The Good Cop (7 page)

“Okay. I'll be right over.”

When we hung up, I grabbed a quick piece of toast and a glass of orange juice, then put on my shoes and left for Tom's. About halfway there, I remembered his gun case, which was still lying open on the floor of the passenger's side of my car, and I returned to get it.

*

Tom opened the door looking pale and tired, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He was shirtless, and had a large bandage from the base of his neck to his left shoulder. His left arm was in a sling. We shook hands, then he closed the door and, seeing that I'd brought his gun case, he reached out with his free arm and gave me a sort of sideways hug, careful not to involve his left side. I returned the hug gingerly.

He grinned as we released the hug. “I'm not made of glass, you know.”

“I can see that,” I said, giving his bare torso an appreciative once-over.

“Want some coffee?”

I followed him toward the love seats, pausing to lay the gun case on the coffee table.

“Sure, if you've got some made—or I could make some, if you'd like.”

“Thanks, mom, but you don't have to fuss over me. I managed to make a pot when I got home.”

I aborted my rear-end's descent onto the love seat and followed him into the kitchen.

“Have you called Lisa?”

Tom reached into one of the cabinets for a coffee mug. “Nah. They'll be back tonight. No point in spoiling their day.”

He poured my coffee, then refilled his own cup, which sat beside the coffee maker, and we went back to the living room and sat down side by side on one of the love seats.

“Did you hear how Jim's doing?” I asked, putting my hand on his leg.

Tom took a swig of coffee before nodding and saying: “Yeah, I stopped by to look in on him just before I left. He's out of intensive care, but still in pretty bad shape. Several broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, and some internal bleeding, from what I understand. His partner…Cory?…was with him. He was lucky he ran for help, or they both could have ended up dead—the women, too.”

“They seemed to have come through it pretty well, all things considered,” I observed. I'd only caught a couple glimpses of them after the incident. They both looked like they'd been in a fight, but I guess it wasn't bad enough for them to have to go to the hospital. But Tom was right, they were pretty lucky.

“What about the gay thing?”

Tom put his cup down on the coffee table, made a slight grimace when he apparently moved his left shoulder too fast, then leaned slowly back upright and looked at me with another grin, as if apologizing for the grimace. “The two detectives who interviewed me first were the ones who talked to you: Couch and Carpenter. They wanted to know exactly what my relationship with you was. I skipped over the part about us spending a lot of time in bed together. But I did tell them we had been friends since college: you, me and Lisa,” he added, then scowled and shook his head. “Damn it! I hate having to run and hide behind Lisa! I hate not being able to just say ‘Yeah, I'm gay; so what?' But I just haven't been around the department long enough to do that yet. Maybe, in a couple of years….”

Dream on, kid,
I thought.

He carefully leaned forward to pick up his cup and take another mouthful, draining it. “The taller one…Carpenter…did most of the talking. Couch didn't say much but he glowered a lot. I got the feeling you aren't one of his favorite people. It was pretty obvious that as far as he's concerned, no real man could ever be friends with a fucking faggot. But they really didn't push too hard. Later, two guys from Internal Affairs came in and I guess they had talked to the first two, because they didn't ask any direct questions about it, either. But I'm not foolish enough to think I'm off the hook just yet.”

I finished my coffee and offered to go get Tom some more, but he shook his head, then gave me a big grin.

“You know one thing I found out about being shot?”

Puzzled, I shook my head. “No. What's that?”

“It makes me horny as all hell!”

I looked at him, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And how in the hell are we supposed to manage that without sending you back to the hospital?”

Tom reached over with his good hand and slid it behind my neck, pulling me toward him.

“Improvise.”

*

I stayed with Tom until Lisa and Carol got home around eight. They were both shocked to find out what had happened, and Lisa was angry and a little hurt that Tom hadn't called her immediately.

The phone had rung almost constantly all the time I was there, but Tom had been advised not to talk to anyone—especially the press. I thought of volunteering to field calls, but immediately realized that would not be the smartest thing in the world to do, given the circumstances. A police officer involved in a shooting outside a gay bar having his phone answered by a man other than the officer himself…uh, no….

I went home about nine o'clock, to find several messages on my answering machine: Jared, Bob Allen, Glen O'Banyon—now that was a surprise—Tim and Phil; all of them had heard I'd been at the scene of the shooting. How in hell they'd found that out, I have no idea, since while Tom's name had been mentioned, mine certainly hadn't. But I should have realized that a story like this would sweep through the entire gay community in a heartbeat. And the fact that Tom was gay was part of the beat.

Since Glen O'Banyon had left his home phone number—the first time I'd ever had it—I returned his call first. The phone rang several times and I was just about to hang up when I heard the receiver being lifted and O'Banyon's voice: “Glen O'Banyon.”

“Glen, hi. Dick Hardesty. Sorry I missed your call; I just got home.”

“No problem. I heard about the shooting—as a matter of fact, that's about all I've been hearing about all day. How do you manage to do it?”

I was puzzled. “Do what? I didn't do anything; I was just there.”

There was a note of mild amusement in his voice when he said: “My point exactly. You have a magic knack for being ‘just there.'” Then his voice took on a more serious note. “Your friend Tom Brady is turning into something of an instant hero in the gay community. I've never met him, but would like you to pass along word to him that if he needs legal representation, have him give me a call.”

I was more than a little impressed. While O'Banyon's being gay was an open secret, he had always been careful never to flaunt it. His power and success gave him access to the upper strata of straight society, and his financial support and leadership qualities had earned him a seat on the boards of several influential charities. He had also been very shrewd in avoiding making enemies in the department, partly by having established, and largely supported, a scholarship fund for the children of police officers killed in the line of duty. Not even the most homophobic members of the force would dare openly attack him. So given all these factors, his offer meant a hell of a lot.

