Lod,’ Shalev continued, ‘ and the academy. Some of the best references I’ve ever read. And he’s keen – specifically requested a transfer up here so he could work at the sharp end. Given that Kishle doesn’t exactly have a reputation for social broad-mindedness, that took some bottle.’
She primped her hair, swivelling back and forth in her chair.
‘He also specifically requested the chance to work with you.’
Ben-Roi looked up.
‘What the hell’s that about?’
‘Come on, Arieh. He’s read about the Shamir case, the Mauristan fire when you saved that Arab girl. He admires you. God alone knows why, but he admires you. Give the kid a break, eh? Give him a bit of encouragement.’
‘OK, OK,’ said Ben-Roi, holding up his hands. ‘We’re bosom buddies.’
A pause, then: ‘Although not in that sense.’
Despite herself, Shalev smiled. ‘Get out of here, you schmuck . And get me some results.’
Ben-Roi stood and headed out of the office.
‘And for your information,’ she called after him, ‘according to the academy, he was one of the best Krav Maga students they’ve ever had. He’s a tough boy. And make sure you call Sarah! You can spare a couple of minutes, even on a murder case.’
He was already striding away down the corridor, and if he heard her he didn’t acknowledge it.
V ANCOUVER , C ANADA
Whenever he got drunk, Dewey McCabe thought about Denise Sanders in HR. And whenever he thought about Denise Sanders in HR he got sad and angry about her not wanting to go out with him. And whenever he got sad and angry he felt an irrational need for revenge.
This morning – it was past 2 a.m. – he was very drunk, and very sad and angry, and feeling particularly vengeful. Which is why, as he weaved his way back along Burrard Street after a seven-hour drinking session in Doonins Irish Pub on Nelson, he decided to stop by the office and do a shit on Denise Sanders’ desk.
The plan started to unravel from the outset. He reached the concrete tower of the Deepwell Gas and Petroleum building OK. When he pushed at the revolving doors, however, they were locked, which of course he should have known they would be at 2 a.m. That meant he had to wave over one of the night guards to let him in, and although Dewey had a security pass, the guard was clearly suspicious, which he also should have expected, given that he was pissed as a skunk. For a moment he thought he had salvaged the situation by spinning the guard a line about how he needed to send an urgent e-mail, but when the guard took it upon himself to accompany Dewey into the lift, he accepted that on this particular occasion Denise Sanders’ work station was going to remain disappointingly turd-free.
Not wanting to lose face he took the lift up to IT on the sixth floor and, with the guard still in tow, went over to his desk and switched on his computer.
‘Sure must be an urgent e-mail,’ said the guard, who wore a turban and was even fatter than Dewey.
‘Un-huh,’ replied Dewey, anxious to keep conversation to a minimum because he was slurring so badly.
There was a pause as the machine booted, then the screen went blue and his log-in box appeared. He entered his username and password – deweysbigcock69 – all the while trying to think of someone he could e-mail. For some reason the system wouldn’t accept his details. Assuming he must have entered them wrong, he tried again. Same result.
‘Problem, sir?’ asked the guard, standing annoyingly close.
‘No problem,’ mumbled Dewey, trying, and failing, to get in for a third time.
He pondered, then shunted his chair and leant forward so as to block as much of the screen as he could. Typing quickly, he entered Denise Sanders’ username and password, which he knew because he was one of the three people in the office with system administration rights and went into her account every day to see if she was e-mailing that cunt Kevin Speznik. He got in immediately.
Dewey was starting to
She primped her hair, swivelling back and forth in her chair.
‘He also specifically requested the chance to work with you.’
Ben-Roi looked up.
‘What the hell’s that about?’
‘Come on, Arieh. He’s read about the Shamir case, the Mauristan fire when you saved that Arab girl. He admires you. God alone knows why, but he admires you. Give the kid a break, eh? Give him a bit of encouragement.’
‘OK, OK,’ said Ben-Roi, holding up his hands. ‘We’re bosom buddies.’
A pause, then: ‘Although not in that sense.’
Despite herself, Shalev smiled. ‘Get out of here, you schmuck . And get me some results.’
Ben-Roi stood and headed out of the office.
‘And for your information,’ she called after him, ‘according to the academy, he was one of the best Krav Maga students they’ve ever had. He’s a tough boy. And make sure you call Sarah! You can spare a couple of minutes, even on a murder case.’
He was already striding away down the corridor, and if he heard her he didn’t acknowledge it.
V ANCOUVER , C ANADA
Whenever he got drunk, Dewey McCabe thought about Denise Sanders in HR. And whenever he thought about Denise Sanders in HR he got sad and angry about her not wanting to go out with him. And whenever he got sad and angry he felt an irrational need for revenge.
This morning – it was past 2 a.m. – he was very drunk, and very sad and angry, and feeling particularly vengeful. Which is why, as he weaved his way back along Burrard Street after a seven-hour drinking session in Doonins Irish Pub on Nelson, he decided to stop by the office and do a shit on Denise Sanders’ desk.
The plan started to unravel from the outset. He reached the concrete tower of the Deepwell Gas and Petroleum building OK. When he pushed at the revolving doors, however, they were locked, which of course he should have known they would be at 2 a.m. That meant he had to wave over one of the night guards to let him in, and although Dewey had a security pass, the guard was clearly suspicious, which he also should have expected, given that he was pissed as a skunk. For a moment he thought he had salvaged the situation by spinning the guard a line about how he needed to send an urgent e-mail, but when the guard took it upon himself to accompany Dewey into the lift, he accepted that on this particular occasion Denise Sanders’ work station was going to remain disappointingly turd-free.
Not wanting to lose face he took the lift up to IT on the sixth floor and, with the guard still in tow, went over to his desk and switched on his computer.
‘Sure must be an urgent e-mail,’ said the guard, who wore a turban and was even fatter than Dewey.
‘Un-huh,’ replied Dewey, anxious to keep conversation to a minimum because he was slurring so badly.
There was a pause as the machine booted, then the screen went blue and his log-in box appeared. He entered his username and password – deweysbigcock69 – all the while trying to think of someone he could e-mail. For some reason the system wouldn’t accept his details. Assuming he must have entered them wrong, he tried again. Same result.
‘Problem, sir?’ asked the guard, standing annoyingly close.
‘No problem,’ mumbled Dewey, trying, and failing, to get in for a third time.
He pondered, then shunted his chair and leant forward so as to block as much of the screen as he could. Typing quickly, he entered Denise Sanders’ username and password, which he knew because he was one of the three people in the office with system administration rights and went into her account every day to see if she was e-mailing that cunt Kevin Speznik. He got in immediately.
Dewey was starting to
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