The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [85]
Kloska emerged from the elevator, angry and liquored up. His lower lip was tucked under his teeth and his hand was clenched above his head, index finger extended into an accusation.
Reggie shook his head. Not here. In two long leaps, he caught the elevator door before it closed and held it for Bobby.
“Something ain’t right, Reggie, and you need to come clean with me. Right now.”
Reggie pushed a button for the sixtieth floor—gym and pool. “Hello, Bobby.”
Whiskey, thick on Kloska’s breath, dispersed in an oaky mist when he spoke. “You’re a piece of work, I tell you what.”
The doors opened into a narrow hall with a glass and metal door at the end. Reggie inserted a key card and the door clicked open onto the wide tile deck surrounding the pool, which included four lanes for laps and a small hot tub for aching muscles or cuddling lovers. Pairs of wood and canvas lounge chairs were arranged at equidistant intervals, but the deck was otherwise uncluttered. At one end, behind a glass wall, was a handful of treadmills and StairMasters and elliptical machines. Across the east and north walls were breathtaking views of the lake and downtown, although at this hour they reflected only a dim image of Bobby Kloska and Reggie Vallentine, who right now felt as if his metaphorical head was barely above water.
Bobby looked around the empty room until his eyes settled on Reggie’s. Reggie nodded, and then Bobby said something entirely unexpected: “Are you one of them?”
“What?”
“The Thousand. This creepy group of math freaks that, until a couple hours ago, I wasn’t even sure really existed. You’re one of them. It explains everything.”
Reggie was relieved that Bobby had come to ask him something he could comfortably deny, but he knew not to deny it right away. Reggie was always and consistently noncommittal, in anticipation of the day when he would be confronted with a truth he couldn’t deny. “What would that explain, Bobby?”
“You’ve been covering for them, right? They killed Gold for the requiem. They killed Marlena Falcone for God knows why, some kind of internal power struggle. You’re one of them. Or else they’ve hired you to cover their tracks. They’d need a guy like you to help them stay secret for so long. Cepeda says they like to do things big and out in the open, and you’re as big and in the open as any lawyer around.”
“Slow down a minute.”
“Three weeks. That’s my new suspension. And now the Independent Police Review Authority is involved. You know when a cop usually hears from the IPRA? When he shoots somebody or he beats his wife. I haven’t shot anybody in eight years and I hit my wife never. Cops always look after cops, but this Russo, this fucking doctor, is one of them, one of the Thousand, and he’s pulling some thick strings to get me off this case, and he’s pointing the investigation toward some drug company conspiracy, which the brass is buying because it’s just slightly less crazy than what I think. And you know what? I think you’re in on it, too. I think you’ve been quietly leading me down the wrong path for ten years, starting the night of Gold’s murder, and I want the truth right now. Because this isn’t just about a case anymore. This is about my reputation. My career. It’s about being your asshole. You’ve fucked with me for long enough.” Reggie noticed Bobby’s gun, unholstered and wedged comically between his belt and his abdomen.
“Just calm down.”
“Fuck you,” Bobby said. “Did Michael Liu kill Solomon Gold?”
“That’s what you keep telling me.”
“Bullshit. You were there. Who did it?”
Reggie said nothing.
“What really happened that night?”
“I have always given my full cooperation to this investigation, except when your inquiry has conflicted with my respons—”
“Shut up.” Bobby’s phone rang. He glanced at the number, probably hoping he could ignore it, but then he flapped his arms in frustration. “Stay there a minute.”
He turned his back and listened to the call, frozen, silent, his