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eyebrows. I m Captain
Walker, he said. What the hell s going on?
We saw a suspect
Can that bullshit. Everybody saw those dogs come out from under your car and
chase you halfway to Grand Army Plaza. What the hell was that all about?
Dogs? Wilson was no actor. The fact that he was hiding something was
perfectly clear to Becky. But maybe she underestimated him.
Yes, dogs. I saw them. We all did. And Baker said it was dogs that laid him
open.
Wilson shook his head. Beats the hell out of me.
Look, I don t know quite what s going on here I mean you two are some kind
of special team, that s OK by me but I got a guy hurt bad down at Roosevelt
and he says a dog did it. I saw you two light out like you were runnin from
death itself. And you were chased by two dogs. Now I d like to know what the
fuck s goin on. His phone rang. A few muttered words, a curse, then he hung
up. And so would the New York
Post
. They got a photographer and a reporter waiting out front to see me right
now. What do I tell them?
Becky stepped in. Wilson had tucked his chin into his neck, squared his
shoulders, and was about to blow it. Tell them what s probably true.
Your man was wounded in an unknown manner. I mean if somebody s colon is
lying on the sidewalk they might get a little delirious. He passed out right
after his statement, didn t he? And as for dogs chasing us, it might have
happened, but it was a complete coincidence.
The man stared at them. You re bullshitting. I don t know why but I m not
gonna push it. Just get one thing straight: I don t owe you two a Goddamn
thing. Now take off.
Go wherever you go.
What about the reporter? Becky asked. That was important. You couldn t leak
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this to the press, not unless the problem could be solved.
So I ll tell the reporters what Baker said. And I ll tell them that he was
delirious. Is that sufficient?
What do you mean, sufficient? How should we know?
You re the people keeping this thing under wraps, aren t you? You re the ones
who go around and make sure no shaggy dog stories get into the paper, aren t
you?
Wilson closed his eyes and shook his head. Let s get out of here, he said.
We got better things to do.
They left the precinct and hailed a cab. Obviously there was no point in
asking the precinct for transportation back to Bethesda Fountain where their
car was waiting. As they approached the car Wilson craned his neck
out of the cab window to make sure nothing was under it. But he needn t
have bothered. The car wasn t going anywhere.
The doors were open. The interior of the car was ripped to shreds. And it was
full of bloody pulp. Jesus, the cabdriver blurted, this your car?
Yeah. It was.
We gotta get a cop. He gunned the motor. Who s in there? What a fuckin
mess!
We are the police. Becky held her shield against the bulletproof glass
separating the passenger seat from the driver s compartment. The driver nodded
and headed for the
Central Park precinct house on Seventy-ninth Street. A few moments later they
pulled to a stop in front. Neff, Wilson and the driver got out and
approached the desk sergeant through the worn double-doors of the building.
Yeah, he said looking up. You two. I
hear you re a couple of mean motherfuckers on a scooter.
Get your guys back over to the Fountain, Wilson rasped. The
Chief Medical
Examiner just got himself killed.
Becky felt the blood drain out of her face. Of course, that must be who was in
the car.
It had to be. Poor Evans, he was a hell of a good man! Goddamn it, Becky
said.
We were stupid, Wilson said softly. We should have warned him in advance.
He laughed, a bitter little noise. They missed out on the main event. So they
went for the consolation prize. Let s get Underwood on the phone.
Wilson took on Underwood. Becky watched him, annoyed that her usual role was
being usurped. Look, Wilson said into the phone, you got problems. You got
a cop on critical at Roosevelt with his guts laid open. Says dogs did it. You
got that? Dogs. Plus you got a reporter from the
Post on it, and more to follow. So listen, dummy. You got one Chief
Medical Examiner just murdered out by Bethesda Fountain. And you re gonna find
it was done by claws and teeth. And if you want this one wrapped up real
good
Oh my God, what about Ferguson!
just sit on your can and wait for it. He slammed down the phone. You re
right!
Let s go! They headed for the motor pool.
Get a car, Becky snapped at the dispatcher.
Well, you gotta
Matter of life and death, Sergeant. What number?
Let s see two-two-nine. Green Chevy, you ll see it against the wall out near
the gas pumps.
They headed for the car. To the south the sorrowful moan of sirens
sounded their dirge for Evans. Lot of fucking good they ll do, Wilson said
quietly. That guy was just goo.
You re sure?
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What?
It was him.
Just drive the car, Becky.
God, he was a condescending bastard. Even if it was self-evident to Wilson,
she could still hope. Evans was a great man, a civic institution in New York
City for forty years.
Probably the best practitioner of forensic medicine in the world.
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