Bullock shoved open the door. Coat to the rack. Bag beneath it. Shoes kicked off. He didn't think. Just staggered into the bedroom, belt undone, pants dropping to his ankles. He collapsed onto the mattress. His eyes closed, and sleep took him like a drug.
Until the banging started.
"What the fuck," he muttered, eyes cracking open.
It took several sharp knocks before he realized it was at his door.
"Motherfucker," he groaned, rolling out of bed.
Another series of severe knocks.
"Shut the fuck up!" he said, stomping to the door in filthy socks, cursing under his breath. If it was Johnson, he'd flatten the bastard.
He peered through the peephole. When he saw who it was, he zipped up, buttoned his pants, then opened the door.
Perez stood in the hallway, soaked to the bone. Her hoodie clung like wet newspaper. Her jeans soiled and her shoes caked with dry mud. She stood there like a problem dropped at his feet.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"We need to talk, Harv." She pushed past him, reeking of cigarettes and mud.
She didn't bother with her jacket or shoes. Instead, she marched into the kitchen and threw open cabinets like she owned the place.
"What's this about?" he said.
"Your partner," she snapped, slamming a cabinet. "Where's the Wild Turkey?"
He jerked a thumb at the cabinet above the fridge. She yanked open a bottom drawer and stepped up on it like she'd done it a hundred times.
"What did Syd do?"
"Your new partner," she corrected, grabbing the bottle.
He anxiously rubbed the back of his neck, wondering what the fuck that ginger had done now. "What about him?"
"I followed Gordon. Last night—or this morning." She poured a shot into a chipped coffee cup.
His eyes narrowed at her. "Why?"
"Chasing a lead." She downed the liquor in one swallow, grimacing.
Perez wasn't stupid. She was also connected. She must know about Gordon and the freak, but he pretended ignorance.
"On Gordon? What'd you hear?" he said, crossing, bracing for the news, feeling a stranglehold around his neck. If she knew, the whole city would learn too, and that would complicate things.
"Doesn't matter," she said too fast. "I followed him past Tricorner."
"Was he alone?" said Bullock.
"What do you mean?"
They looked at each other, like players with cards and hands that neither wanted to reveal. The feeling made Bullock's chest itch; he scratched at it.
"It ain't a fucking riddle, Perez." He said, impatient and frustrated.
"No cruisers were there. If that's what you're asking," she said.
"So the ginger took a joyride?" he said casually, unlocking his arms to release some tension.
"No. He waited for Flass to drive by, then pulled him into a rest stop and beat the shit out of him."
Bullock blinked. "Wait—Flass beat Gordon?"
"No. Gordon beat Flass. Unconscious."
"Gordon? You sure?"
"Yes, Harv. I watched him beat Flass's face into fucking hamburger meat."
Bullock scratched his head. Panic had already bloomed in his chest.
"Why the fuck would he do something that stupid?!" he yelled, causing Perez's back to stiffen.
She waited a beat before downing a second shot. Another grimace followed.
"Gordon told Flass to stay away from his family," she added.
"And what about Flass?"
"What about him? I got the hell out before that psycho spotted me." Perez set the cup on the counter beside the half-empty bottle.
"So he might still be there?" Bullock scraped at his neck, leaving red scratches on his pale skin.
Shit can get worse, he knew that. It can always get worse. He walked to the side table beside the couch, snatching his phone and dialing.
"Who you calling?" Perez asked, opening the fridge.
"We need to make sure Flass is still breathing," Harv said, pressing the phone to his ear.
"Syd, we got a fucking problem…"
He watched Perez pull a carton of orange juice. He smirked.
"Whaddaya mean it's early, Syd? You woke my ass up yesterday…" Bullock snapped, then relayed the news fast. He called out to Perez. "Which rest stop?"
"Fifth or sixth, I think," she said, tossing back the whiskey, then swigged the OJ—repulsed, she spat it into the sink.
"Oh yeah, OJ's bad. Don't drink it."
She cussed at him like a kid sister might her big brother. It gave him a good chuckle. He needed it.
"Alright, Syd, call me back when you hear…" Bullock stopped. There was shuffling, then a woman's soft voice.
"Sorry to wake you, Rita," said Bullock, his tone shifting to something softer, formal.
"Today? … Sure, I'll hear him out … yeah—I mean—yes, I'll be there."
Bullock hung up the phone.
Perez set the bottle of Wild Turkey on the coffee table, then flopped on the couch with her cup. Her shoes and jacket were off, but her jeans still muddied the cushions. He didn't care.
"Yes," she mocked.
"Rita's a lady," said Bullock, hanging up the phone.
"What the hell am I?"
"A spicy pepper."
"Fuck you, Harv."
Bullock grinned then took a seat beside her. "Why'd you come here?" he asked, more quietly.
"Got scared."
"Gordon wouldn't hurt you."
"I meant Flass."
He paused, watching her sip the whiskey from a mug. She looked like a kid again. Vulnerable. Younger than either of them had a right to be.
Then she said, "I got a good source that said Flass was banned from the brothels in Chinatown because he kept breaking the girls' faces."
Bullock nodded. He'd heard it too.
"So you looked for the biggest fucker you knew? Someone dumb enough to stick their neck out for ya."
She smiled. "Yeah. And I know you, Harv. I know the kind of guy you are."
Her words were warm and liquored, and somehow they stuck to his ribs like a bite. He didn't know why. Didn't like the feeling, but at the same time cherished it.
"Why were you following Gordon?"
Her smile dropped. She sipped her drink. Said nothing.
Harv sighed. Exhausted. Thinking with only a few seconds of sleep. He shook his head, then stood up, snatching the bottle by the neck and took a long pull.
"You know why we're losing out there?" he said, wiping his mouth. "Because none of us trust each other. That's the real shit of it. The scum out there—drug pushers, pimps, murderers—they work together. And the rest of us?" He gestured between them. "We're too fucking broken to even talk straight."
Perez stared like she knew this was bigger than now. Eyes wide, waiting. Not afraid—just worried. Like someone who had just walked in on an argument that wasn't meant for them.
Bullock took a longer swig, letting the burn settle him. Then he dropped onto the couch. He paused and said, "Gordon's working with the freak. That's what you found out, isn't it?"
She nodded. "Dent told you?"
"How the hell do you know that? Wait—doesn't matter." He set the bottle on the table. "He told the Chief, the Cap, and the whole squad. Harvey wants us to work with them. Both of them. And now, I gotta meet him and the rest of the squad at Nellie's to talk about it."
"You guys should do it, Harv," said Perez. "You've got open cases. So does Chen. So does Rusty."
"That was Dent's angle. But if we work with the freak, it'll sour a lot of guys. Close a lot of doors."
"Maybe those doors need to be shut," she said, shuffling to face him, her skinny legs crisscrossed. "The streets are different when he's out there. People talk. They spill everything to me and all I do is write about him."
Bullock nodded slowly. He saw it in her eyes now—the heat, the story burning behind them. It worried him. He didn't know why. Why he gave a damn about some uptight ginger with fists like bricks.
"You can't write about Gordon."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Really?" he said, surprised.
She met his stare. "Like you said—we've gotta work together."
Bullock watched her on his couch, still wet, still bleeding mud, sipping her mug. A tightness grabbed his chest again—same as before, only now the liquor gave it a burn.
He wasn't gonna work with the freak. No way. That shit stirred up too much already—for Gordon, and for him. It wasn't his mess. It was Gordon's. His blood to answer for. The ginger was on his own.
So why the fuck did it feel wrong?