“Carmichael?” he called out.
No answer came. No sound. The layout of the second floor was almost identical to the floor below.
Turner spoke into his radio. “Detective Abel Turner. I am at 372 Orchard.
Shots fired, request backup and medical.”
He didn’t wait for the response, sweeping through the first bedroom, the bathroom. As he entered the second, he saw a body on the floor.
Not Carmichael. His mind took a minute to understand. The man on the ground, a boy really, couldn’t be older than twenty, a hole in his chest, a hole in the floorboards beside him. Carmichael standing over him.
Turner recognized Delan Tuttle from his file. King Tut. Bleeding out on the ground.
“Shit,” said Turner kneeling beside the body. “You hit?” he asked Car, because that’s what he was supposed to say. But he knew Car wasn’t hit, the same way he knew this kid wasn’t strapped. His eyes scanned the room, hoping a weapon might materialize.
“I called a bus,” Carmichael said.
That was something at least. But an ambulance wasn’t going to do Tuttle any good. The boy didn’t have a pulse. No heartbeat. No weapon.
“What happened?” Turner asked.
“He took me by surprise. He had something in his hand.”
“Okay,” Turner said. But he wasn’t okay. His heart was hammering away in his chest. The body was still warm. Tuttle had been hit almost directly in the center of his chest, as if he’d stood still for it. He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans. He had to be cold, Turner thought. The heat wasn’t on in here. There was no furniture. It had snowed just two days before. And the room was barren—no old cigarettes or food wrappers, not even a blanket. There were no signs he or anyone else had been squatting here.
He’d come here to meet someone. Maybe Carmichael.
“We don’t have much time,” Car said. He was calm, but Car was always calm. “Let’s get our stories straight.”
What story was there to get straight? And where was the mysterious object Tuttle was supposed to have had in his hand?
“Here,” said Car. He had a white rabbit by the neck. It was wriggling in his fist, its soft feet treading the air, its eyes wide, the whites showing. Turner could see its heart thumping against its furry chest.
Then he blinked and Car was holding a gun out to him. “Wipe it,” he said.
Turner had meant to be stern, but he found a nervous smile spreading across his face. “You can’t be serious.”
“Ambulance is gonna be here soon. Rat squad and the rest. Don’t screw around, Turner.”
Turner looked at the gun in Carmichael’s hand. “Where did you get it?”
“Found it at a scene a while back. Call it an insurance policy.”
Insurance. A gun they could plant on Tuttle. “We don’t have to—”
“Turner,” Carmichael said. “You know I’m good police and you know how close I am to punching out. I need you to back me here. The kid drew on me. I discharged my sidearm. That’s all there is to it. A good clean shoot.”
Good. Clean.
But everything about this felt wrong. Not just the shoot. Not just the body cooling on the floor behind him.
“What was he doing here, Car?”
“The fuck do I know? I got a tip, I followed it.”
But none of that added up. Why had they been chasing their tails for weeks on what should have been a routine investigation into a series of robberies? Where were the goods Tuttle had supposedly taken? Why hadn’t Tuttle run when he heard Carmichael pounding at the door? Because he’d been expecting him. Because Carmichael had set him up.
“You were meeting him here. He knew you.”
“Don’t start getting smart, Turner.”
Turner thought of the new deck Carmichael had put on his house last summer. They’d sat out there, barbecuing, drinking longnecks, talking about Turner’s career. Car had said his brother-in-law was a contractor, got him a deal. Turner had known he was lying, but it hadn’t bothered him.
Most police who had been around long enough were a little bent, but that didn’t make them crooked. And he’d already seen Car’s wife wore better clothes than any detective’s wife should. Turner knew his labels, he liked a nice suit, and the women he dated appreciated that he could speak that language. He could tell a genuine Chanel bag from a knockoff, and Car’s wife always had the real thing slung over her arm.
Bent, not crooked. But maybe Turner had been wrong about that.
In the distance, a siren began to wail. They couldn’t be more than a minute or two away.
“Turner,” Carmichael said. His eyes were steady. “You know what the choice is here. I go down, you go down with me. There are questions about me, there are going to be questions about you too.” He held the gun out. “This fixes all of it for us. You’re too good to be brought down by my fuckup.”
He was right about that. Turner felt himself reaching for the gun, saw the weapon in his hands.
“And what if I say no?” Turner asked, now that the gun was out of Car’s reach. “What if I say there was nothing in Tuttle’s record to indicate he was slick enough to get away with multiple B&Es without help?”
“You’re reaching, Turner.”
He was. He didn’t know how involved Car had been in the robberies.
