Red rain 2.0 (5 page)

"I'd like to ask you a favor, LT. I can't shoot the Ruger for shit. I do have a personal pistol that I can use well, if I ever have to."

I hand him a black aluminum case. He places it on his desk and pops the latches. Inside, nestled in dimpled gray foam, is a matte-black semi-auto.

"Looks ordinary. Caliber?"

"Just .45ACP, sir. Standard issue in lots of places."

"I know that, Ewing. Capacity?"

'Ten rounds only."

"Hell, the Ruger carries ten too," Dugal says. "But you claim you're more comfortable with this, better shot with
it ?”

"Yessir."

"Let's check it out."

We go down to the range in the basement. Dugal calls over McKibbin, who gives me a nod and wink. I know him already, spend a half-hour on the range every day since I joined, to get back my groove after not shooting for almost a year. He's an Irish guy, Northern, ex-Royal Ulster Constabulary with some military cross-training, I'd bet on that, maybe even with the SAS, since he knows more about weapons than any cop I've ever met. One of the lucky lottery winners, he calls himself. He won a green card and here he is.

"Ah, a very lovely Heckler and Koch," McKibbin says as he handles the pistol Dugal's extended to him. "Did you just buy it, sir? Excellent purchase indeed."

"No, I did not buy it. It's the personal weapon of our new ; detective, Ewing. Ewing, meet McKibbin, our shooting instructor."

"Well, lad, can you use it?" McKibbin asks me with a broad smile as we shake. He puts my pistol back in its case, hands it to me.

"I'll go first," Dugal says. We all put on muffs, he steps into a booth, McKibbin sends the silhouette target racing down the wires to twenty-five yards, and steps behind the LT. Dugal draws his Ruger, takes maybe twenty-five seconds to settle himself into the isosceles stance, aiming for center of mass. He lets off three pretty deliberate rounds, then empties the clip as fast as he can. McKibbin hits the recall button and the target comes fluttering up to the bench.

"Good shooting, sir," I say. He's got two holes in the X-ring about two inches apart, a third just outside the ring, and then seven holes climbing up and right until the last two aren't even in the man-sized silhouette.

"Well, I'm rusty," Dugal says, "but it isn't the pistol's fault."

"With due respect, sir, ye've done what I warn everyone against. Pullin' the trigger too fast, without waitin' for recoil recovery. Muzzle climbs with each round. That's why ye've got this trail," McKibbin says as he sticks his pinky in the seven wild holes, "runnin' right off the target. Natural tendency, sir. Have to fight it until it's instinct."

"Well, I'm rusty," Dugal concedes.

"Right, then, Mr. Ewing," McKibbin says, clipping up a fresh target. 'Twenty-five, is it?"

"Sighted in for thirty-five, if that's okay?" I say, fighting the temptation to send the target all the way out to fifty yards. But I don't want to humiliate the LT here, just get him to let me carry my own gun

I take the HK Mark23 out of its case and slide home a clip. Dugal doesn't realize it's a SOCOM model I stole off a drunken SEAL in Kuwait City after the party there was over. He doesn't notice the small extension of the barrel, threaded to take a suppressor, though I know McKibbin spotted it immediately. Dugal's standing behind me with his arms folded across his chest, sure a thin guy like me is gonna splash rounds all over the place with a heavy-recoiling .45.

Fuck the isosceles, the Weaver, fuck even a two-handed grip, you never have time for that in combat. My eye's already zeroed on where I want to hit, and I raise the HK as if it's just an extension of my hand until the sights align with my spot. I squeeze off a round, pause a beat, squeeze off two more fast—a double tap. "He's dead," I call out. But then I put another three rounds rapid into the silhouette for good measure.

McKibbin's already laughing when he hits the recall button, and I hear Dugal start to chuckle too. He isn't seeing holes in the X-ring.

"Five-O," he says, in a tone that's close to jovial for him, "I think you need an hour a week down here with McKib-bin."

"Nothing I can teach him," McKibbin says, holding the target up against his body so Dugal can take it all in. The first shot's taken out the tiny white X in the X-ring. The second's gone through the left eye, the third through the right, and the last three are clustered exactly between them, all holes touching and forming one big hole.

