“Were you there?”
“Read the official report, Detective. Whatever it says, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened.”
Sandoval kept staring at him. “Wherever you got this,” he said, “I don’t understand why you’re giving it to me.”
Mason couldn’t tell Sandoval the real reason. He’d been told by Quintero to bring this black box to him. To nobody else. Cole would be expecting it. He’d use it as a bargaining chip. A threat to have in his pocket. To make these cops get back in fucking line.
That was the order. Mason disobeyed it.
He was taking the cops down because he wanted to. For his own reasons. It was personal. He was ending the war on his own terms.
And he had no intention of ever taking another order again.
“Let’s just say I hate dirty cops as much as you do.”
“Why not give this to the feds?” Sandoval said, holding up the box.
“In what universe do I go looking around for federal agents, Detective?”
“This is going to make me a pariah,” Sandoval said. “You know that, right? I’m not Internal Affairs. I’m Homicide. I’ll be back on a seven-man team, working with the same guys every day. What do you think’s gonna happen to me when they find out about this?”
Mason didn’t bother trying to convince him he could stay anonymous. He knew that would be a lie.
“They’ll know,” Sandoval said like he was reading Mason’s mind. “Cops talk to each other. I’ll be the most hated cop in Chicago.”
“Maybe you will,” Mason said. “But I think this is why you became a cop in the first place.”
Sandoval turned away. He looked out at the water for a while.
“You gotta understand something,” he said, still facing away from him.
“What is it?”
Sandoval turned back.
“No, I mean you really need to understand what I’m about to tell you.”
“I’m listening.”
“This changes nothing between us,” Sandoval said. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Not even half a day’s head start if I ever decide to run?”
“Absolutely . . . nothing.”
“I didn’t think it would,” Mason said.
The two men watched each other. They waited for something else to be said that would bring this to a close. Sandoval had a disk full of evidence to sort through. Mason had one more phone call to make.
“I’m still gonna take you down,” Sandoval said.
“You’re going to try,” Mason said.
Sandoval nodded to him. Then he walked away.
36
Mason sat in his car on Lincoln Park West. He’d been there for two hours and still hadn’t gone inside. Instead, he had parked his car on the street and just watched the place, looking up at the high windows of the beautiful town house and thinking about Darius Cole sitting in his cell at Terre Haute.
His driver’s-side glass was still gone. There was a crack on the passenger’s-side window, another on the windshield. But he had bigger problems to solve that day.
He picked up his cell phone and called Quintero. It was answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?”
“I’m around,” Mason said. “Listen to me. This is important.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t have it.”
“What do you mean you don’t have it?”
“Somebody else has it now,” Mason said. “You’ll read about it in the paper.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Mason could hear the sounds of power tools in the background. Quintero was at the chop shop.
“If this is some kind of fucking joke . . .”
“I need to talk to him,” Mason said.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Okay, fine,” Mason said. “Visiting hours start at eight o’clock on Saturday morning. I’ll be first in line.”
“That would be a big mistake.”
“Then make it happen,” Mason said. “Today.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone on the seat next to him.
Yet another order disobeyed, because now Mason was doing something he should never do, putting everyone at risk. Himself, Quintero, Cole, even some prison guard who’d have to supply the illegal cell phone.
But it was the only way.
He sat there and waited. He watched the town house. He watched the street. People were walking through the park, enjoying the day. Families were on their way to the zoo.
An hour later, the phone rang. It was Quintero.
“I’m going to give you a number to call,” he said. “This is a onetime event.”
“Just give me the number.”
He waited for it, then ended the call without saying another word. His heart was pounding in his throat as he dialed the number and waited.
“Who is this?” a voice said.
“Let me talk to him.”
“Is this Mason?”
Something about the high pitch in the man’s voice made him think about the undersized guard who came to him in the yard that day, just over a year ago, to deliver that first invitation to come meet Darius Cole.