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  But now his asshole friend had pretty much accused himself of selling Davy over to the cops. Lionel had probably tipped off the cops that had gotten themselves shot up. No wonder the police were looking for him, and no wonder the shithead was panicking.

  Davy did his best to sound calm and reassuring. "Yeah, I know. Guess we better get together and talk." Davy felt a burning anger, but he managed to smile as he said. "I think I might be able to spare a couple hundred. Neither of us want you being leaned on by the cops— You come down here, okay?"

  "Sure." There was the sound of relief in Lionel's voice. "I knew you'd come through."

  Davy nodded and shut off the phone. "Yeah, I'm going to come though all over your ass, motherfucker."

  Davy fantasized about how he was going to stomp Lionel, until the paranoia kicked in. What if Lionel was completely in bed with the cops? What if Lionel was coming here with a wire? Or worse?

  Davy stood up, starting to wonder if he should get his gun, or split town himself, when he heard someone knocking on the door.

  Shit. No way he could have gotten here that fast. No fucking way.

  Davy stood up and headed toward the entertainment center. He tripped and fell on his face. He lay there a moment, stunned, head throbbing. In front of him the tape had stopped and the television cast a blank blue glow across the room.

  As he pushed himself upright, he heard his front door rattling.

  The bastards were jimmying his lock. He crawled forward on his hands and knees and pulled a shelf of pornographic videos down so he could reach the Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum that he kept hidden behind them. His hands had just reached the gun, grabbing the barrel instead of the butt, when an unfamiliar voice said, "I suggest you put that down."

  Davy turned and looked up into the barrel of a silenced automatic that looked much bigger than his chrome-plated Smith and Wesson—probably because it was pointed at him. He knew instantly that this guy wasn't a cop.

  His fingers slipped from around the barrel of his gun, and he backed off slightly, still on his hands and knees. "What do you want?"

  Two other men came into the living room, and stationed themselves to either side of him. They grabbed his arms, hoisted him up, and dragged him back to the couch. "You were contracted to do a job," said the man with the gun. "Move a computer from one place to another."

  While the gunman spoke, the man on his left pulled out a small zippered case and opened it, setting the contents out on the coffee table in front of them. The items included a spoon, a hypodermic needle, a rubber hose, a Zippo lighter, and several bags of crystalline white powder.

  The man on his right pulled his arm out straight and rolled up his sleeve. Davy tried to pull away, but the man with the gun stepped up and pressed the silencer to Davy's forehead.

  "Who else knows about your mission?"

  Davy stared at the kit the man to his left was prepping. He had already spilled some powder into the spoon and was melting it with the lighter. A sharp, slightly tinny odor started to fill the air.

  The man holding his arm took the hose and pulled it taut around Davy's upper arm. Then, when it was painfully tight, he grabbed Davy's hand in both of his and forced him to make a fist. Davy noticed that all three men wore latex gloves.

  "Who else knows?"

  Davy spilled his guts. He had no problem giving up Lionel after the bastard had given him up. The only thing he didn't mention was that Lionel was on his way there.

  Davy had some hope of the bastard showing up—now he was hoping Lionel wore a wire, or was leading a SWAT team. That might surprise these guys enough to get them off of him. . .

  But as far as Davy ever knew, Lionel never came.

  Lyaksandro Volynskji waited outside of Franklin Alexander "Davy" Jones' apartment in his Dodge Ram quad-cab. It took twenty minutes for his men to enter, do their business, and withdraw. When the last of them got in the truck and closed the door, Volynskji asked, "Are we safe now?"

  The man stripped off a pair of latex gloves and said, "There's another man he called 'Lionel,' real name Kareem Rashad Williams. The police are looking for him."

  "Who is he to us?"

  "Drug dealer, apparently a friend of Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones confided in him about the Daedalus, and Mr. Jones believed that it was Lionel who informed the police."

  Volynskji sighed. "Then we must find him, before the police do."

