“You?”
Olav knew why Joe was asking, Olav wasn’t exactly known for taking on more cases than he strictly had to.
“Yeah, me,” said Olav Hanson and hung up.
—
There were no indications in Gomez’s apartment that he had been back. The couch was still pulled halfway out onto the floor. Bob was sitting on it while checking the cheese melting in the oven. He’d found the landlord Gregory Dupont’s phone number, picked up a set of keys from him and bought a semi-cooked pizza in a box from a 7-Eleven.
What do you think you’re doing?
What was it about the Gomez case that had him sitting here now, risking the little that was left of his career? It wasn’t the victim. Was it Gomez himself, the points of similarity? Was it because he knew how Gomez was feeling? That Gomez had actually done something he had imagined doing himself, and even felt close to doing, waging an all-out war, with no thought of the consequences for himself? But if it was true that he identified with Gomez, then why was it so important for Bob to stop him, of all people? Because it would be the same as stopping himself?
The phone rang. He checked the screen and took it.
“You saying yes to coffee after all?”
“No,” said Kay Myers. “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve had a sort of execution-style killing at Southdale Center. I think there are clear similarities to the attempt on Dante’s life, I want to know if you see it the same way.”
“I thought I was suspended.”
“Of course we can’t put you on the case, but there’s nothing irregular about consulting with someone who has relevant information and insight into a case.”
“And if I say no?”
“See you at Southdale,” said Kay Myers and hung up.
—
Bob stepped out into the cool evening air. He looked across the parking lot. Or parkinglots,for it was divided up into several sectors that surrounded the shoebox-like buildings in the center.
The blacktop was still wet following a rain shower. Bob headed toward the center of the parking lot where he saw blue lights flashing up into the sky like Morse signals. But the only sound was the even rumble from Highway 62, which could take you all the way from here into the next county. If that was where you wanted to go. If you thought things might be better there.
Olav Hanson was standing by the band of crime scene tape surrounding the Chevy Silverado. He held up his palm when he saw Bob approaching.
“You’re suspended, Aaa-ss. Go home.”
“Myers called me in,” said Bob without looking at his colleague. The doors of the Chevy were open, with crime scene techs swarming around it. They looked like beekeepers in their all-white suits. The body had already been moved from the scene.
“Myers isn’t here yet, so I’m handling this case and I’m telling you we don’t need your help, Aaa-ss.”
Bob registered the strips of white tape and the bullet holes high in the windshield as he took in the scene. Parking garage on the other side of the street. From the angles it was obvious that’s where the shots came from. Somewhere high up, probably the roof.
“Did you check to see if they have CCTV cameras over there?”
“We’re not idiots, but we do things one at a time. Right now we’re trying to find people who might have been here.”
“Beenhere? And seenwhat? A bullet going through a windshield? If they didn’t get in touch with the police then, what makes you think they’ll want to talk to you now?” Bob had promised not to let himself be provoked when he saw Hanson there, but the repetition of thatAaa-sshad set off the rushing sound again. “You need to do things in the right order, Hanson, don’t you get that? You need to check the—”
“Officer!” Hanson waved his hand at one of the uniformed officers. “Remove this person from my crime scene, would you please?”
Bob turned and walked away. Crossed the street between cars blaring horns.
At the entrance to the large parking facility he saw the first of the CCTV cameras.
