He looked at his watch again. It was 2:26. He made himself not look at it, or at the clock on the cop-shop wall. The bust would go off the way it was supposed to. Or it wouldn’t. Whichever, he’d pick up the pieces and go on. What else could you do?
At 2:39 by the clock on the wall, his cell phone rang. He hauled it out of his jacket pocket. “Ferguson.”
“We have ourselves a bust, Lieutenant—best damn bust since Beyoncé.” Rodney sounded happy as a sheep in clover. And well he might have; he went on, “Weed. Meth. Coke. H. Possession with intent to sell. Oh, and a .45 automatic, which he had sense enough not to pull when we dropped on him. We grabbed his laptop, too—see what kind of good shit he’s got on the hard drive, and where that leads us.”
“Okay. That all sounds good.” Colin couldn’t decide whether to be delighted or mournful. He went both ways at once, and felt torn to pieces on account of it. Tim had known what he was talking about after all. There was never any guarantee of that, not even when you asked him something as basic as his name. “Lucky for him he didn’t go for the .45,” Colin went on, bringing himself back to the matter directly at hand.
“Yeah, that would’ve been the last dumb thing he ever tried,” Rodney agreed. “This way, he’ll get some more chances whenever they finally decide to turn him loose. Wanted to let you know everything went smooth. We’re gonna bring him in now.”
“Good job, man. Thanks. ’Bye.” Colin stowed the phone. Nobody involved in taking Darren Pitcavage down had put anything into the San Atanasio PD’s computer system. Nobody’d said anything over the department’s radio net. What Chief Pitcavage didn’t see or hear, he couldn’t warn his son about.
Well, they didn’t have to worry about that any more. Mike Pitcavage would hear now. Colin couldn’t imagine that that would do him—or Darren—any good, though. Would he try to bargain this bust down to a misdemeanor, too? Good luck, Colin thought. If the DA went along with a deal like that, he deserved to be out on the street and sleeping in a park five minutes later. For that matter, the chief would deserve to be out there sleeping alongside him if he had the gall to propose something like that, didn’t he? So it seemed to Colin, anyway.
He had no trouble picking up just when people not in the know at the station found out what had happened. The buzz of conversation in the big open office suddenly picked up volume and changed tone. Yes, that was what amazement sounded like, sure as hell.
Gabe Sanchez also picked up on it right away. He, of course, wasn’t a person not in the know. He caught Colin’s eye and looked a question at him. Colin nodded back. Gabe grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
The next interesting question was how long Mike Pitcavage would take to start blowing gaskets. In a way, there should have been a pool on that. Colin knew he would have put down some money. When he got into the Super Bowl pool every year, no way he could stay out of this one. But a pool would have turned people not in the know into people in the know too damn soon. Besides, the chief would’ve wanted to get into it, which would have been . . . awkward. Pitcavage always joined the Super Bowl pool, too.
By the clock on the wall, the chief left his exalted private office and burst into the big central one exactly four minutes and forty seconds after Rodney called. For once, Pitcavage’s Armani suit flapped on him like an ordinary cop’s threadbare threads from Sears or Men’s Wearhouse. For once, he didn’t look like the CEO of a successful medium-sized corporation. He looked like any poor bastard who’d just found out his one and only son was arrested on serious drug charges. He looked like hell, in other words.
His blindly staring eyes caught and held Colin’s. “Ferguson!” he croaked. “I need to talk to you.” How much did he know? How much did he suspect? Or was Colin just the first spar he saw and grabbed after his yacht ripped its belly out on the rocks?
Colin heaved himself to his feet. “What’s up?” He wouldn’t be able to hide knowing for very long. Nor did he intend to. But he didn’t want to do a sack dance over Pitcavage’s fallen frame, either.
The chief gestured: follow me. Colin did, out of the big office, up the hall, and outside. One glimpse of Mike Pitcavage’s ravaged face was plenty to scare away a couple of curious smokers.
“They’ve arrested Darren,” Pitcavage said. He had the dazed look of a man who’d just staggered free of a bad car crash and didn’t quite realize yet he had only a few cuts and bruises himself. “Arrested. Drug possession. Drug dealing. Felony. Oh my God!”