Page 26 of The Evening Wolves

“Fine. I’ll tell her—”

“Jesus, bro. Listen to yourself, will you? I’ll tell Diana. And for that matter, I’ll tell Aniya Thompson. And I’ll make a copy of this before we go, and I’ll send a copy to my boy, and I’ll send a copy to you, and I’ll send a copy to the President of the fucking United States if you want. But get your head on straight, man. He walks into John’s office. He closes the blinds. He comes out again. That’s all you’ve got.”

“Network Solutions will say they didn’t send anyone on Thanksgiving night.”

“Yeah. And that’s something. But unless you get your hands on this guy, you might as well have a handful of shit.”

“Digital forensics will show when those files were loaded.”

“Maybe. Eventually.”

Emery tented his hands over his nose. He breathed in slowly. The stink of rancid Funyuns made his stomach roll.

“Bro, I’m not trying to dump on you. I’m just saying, this isn’t a silver bullet.”

Emery nodded. The rage was there, the cold fire of it, burning away everything else: his helplessness, his frustration, the hopelessness choking him. He walked deeper into that anger, until the cold froze his marrow, until he ached with it. Someone did this to John, he thought, fanning that icy fury. Someone is doing this to John. Someone is doing this to my family. It was like an ice plunge, his head shoved into winter water. One moment, the pain seemed like too much. And then, relief. He didn’t feel anything, really. Just the monumental cold of his anger.

“I’ll talk to Aniya,” Emery said, dropping his hands. “She’ll be able to have someone examine the computer. The video would be useful if you’re willing to give us a copy.”

“Of course, dude.”

“The emails would be helpful too, although I understand that might compromise you. No, never mind; it should be enough to request the bids and the final contract for the network upgrade.” In his mind, he saw again the man staring up into the camera, the cruelty of the smile on his face, the double eagles shot at whoever was watching. The rage was like wind and snow, a black blizzard inside Emery’s head. The sound of it was like something rushing through a vast, empty dark. “He knew. He knew someone would eventually look at the footage. He knew someone would see that he planted those files on John’s computer. He knew, and he didn’t care. Like—like it was a game to him. You saw him; he was having fun.”

Dulac’s voice was troubled. “Why would he do that? He’s fucking up his own frame.”

Emery shook his head.

“Let me get you a copy of the log,” Dulac said. He even sounded like Dulac again, the stranger’s voice gone. When he stood, he wore uncertainty behind the freckles that dusted his cheeks and nose. The blood-dark eye seemed to have trouble tracking Emery. Dulac raised a hand, hesitated, and then touched Emery’s arm. “Bro, I’m sorry. I am. I—will you tell him?” He looked like he wanted to stop, but his voice broke when he added, “I can’t. I just can’t. Not yet.”

Emery nodded.

He waited in the bullpen while Dulac tracked down the sign-in log. The photocopy he brought back showed the sign-in for 11:07pm on Thursday, November 26. Kyle McCall. The name was bullshit, of course. But you never knew. Sometimes, in a case, the strangest things ended up being important.

Dulac let him out onto the smoke pad, and the wind hissed in Emery’s face. He started across the lot toward the Odyssey. He tried to think about what he would tell John. Enough. Not too much. Not so that he’d start blaming himself again. He had learned, later than he should have, that John was much harder on himself than people realized. Confident, yes. Even cocky. To a degree, perhaps, that Emery knew better than anyone. But always so sensitive to the gap he perceived between himself and Emery. Always wanting to be better. Always pushing himself, because John was used to being the best, and because so often, it came to him naturally. And this, Emery thought, this he would have to touch lightly, perhaps not at all, not until John had some time and distance. Because John wouldn’t be able to see that it wasn’t his fault. John would only say that he was chief, and it was his department, and in the end, it was his responsibility. And responsibility, for John-Henry, was the lifeline he’d given himself.

Emery’s burner phone buzzed as he reached the van—that had been a precaution they all agreed on, along with taking back roads and avoiding traffic cameras. Until this was over, they couldn’t afford to leave a trail. North’s name flashed on the screen.

“We found him,” North said.

For a moment, Emery’s only point of reference was the man from the video, and he tried to make sense of the impossibility. Then he remembered their plan from earlier, North and Shaw’s offer to track down the witness who had testified against John. Only hours ago, but it felt like days.

“What? How?”

“Because unlike some people, we don’t sit around mooning because our one true love is in trouble, plus we’re actually good at our jobs—Jesus Christ, Shaw, you tore out part of my scalp!” Silence came. And then, “No, I’m not telling him your willie is a divining rod or—no! Sit your ass—”

But something scraped the phone’s receiver, and then Shaw’s voice came across the call. “Emery, my willie actually is a divining rod! But that’s not how we found this guy. Well, not this time. Well, not entirely. I mean, it did give a twitch—”

The sounds of struggle came again, and then North, breathing a little harder, said, “You will not believe the tiddlywinks shit in this town. One of the butt-lords from the grand jury was holding court in a bar. Mac’s something. We literally walked in on the conversation, didn’t even have to ask. He was going to keep talking as long as people were buying him drinks.”

“My divining rod—”

“He threw wood when this frat boy bent over to tie his shoes. What kind of fucking divining rod is that?”

“But we found him, didn’t we? And Emery, you should have seen this guy! Imagine two ham hocks—wait, are they hocks, or are they loins?”

“Where is he?” Emery snapped. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know his name, but I could definitely identify him by his, um, derriere—”

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