Four hundred grand, thought Peter, understanding now. In neatly banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
“Frank, we had no proof,” said Lipsky. “The DA made the call, not me. Look in the record. We didn’t have enough to indict, let alone convict.”
“He paid the DA, too, in campaign contributions. But he killed her. You know it, I know it. We could have sweated that fucker. But we didn’t. He got away with murder. And now? Now you’re going to blow something up. What’s the rate for that, you cocksucker?”
“You eat what you kill, Frank,” said Lipsky. “You never did see it. Where the power is. Where the money is. Nobody’s going to make your fortune but you. If you want to inch along on your tiny little salary for the rest of your life, you go for it. You could have taken a risk. You could have forged ahead. But you stuck to your narrow little view. And look where it’s gotten you.”
Zolot looked at Lipsky as if he were a different species. “It’s called an oath, Sam. We swore an oath. Do you remember? To serve and protect. All the people, not just the people with money.”
“You’re a fucking dinosaur, Frank. Nobody cares about the people. Even the people don’t care about the people, they only care about themselves.” He shook his head again. “I don’t know why I bother. You didn’t get it then, you don’t get it now. And I’m tired of listening to your sermons. Good-bye, Frank.”
Lipsky raised the pistol and shot Zolot in the head.
The noise rang off the brick walls. Zolot crumpled to the dry and dusty floor, which soaked up the blood like bread under gravy. The smell of it was alive in the room.
“Jesus Christ,” said Peter.
“What?” said Lipsky, taking out a handkerchief and wiping down the weapon. His face was indifferent. “You thought I was going to let him live?”
“No,” said Peter. “But he used to be your partner.”
Lipsky looked at him, those X-ray eyes boring through him. “Partners are overrated.”
Felix returned with the hand truck to take another load of fertilizer. The stacks of bags were shrinking fast. “Hey, Cas.” Lipsky held out the pistol with his pinkie through the trigger guard. “This is for you. It’s loaded and live.”
Felix stood up the hand truck, then took the weapon, his face alive with interest. He dropped the magazine, checked the load, racked the slide to eject the live round, pushed the round into the magazine, and popped the magazine into place, all in under a count of five. Then tucked the gun into his belt at the small of his back and bent to reload the hand truck.
Whatever was wrong with the guy, thought Peter, some parts of him were clearly still highly functional. The wrong parts.
Midden walked through the door with a black-plastic-wrapped rectangle in his hand. When he saw Zolot dead on the floor, he stopped. “I told you not to kill anyone.”
Lipsky took the package from his hand. “You don’t make those decisions, Sergeant. I do.”
Something flickered across Midden’s face and was gone just as quickly. But Peter saw it.
Lipsky must have, too. “Look, I’m sorry. The man was in pain,” he said. “And he’d seen all of us, Midden. You killed him when you brought him in here. You know that. Hell, he killed himself when he braced you outside. I put him out of his misery, and ours, too. All right?”
He didn’t wait for a response. He carried the package to the table and tore open the plastic, exposing two beige rectangles. “Only two,” he said. He turned to Midden. “This is it?”
Midden shook his head. “That’s all I found.” He glanced at Peter. “Good hiding place, too.”
“Not good enough,” said Peter.
“That’s only half,” said Lipsky. “Where’s the rest?”
“I got rid of it. And that’s the truth.”
Lipsky looked at Peter with his X-ray eyes and seemed to accept it.
“It’s enough, anyway,” he said. “Midden, thank you.” Lipsky took his phone from his pocket and hit a button. “We’ve got it. Bring them in. You need to finish the detonator.”
“Wait a minute,” said Peter. Although this was what he had known would happen. “You said they hadn’t seen any faces. You said you wouldn’t touch them if you got the C-4.”
“I said I wouldn’t if you provided the plastic. And you didn’t. Midden had to find it. And we’re missing half our goods.”
Peter was watching Midden with one eye and saw it again. That flicker across his face, a look of disgust that came and went so quickly Peter almost missed it. Then the empty coiled stillness was back. But there was something beneath it, Peter now knew. Something submerged.
Boomer, his face a mass of bruises, came through the door, towing Dinah by an elbow. Still handcuffed, Dinah had put the circle of her arms around Miles. They still wore their ragged blindfolds.
Boomer steered them into a corner. “Sit yourselves down right there,” he said. “Don’t move, don’t talk.” Then he went to the table and peeled the plastic facing off the rectangles of C-4.