Page 99 of Fish in a Barrel
And just then, his phone rang.
“Jackson? You have your guy already, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do, sweetheart. But I appreciate your help. It was the friend of a friend sort of thing—there was no way for you to know who to research.”
“I understand, but what did you want?”
He let his eyes narrow and his voice go grim. “I want the dirty on someone, sweetheart. Trey Cartman, recently elected district attorney. He’s hurt alotof people, and I need to make sure he’s not in a position to hurt any of them ever again.”
She sucked in a breath and then let it out slowly. “Oh, so many dirty pockets involved,” she said softly, and he had no doubt she’d just gotten a hit or saw a vision or felt a shiver. Something, somewhere, was telling her where to look. “Where do you want me to send the information?”
“Arizona Brooks. She’s got a contact at the press who can do what we can’t with it. Either way, I don’t want him to get away with a damned thing.”
“I got it.” She paused, and he was about to sign off when she said, “Be safe, Jackson. I can feel the danger—in your voice, in your breaths. Keep yourself safe. Keep Ellery safe. You can only do so much.”
“I know,” he said, but he hated it. “Thanks, honey. I’ll call you later.”
And there was a knock at the door.
Jackson got there first and welcomed Rabbi Watson in. An ordinary man with a full brown beard who only wore his yarmulke on the sabbath, Rabbi Watson had become Jackson’s friend—and counselor—by complete accident. Jackson hated hospitals, didn’t really trust shrinks, and resisted anything resembling “treatment” if he could at all avoid it. But the rabbi was low-key, and he liked to laugh, and he arrived late to his own services because he still wasn’t comfortable talking in crowds.
And all he ever wanted was to make the people he was talking to feel better. Jackson understood now that rabbis had specialties—some specialized in scripture and some in politics. He’d always gotten the feeling that the reason Ephraim Watson had become a rabbi was because he liked people and wanted to help them. The end. No ambition, no flaming political sword. Just a community leader who found his community in his faith. It wasn’t Jackson’s faith, but he respected the hell out of the man’s commitment and regarded him as a friend.
“There’s an ambulance on the way to take the judge’s wife to treatment,” Jackson said quietly, leading the rabbi into the hallway without preamble. “Ellery and I have to go. Its urgent, and the judge may get more bad news. The family needs someone—an advocate, a counselor, and—”
“And you have other things to do.”
Jackson opened the door, gesturing him in and nodding Ellery out.
At the same time, the judge and the rabbi looked up at them and said, “Be safe.”
Ellery closed the door softly with a wave, and Jackson thought that somewhere in there was a joke: They had a judge, a rabbi, a lawyer, and a street rat. All they needed was a punchline.
“Everybody in place?” Ellery asked, pulling Jackson back from a semihysterical thought train.
“Except us,” he muttered. “C’mon, Sac City college, the stadium.”
“Oh dear Lord,” Ellery muttered, and together they rushed out into the rainy October day. “It’s going to be a madhouse.”
“No,” Jackson told him. “Go around the back way, like you’re going to a football game. I’ve got all the police presence clearing out the school at the other entrances. By the time we get there, Christie, de Souza, Hardison, and Fetzer should be there to let us in.”
Ellery stopped in his tracks as Jackson swung around the Lexus to open the door. “How in the hell did you manage that?”
“Manage what?” Jackson asked blandly.
“Manage to keep the whole thing from being a ‘three-ring cops in a tank, SWAT team firing at innocent civilian’ circus?”
Jackson thought about it and shrugged. “A few favors, a little blackmail, some threats—whatever, Ellery, comeon! Henry’s offering to put on a vest and go sniper on our sniper, and I’ve got to say, that scares the shit out me, so can we get going?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ellery murmured, but he sounded a little lost. That was okay, though. When he got behind the wheel, he drove like a bat out of hell.
Jackson stayed wisely silent for most of the trip, keeping up by texts. He gave Ellery terse directions from Christie on the way to get in without running into a police blockade and answered a couple of “The actual fuck is Henry doing here?” texts by telling Christie and Fetzer to look up his service record if they didn’t believe Jackson and to ignore the dishonorable discharge. Henry was honorable to a fault.
And in the middle of that, he got a text from K-Ski, asking Jackson what in the cold blue hell was happening at Sac City.
He had to pick up the phone for that one. “Stay the hell away from there,” he said tersely.
“Billy’s there. He’s got class today!” Sean responded. “Dammit, Jackson—”