"Shit, Ewing! How the hell did you do that?" Dugal says, plainly annoyed.

"He shot deliberately, watching muzzle climb," McKibbin says.

"Army shooting team, sir. Not all-army, just the base team. The armorer does trigger jobs, jewels the feed ramp, drops in a match-grade barrel, accurizes, puts on tritium sights. You could shoot it as good as me."

"Yeah, well, another time maybe," Dugal says. "So is this legal and everything, McKibbin? Are we gonna have liability problems here?"

"Shouldn't think so, sir," McKibbin says easily. "Just a regular .45. A Maryland resident could buy one off the rack at a decently stocked gun store. Well within our guidelines, sir. And he certainly knows the weapon well enough."

"So I can carry this one, sir?" I ask.

"I'm thinking, I'm considering," Dugal says. God, the man hates to give in. "Okay. But no cowboy crap, Ewing.

This pistol gets fired on duty, I'll be all over you. Understood?"

"Yessir. Thank you sir. I'll be happy if I never have to un-holster it."

"Try hard to stay happy, Ewing," the LT says. He looks at the target again, shakes his head. He starts walking away. "Oh, all ammo's your personal expense, Ewing. We only supply standard 9 millimeter."

"Ah, Luther, ya devil," McKibbin starts laughing when Dugal's gone and I'm cleaning my piece. "Knackered him good, you did. Hey, I've got a rare one comin', a current-production AKSU-74 in 5.45x39. Murderous piece of work, official Russian issue. Wring it out on the outdoor range with me?"

"Just say when," I smile.

I keep making it easy for Dugal to turn ever since that day. IB and I build the best felony-conviction record of any team on the narc squad. Squeaky clean too; never a squeal about unnecessary force, about dubious evidence, about entrapment, about even the slightest violation of strict Department guidelines. The AD As at the court just love to see me and IB coming to them with a case, 'cause they know they're gonna convict and they like looking good. Dugal likes looking good too, and we're pushing his ugly butt up the ladder for him.

So the 180. He doesn't like me personally, he isn't clever enough to suppress that vibe, he's almost certainly aware it's mutual, but we keep it muted. More than cordial on the job, gets off acting as if he and me and Ice Box are part of the same team. A real elite team, since it includes him. Pats on the back around the HQ, throws me a bone now and then, no 'Taggert You Fuck" disrespect. I stay slick. Things go best that way sometimes, when you just stay slick and slide with the currents.

"Hey Luther, you're early," Dugal says with a smile when I get to his office. "Left a note for IB too. He not in yet?"

"Probably in the parking lot right now, eating a half-dozen Egg McMuffins he doesn't want us to see. We'll hear him coming." Teammates together, gives us the right to poor-mouth each other. Dugal likes this stuff.

"Got a nice note from Detective Mason, about your help on the reservoir girl squeal. Good job. Anything in it for us?"

"Don't know yet. Think she was doped up. With what hasn't come back from the lab yet."

"You see any ongoing problem? Any connections?"

'Too early."

"You and Mason are copacetic. Keep me up to date?"

"Sure thing, LT," I say, thinking the bastard smells, positively smells something bigger, full of photo-ops and sound bites, and he wants his talking head in the middle of it.

The frosted-glass interior walls of Dugal's office tremble slightly. "IB." Dugal grins as the man appears at the door.

"IB." I grin too.

"Get enough to eat, ready to start your day?" Dugal asks.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," IB huffs, fitting himself pretty gracefully into one of Dugal's aluminum chairs, which cries softly with metal fatigue and unnatural stress anyway.

"How many today, IB?" Dugal asks.

"Say what?"

"Egg McMuffins?"

"Hey, I don't touch junk food. My wife makes me a wholesome breakfast each and every morning. Uh, yogurt, cereal with two-percent milk, couple of slices of dry whole wheat toast, like that." He looks offended, but there are muffin crumbs uncountable littering his shirt. "Now what are we here for, my diet or my report?"

"This Vaseline, this so-called Sovietski," Dugal says. "I do wish we had a make on this guy from more than a single source. Russian mafia? I am very doubtful."

