Fear.
Who the hell is at the door?
Another knock.
“Open up, Jordan, I know you’re in there,” a man’s voice says. Hallie recognizes him as one of the two men she heard downstairs, talking in the basement.
Sanchez waves Hallie to the bedroom once again and this time she goes. It’s a mess. She slips in behind the door, pulling it so close to her, her face is almost touching the 1985 calendar Sanchez has hung from the back. Her only view of the living room now is between the door and the frame.
Sanchez pauses, taking a breath, his shoulders settling. He’s trying to relax himself—trying to appear normal, trying to return his face to the way it looked as he answered the door to Hallie earlier. Sanchez was expecting whoeverthisis when Hallie arrived, that much is clear now. He cranks the front door open.
Instantly, something squirms inside Hallie.
It’s a cop.
He’s in uniform, dark blue shirt and pants, a gold badge on his chest. From where she is, Hallie can’t make out the name on his brass lapel. He’s in his forties, his hair red, his eyes dark. They shift beyond Sanchez to the apartment, searching it for a split second, and then they return to Jordan. “Your phone needs fixing,” the cop says, entering, “and that’s pretty inconvenient this week, Jordan.” The cop has a gun on his belt, one hand resting on it, and his attention is moving out and across the apartment again. He checks the bathroom and then switches to the bedroom.
Behind the door, Hallie stiffens.
The cop’s eyes briefly take in the bedroom, the crack between door and frame—just a couple of seconds, but it feels like an hour—then he swivels to face Sanchez again. “I was just speaking to your super in his dungeon downstairs,” he says. “Seems you’re behind on your payments. Andthat makes me wonder why our little scoop hasn’t hit the newspapers yet. Why aren’t we making money, Jordan?”
“I’m not doing this story with you, Gilloway.”
Hallie feels her blood run cold.
Gilloway isn’t another journalist, he’s a cop—and he’s a cop that knows all about the Porter Sloan lead. Hallie shifts, trying to get a clearer look at the two of them. Sanchez is staring ahead like he’s a tough guy, like them working together isn’t even up for debate—but it’s all artifice. She can see Sanchez is terrified.
Gilloway can see it too.
The cop smiles. “I thought we were clear on this, Jordan. I thought we had an understanding. I mean, it’s been—what?—two days since I was in this dump the last time? That’s twoneedlessdays your little brother has been sitting in the county jail getting his ass sized up by a bunch of gangbangers with twelve-inch dicks.”
“I’m not being blackmailed by you.”
Gilloway laughs. “That’s ironic, coming from you.”
He tilts his head slightly, as if he’s taking in Sanchez for the first time. Hallie uses the lull to look the other way, out across what she can see of Jordan’s bedroom. Her attention immediately drops below the mattress and bed frame: there’s a stack of paper hiding in the shadows. On top is a Xeroxed copy of aTimesfront page. She takes a minor step closer and leans in. The main story is about an LA Sheriff’s Department detective appealing for information after a decomposed body was discovered in a bath of acid in a West Hollywood motel. The secondary story is a photograph of Porter Sloan and the headlineSloan and Lange Step out for “Georgia Girl” Film Premiere.
On top of the Xeroxed pages is a box of bullets, its lid open.
There appear to be bullets missing.
And no gun.
“A lot of us in Rampart hate your fucking guts,” Gilloway is saying, “so most of the guys I work with would be happy to see yourhermanoget his ass shipped off to Terminal Island. Me? I’m progressive as all shit. I don’t think being caught with five grams of crack should mean Joey getting five years in the federal pen. So, as we discussed the other day, if you publish that Sloan story, and you give me half of what you make, the charges will go away and Joey can come home.” Gilloway takes a step toward Sanchez. “Or, we go the other route: if you haven’t outed Sloan as a secret homo by the end of the weekend, if I don’t get my cut, your brother’s going to prison to get his insides rearranged. Then I take this story to another journalist.”
“It’s not your story to take.”
“Well, if you were so protective of it, you shouldn’t have left all the details just sitting around here when I came over on Tuesday.” Gilloway gestures to the table. But when his attention comes back to Sanchez, he twitches slightly, his hand gripping his holstered gun tighter. He can see something he doesn’t like the look of in Sanchez’s face. “Want some friendly advice, Jordan?” He directs a finger at Sanchez’s stubble. “Stay off the snow. It’s making you sloppy and it’s making you paranoid.”
Hallie glances toward the pile of Xeroxed pages again.
The stack must be what Sanchez has built on the Sloan story so far. It’s thick, more impressive than she imagined it might be given he’s only had two days working it. She also realizes now why Sanchez hasn’t picked up the phone to an editor or Heraldo Flores: he’s been trying to figure out his next, best move.
Give in to Gilloway’s blackmail.
Or watch his brother go to prison.
A split second later, she hears the squeak of a rubber sole on the floorboards in the living room and swivels in the narrow space behind the door.
