Frank nodded. “And it was a matter of life or death for me. The cartel thinks I’m their man. And what better than to have a man with a drug-sniffing dog on your side when you’re running heroin, pills, and meth.”
So, she and Carla had figured that part out. “That day you came up to Watchdog, when you were running late and Chewie sniffed drugs on you. There was more to it, wasn’t there?”
“Yeah.” He looked down, shame faced. “That story I told about me and Tom making a bust? Total bullshit. We were transporting with a coupla chuckleheads from the local gang. Betty did go apeshit when she smelled me after, and I had to give her a treat, convince my dog it was a game like the ones we’d been playing up at Watchdog. Didn’t have time for a shower, but I figured I’d be okay up there after I changed my clothes. Chewie is something else.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “It’s a damn shame you two won’t be on the Unit, but it just couldn’t happen.”
“So you were the one with the camera?” She barely managed to keep her voice steady.
“Tom was, actually. But I was the one who presented the evidence to Stan. Look, Sylvie, when all of this is over and I'm not undercover anymore, I'm going to quit the K9 Unit and I'm going to suggest that they hire you instead. I hope that makes up for this. I also hope that this gets wrapped up real soon. You know I’d never hurt you on purpose.”
“Well, it’s too late for that,” Sylvie spat. “So, Tom took the pictures, but which one of you wroteslutacross the photograph?”
“The what? What are you talking about? There was no word on the photo I gave to Stan.” But a shadow passed over his eyes that she didn’t like.
“I’m not talking about that one. Don’t fucking lie to me, Frank! The photo that Tom left on my desk while I was in getting my ass chewed to pieces by Stan. I get why you guys sabotaged me, took photos of me with Alex. But writing that, that…wordon it, really?”
“Tom left a photo on your desk?”
Sylvie paused. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
“Fuck.” Frank pulled out his cell and punched in a text. “Tom will be joining us shortly. In the meantime, drive us over to Pascale’s. This isn’t the place for this meeting.”
* * *
Pascale’s wasa restaurant one step above a dive bar in Longmont. Not a cop bar, and not a particularly dangerous place, but quiet and dark and the patrons were usually scarce and absorbed in drinking their own problems away mid-day. Perfect for a quiet meeting. Frank and Sylvie took a booth in the back where they had a view of the entire room. They ordered a couple of beers and some breadsticks and waited for Tom, who arrived about fifteen minutes later. He looked distressed. All his usual swagger was gone.
Tom pulled a wooden chair from another table over so that he didn't have to sit on either side of the booth—a pretty diplomatic move. Sylvie had to give him credit. The waitress returned with Frank and Sylvie’s beers and a basket of breadsticks, then took Tom's order. Tom asked for a bourbon and soda.
“Need something a little stronger than a beer to face me, Tom?”
“Yeah, Sylvie, I know what this is about. And before you say anything else, I just want to apologize.”
Frank stared a hole into his partner’s forehead. “The fuck, Tom?”
“I felt like I had to do something drastic to scare you off, Sylvie. You are tenacious. And you're not stupid. You shouldn't be anywhere near our investigation. He looked at Frank. Have you told her yet?”
“Told her what?”
“That she's under investigation too.”
Sylvie reared back. “What? Why me?”
“It's because of you and Alex,” Frank said. “Look, the handler we're dealing with, he’s not stupid either. He told us the Feds have had their eyes on Watchdog for a long time. There's something not right up there. This whole thing—they’re tied into the cartel. And he wants me in with Watchdog too. So,” Frank looked at the table, “we did what we had to.”
“You know what? I want to talk to your handler.”
Frank shook his head. “Sylvie, that's impossible.”
“No, it's not. Bring me in.”
“There is no way in hell we're bringing you in,” Tom said.
“I said, bring. Me. In. Your handler’s wasting his time looking into Watchdog when he should be trying to bring down this goddamned cartel that's taken over. Glass is involved, obviously. And Brianna's brother Brian. George is trying to put the pieces together. I'm trying to put the pieces together. I'm telling you, let me in. I can help.”
“You're not objective enough, Sylvie.” Frank stopped talking as the waitress came back with Tom's bourbon. As soon as she left, he added, “We just cannot let you into this.”
“The best way you can help is to walk away, Sylvie,” Tom said. “Pretend like we never had this conversation, and let us do our jobs.”
Sylvie was done playing nice. She stared Tom down. “Don't be condescending with me. You owe me for that photograph, Tom. Honestly, it was a really stupid move.” She folded her arms. “Because now I have something against you.”
