Book 2: Chapter 22: Rockabye (1/2)
A couple more days had passed, and things were no longer looking quite as up.
”It's been almost a week, Cornelius. I thought you cops were supposed to be good at investigating things,” Dan groused as he eyed the pool table. He leaned forward, lining his stick up with the cue. Whack! Balls scattered, and two stripes went into a pocket.
”And I thought you were supposed to be good at pool. Those balls were mine,” Cornelius countered.
”Fuck off. I'm distracted with the continued and ambiguous threat on my life.” Dan threw up his hands. ”How is it that you don't even know who the target was supposed to be?”
The news had come just this morning, when Cornelius had joined with Gregoir as Dan's protective detail. He wasn't needed to babysit his nephew, as Connor and Freya were both off for the day, and spending time in their family's large, secure manor. Unlike Gregoir, Cornelius had point-blank refused to let Dan go about his business unescorted. The wily officer had coerced Dan's cooperation through the promises of information on the ongoing investigation.
It hadn't been what Dan had wanted to hear. The police had identified one of the shooters, obtained a warrant, and raided his last known address. They'd surprised the shit out of a squatting couple, broken a few locks, and found absolutely nothing else. The police were trawling the Crew's territory, but things had been quiet. Zim was in the wind, and the leads had all but dried up.
”Well we can't ask him, now can we?” Cornelius replied seemingly without concern. ”We're fairly sure Connor was the target, but it's better to be safe rather than sorry, no?”
”And I was fine with that explanation last week,” Dan said, ”but I figured this would be a two or three day thing.”
”What's one or two more?” Cornelius asked philosophically. ”These things take time, Daniel.”
”You had a video of his face, Cornelius,” Dan replied.
”It was an eighty-percent match, and that distinct tattoo wasn't on record,” Cornelius explained, for what might have been the fifth time that hour. ”I don't blame the judge for requiring more evidence. It took time to track down the artist that gave Zim his ink. It took time to get the warrants we needed. It took time to plan the raid. Everything takes time, Daniel.”
”And now he's gone,” Dan said flatly.
Cornelius shrugged. ”For now.”
Dan eyed him suspiciously. ”You are far too calm about this. This fuckhead tried to assassinate your nephew. Shouldn't you be hunting him down in the streets or some shit?”
”Of course not,” Cornelius protested innocently. ”I'm a SPEAR Team leader. My specialty is not investigations, it's leading strike teams. Once this fellow is found, and he will be found, then my team will take him in.” He shrugged. ”If the price for that privilege is to keep my nose out of Baker's way, I'll comply. So long as it's my tac-van that he ends up in.”
”Whereupon he'll have an 'accident' and fall down an elevator shaft?” Dan asked, making finger quotations.
”Where he'll be gently persuaded to give up whoever gave him his orders,” Cornelius corrected. ”It's one thing to be a career criminal, doing what you're told. Breaking the law, I can accept that. Criminals flaunt the rules of society, and we knock their skulls in for it. That's just the way it is. But it's another thing entirely to actually commission the killing of a police officer.”
The two of them were speaking without fear of judgement or eavesdropping, because they were currently at Kavanaugh's, a cop bar. Loud country music boomed from overhead speakers, as over a dozen plainclothes and off-duty officers milled about the place. Some drank, some sang karaoke, some played on one of the many pool tables scattered about the building, and some simply commiserated with their fellows.
Cornelius was given a respectfully wide berth as he and Daniel played their game. The two of them spoke quiet enough to be drowned out by the music, and everyone present had enough sense to not spy on a superior officer. Every now and then, an officer that Dan vaguely recognized would nod at him in greeting, but that was the extent of his interaction with them.
It was a little eerie. Kinda like Cornelius produced his own little invisible bubble of isolation.
”What about confidential informants?” Dan asked. ”You'd think they'd be crawling out of the woodwork with y'all on the hunt like this.”
”Informants?” Cornelius wrinkled his nose. ”You've been watching too much television, Danny-boy. I wish I had a handful of sultry vixens embedded in Coldeyes' Crew, all spellbound by my sheer masculinity and looking to feed me information, but it just doesn't work like that in real life.”
”You're a pig,” Dan informed him frankly. ”A giant fucking man-child. You know that's not what I mean. I'm talking about people in their territory that your guys are friendly with. Civilians willing to talk to you, or even gang members who think fucking with the cops is a terrible idea! I'm positive this is a thing, man.”
Cornelius shrugged. ”I'm not a beat cop. Maybe Baker has some neighborhood folks willing to slip him the odd piece of information, but if I'm called in, it ain't for talking. It's for that other thing, you know?”
”Yeah. You're a badass. I get it,” Dan soothed, rolling his eyes.
Cornelius winked at him, and angled his pool cue.
Whack!
Stripes ricocheted around the table, three more tumbling into corner pockets.