False Witness by Scott Cook Page A

orange prison overalls. The screws wouldn’t try anything while Crowe was in the room, of course, especially not with an undercover cop just a few yards away, but they had undoubtedly been hard at work already.
    One of the guards, a younger guy with a moustache who looked a little like Burton Cummings, shoved Hodge roughly into his chair. Crowe watched as Hodge turned his head slowly to look up at the man. A casual observer probably wouldn’t have read anything into that look, but Crowe knew Hodge was telling him that Burton Cummings was the one responsible for the bruises. Crowe filed the man’s face in his memory. It would come in handy soon enough.
    The boss’s face looked like forty miles of bad road at the best of times, but today it seemed especially hard. The toll of the past eight months appeared to have shown up overnight – Hodge’s hooded eyes seemed more distant than ever, the set of his unsmiling mouth more bitter, the relief map of scar tissue on his high forehead even deeper, if that were possible. Even Crowe, who had spent almost twenty years making a personal religion out of Looking Out For Number One, couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man.
    And just in case he hasn’t had enough yet, I’m here to shit in his dinner tray. Lucky me.
    Hodge picked up the telephone receiver on his side of the glass; Crowe did the same. He waited for a moment, wondering if the boss was going to speak first. After a few seconds, Hodge raised his eyebrows, which Crowe took as his cue to start the conversation.
    “Looking good,” Crowe said with a half smile. “Nice to see you’re getting some color in your face.”
    From the corner of his eye, Crowe saw the cop-guard scowl, a sure sign that they were listening in on the conversation. Of course they were. They would have to be complete idiots not to, given the events of the past twenty-four hours.
    Hodge snorted quietly to show he understood. Crowe marveled at the boss’s instincts; he had worked with, and against, plenty of sharp operators in his day, but none came close to Rufus Hodge when it came to sheer coolness. Even now, after months of incarceration, the guards had no idea what they were dealing with. Crowe alone understood that the man behind the bulletproof glass was a Bengal tiger, a supreme predator that was simply waiting for the right time to sink its teeth into the sheep that surrounded it. They worked well together. It was the main reason Crowe hadn’t just cut his losses and disappeared the day after Hodge was arrested; he actually admired the guy. Most of the other reasons, of course, had to do with money. The Sacred Church of the Almighty Number One.
    Hodge leaned back in his chair, seemingly bored by Crowe’s visit. “You here to bust my balls?” he asked wearily.
    “Perish the thought,” Crowe replied. “How was your night?”
    “My friends here thought I might benefit from some alone time to reflect on the verdict.” In other words, he’d been in solitary confinement since yesterday afternoon. Crowe guessed that Burton Cummings had heard the news about Palliser and Duff, and taken advantage of the situation to go running back to Saskatoon on Hodge’s face.
    It also meant the boss was likely oblivious to what had taken place overnight. News reports and Internet access were hard enough to come by in prison, let alone in solitary. Crowe would have to choose his words carefully from here on in. The Calgary cops would be hanging on every word, and they would no doubt share any and all information with the federal task force. Canadians , he thought. Too fucking polite to engage in interjurisdictional pissing matches.
    “So you haven’t seen the news?” Crowe asked.
    “I’m guessin I’m still on the front page.”
    “I suppose you could say that.” Crowe leaned closer to the glass. “But not for the reason you think.”
    Hodge’s gaze narrowed. “Yeah?”
    Crowe sighed. “Yeah.”
    “As my old dad used to say, spit it out,