  The Dodge Ram pulled away from the apartment building. On the side of the building facing the street, the window to Davy's apartment was lit only by the blue phosphor glow of a television watching a dead channel.

  1.04 Wed. Feb. 25

  Gideon was sitting on the couch, watching the third episode of General Hospital he'd ever seen, when the doorbell rang.

  He made no move to answer it, he had no desire to see any reporters, and he fully intended to remain sequestered in his house as long as his food held out. By then he hoped that the press would've backed off a little.

  He turned the volume up on the remote, but too late to miss hearing a familiar voice call out, "Detective Malcolm."

  "Damn it," Gideon whispered to himself. He turned off the television and grabbed the crutches that leaned on the couch next to him. The doorbell chimed again and Gideon called out, "Hold on!" as he levered himself up and began hobbling to the door.

  The meeting was inevitable, but he had hoped that it might wait until he was off of disability leave.

  It took a bit of maneuvering to open the front door one-handed while balancing on a crutch with his busted arm, but he managed to swing the door open on Captain Davis, who was accompanied by a dour-looking plainclothes detective. Davis was a large man with thick hands who looked more like a steelworker than a cop, the detective with him was thin and about a head shorter than he was.

  "Detective Malcolm," Davis said, "I would have called first, but your phone seems to be busy. May we come in?"

  Gideon nodded and lurched back a few steps.

  Outside, past the Captain and his companion, Gideon could see the mass of reporters—somewhat thinner now, but still camped on his doorstep.

  Gideon led them to the living room and let them have the couch while he collapsed into a recliner facing them. He didn't offer them anything, he didn't feel up to hobbling around to fetch drinks when this wasn't a social call.

  "What can I do for you?" Gideon asked.

  "I hope you're feeling better," Davis said. "If you aren't up to talking, we can come at a better time."

  "I doubt there'll be a better time."

  "My condolences about your brother," said the man with Davis.

  Gideon looked at him. "You are?"

  "This is Detective Charles Magness, Internal Affairs."

  Gideon looked back at Davis, and felt as if he was being shot at again. "Why are you bringing him here?"

  "Calm down," Magness said. "IA investigates every incident where there's a weapon discharged. It's

  sop."

  Yeah, standard operating procedure. Otherwise known as "bend over, you're fucked."

  "There are a few things we want to go over—" Davis began. "Like this 'Lionel' who tipped you to the location of the Daedalus."

  "Bastard," Gideon muttered. "Have you picked him up yet?" Gideon would've liked a few hours with Mister Kareem Rashad "Lionel" Williams alone in an interrogation room, preferably with a baseball bat. Not that he'd mention that to Mr. Internal Affairs here.

  Magness shook his head. "No. Apparently Lionel went on the lam shortly after news of the shoot-out was made public. We were hoping you might provide some leads to his location. . ."

  The moment Magness said that, Gideon knew he was in for a very long afternoon.

  He went over the whole shooting in excruciating detail for Magness. Not just the event—reliving Raphael's death—but the events leading up to it as well. The tip from Lionel, his attempt to get backup in place from the District's excuse for a SWAT team—which was refused—and his attempt to call in the FBI through his
brother.

  Magness made a few comments about the irregularity of the situation, but Gideon knew that they couldn't fault him for procedure. He'd jumped through all the right hoops and had done the right paperwork. Somehow, Magness' demeanor made Gideon feel as if he were still the one to blame for everything that had gone wrong.

  After it had gone on for an interminable hour, Davis said, "I think that's enough. Why don't you go wait in the car. I have a few more things to discuss with Detective Malcolm."

  Magness nodded and looked at Gideon as if watching for telltale signs of guilt. "I'll probably have a few more questions once you file your official statement."

  I bet you will.

  When Magness left, Gideon tried to suppress a smile as he heard the reporters descend on him outside.

  "Gideon," Davis said, once Magness had left. "The administration has some issues with your handling of the media."

