during the party...
He waits until he's sure Kate is gone before he answers his phone. It's not that he doesn't trust her... it's... Okay, he doesn't trust her. There's something very wrong about her. She can't be more than twenty, but her eyes are too much like McKellen's, not in how they look, but in how they look. She knows things the shouldn't, says things she really shouldn't -- and he hopes to God she had understood his warning very fucking clearly -- and he's going to have to make a concerted effort to come to an understanding with her about certain information being circulated. But not right now. Not tonight, for fuck's sake. There is too much going on.
"Boyd," he snarls into the mobile, and steps further into the room, putting his back to the corner so he can keep an eye out for anyone wandering in.
"It's Susan," she says, and Bill says nothing. There's no need. "Carver is dead. Shanked."
Bill closes his eyes for a moment, feels his stomach drop down to his knees, suddenly weighted like lead. "Bleeding fuck," he growls.
He can almost see her offering a quick, impatient headshake. It's in her clipped tone. "Dominguez can't afford Carver's mouth -- he cut a deal, you know -- and he can't afford the Bloom kid's mouth, either, Bill." She pauses, and Bill says nothing. "You know where he is, Bill." It's not a question.
"I might be able to find him," Bill hedges, and has to force himself not to turn and search for Orlando out the window.
Susan laughs, a short, brittle sound entirely lacking in actual amusement. "Don't fuck with me, Bill. I know you." He can hear her gathering her patience, taking a deep breath. "You wouldn't lose track of him." Like we have, goes unspoken, but Bill knows it's there. That's why she's calling, really. She's just figured out that Orlando is outside the net of police awareness, and she doesn't sound terribly happy about it. "I want him in protective custody, Bill."
"If I see him, I'll mention it," Bill says steadily, toneless.
"Bill," she says softly, and Bill grits his teeth and holds onto his temper with both hands. "He's not safe."
"Tell me something, Sue. Did you still have a uniform on Burelle's apartment?" He keeps his voice carefully flat, but he can still hear her fury in the long, quiet seconds that follow, silence broken only by the sound of her radio in the background, squawking police-band alive with activity. Someone is going to be sorry for that, he's sure.
"No. I couldn't justify twenty-four/seven surveillance with the case suspended."
Bill closes his eyes again. What had been dull and weighty dread in the pit of his stomach has now morphed into something like actual fear. She's good at giving out partial information, good at evasive respnonses using empty phrases that only sound as though they contain information, but he's better at it. "You couldn't justify twenty-four/seven... but you had some extra man-hours, didn't you, Sue. All those people working on Dominguez at loose ends. Who?"
Longer silence this time.
A rotation, he guesses. Probably nights and weekends only, because Orlando works during the day, and there would have been no need to cover an empty apartment. Bugger.
Fuck.
"Sue," he begins softly, but she cuts him off.
"I want him, Bill. I want him where I can get my fucking hands on him," and her voice is walking that thin line between shout and sob, and the pressure in Bill's chest feels like drowning.
But he says: "No."
"Goddamn you, Bill, I will fucking order you to do it if I have to. That little fucker is all I've got, and I fucking want him. Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare fuck with me." Bill winces at the ragged edge to her voice, the screaming, jittering nerves. He's never heard her sound like this, and he doesn't want to push her, not now, but he can't do what she's asking him to do.
"I don't work for you anymore, Susan," he says, and he hears her breath hitch in a gasp of shock, because she knows, they both know, that in some ways he will always work for her. But. "What am I supposed to fucking tell him? Is the fact that Carver is dead supposed to encourage him? Reassure him as to the ability of the LAPD to keep him alive? For fuck's sake, Carver was in police custody, was in fucking jail, Susan, and see how bloody well that worked out."
"Bill..."
"No. I won't. If I see him, I'll tell him, Susan. I'll let him make his own choice. But I won't bring him in so you can arrest his ass on that bogus possession warrant just so you can keep your fucking hands on him. I won't do it. Fuck you."
"He's safer with us than just out wandering by himself, Bill," she says, but she sounds tired now. She's done fighting with him. And she can't prove he knows anything.
He isn't by himself, he thinks, but doesn't say.