"Why don't we have IB just call up," I say, and slip into a falsetto. "Hi, this here's Ice Box, Baltimore County Police, can I please speak to Mr. Vaseline? Got a horse for him in the seventh at Pimlico today."

"Oh fuck off, Luther," IB says.

"No, really," Dugal says, suppressing a laugh. "What should we be doing on just a description of three guys who may or may very well not be Russian mob but legit Polish or Czech or what-have-you businessmen?"

"We wait," I lie. "See if they contact IB's pal again. See if they contact anybody else in the horse game. Surely we got some vice squad undercovers who know the thoroughbred players. Maybe the City police have heard some things. Downtown's where IB's man heard his stuff—not from cops, of course."

"Our vice guys are still trying to figure out how to put coins in rubber dispensers," Dugal says. "They are not up to our standards in any way, shape or form. I don't know how they justify drawing their salaries. They wouldn't, if it was up to me, which as of yet it isn't"

I catch IB's eye. May that day never come, is what we read.

"I personally don't have a man downtown who would give me the time of day. Do you guys?" Dugal asks.

"Well, I could run it by Dog."

"Dog? They have a cop called Dog?"

"Detective Lieutenant Dog. Worked with him on those cross-line cases you lent me out for, remember?" I say. "He's cool, he's real, real smart. I think he'd hear before anyone if the Russian mob's trying to get in between the Italians and the black gangs for the drug market."

"Ice Box, should I be worried? Should I be seeing anything in this supposed Russian angle? Was my opinion of those Bonus Packs of yours overhasty? Was I unduly sarcastic about that?" Dugal says this as if he really wants to know.

"I'm with Luther. I say we wait, work a few connections
downtown, check out the horsey set. See if my friend gets any callback," Ice Box says.

"Okay, okay. Midpriority only."

Ice Box leaves first. "Hey Luther," Dugal says in a low voice as I'm almost through the door. "Don't forget. You hear anything about the Reservoir girl that's drug related, you pass it on."

"Sure thing, LT."

Fuck waiting. I flash on punching up that cellphone number soon as I can. Things are starting to resonate for me in really nasty ways.

"Hey Ice Box, you wanna give me that worldwide number for Vaseline, the one with eleven-teen digits Dee Dee slipped you?" I say.

"No way.
You
rattle that cage, they're gonna know it came from Dee Dee. We gotta let a decent interval pass here, make sure they've given other guys the number."

"Okay. Had an idea, is all. When it's time, right?"

"Like what kind of idea?"

"Just make a call, see who answers. Big surprise for you, IB. I speak Russian. Even personally know six or seven Russians, drank a lot of vodka with 'em a few years back. Hundred-to-one Dee Dee's guys aren't my acquaintances, but you never know. Ain't my guys, I can back out easy. They'll never make Dee Dee."

"I do not like where this is going." Ice Box frowns. "I'm seeing implications that disturb me, Luther."

"Stay cool, man. Just give me the number when it's time, okay?"

"I'll consider it."

Back in our cubicles, Ice Box is soon twitching and sweating and cursing under his breath as he makes his usual struggle to keep his big fingertips from pressing two keys at the same time instead of just the one he wants. "This fucker is not ergonomic, unless they used Japs and young girls as
the size parameter. Hell, they probably did just that, deliberately, to make a man suffer," he's saying.

"Yeah, there's a secret code at the keyboard factories in Taiwan. They got profiles on all the big men in America on a bank of supercomputers, and an extrasmall keyboard got your name on it, right at the factory."

"Aw, get outta here, Luther. First you're up kissin' Dugal's tush behind my back, now you're down here getting on my case. I'm not appreciating any of it, all I done for your bony ass."

"Don't believe me, go check out that big dude, what's his name, Radik, up in Homicide. His keyboard's twice the size of yours 'cause he requisitioned it under a chick's name, not his own."

"Two words: e-nough," Ice Box says. He is pissed at the world this morning. "The LT wants details about our talk with Dee Dee I'd have had to be wearing a wire to get. So shut up and let me think."