The captain’s words still rang in his ears. Sure he was just passing along orders from higher up, but the prick didn’t have to act so smug about it. He was still pissed off about that IA investigation, even though Walt had assured him again and again that the charge was bullshit. The dirt bag he’d arrested would never be believed over Walt. He was a decorated police sergeant, detective second class. The whole thing was a crock of shit. No one had witnessed the scene. Walt had made sure of that.
And no matter what the captain had told him, Walt knew the reason he was given had been bullshit, too. If IA were going to get him confined to a desk for the duration of the investigation, they’d have done it when they first started looking into the charges.
Which meant this had something to do with the interview with McGuire yesterday. He unlocked his car door and yanked it open with all the fury he was feeling. When this was over, somewhere down the line McGuire was going to get his. No one pulled this shit on Walt Eggers and got away with it.
He turned the key in the ignition. And while he was at it, he’d plan a little payback for that bitch, Chandler, too. Something a little more personal that the ass kicking he’d give McGuire. Something he’d get a helluva lot more pleasure out of.
He peeled out of the lot and shot into the street. After a horseshit day like this, ordinarily he’d call Hans to go out for a brew. Maybe even Giovanni.
But Giovanni was dead and Hans . . . Walt never thought he’d see the day, but Hans was running scared. He’d come around. Eventually. But right now he needed some space. Which meant the bottle of Jim Beam he normally picked up after work would be drunk alone tonight.
He turned at the corner, headed toward his favorite liquor store. No one bitched there when he occasionally picked up a twelve pack on his way out the door, after he’d paid for the liquor. They didn’t dare. That’s the way it’d been early in his career, when people on the street and the storekeepers respected cops. Didn’t give them no lip.
Those had been the days.
Plainclothes officer John Huxley, ensconced in a navy Camry straight from police impound came to attention when Detective Eggers headed for his car. Starting his own vehicle, he put down the newspaper he’d had in front of his face and watched for his chance in traffic. He’d follow the guy from four cars back. It was doubtful Eggers would notice him, but if he did, a second officer would pick up the tail in a black Monte Carlo.
Likely the detective would go directly home, but Huxley almost wished he didn’t. There was nothing more boring than stakeout work. Running a tail at least took some talent. It damn sure broke up the monotony.
He timed the next light, made sure he got through the yellow because Eggers had. But they missed the next one, and he stopped, waited. The loud jacked-up older model Cutlass in the lane next to him seemed crammed with people, most of them jiving to the rap music blaring from the speakers.
Exchanging a look with the unshaven guy in the passenger seat, he returned his eyes to the road. The city had noise ordinances, but he had a job to do. Let some traffic cop bust them for the tinted windows and the noise.
Ought to be a ticket they could write for bad taste in music.
From the corner of his eye Huxley saw movement from the car. He glanced its way again. He had only a fraction of an instant to recognize the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun pointing at him.
In the next instant he was dead.
Eggers came out of the liquor store with a bottle and a twelve-pack, feeling a modicum better. The feeling lasted about as long as it took him to notice the man hanging around his car, trying to seem inconspicuous by looking at a city map. Failing big time.
Paranoia mingled with logic. It was still light outside, for chrissakes. No one was going to make a move on him in the daylight. He drew a bit closer, and recognition hit him. Although he couldn’t quite place the guy, he’d seen him before.