Dust Up: A Thriller by Jon McGoran

own. It grew as I walked into the squad room.
    It felt a lot like a hangover, but I hadn’t had much to drink. I realized it wasn’t from the alcohol. It was from the assholes.
    “You’re late,” Royce said, sitting in my chair, looking at his watch. “Suarez said you’re supposed to be in at nine.”
    Divock was leaning against my desk. He was playing with one of my pencils, wiggling it between his fingers, making it look like it was made of rubber.
    I thought briefly about shooting them both. Instead, I turned and walked into Suarez’s office. I didn’t knock. He was on the phone, but instead of waving me off, he said, “I gotta go.”
    He put down the phone and motioned for me to close the door behind me.
    “What the—”
    “I know, I know,” he said. “Serious assholes. Maybe even worse than you.”
    “I can’t spend another whole day with them. And I don’t know if Warren told you about this, but Miriam Hartwell said she thought there was something going on at Energene.”
    He shook his head. “Warren thinks that’s bullshit.”
    “He thinks it’s bullshit?”
    He shrugged. “Evidence points at Hartwell. He likes her for the murder, thinks she’s feeding you a line. And it’s his investigation.”
    “Oh, come on—”
    “Look, Carrick,” he said, cutting me off, pointing at his door, at Royce and Divock waiting outside it. “I know this is bullshit with these two. I don’t like it either, but these guys are connected out the wazoo. I got a memo from the chief—‘Energene Corporation is to be afforded our absolute cooperation’—saying how much the mayor and the fucking governor appreciate our assistance. I told him two days, yesterday and today. That’s it.”
    I sat back. “It’s bullshit.”
    “You could just shoot them.”
    “Thought about it.”
    He shrugged. “With your background, it wouldn’t be so out of character. I could get a dozen officers to testify it was temporary insanity. Or just regular insanity.”
    “Fuck you.”
    His face hardened. “Watch it, Carrick. I’m still your lieutenant. And I still don’t like you. Sorry all this landed on your doorstep, but neither us would be stuck dealing with these pricks if you’d left the case alone.” He laughed and sat back. “Think about that, huh? If you’d done what you were told for once, Mike Warren would be stuck with those assholes. You could be out doing police work.”
    *   *   *
    Royce’s list of people he wanted to interview didn’t include anyone from Energene. I had been hoping to have another look around, but I guess they didn’t need my help to talk to those people.
    We started the day in ballistics, Bernie Lawrence looking at me cockeyed as I explained the situation. But he shrugged and answered Royce’s questions, repeating everything he had told me the day before, even though it was all in his report.
    Royce nodded solemnly and said, “So the gun found in Miriam Hartwell’s laundry room is an exact match for the bullets that killed Ron Hartwell?”
    Bernie looked at me again. “That’s what I just said.”
    Royce sounded like a bad trial lawyer laying out a case, and I looked behind me, half expecting to see someone else standing there that he might be trying to impress. There wasn’t.
    He turned to me. “And the prints on the gun are definitely Miriam Hartwell’s?”
    “That’s what forensics says.”
    Royce looked at Divock, and they both nodded this time. Doubly solemn.
    Bernie watched us as we left, and I made a mental note to talk to him later and explain why I was bringing these mugs around.
    The next stop was the apartment building. Gonzalez, the building super, answered the buzzer with double the exasperation of my previous visit. I told him Royce and Divock were collaborating on the investigation and they wanted to see the laundry room, as well. He gave me this look like, “Really?”
    I shrugged and nodded apologetically.
    Royce cleared his throat. “Is there a