“Tom will be very grateful to hear that, Glen. Thank you. I certainly hope it never comes to that, but if it did…well, Tom wouldn't want you to put yourself on the line for him.”

“Nonsense. That's what lawyers do, and if anybody in the department gets his nose out of joint, tough. If Chief Black were totally in charge now, your friend very well may not need one at all. But given the power struggles going on in the department, I'm pretty sure Chief Black's enemies will jump on this as a way to undermine him. The very idea that there may be a gay officer in a department with as strong a tradition of rampant homophobia as ours is, I'm afraid, just too explosive an issue for Black's foes to ignore. I suspect this whole thing has the potential to get very messy.”

“Yeah. Plus, were you aware that Tom's wife is Chief Black's goddaughter?”

“Ah, so it's true. I'd heard something about their being related; but I don't think a goddaughter/godfather relationship exactly qualifies as nepotism. Still, it's interesting to note, and I'm sure it will add fuel to the fire.” He was quiet a moment, then said: “Just let Officer Brady know I'm here if he needs me.”

“I'll do that, Glen,” I said, sincerely impressed. “Thank you again.”

“Keep me posted.”

We hung up shortly thereafter and I called Jared, Bob, and Phil and Tim in order. Each of them expressed their admiration for what Tom had done, and any support they may be able to provide if the issue of Tom's being gay became a major problem. And each commented on the sense of…pride probably describes it best…sweeping through the community at the thought that one of their own might actually be on the front lines of integrating the police force. Everyone knew, of course, that there were other gays on the force, but this was the first time a specific name had emerged, and in circumstances so directly involving the community.

If all the gay cops on the force served openly, Tom's actions would still have been considered heroic, but that he was the first of our own on the force to whom the community could point with pride…well, it elicited a rather unrealistic degree of hope that other gay officers would somehow begin opening their closet doors. Still, it was hope, and the community clutched at it.

While this was all, indeed, kind of euphoric, it was also a bit more than altruistic. The hard fact of the matter was that Tom was
not
openly gay to the department and while the department's reaction was yet to be seen, it was almost inevitably going to be negative, and harsh.

*

I arrived at the office Monday morning to find a message from Lieutenant Mark Richman, asking me to call him. The message didn't say “immediately” but it didn't have to. I didn't get calls from Lieutenant Richman unless it was important.

I put the plastic lid back on the Styrofoam cup of coffee I'd picked up at the diner downstairs, dialed City Annex—the name given to the extension of the City Building built to house Police Headquarters—and asked for Richman's extension.

“Lieutenant Richman.”

“Lieutenant. This is Dick Hardesty returning your call.”

As usual, on the phone, he was all Police Lieutenant efficiency. “Thanks for calling, Dick. I was wondering if you might be free for lunch today. There's something I'd like to talk over with you.”

Now, I
wonder
what that might be?
my mind asked.

“Sure, Lieutenant. The park or Sandler's?” We'd established a sort of pattern, in the several cases I'd worked on in loose conjunction with Richman, of meeting either at the fountain in Warman Park, or at Sandler's Café, both of which were about two blocks from City Annex where the police department headquarters were located.

“How about Sandler's? Noon?”

“I'll see you there.”

I knew full well Richman knew I'd been with Tom at the shooting, and I also knew full well that it wasn't the shooting he wanted to talk about. Richman was officially in Departmental Administration, but he apparently wore a lot of hats. He worked closely with the head of the Homicide Division, Captain Offermann, and it was as Offermann's legman that we had had most of our previous contacts. But in this instance I was pretty sure this call was more related to his administrative duties than to Homicide.

*

I didn't even try to call Tom. I knew he still wouldn't be answering his phone, but I was curious if he'd had any contact from his department superiors. I decided to either wait until I heard from him, or I'd drop by on my way home.

I got to Sandler's early, of course, and was on my second cup of coffee when I saw Richman come in. The more I saw of that guy, the more attractive he became. I knew part of my attraction was something of a matter of “forbidden fruit” (no pun intended) in that Richman was unrelentingly straight. But that didn't make him one bit less sexy. He was in full uniform, which was just a little unusual since he was normally in civies when we met outside of his office.

He came directly over, shook hands, and sat down opposite me. The waiter had followed him to the table, so he didn't say anything until his coffee was poured and the waiter moved away.

“We've got a problem.” He did not look directly at me as he placed his napkin on his lap.

“I know.”

He reached for the sugar and poured about a quarter-cupful into his coffee, then picked up the spoon and began stirring, slowly. His eyes moved up to mine and locked on them, as was another part of the ritual of our meetings.

“
If
Officer Brady is gay…” I knew and appreciated the fact that he would not ask me directly, “…the repercussions can be gravely serious for the department, especially now. Chief Black is a good man, and I think he's exactly what the department has needed for some time. But he has powerful enemies, and he hasn't been here long enough to fully establish his control. There are still too many…” The waiter returned, order pad and pencil in hand.

Without looking at the menu, Richman ordered his usual meatloaf platter and I ordered the turkey club I'd seen written on the chalkboard in the window as I'd come in.

Richman watched as the waiter headed off for the kitchen, then picked up in mid-sentence: “…of Chief Rourke's cronies around who were perfectly satisfied with the way the department was run in Nineteen-thirty-three and see no reason for it to change. They resent Chief Black's vision of what the department should be, and will do anything in their considerable power to undermine him. Most of them will be retiring within a couple years, but until then, Chief Black is going to have to keep a very tight rein. The question is, frankly, if he'd be able to handle such an explosive issue right now, given his short time on the job.”

As usual, once eye contact had been established between us, it was broken only to blink. I didn't get the impression that I needed to do anything other than listen at the moment, so that's what I did.