"He's cleaning house, Bill. Tying up loose ends. The word is out, and you know Carver was only the first."
"I know," Bill says. "Tell your people to keep their fucking heads down."
"You keep your fucking head down, Boyd." There is another long silence on the phone. The police radio is alive with chatter. Signal 27, he hears, tinny over the mobile phone line. DRT. "You just fucking watch yourself, Bill. I'm not your boss anymore. I can't pull you off the streets, but you just fucking watch yourself."
"I will," he says. Which is perfectly true. He always does.
"And don't go home. I'm about to have your building evacuated."
"Susan," he objects -- because he doesn't really think that's necessary, doesn't think there will be another fire; it's not Dominguez's style, and he suspects rather strongly that the fire was a mistake, a fuck up, and it's likely that whatever small-time idiot Dominguez had hired to hit Orlando had already paid for that mistake -- quickly, "don't..."
"Fuck you, Bill," she says. "Your sorry ass isn't the one I'm worried about."
He sighs, because it's pointless to argue about it. She's not stupid, but she doesn't understand Dominguez like he does. He hadn't ordered the fire. It was too obvious, too flashy. Far more likely that he'd ordered the hit, hired someone slightly less than stellar to perform it -- because he wouldn't think he needed someone stellar, not for Orlando -- and upon discovering the apartment empty, the stupid twat had panicked and decided spectacular overkill might confuse the matter and get him a paycheck. Dominguez wouldn't like that; not in the slightest. He wouldn't want his name associated with that sort of blatant mayhem. Dominguez likes things quiet, well-planned, and running like clockwork.
He thinks it's likely that the firebug is dead already.
"Don't go home," she repeats. "It's not safe."
"I hear you, Susan," he says. Which isn't precisely agreement.
"Swear to God, Boyd," she says tightly, and for a moment Bill thinks she's asking him to swear to God (which he doesn't really want to do, he doesn't really want to blatantly lie to her, especially not 'to God' as he's in enough danger of Hell as it is, thanks so much), but then she continues without giving him the chance to swear to anything. "If you get your stupid ass killed, I will find a way to make you pay for it." The words may not be entirely sensible, but her voice is in deadly earnest. " I swear to God, you fucking asshole."
"It'll be all right, Susan," he almost whispers. "I'll be all right."
She rings off without responding to that.
"Boyd," he snarls into the mobile, and steps further into the room, putting his back to the corner so he can keep an eye out for anyone wandering in.
"It's Susan," she says, and Bill says nothing. There's no need. "Carver is dead. Shanked."
Bill closes his eyes for a moment, feels his stomach drop down to his knees, suddenly weighted like lead. "Bleeding fuck," he growls.
He can almost see her offering a quick, impatient headshake. It's in her clipped tone. "Dominguez can't afford Carver's mouth -- he cut a deal, you know -- and he can't afford the Bloom kid's mouth, either, Bill." She pauses, and Bill says nothing. "You know where he is, Bill." It's not a question.
"I might be able to find him," Bill hedges, and has to force himself not to turn and search for Orlando out the window.
Susan laughs, a short, brittle sound entirely lacking in actual amusement. "Don't fuck with me, Bill. I know you." He can hear her gathering her patience, taking a deep breath. "You wouldn't lose track of him." Like we have, goes unspoken, but Bill knows it's there. That's why she's calling, really. She's just figured out that Orlando is outside the net of police awareness, and she doesn't sound terribly happy about it. "I want him in protective custody, Bill."
"If I see him, I'll mention it," Bill says steadily, toneless.
"Bill," she says softly, and Bill grits his teeth and holds onto his temper with both hands. "He's not safe."
"Tell me something, Sue. Did you still have a uniform on Burelle's apartment?" He keeps his voice carefully flat, but he can still hear her fury in the long, quiet seconds that follow, silence broken only by the sound of her radio in the background, squawking police-band alive with activity. Someone is going to be sorry for that, he's sure.
"No. I couldn't justify twenty-four/seven surveillance with the case suspended."
