Bring On The Night Read Free Page B

attention-hungry detective named Robbins, who no longer gave so much as the time of day to Brandon, much less information on the case.
    Brandon made his way to the end of the bar, taking the empty stool next to Gonzalez. “Buy you a beer, Henry?” He signaled the bartender.
    “Crap, Ellis!” Gonzalez growled. “Don’t talk to me in public. What are you trying to do to me?”
    Brandon laughed. “I thought you didn’t care what your fellow officers thought of you anymore?”
    Gonzalez raised an index finger. “I said I don’t care what the brass says. There’s a difference. Just because I don’t care if the flashy cases are given to people like Robbins, doesn’t mean I want to have to listen to everybody in the department bust my chops for talking to you.”
    The bartender, more engrossed in the Cubs game on TV than anything else, slowly poured a couple of beers from the tap and set them in front of the two men. Brandon took a drink, making an effort not to wince. He wasn’t much of a beer drinker. He took a small notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket and turned to face Gonzalez. “What did you mean by, ‘people like Robbins?’”
    “Oh no,” said the cop. “You’re not pulling me down that road.”
    “Hey, hey, what road?” Brandon kept his voice light, amused, but he still pushed. “What do you mean, Henry? I’m just curious what you meant.”
    Gonzalez sat in silence for a long moment, his eyes on the game. When he finally spoke again, it was in a quiet voice guaranteed not to carry to anyone hoping to listen in. “People more interested in drinks with the brass after hours than doing their job, people too arrogant to know when they’re in over their heads.”
    Brandon edged closer, keeping his voice low and his gaze on the TV. “So no calling in the FBI?”
    Gonzalez gave a slight shake of his head.
    “Back to drugs and gangs?”
    This time, a nod.
    “I thought they were past that. I mean, this town knows what drug and gang violence looks like, and this... This is nothing like it. What the hell are they thinking?”
    “They’re thinking the last body to turn up belonged to a girl who was a hooker and a mule for a guy in Johnny Watanabe’s organization. And you know the jones Commissioner Rifkin has for Watanabe.”
    “Rifkin’s wanted Watanabe behind bars since before he was commissioner.”
    “And if Robbins can tie Watanabe to these killings, or someone in Watanabe’s organization who might tell tales on Watanabe...” Gonzalez finished with an indistinct motion of his hand.
    “You and I both know this isn’t gang-related. This is a serial killer. Robbins could put Watanabe and his whole organization behind bars, and it wouldn’t stop these killings.”
    “Look, kid.” Gonzalez sighed, finishing his beer in one long drink. “Everybody’s pretty high-strung right now. You keep poking them with a stick, they’re going to circle the wagons. Rifkin’s already been complaining to your editor.”
    Brandon laughed. “That’s like getting a gold star on my report card.”
    Gonzalez gave him a quick grin. “You know, they got beat cops out all over the waterfront with mug shots of Watanabe’s people, asking every hooker, homeless person and runaway about gang activity, drug activity. Not even asking anyone if they’ve seen anyone else...anything out of place. It’s all Watanabe, all the time.” There was a hint of something in the older cop’s voice, a hint of a suggestion.
    Brandon thought for a moment. “People like that don’t volunteer much information to cops, especially information the cops aren’t even looking for.”
    Gonzalez turned to him and gave him a significant look. In a louder voice, he said, “Next time spring for some buffalo wings too, cheapskate.” He rose from his stool and with a hard clap on Brandon’s back, ambled out of the bar.
    Brandon watched him go with a deliberately sour look on his face.
    The bartender approached and pointed at