Dark Rivers of the Heart

him, and he liked people.
        He just had this… reserve."
        "After the shooting, he wanted a desk job. Specifically, he applied for a transfer to the Task Force on Computer Crime."
        "No, they came to him. Most people would be surprised-but I'm sure you're aware-we have officers with degrees in law, psychology, and criminology like Spencer. Many get the education not because they want to change careers or move up to administration. They want to stay on the street. They love their work, and they think a little advanced education will help them do a better job. They're committed, dedicated.
        They only want to be cops, and they-"
        "Admirable, I'm sure.
        Though some might see them as hard-core reactionaries, unable to give up the power of being a cop."
        Descoteaux blinked. "Well, anyway, if one of them wants off the street, he doesn't wind up processing paperwork. The department uses his knowledge. The Administrative Office, Internal Affairs, Organized Crime Intelligence Division, most divisions of the Detective Services Group-they all wanted Spence. He chose the task force."
        "He didn't perhaps solicit the interest of the task force?"
        "He didn't need to solicit. Like I said, they came to him."
        "Before he went to the task force, had he been a computer nut?"
        "Nut?" Descoteaux was no longer able to repress his impatience.
        "He knew with them.
        Spence wasn't a nut about anything. He's a very solid man, dependable, together."
        "Except that-and these are your words-he's still trying to understand himself, come to terms with himself "
        "Aren't we all?" the captain said crisply. He rose and turned from Roy to the small window beside his desk. The angled slats of the blind were dusty. He stared between them at the smog-cloaked city.
        Roy waited. It was best to let Descoteaux have his tantrum. The poor man had earned it. His office was dreadfully small. He didn't even have a private bathroom with it.
        Turning to face Roy again, the captain said, "I don't know what you think Spence has done. And there's no point in my asking-"
        "National security," Roy confirmed smugly.
        "-but you're wrong about him. He's not a man who's ever going to turn bad."
        Roy raised his eyebrows. "What makes you so sure of that?"
        "Because he agonizes."
        "Does he? About what?"
        "About what's right, what's wrong. About what he does, the decisions he makes. Quietly, privately-but he agonizes."
        "Don't we all?" Roy said, getting to his feet.
        "No," Descoteaux said. "Not these days. Most people believe everything's relative, including morality."
        Roy didn't think Descoteaux was in a hand-shaking mood, so he just said,
        "Well, thank you for your time, Captain."
        "Whatever the crime, Mr. Miro, the kind of man you want to be looking for is one who's absolutely certain of his righteousness."
        "I'll keep that in mind."
        "No one's more dangerous than a man who's convinced of his own moral superiority," Descoteaux said pointedly.
        "How true," Roy replied, opening the door.
        "Someone like Spence-he's not the enemy. In fact, people like that are the only reason the whole damn civilization hasn't fallen down around our ears already."
        Stepping into the hall, Roy said, "Have a nice day."
        "Whatever side Spence settles on," said Descoteaux with quiet but unmistakable belligerence, "I'd bet my ass it's the right side."
        Roy closed the office door behind him. By the time he reached the elevators, he'd decided to have Harris Descoteaux killed. Maybe he would do it himself, as soon as he had dealt with Spencer Grant.
        On the way to his car, he cooled down. On the street once more, with calmin influence, Roy was sufficiently in control again to realize that summary execution wasn't an appropriate response to Descoteaux's insulting insinuations.
        Greater punishments than death were within his power to bestow.
        The three wings of the two-story apartment complex embraced a modest swimming pool. Cold wind chopped the water into wavelets that slapped at the blue tile under the coping, and Spencer detected the scent of chlorine as he crossed the courtyard.
        The burned-out sky was lower than it had been before breakfast, as if it were a pall of gray ashes settling toward the