Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Sixty-Two

G-Force was angry, but as usual, neither Guttfeld nor Forsythe could pinpoint exactly why they were upset with one another.

Well, they knew why. They just couldn't decide who, if anyone, was to blame for their losing the SUV they were certain was carrying Agamemnon Jefferson I, his bodyguard, and the reporter they had been following when that multi-car accident had occurred.

Personality differences aside, both officers were troubled by the reporter's presence. He had written a short article about the apparent kidnapping of Jefferson's "friend," but they couldn't see any clear path between the reporter's work and their extracurricular activities.

Then their "deputy" phoned and explained that he might know of a connection.

"He seems to think that professor had something to do with a missing girl he's been looking for, and he seems to think that professor had something to do with the disappearance of the girl's mother a long time ago."

Their man in the streets hadn't needed to elaborate. There was only one professor in G-Force's lives, as neither man had ever aspired to attend college.

"You think he said anything," Forsythe asked. "I hate snitches. Snitches get stitches."

"Relax. There's nothing to tell. And quit quoting rappers."

Guttfeld's tone was confident. His eyes were not. And his younger partner, who was savvier than he let on sometimes, could see that his squad leader was worried.

###

There is a joke for people who either state the obvious but fail to realize they've done so or don't state the obvious because, well, it isn't obvious to them.

If anyone was keeping score, G-Force would have fallen into the latter category, for Dr. Daniel Pogano, at that very moment, was singing like a canary on the assumption he would die soon. He had always claimed to be a religious agnostic, but on the off chance he was wrong, he figured a meaty confession might allow him to skip a few floors on Dante's very, very hot elevator.

"Mr. Wilson, I know you can't see me. At least I doubt you can," Pogano started. "But I'm assuming you can hear me. First, I am sure that you suspect that years ago I was involved in the death of Tonya Stone. You must believe me when I tell you that I had absolutely nothing to do with Tonya's death. I am not a killer."

I had assumed no such thing. But I was intrigued. No word though, on whether Pogano was a kidnapper. And I didn't respond to the ignominious start of his confession, so he continued.

There was no telling how long he might drone on had G-Force not gotten lucky and spotted Jefferson's wagon.

Without a word, the two men slipped out of their unmarked black sedan. No matter how stealthy they were, they stood out like salt in a pepper shaker...if that pepper shaker was Little Village, an enclave of Haitian and South American migrants that bordered a neighboring bedroom community.

On a visual count of three, Guttfeld approached the driver's door and yanked it open. Forsythe, gun drawn, did the same, almost simultaneously, to the front passenger door.

The vehicle was empty, but they knew the occupants must be nearby. Four rapid booms rang out, confirming their suspicions. And G-Force instinctively hit the ground, face first, crawling behind the car.

"You see the shooter?"

"No. But he must see us or else he wouldn't have tried to light us up."

They might have remained under the vehicle indefinitely – because there was no way they could radio dispatch for help; and they knew they could count on no one in this largely industrial section of Little Village calling the police, either – but Forsythe had the presence of mind to note that no dust had been kicked up around them. Nor had they heard or seen anything struck by flying bullets.

"You know what? I think those shots might be coming from down the block!"

Guttfeld nodded and rolled from under the SUV, .40 caliber Glock still drawn and ready.

"I'm headed that way on foot," he called. "Grab the car and back me up."

And with that, the veteran cop who'd taken such careful steps to avoid being noticed trotted slowly but steadily toward the unknown.