Bill closes his eyes again. What had been dull and weighty dread in the pit of his stomach has now morphed into something like actual fear. She's good at giving out partial information, good at evasive respnonses using empty phrases that only sound as though they contain information, but he's better at it. "You couldn't justify twenty-four/seven... but you had some extra man-hours, didn't you, Sue. All those people working on Dominguez at loose ends. Who?"
Longer silence this time.
A rotation, he guesses. Probably nights and weekends only, because Orlando works during the day, and there would have been no need to cover an empty apartment. Bugger.
Fuck.
"Sue," he begins softly, but she cuts him off.
"I want him, Bill. I want him where I can get my fucking hands on him," and her voice is walking that thin line between shout and sob, and the pressure in Bill's chest feels like drowning.
But he says: "No."
"Goddamn you, Bill, I will fucking order you to do it if I have to. That little fucker is all I've got, and I fucking want him. Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare fuck with me." Bill winces at the ragged edge to her voice, the screaming, jittering nerves. He's never heard her sound like this, and he doesn't want to push her, not now, but he can't do what she's asking him to do.
"I don't work for you anymore, Susan," he says, and he hears her breath hitch in a gasp of shock, because she knows, they both know, that in some ways he will always work for her. But. "What am I supposed to fucking tell him? Is the fact that Carver is dead supposed to encourage him? Reassure him as to the ability of the LAPD to keep him alive? For fuck's sake, Carver was in police custody, was in fucking jail, Susan, and see how bloody well that worked out."
"Bill..."
"No. I won't. If I see him, I'll tell him, Susan. I'll let him make his own choice. But I won't bring him in so you can arrest his ass on that bogus possession warrant just so you can keep your fucking hands on him. I won't do it. Fuck you."
"He's safer with us than just out wandering by himself, Bill," she says, but she sounds tired now. She's done fighting with him. And she can't prove he knows anything.
He isn't by himself, he thinks, but doesn't say.
"He's cleaning house, Bill. Tying up loose ends. The word is out, and you know Carver was only the first."
"I know," Bill says. "Tell your people to keep their fucking heads down."
"You keep your fucking head down, Boyd." There is another long silence on the phone. The police radio is alive with chatter. Signal 27, he hears, tinny over the mobile phone line. DRT. "You just fucking watch yourself, Bill. I'm not your boss anymore. I can't pull you off the streets, but you just fucking watch yourself."
"I will," he says. Which is perfectly true. He always does.
"And don't go home. I'm about to have your building evacuated."
"Susan," he objects -- because he doesn't really think that's necessary, doesn't think there will be another fire; it's not Dominguez's style, and he suspects rather strongly that the fire was a mistake, a fuck up, and it's likely that whatever small-time idiot Dominguez had hired to hit Orlando had already paid for that mistake -- quickly, "don't..."
"Fuck you, Bill," she says. "Your sorry ass isn't the one I'm worried about."
He sighs, because it's pointless to argue about it. She's not stupid, but she doesn't understand Dominguez like he does. He hadn't ordered the fire. It was too obvious, too flashy. Far more likely that he'd ordered the hit, hired someone slightly less than stellar to perform it -- because he wouldn't think he needed someone stellar, not for Orlando -- and upon discovering the apartment empty, the stupid twat had panicked and decided spectacular overkill might confuse the matter and get him a paycheck. Dominguez wouldn't like that; not in the slightest. He wouldn't want his name associated with that sort of blatant mayhem. Dominguez likes things quiet, well-planned, and running like clockwork.
He thinks it's likely that the firebug is dead already.
"Don't go home," she repeats. "It's not safe."
"I hear you, Susan," he says. Which isn't precisely agreement.
"Swear to God, Boyd," she says tightly, and for a moment Bill thinks she's asking him to swear to God (which he doesn't really want to do, he doesn't really want to blatantly lie to her, especially not 'to God' as he's in enough danger of Hell as it is, thanks so much), but then she continues without giving him the chance to swear to anything. "If you get your stupid ass killed, I will find a way to make you pay for it." The words may not be entirely sensible, but her voice is in deadly earnest. " I swear to God, you fucking asshole."
"It'll be all right, Susan," he almost whispers. "I'll be all right."
She rings off without responding to that.