s deep breath shuddering as he bled out some of his tension. “We need to research female relatives—probably his daughter—too.” Another breath. “Please.
Please
,
Ellery. Let me do that alone.”

“No,” Ellery said unequivocally. “And not just for the reason you think. I was busy talking to Bridger, and I got exactly what I expected.”

“A coarse, loud-mouthed bigot who is divided from criminals only by his badge and not another fucking thing?”