Her head tilted back almost luxuriantly and she laughed.
So here it is at last, she thought, the invitation to the shadow force, aka the Murphia, i.e., the Network, that lawless society of cops, ex-cops, and God knew who else that she always knew existed but who everyone denied even hearing about. Cops helping out cops. Favors for the boys. Specializing in everything from parking tickets to, apparently, serial killer investigations. The world her father walked in and was worshipped by.
The Network was what the County had instead of money.
“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a black hood or something, or at least a green silk sash and a shillelagh?” Abbie said.
McGonagle smiled grimly. “Don’t fucking flatter yourself. You’re not wanted.”
“Then what is this?”
McGonagle frowned and gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders.
It means whatever you want it to mean
. “Let’s just call it a seventy-two-hour-pass, huh? You need a phone call made, it will be made. You need a door opened, we’ll make sure it’s unlocked when you get there. When Hangman is found, the pass expires.”
Abbie glowered at him.
“Does the name Stacy Jefferson mean anything to you?”
McGonagle’s face went perfectly still.
Stacy Jefferson had been the first female black detective on the force. She’d been a local girl, from the tough-if-not-lethal Bailey section near downtown Buffalo. She’d had two solid parents with city jobs and she’d made it to the Violent Crimes division in 2004, her childhood dream. She’d won awards for her outreach to the black community, but she wasn’t window dressing. Abbie had heard she was a detective’s detective—a bulldog with skills. Then a year after she joined Violent Crimes, she’d gotten caught driving a Ford Mustang up from South Carolina with a half-kilo of cocaine tucked inside the door panels. She’d fought the charges, claiming a conspiracy. She’d lost badly, been kicked off the force, and was doing serious time downstate.
Abbie had heard the real story from another female detective at a barbecue that summer, after the cop had one too many piña coladas. Stacy Jefferson had caught a case involving the head of the Common Council, Buffalo’s city legislature. It was a corruption case: a black council member who’d arranged for his secretary (“the only thing she could dictate,” said the drunk detective, “was their sexual positions”) to live in one of the new condos being built off of Delaware for needy but worthy families. The white Mercedes convertible parked in the driveway had alerted the secretary’s neighbors that she was hardlyneedy, and a quick check of her work record had turned up her connection to the city council. Jefferson was assigned the folder.
Jefferson had the secretary dead to rights, but the detective knew it was the council member who was pulling the strings. As soon as she started down that road, however, she’d been stonewalled. She couldn’t find any paper trail linking the condo to the politician; the wiretap was clean; the secretary teary but silent. So Detective Jefferson had turned to the Network. She’d asked a white detective if he could talk to the donors to the councilman’s campaign, see if they could cull one of them from the pack, get them to admit who was funding the secretary’s lifestyle. That was her guess: a rich donor paying for the condo. It was then that Jefferson’s new boyfriend had turned up in her life, sweet, handsome, and a graduate of the same high school she’d gone to. Jefferson had agreed to drive his car back from South Carolina. She’d been pulled over at the city line for a broken taillight and suddenly Jefferson’s badge didn’t work for getting off minor traffic offenses. The dope was found by a German shepherd, and the boyfriend turned out to be an ex-con released early from Attica. He disappeared, along with the case against the council member.
“What about her?” McGonagle
So here it is at last, she thought, the invitation to the shadow force, aka the Murphia, i.e., the Network, that lawless society of cops, ex-cops, and God knew who else that she always knew existed but who everyone denied even hearing about. Cops helping out cops. Favors for the boys. Specializing in everything from parking tickets to, apparently, serial killer investigations. The world her father walked in and was worshipped by.
The Network was what the County had instead of money.
“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a black hood or something, or at least a green silk sash and a shillelagh?” Abbie said.
McGonagle smiled grimly. “Don’t fucking flatter yourself. You’re not wanted.”
“Then what is this?”
McGonagle frowned and gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders.
It means whatever you want it to mean
. “Let’s just call it a seventy-two-hour-pass, huh? You need a phone call made, it will be made. You need a door opened, we’ll make sure it’s unlocked when you get there. When Hangman is found, the pass expires.”
Abbie glowered at him.
“Does the name Stacy Jefferson mean anything to you?”
McGonagle’s face went perfectly still.
Stacy Jefferson had been the first female black detective on the force. She’d been a local girl, from the tough-if-not-lethal Bailey section near downtown Buffalo. She’d had two solid parents with city jobs and she’d made it to the Violent Crimes division in 2004, her childhood dream. She’d won awards for her outreach to the black community, but she wasn’t window dressing. Abbie had heard she was a detective’s detective—a bulldog with skills. Then a year after she joined Violent Crimes, she’d gotten caught driving a Ford Mustang up from South Carolina with a half-kilo of cocaine tucked inside the door panels. She’d fought the charges, claiming a conspiracy. She’d lost badly, been kicked off the force, and was doing serious time downstate.
Abbie had heard the real story from another female detective at a barbecue that summer, after the cop had one too many piña coladas. Stacy Jefferson had caught a case involving the head of the Common Council, Buffalo’s city legislature. It was a corruption case: a black council member who’d arranged for his secretary (“the only thing she could dictate,” said the drunk detective, “was their sexual positions”) to live in one of the new condos being built off of Delaware for needy but worthy families. The white Mercedes convertible parked in the driveway had alerted the secretary’s neighbors that she was hardlyneedy, and a quick check of her work record had turned up her connection to the city council. Jefferson was assigned the folder.
Jefferson had the secretary dead to rights, but the detective knew it was the council member who was pulling the strings. As soon as she started down that road, however, she’d been stonewalled. She couldn’t find any paper trail linking the condo to the politician; the wiretap was clean; the secretary teary but silent. So Detective Jefferson had turned to the Network. She’d asked a white detective if he could talk to the donors to the councilman’s campaign, see if they could cull one of them from the pack, get them to admit who was funding the secretary’s lifestyle. That was her guess: a rich donor paying for the condo. It was then that Jefferson’s new boyfriend had turned up in her life, sweet, handsome, and a graduate of the same high school she’d gone to. Jefferson had agreed to drive his car back from South Carolina. She’d been pulled over at the city line for a broken taillight and suddenly Jefferson’s badge didn’t work for getting off minor traffic offenses. The dope was found by a German shepherd, and the boyfriend turned out to be an ex-con released early from Attica. He disappeared, along with the case against the council member.
“What about her?” McGonagle
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