  Whatever amusement Gideon had in Magness' plight evaporated. The memory of his homecoming was fresh in his mind. What were the words I used? "Shanteless parasites?" He cringed inwardly at the memory. "I suppose so." He'd hoped that his tirade would've faded from the spotlight by now. Apparently, he had underestimated the press' interest in a completely irrelevant temper tantrum, and the District administration's interest in the Press' interest.

  "Have you seen the papers?" Davis asked.

  "No." Gideon's stomach sank.

  "Yesterday's headline in the Post, 'Wounded Cop says someone "screwed up,"' apparently they decided to clean up your language. The Times has a picture of you waving a crutch captioned, 'shameless parasites—' Did you actually club a reporter with a crutch?"

  "He tripped me," Gideon said. "I lost my temper."

  "Did you actually use the words, 'rating orgasms?' "

  Gideon wasn't able to come up with an appropriate explanation. He tapped his cast against his crutch, shaking his head. He felt the anger burning again, at the reporters, at the bastard who set them up, at the men who shot them, and most of all, at himself.

  "Gideon?"

  Gideon closed his eyes and nodded. Through clenched teeth he said, "Yes."

  "You threatened to arrest them?"

  "Can you blame me?"

  Davis sighed. "No. Not after what happened. But do the words, 'public relations disaster' mean anything to you? The only thing that mitigates your little tirade is that you went off on the media, which lies in the public affection somewhere between politicians and lawyers."

  It felt as if Gideon had to physically swallow his anger to speak. Slowly, he started to say, "I apologize for—"

  " /don't need your apology. I agree with you."

  "Captain?"

  "But. . . Look at the big picture. This is a damn delicate situation. Right now we have the public—the national public—on our side. This can mean a lot for our department."

  Gideon stopped rapping his cast on his crutch. "I don't follow you."

  "The administration has a chance to take its case directly to Congress with these hearings—"

  "What hearings?"

  "—we could finally get some decent funding for this department."

  "What hearings?"

  "There are going to be Congressional hearings investigating the incident. It's an opportunity for us to gain some sympathetic ears on the Hill."

  That was the last thing anyone needed. Congress. Gideon couldn't believe that the body responsible for the crippling of the D.C. civic government would do anything but mangle a criminal investigation. They would probably end up giving immunity to the people responsible for the screwup that led to the shooting, all in the name of getting at the "truth." A "truth" that would be little more than a bludgeon tailored to club someone's political enemies.

  "What do you mean, 'opportunity'?"

  "First off—and this is coming down straight from the Mayor—you aren't to talk to any more reporters, period. You aren't to say anything to anyone that might lose us sympathy on the Hill."

  "Oh, God," Gideon whispered.

  "I don't like it either," Davis' voice softened. "But I'm not the one with the ultimate decision about what happens to you after you come off of disability leave."

  Gideon's jaw was clenched so hard it ached. It was an effort to speak. "Is that some sort of threat?"

  "That's just how things are. It's not worth it to fight the administration on this. You know that Congressional hearings are just a sideshow anyway, right?"

  Gideon lowered his head. "Okay. I won't go around bad-mouthing the department."

  "There's more."

  "God help us. What?"

  "Harris had his speechwriter prepare a couple of statements—"

  There was a long pause before Gideon realized what Davis meant. He whispered, "Oh shit."

  Davis reached into his breast pocket and removed two folded sheets of paper and set them down on the coffee table. "Look them over. First is a draft apology for that tirade yesterday. Second is an opening statement for when you're called before the hearings."

  Gideon stared at the papers on the table. "I don't believe this."

  Davis stood up. "Take some time to consider it. All we need is your approval, and they'll release the first one to the press. Call me sometime today or tomorrow to okay it."

  Gideon nodded. He felt numb. He looked at the second statement, laying on the table, and asked, "Have they even scheduled these hearings yet?"

