Shadow Boys by Harry Hunsicker Page B

started to answer but the bathroom door burst open, and a uniformed officer aimed a pistol at my face.
    “Don’t move,” he said. “Police.”
    “Shit.” Sawyer slumped against the wall.
    “Put your hands on your head,” the cop said. “Both of you.”
    I did as requested.
    Sawyer said, “I want my lawyer.”

- CHAPTER FIFTEEN -
    Mason Burnett was running late.
    He hated to be off schedule, but with the implementation of the chief’s new anti-crime initiative and his other activities, he had no choice. Plus, he’d had to spend a lot of time filling out forms about what had happened to the gangbanger at the boardinghouse in Oak Cliff.
    Mason hated paperwork. But since the pantywaist Delgado had been there, he figured he’d better make sure his version of events was crystal clear.
    He found a spot in the parking garage large enough for his Suburban. The nearby cars were expensive, Mercedes and Cadillacs and BMWs.
    All the wealth the city had to offer seemed to be concentrated into this small area, a five- or six-block complex of office buildings and stores known as Preston Center.
    He jogged across the street, caught the elevator just in time, and walked into the nondescript set of rooms, only seven minutes late for his appointment.
    The woman with the sensible shoes was waiting in the reception area. She smiled at him.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Mason said.
    “You ready to begin?” She pointed to an inner office.
    Mason nodded and followed her into a frilly sitting area, four white leather chairs around a coffee table. Two bottles of water rested on the table.
    They sat in silence for a few moments. Mason opened a water, took a sip.
    “How was your day?” She tapped a pencil on her knee.
    Mason took several deep breaths, tried to compose himself.
    The woman’s name was Corinne. She was a therapist under contract with the city of Dallas, among other law-enforcement agencies. She specialized in couples counseling as well as treating first responders for stress-related maladies.
    Mason had been seeing her for six weeks.
    Ever since the incident with the prostitute in the platinum wig.
    “My day.” He put the water down. “It was fine. I had a good day.”
    “Everything okay at work?”
    More silence.
    The woman with the platinum wig had been working a corner on Fort Worth Avenue, south of downtown. Mason’s people had been taking down a drug house a few blocks away. He had stopped at the curb to make a call when she’d approached him while he was still in his vehicle, offering him a date he’d never forget—round the world for only forty bucks.
    Corinne cleared her throat, brought him back to the present.
    “Work is fine,” Mason said.
    “Good.” She nodded.
    Mason looked around the room but didn’t say anything.
    “You can talk about whatever you like.”
    Mason nodded. Wondered what he should bring up today.
    More silence. Then:
    “You ever notice how brown this damn city is?” Mason asked.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Dallas used to just be coloreds and whites.” He paused. “Sorry, I mean African Americans and their white oppressors.”
    Corinne stared at him like he’d taken a shit in the middle of her coffee table. Damn bleeding-heart bull dyke.
    He continued. “Now half the billboards in town are in Spanish, and you can’t hardly turn on the TV without seeing some Mexican soap opera full of big-titted sluts named Maria or Consuela.”
    Corinne scribbled furiously on her pad.
    “We’re confidential here, right?” Mason smiled.
    She looked up and nodded, clearly trying not to curl her lips into a sneer.
    “Not that I mind big tits.” Mason winked. “You like a nice rack, too, dontcha, Corinne?”
    She put her pen down. “What I like or don’t like is not why we’re here. Let’s talk about you. Or your job, which is what brought you to me in the first place.”
    “Everything’s great at work.” Mason crossed his legs. “Except for the fact that the chief has me boxed in like a cow