Eyes of Prey

window at the street. Spring was definitely coming, the days stretching toward summer. The street was sunlit, although thetemperatures hung in the forties. “Lucas . . . God damn it. You beat up Bekker. His fuckin’ face . . . And remember that pimp, that kid, Whitcomb? His goddamn attorney has been back to Internal Affairs—Whitcomb’s family don’t believe a word of that pimp story, they think their little boy fell into the hands of a bad cop. They’re talking about the courts . . . .”
    “We’ve handled it before . . .” Lucas suggested.
    “Not like this. You’ve been in fights. These people . . . Shit, these people didn’t have much of a chance.”
    “Whitcomb is a fucking violence freak,” Lucas said, leaning forward. “Has his attorney looked at the girl he worked over?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Whitcomb’s a criminal—but you’re not supposed to be. And now there are rumors about you going into Druze’s apartment. Too many people know about it. If you tried to deny it at a hearing, you’d be perjuring yourself. And there’s more . . . .”
    “Like what?”
    “A guy from Channel Eight was talking about making a formal complaint that you gave special privileges to one of the reporters from TV3. That wouldn’t be any big deal, normally, except that Barlow picked it up, and decided that you fed her confidential investigatory material.”
    “You could quash that,” Lucas said.
    “Yeah. That. Or any one of the others. But the whole bunch . . .”
    “Cut to the action,” Lucas said. “What’re you telling me?”
    Daniel sighed, turned back and leaned over his desk. “I can’t fuckin’ save you.”
    “Can’t save me?” Lucas said it quietly, almost pensively.
    “They’re gonna hang your ass,” Daniel said. “The shooflies and a couple of guys on the council . . . And I can’t do a fuckin’ thing about it. I told them that you’d maybe had some psychological problems, they were straightening out. They said bullshit: If he’s nuts, get him off the street. And you’vekilled a few guys. You see that Pioneer Press editorial? Our own serial killer  . . .”
    “Jesus Christ,” Lucas said. He levered himself out of the chair and took a turn around the office, looking at all the black-and-white mug shots, the smiling sharks, a lifetime of politicians. He stopped at the color, the Hmong tapestry, the Minnesota weather calendar. “I’m gone?”
    “You could fight it, but it’d be pretty bad,” Daniel said. “They’d be asking about the break-in, about the fight with Whitcomb and about Bekker’s face . . . . I mean, Jesus, you look at a picture of the way Bekker used to be, and his face now. Jesus, he looks like Frankenstein. On top of it all, you haven’t gone out of your way to win any popularity contests.”
    “There are some people in the press . . . .”
    “They’ll turn on you like rats,” Daniel said. “Nothing gives an editorial writer more satisfaction than seeing somebody else booted out of his job.”
    “I’ve got friends . . . .”
    “Sure. I’m one. I’d testify for you . . . but like I said—and I’m a politician, I know what I’m talking about—I can’t save your ass. As a friend, I tell you this: If you resign, I can turn it all off. I can short-circuit it. You walk away clean. If you decide to fight it, I’ll stand with you, but . . .”
    “It wouldn’t do any good.”
    “No.”
    Lucas stared bleakly at the weather calendar, then nodded and turned to face Daniel. “I knew I was getting close to the end of my string,” he said. “Too much shit coming down. I just kind of wish . . .”
    “What?”
    “I wish I’d dumped Bekker. Damn it . . . .”
    “Don’t talk like that. To anybody,” Daniel said, pointing a finger at Lucas. “That can only bring you grief.”
    “When do I go?”
    Daniel tipped his head. “Soon. Like now.”
    “Do you have a sheet of department paper?” Lucas asked.
    Lucas hunched over Daniel’s desk, writing it out in longhand, two simple sentences. Please accept my resignation from the Minneapolis Police Department. I’ve enjoyed my work here, but it’s time to pursue new interests. “Twenty fuckin’ years,” he said, as he dotted the i and crossed the t s in interests.
    “I’m sorry,” Daniel said. He had turned his back again, and was staring out the window. “The retirement’ll be there, of course, if you care . . . .”
    “Fuck