  "There's going to be a press conference next Friday. That's when we expect the hearings to be announced."

  "Wonderful. Nice to know the administration is a step ahead of Congress." It was hard to keep the irony out of his voice.

  Davis sounded relieved. He stepped over and held out his hand. "Thanks for cooperating with this."

  Gideon didn't take the offered hand. "Good-bye, sir."

  Davis was quiet for a moment and finally said, "You're a good cop, Malcolm. I'm sorry this had to happen."

  "Yeah, thanks. You know where the door is."

  Davis stood a moment, apparently having run out of things to say. He walked off, leaving Gideon alone with the two statements. In the distance, he heard the front door close, and the sounds of massing reporters.

  Gideon wondered if Davis knew how demeaning this all was. Asking him to mouth someone else's predigested political bullshit. He bent over and picked up the first statement. Glanced at it without really reading it, and decided that it didn't really matter what it said. They had his job in their hands, he pretty much had to call Davis back and okay the thing.

  He balled up the statement and tossed it aside.

  It landed on a short table next to his chair. On the table were the personal effects that he'd carried back from the hospital—his keys, a scattering of loose change, his wallet, and his badge.

  Gideon picked up his badge. It had been clipped to his belt above his wounded leg. It was splattered with his blood. Maybe also with Rafe's.

  In the dim daylight filtering through the curtains, the blood gave the appearance of being tarnish. Gideon slowly clenched a fist around the badge, until the tension made his hand shake.

  He threw the badge against the wall.

  1.05 Mon. Mar. 2

  Gideon held his cast awkwardly upright as his left hand rested on the Bible.

  "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

  Gideon nodded to the grand jury foreman and said, "I do."

  He sat down and faced a panel of twenty jurors. It was a familiar position, part of being a cop, testifying before grand juries and criminal courts. Gideon had long ago lost count of the number of times he had been subpoenaed to testify. It was always a somewhat nerve-racking experience, whether it was a grand jury or a trial.

  This time was worse than usual. He kept going through the shooting in his mind, racking his brain thinking of the hundreds of things that he should have done, or shouldn't have done, anything so it would have ended with a result different than the one that h
ad actually happened.

  The more he had thought about it—after the shock of Rafe's death had withdrawn enough for him to consider the details of the event—the more it seemed that there was something wrong with what had happened. The news kept reporting fewer Secret Servicemen involved than he remembered. The men in the building were in contact with teams outside, Gideon remembered the radio traffic. Then there was the fact that they'd been armed with silenced weapons. Most bizarre to him was the memory of the men pulling black Velcro covers off of their jackets to reveal the yellow letters "U.S. TREASURY."

  Gideon would've thought that the men weren't Secret Servicemen at all, if it wasn't for the Attorney General taking the heat for the fiasco.

  Gideon kept thinking of Monica, her grief, her all but accusing him of shooting Raphael himself. Could he trust his own suspicions, or was he only trying, somehow, to find someone to blame other than himself?

  He felt sweat rolling down the back of his shirt as he sat down. Here, with the grand jury, at least there wouldn't be a defense lawyer calling him a liar. All he would have to do was answer the prosecutor's questions. . .

  That would be bad enough.

  The prosecutor shuffled a few papers and said, "I'll try to make this brief."

  Gideon nodded. Thank God for small favors.

  "I want to ask you about what happened in the early morning on February thirteenth of this year. Do you remember what you were doing then?"

  Gideon swallowed and tried not to think of the jurors staring at him. "Yes, I was on a stakeout."

  "With Agent Raphael Malcolm of the FBI?"

  "Yes."

  "Why was he there?"

  "I felt the Bureau would be interested in a lead I was following up."

  "A lead on the possible location of a stolen Daedalus supercomputer, correct?" "Yes."

  "You then had no knowledge that there were already suspects in custody and the computer had been recovered."

  "As far as I knew, no one did."

  "Agent Malcolm was related to you, wasn't he?"