SUDDENLY ALEXIS
Hardcastle had said he trusted her. That didn't necessarily mean he believed her.
Bedlam raged inside. It reminded Alex of the time her cousin had poured gasoline into an anthill. Police officers jogged to and fro. Every phone rang. The receptionist looked as if she'd jammed her pinky into an ungrounded outlet. Her blonde hair flew away in pipe-cleaner bends, cat-eye glasses yawing hard left. Her telephone buzzed a constant F#, its bank of lights flashing. To compound her problems, officers approached every twenty seconds to deposit pages and depart. Kafka's worst nightmares seemed tame by comparison.
Alex smoothed her charcoal skirt and cleared throat. "Is the Chief in his office?"
Alex's words pulsed a shockwave out from reception. Jogging officers stopped mid-stride, mouths dangling. Cops materialized at Alex's elbows and teleported her into the elevator.
Up to the third floor, Chief Hardcastle sat in his Spartan office, Dirty Harry in reading glasses. As Chief, he could have any office in the Municipal Complex. He could put a massive oaken throne on the rec center basketball court and hold office. Instead, he worked from an office smaller than Alex's, the walls still contractor’s taupe. His office completely lacked décor, not a framed B.A. or Masters, not even one of his multitude of civic awards. It looked as if Hardcastle was some soldier of fortune, ready to depart from his rental office should circumstance call.
He looked up from the pages in his hand, swiped the glasses from his face.
"You read this story of Kite's? Three prisoners disappear in a riot."
Alex nodded. "They're gone."
A momentary flash of something darkened Hardcastle's face. He laid the pages and his glasses to the aluminum desk. "How."
It wasn't a question so much as a demand. Alex, trying desperately to control her San Francisco earthquaking, placed the evidence bags, still soggy with toilet spray, on his desk. In one sat a green leatherbound book: The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The other held three plastic zip-bags, empty save for spare flakes of what looked to be silver.
"What is this?"
"There was an explosion during the riot."
"An explosion?" Hardcastle looked up from the evidence bag. "What? How?"
"Forensics is already running whatever is in these plastic bags, but it seems the Irregulars flushed some kind of hydrothermic metal down the prison toilets. Potassium or Magnesium. Kagan is a physics teacher. Apparently the three had this metal in enough quantity, and the plumbing is bad enough at county, that the reaction blew out the back wall of solitary row."
Hardcastle nodded. "I'll give them points for originality. Most people just hide in the mail truck. What's this book then? How'd they get their whatever explosive metal?"
Alex took a cold breath. The words sat in the back of her throat. It felt like the moment right before vomiting, your head dipped into the bowl of the toilet, sweat on your brow, everything shaking in anticipation of the moment of sick release.
"I gave it to them, sir."
She wanted very badly for Hardcastle to explode like a potassium rod in toilet water. Instead, Hardcastle squeezed the evidence bag in a shaking fist and spoke in a teeth-clenched whisper.
"You what?"
"I unwittingly smuggled the contraband to the prisoners yesterday, sir."
"It didn't set of the metal detectors?"
"I didn't go through the metal detectors, sir."
"Detective—"
"Sir, please. Two of their stories had already come true—the animal heist and the haunted house. They deserved a fighting chance to stop the third. Innocent until proven guilty, right? I met with them to deliver copies of Arthur's stories, hoping they'd suss out clues quicker than I could alone. Mr. Kagan had also requested his Sherlock Holmes book as a measure of comfort. I honestly had no idea there was anything secreted in the book."
"You didn't check it for contraband."
"No."
"Jesus Christ, Dalkowski."
"Sir, I…"
"No." Chief Hardcastle pushed out from his seat, massive tree branch of an arm extended. "And as much as I hate all that TV cop bullshit, Detective, I think this situation warrants it: your badge and gun."
Alex looked to the open palms before her. "Sir?"
"Your badge and gun. You're done here."
"Done?"
"For now, at least. It looks like you've stepped in more than you can handle. I'll keep the ethics investigation quiet if you'd like. Who knows? Maybe you could catch on somewhere else in parking enforcement. But until further notice, you're not affiliated with the Bakersville Police Department. My only regret is not reining you in sooner. Too damn busy imagining yourself the mayor's office, you forgot to be a decent cop first."
Alex slid the lanyard over her bowed head. Her gun hit Hardcastle's tabletop with a sick clang, like the closing of a door. It was everything she could do to keep from crying.
"You're making a mistake," she said. "You said you trusted my hunch. Trust it just a day more."
"I don't have that luxury. You're on leave until further notice. Get out of my office, Alexis."
It hit her like a punch. Only her dad had ever called her "Alexis." In Hardcastle's eyes, she was no longer, "Sergeant Detective." She was no longer "Dalkowski." She was just a punk kid who needed to be shooed from the police chief's office. She paused in the doorway.
"Is it you?" Because at this point, why not accuse the Chief of being a criminal mastermind? Why else would he be so quick to kick her off the force? "A jilted lover, wanting cash to escape his ex, maybe hurt her a little, and find some clueless idiots to pin it all on?"
"Alexis," Hardcastle sighed. "You're too smart to believe that. I get that you're angry. I would be too." Hardcastle slid her badge and gun into a desk drawer, went back to the photocopied story. "I've heard you say it—we don't have boogey-men lurking in shadows, planning heists. We have criminals. Usually dumb, desperate criminals. Three writers who've been shit on for years—a performance artist, a broke teacher, a woman who wants revenge against a boss she hates—the simple answer is usually the right one, Alex. You let the perps into your ear, let them cloud your judgement. You could have been chief someday. Someday soon."
Alex's knuckles cracked from her talon-grip on the door frame. Her face burned.
"The simple answer is usually right," she said, "but not this time, Lemuel. Something is happening here. Something bad. If you're too blind to follow the leads, then you can bet your fucking ass I will."
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