“And sister,” Jackson added. “That’s what his father was trying to tell him. Not to say anything.”
“Because whoever killed the big guy with no neck…,” Hardison began.
“Has the younger kids,” Fetzer picked up. She frowned. “But who? And how do we even start?”
Jackson held up his phone. “Maybe give me your number first,” he said, “and I’ll send you this kid’s picture and prints. His name is Sergio Ivanov, but people call him Ziggy, and you need to run his prints through your computer and tell your lieu that you have a lead on the guy who knifed a cop. One of you go do that right now while I pick the other guy’s brains, because I’ve got a timetable and punching the time clock is not on the agenda. Let’s talk.”
Hardison rattled off his cell, and Jackson texted him the info before the big guy lumbered out of the room.
Fetzer broke out her notebook and her own phone, and they got down to business.
Twenty minutes later, Hardison walked back into the room, and Jackson’s phone was absolutely bursting with addresses and contacts. He and Henry were going to be running their asses off tomorrow.
“Chambers briefed?” Jackson asked.
Hardison shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, I gave her the information and told her it came from a credible source, but… well, she’s a transfer. She doesn’t know you from fucking Bambi, and she said she’d take the info under advisement.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Famous fucking last words,” he muttered. “Well, when we’re done here, I suggest you go back and tell her why she might want to listen.” He turned back to Fetzer, wondering if he was going to have to tell these two well-meaning, reasonably intelligent police officers about Ty Townsend in order to secure their cooperation.
He hated the idea—he really did. Galen’s advice was sound—and bringing Ty into it went against his first instincts. But God, there were too many balls in the air here for him to keep that one spinning when he might just maybe be able to trust someone else to handle it. If he could get these two cops to intervene, maybe they could get Lindstrom and Craft to drop the case.
“So about the Townsend kid,” Jackson said delicately. “Do you guys really think he did it?” And now that Hardison was back in the room, he was treated to the vibrating eyeball schtick again. He gave a sigh and swung his leg back over the chair, standing up and stretching while he waited for an answer.
“You know who the arresting officers were,” Fetzer said mildly.
Jackson nodded and moved his hands over his head, taking care to stretch out his chest and upper back. Physical therapy was important for heart patients too. “I do know,” he said. “I was wondering if you had… opinions.”
Hardison rolled his eyes, and then he and Fetzer shared one of those speaking glances again. “Of course we got fuckin’ opinions,” Hardison said finally. “But you don’t speak ill of the department outside of the department.”
Jackson thought about leaving it alone for a nanosecond, and then his hands found his hips and his mouth opened all by itself. “That was so much comfort when I was lying in my hospital bed for a year, and I had one fucking visitor from the department,” he said and then wished for a ball gag, just to make things kinky and uncomfortable.
This time, they couldn’t meet each other’s eyes. Or Jackson’s. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen to the Kryzynski kid,” Hardison said gruffly. “We already promised.”
“Good,” Jackson said, straddling the chair again. “Because our firm is full up on PIs, and you people need him on your side.”
Fetzer let a low, sweet laugh erupt. “You do not mind your words,” she said after a moment.
“Well, there seem to be a lot of people who mind them for me,” Jackson told her, feeling a sunny sort of benevolence again. “So about those two arresting officers—what do you think they were doing at that party?”
“They had a tip,” Fetzer said grimly. “A CI they use.” She swallowed like she tasted something bad. “I don’t know why, but I do not like the sound of the guy’s voice, even over the phone.”
Jackson frowned. “You’ve met him?”
“No. But he’s got a thick, gravelly voice. Not the voice of that kid you showed us. He just sounds smug. You can hear him through an earbud. Hell, Lindstrom was talking to him in the ladies one day, and I could hear him through the walls. I just….” She shuddered. “I know it’s superstitious as hell, but I wouldn’t trust that guy.”
“Any sort of accent?” Jackson asked.
“German,” Hardison said, surprising him.
“Not Russian?” Because that kid who’d knifed Sean had sounded Russian.
“Nyet,” Hardison said and then laughed at his own joke. He sobered for a moment. “I took German in high school. It’s less liquid, more phlegm.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Gross. Moving on. Look, that bust, the Townsend bust, if I told you we think it was a distraction, could you tell me where you thought those guys were supposed to be that night?”
“Where was the bust made?” Fetzer asked, eyes narrowed shrewdly.
“I thought I’d told you,” Jackson said. “Dead kid—No Neck Cosgrove’s place.”
The open mouths were not a good sign.
“How…?” Fetzer bent her head and rubbed the back of her neck. “Wouldn’t Chambers have caught that?” she asked. “Shouldn’t somebody have turned this over to a detective?”
Jackson shrugged. “I would think so. I don’t know how it was missed.”
“Augh!” Fetzer wore her hair in a tight graying braid, much like the desk sergeant’s, and Jackson watched her wrestle with the urge to run her fingers through her hair. “This is no damned good at all!” she said finally, and Hardison shook his head.
“It’s Chambers,” he said after a moment. “She means well, but….” He shrugged. “Green. She legit could have missed that because she wasn’t looking.”
“I hope,” Fetzer said sharply. “Because…. Because there are too damned many questions here. And I’ve got three years to go before my pension!”
“I’ve got two,” Jimmy said dispiritedly, and at Fetzer’s wounded sound, he gave her a tired grin. “I was going to hang in there for you. Don’t go getting all girlie. My wife would never forgive me. She wants to start a Jimmy Hardison survivor’s club.”
Fetzer gave her partner a tired smile in return. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.” Then she looked at Jackson. “Look, we know who you are and what you did. And you probably expect the whole department’s crawling with snakes. But there’s crooked and there’s green and there’s lazy—and none of these things are the same. But you’re right about one thing. This shit can’t stand. These cases are linked, that Townsend kid should never have been busted, and whether he was part of this or not, James Cosgrove was barely eighteen and his parents are devastated. And the Dobrevk kid’s a victim too. So you’re right. We’ve got some shit to sort, and I’m grateful you brought it to our attention.”