Chapter Thirty-Eight

 

Josh Meadows had wanted little more than to find out that all the evidence was going to turn up at the last minute. He'd wanted to be standing there in his hundred-dollar suit next to Mitch Queen in his thousand-dollar suit.

Next to Anna, whose dress was so nice that what had once been a deeply attractive woman had somehow transformed into a rapturous beauty. Her face was drawn and she looked tired, but it did little to hurt her incredible image, standing there beside Mitch.

It stung deep in Josh's chest. But if that was how it was going to be, then that was how it was going to be.

The security staff was split half-way between the police force and the Queen family's personal security. The old knee-breaker stood off to the side. He looked alert; almost worried.

About what, it was hard to say. But the old dog did look worried, nonetheless.

In the end, though, Josh Meadows, former- and soon-to-be-again detective had to face the music. They'd brought in Roy Weissman. And like Meadows had hoped, he'd gotten spooked and he'd told them just about anything they wanted to know.

But what he hadn't told them was why those god damn fourteen safety deposit boxes. What he hadn't told them was why he'd decided to suddenly return to his life of crime.

Those would come with time, but time was the one thing that was at an extreme premium, for Josh Meadows. Because this was supposed to be his big moment. His moment to reveal to the world that Mitchell Queen, or his father at least, was some kind of criminal mastermind.

That he didn't deserve an apology because he'd gotten what he deserved. As sad as it was, nobody would blame a guy like that for being a little terse with his wife. Oh, well. That's the price for fame. No big deal.

Well, it is a big god damn deal. But not if you're rich, and not if your boyfriend is rich.

Josh takes a deep breath. That was all it was, though. A fantasy. And it's a fantasy that's not going to come to fruition. He's just going to have to face the music.

He's got the whole speech written down, sentence-by-sentence, on index cards. They're all in a bundle up his sleeve, and once he hits the podium he can slip them out. It's not that he's not allowed to have them, of course. It's that he needs to keep up the appearance.

Or at least, in the long run, make it look like he's making an effort to keep up the appearance. That's all that really counts, for the most part.

He takes a deep breath and when he lets it out, the detective steps up to the podium in front of him and lets out the note-cards. They slip easily into a stack on the podium. Just like he'd hoped they would.

He looks over his shoulder at Mitchell, who's keeping a straight face. If he had that oh-so-pleased expression that he usually wore, then there'd be a whole lot of hell to pay for someone, because he'd look like a god damn psychopath.

Though, to be fair, that image wouldn't have been inaccurate. It's not the image that he wants to project, though.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Detective Josh Meadows. I've been with the police force for almost ten years. Next November will be ten years. I've worked on nearly a hundred cases, in that time, and I've solved… most of them."

He looks over his shoulder at Mitch again. He's waiting for the good part.

"On the night of the 18th, I, and a few others on my team, were watching over the exchange of money for a baby. A woman had come to the police with a kidnapped child. That woman, right there."

Josh pointed to Anna.

"Miss Anna Witt, soon to be the wife of Mr. Mitch Queen."

The detective waits a moment, just in case there's a response. If there is, it's small enough that under the bright lights, he doesn't see it.

"During that exchange, Albert Queen, our former mayor and current congressional hopeful, was taken by thugs. Miss Witt was lucky to get away with her life, and I think we all appreciate the risks that she put herself at."

Josh likes the feeling of Mitchell's eyes boring into him from behind. This is taking far too long to sound like an apology, and that's part of the intention. It really is a beautiful speech, for that reason, even if he sounds like a damn fool reading it.

"During the events of that night, things became very… emotional, for everyone involved. Dangerous situations often are, for many of us. I let my emotions get the best of me, and I became violent with Mr. Queen, in spite of the fact that I should have had better professional behavior."

There's a strong temptation to point out the reasons that he'd become upset in the first place. It's a temptation that Josh has to resist. After all, there's no real proof of what he knows Mitch was doing. Of what he's been doing for years, and what he'll now be able to continue to do.

That's not an option. So instead he's got to do what he can with what he has, which is to swallow down the bitter pill of apologizing to the son of a bitch in spite of the fact that he doesn't deserve it.

Retribution, if it ever comes, can come later.

"I cannot excuse my lack of professionalism, but I can apologize to Mr. Queen, to his family, and to the people of our city for my rash actions. I'm truly sorry."

Josh hangs his head a little, in an effort to look sad. The movement of his head leads to a movement of his eyes, as natural as can be. As his eyes track across the crowd, though, something less natural becomes much more evident.

Someone is moving through the crowd. Pressing in. Someone reaching into their jacket.

It's a heavy jacket, woolen. It terminates halfway down the thigh. He's not wearing a mask. That would be too obvious, at this juncture. But it's not hard to figure out that the man's got bad intentions. Josh can see it in the look on his face.

When the hand comes free, with a flash of black, Josh starts to move. His shoulder crashes into Anna's side as the loud, sharp 'pop' permeates the early-autumn air.

She stumbles and catches herself. Josh tumbles off the side of the podium. It's a short drop, but the hard hit on his shoulder feels like it nearly dislocated the thing, and it hurts so bad that he could scream.

He ignores the pain, forces himself up.

"Get down here," he growls. Anna gets down off the stage and ducks behind it. Josh is already on his feet, already climbing the short steps back onto the stage. Mitch is gone—Lord only knows where.

There's a commotion in the crowd. From the back of the stage, it's hard to see for certain, but as he gets closer in long, hurried steps it's easier to see.

A trail of blood leads up to a big pile of bodies, all moving in a strange, asynchronous rhythm, trying to pull each other apart or push each other together at odd intervals.

And right at the center of it, a two-hundred and eighty pound behemoth looks like he's about to kill a man with a gun with his bare hands, in spite of his pretty-bad bleeding.

He needs medical attention immediately, but he won't let go, until finally three separate cops manage to pull him away as another four pull the gunman to the ground.

Josh takes a deep breath and loosens his grip on Terry's arm.

"You need to get to a hospital."

"The girl. Is she alright?"

"She's fine," Josh tells him. He turns to one of the other officers, their weight still set to make sure that the big guy doesn't decide to make another try at a felony right in front of the police. "Get this guy in an ambulance."

And then, like a marionette whose strings got cut out, Terry's prodigious strength starts to fail him, and his knees buckle.

Josh turns around to try to comfort and calm Anna and the little one. But the space behind the stage, he finds, is empty.