when he was annoyed and drunk he tended to be unpleasant. So the people in the Employee Assistance Program had told him. The little fuckers.
“You want to do the street, since you know people up here,” Chris panted, “and I’ll do the cops?”
Sully patted his pockets. He had his ID. Fabulous. And gum. Gum was useful, particularly to take the smell of bourbon off your breath. People had been known to misunderstand. He put the side of the notebook in his mouth and used both hands to tuck his shirttails back in. He pulled the notebook from between his teeth and popped a stick of Juicy Fruit in his mouth.
“You do that, champ,” he said. “I’ll do the vox pop.”
He looked ahead at the mosh pit of reporters clustered at the far side of the street, the television antennas rising like metal saplings. Dave Roberts was over there, setting up for a live feed, the hometown hero. Played high school ball at DeMatha before Maryland and the NFL and was now the local television reporter everyone loved.
“Here’s a thought,” Sully said to Chris. “Don’t ask it up there in that scrum. Just nudge the cops that maybe this is random. Everybody else is going to be playing up the aspect that it’s got something to do with Reese. See if there’s any intel that maybe it’s not.”
Chris looked up at him and shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. He didn’t like the idea, Sully could tell. He was looking for an inside tip on something big—a local gang member, a Colombian drug lord, or maybe one of those anti-government Idaho nut jobs—striking at the federal bench. It would be days and days of 1-A stories, the kind of boost that would shoot him up from the dredges of Metro to the exalted wonders of National.
Chris shrugged. “I’ll ask.” He started to turn into the crowd, then leaned back. “You need a ride back? Should we meet up?”
Sully shook his head. “I’ll get the cycle stuff later.”
Overhead, far above the streetlights, two police helicopters swept back and forth, shining spotlights onto roofs, alleys, backyards. Sully felt the first touch of fall place a finger at the nape of his neck, the warning note of winter about to descend. There was still the bourbon buzz tingling through his bones, and now the electric murmur of
murder
on people’s lips, the morbid milling around, blood on the asphalt, the dark thrill of a Friday night being turned into something big, something mean, something to talk about. The television trucks, the networks and cable news channels, they were pouring into a neighborhood they usually never noticed, beaming a bit of neighborhood D.C. into living rooms in Seattle and Chicago and Tucson.
I was just coming out the store, you know, and then all these police cars come flying up, cops with guns out and shit
. . .
He checked his watch. Fifty-seven minutes until deadline. A shell burst of adrenaline ran up his spine.
Edging through the gawkers, he could see Dave outside the television van, wrestling a tie around his neck. His cameraman was setting up a shot with the dance studio across the street in the background. Sully could see the “Big Apple” sign across the second floor. The stems of the “A” were shaped like a pair of dancer’s legs; the top of the letter was an inverted, heart-shaped ass.
Sully pushed to the front row behind the police tape, now holding his press badge up as if it were a police department shield, people giving him a little room. He caught Dave’s eye with a wave. The older man, dark skinned, broad shouldered, still looking like he could bust your ass at outside linebacker, waved him inside the tape.
“Gloamin’ of the evenin’,” Sully said, waving a hand at the falling dark, then catching himself. Put the “G” on the goddamned end, this wasn’t back home.
“I was on my way to the movies with the missus,” Dave said.
“She pissed?”
“Twenty-two years of marriage says I’m not getting any when I get
“You want to do the street, since you know people up here,” Chris panted, “and I’ll do the cops?”
Sully patted his pockets. He had his ID. Fabulous. And gum. Gum was useful, particularly to take the smell of bourbon off your breath. People had been known to misunderstand. He put the side of the notebook in his mouth and used both hands to tuck his shirttails back in. He pulled the notebook from between his teeth and popped a stick of Juicy Fruit in his mouth.
“You do that, champ,” he said. “I’ll do the vox pop.”
He looked ahead at the mosh pit of reporters clustered at the far side of the street, the television antennas rising like metal saplings. Dave Roberts was over there, setting up for a live feed, the hometown hero. Played high school ball at DeMatha before Maryland and the NFL and was now the local television reporter everyone loved.
“Here’s a thought,” Sully said to Chris. “Don’t ask it up there in that scrum. Just nudge the cops that maybe this is random. Everybody else is going to be playing up the aspect that it’s got something to do with Reese. See if there’s any intel that maybe it’s not.”
Chris looked up at him and shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. He didn’t like the idea, Sully could tell. He was looking for an inside tip on something big—a local gang member, a Colombian drug lord, or maybe one of those anti-government Idaho nut jobs—striking at the federal bench. It would be days and days of 1-A stories, the kind of boost that would shoot him up from the dredges of Metro to the exalted wonders of National.
Chris shrugged. “I’ll ask.” He started to turn into the crowd, then leaned back. “You need a ride back? Should we meet up?”
Sully shook his head. “I’ll get the cycle stuff later.”
Overhead, far above the streetlights, two police helicopters swept back and forth, shining spotlights onto roofs, alleys, backyards. Sully felt the first touch of fall place a finger at the nape of his neck, the warning note of winter about to descend. There was still the bourbon buzz tingling through his bones, and now the electric murmur of
murder
on people’s lips, the morbid milling around, blood on the asphalt, the dark thrill of a Friday night being turned into something big, something mean, something to talk about. The television trucks, the networks and cable news channels, they were pouring into a neighborhood they usually never noticed, beaming a bit of neighborhood D.C. into living rooms in Seattle and Chicago and Tucson.
I was just coming out the store, you know, and then all these police cars come flying up, cops with guns out and shit
. . .
He checked his watch. Fifty-seven minutes until deadline. A shell burst of adrenaline ran up his spine.
Edging through the gawkers, he could see Dave outside the television van, wrestling a tie around his neck. His cameraman was setting up a shot with the dance studio across the street in the background. Sully could see the “Big Apple” sign across the second floor. The stems of the “A” were shaped like a pair of dancer’s legs; the top of the letter was an inverted, heart-shaped ass.
Sully pushed to the front row behind the police tape, now holding his press badge up as if it were a police department shield, people giving him a little room. He caught Dave’s eye with a wave. The older man, dark skinned, broad shouldered, still looking like he could bust your ass at outside linebacker, waved him inside the tape.
“Gloamin’ of the evenin’,” Sully said, waving a hand at the falling dark, then catching himself. Put the “G” on the goddamned end, this wasn’t back home.
“I was on my way to the movies with the missus,” Dave said.
“She pissed?”
“Twenty-two years of marriage says I’m not getting any when I get