High Noon

We’ll—”
    “I know him. You were right. Smart girl. Always were a smart girl.”
    “Dave, Dave.” She sharpened her voice to keep him with her. “He’s a cop? You’re saying he’s a cop?”
    “SWAT. Was SWAT. Burned out? Transferred? Don’t know. Can’t think back. Walker? No, no, Walken. Had a beer with him once, retirement party. Beer at the bar, talked about the ball game. Walken. Walken,” he said again, and looked into Phoebe’s eyes. “Go.”
    She dashed to the door, called for a nurse. “He’s awake, and he’s starting to hurt. You.” She jabbed a finger at the guard on the door. “You don’t move from this spot, you hear? I don’t care if there’s an earthquake, a rain of frogs or the Second Coming, you don’t budge until your relief arrives. And nobody gets inside that room you don’t check their ID and go in with them.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Duncan.” My God, she thought, it was something to have a man who didn’t leave. “I bet that Porsche can really move.”
    “Damn right.”
    “You’re about to put that to the test. I’ve got a name,” she said, and rushed for the elevator with Duncan beside her.

28
    Walken, Jerald Dennis. Phoebe had the full name after a five-second conversation with Commander Harrison. And with Harrison pushing the buttons, she had Walken’s last known address within three minutes.
    “He won’t be there.” She snapped her phone closed. “He’s too smart for that. He won’t be there, but they’ll send a team in to make sure of it. He’ll have another place by now. Another place where he’s dug in deep. Go here,” she told Duncan and rattled off an address.
    “What’s there?”
    “He was tight with Michael Vince, trained with him, Harrison told me. I want to talk with Michael Vince. Well, God!” She blew out a breath when he whipped around a corner. “You know how to drive, don’t you?”
    “Make a hell of a martini, too.”
    “You can mix me up a whole batch when we finish this.”
    “Gin or vodka?”
    She laughed, just put her hands over her face and laughed. “Dealer’s choice. Duncan, when we get there, get to Michael Vince’s, would you wait for me? Would you call my house and tell them that Dave woke up and I talked to him? Would you tell them he’s all right?”
    “I’ll tell them. I’ll wait for you.”
    Tears stung her eyes. “Oh yeah, a whole bunch of things to say to you later.”
    Vince lived in a trim little house on the near edge of the south suburbs. He opened the door wearing a pair of blue-checked pajama pants and an irritated expression. The expression went neutral when she held up her badge and gave her name.
    “What’s the problem, Lieutenant?”
    “I need to talk to you about Jerald Walken.”
    “Jerry? I haven’t seen him in years. He moved to Montana. What’s this about?”
    “I’d like to come in a minute.”
    “Sure, but we just got the baby down—again. I need to keep it quiet. I swear, the kid hears me scratch my ass two rooms away.”
    “How old’s the baby?”
    “Six months. He’s teething, which means me and my wife aren’t getting any sleep. I’ve been on with you on some crisis situations. That Johnson deal, that was a hell of a thing.”
    “It was. Do you know how to get in touch with Walken?”
    “No. I never heard from him after he left.”
    “I heard you were friends.”
    “We were. I thought we were.” With a shrug, Vince sprawled onto one of the living room chairs, yawned hugely. “Sorry. Have a seat. Jerry was supposed to be best man at my wedding, but he took off two weeks before. Didn’t even tell me he was turning in his papers till it was done. Sent me a fucking e-mail—’scuze me—an e-mail a couple days later, said he was going to find his soul or some such crap. Two weeks before my wedding, he’s going off to find his soul. I’da figured he was just drunk if I hadn’t heard he’d left the unit.”
    It was apparent that the guy was dopey with sleep deprivation. Phoebe remembered those days—nights, endless nights with a fussy baby. “Did Jerry drink a lot?”
    “He could tie one on. You do the work we do, you need a little release.”
    “What about the married woman he was involved with?”
    Vince pokered up. “What’s this about?”
    “You were on the Johnson situation. It was Walken who fired that shot.”
    The sleepy eyes sharpened as he came to attention in the chair. “No fucking way.”
    “You heard, I’m sure, about the