11
Designed Intent
Chapter 2
Monday Afternoon
Gleason looked at the clock; this class would end in ten minutes. Students were beginning to gather up their items. "Excuse me, but we are not done here. Leave your things alone. I consider preparing to leave before dismissal as rude. I will not tolerate rude behaviour and will grade it accordingly. Now, stop fussing about and listen."
The class settled and many shifted uncomfortably. Gleason knew they were trying to find the edges of command. Well, she controlled all of the edges and they just found out where one is.
She continued for a few minutes and ended with, "Be certain you purchase the text by Gleason Wintermantle; the one with the blue cover, it is the only one you will need for this course." Gleason looked out at the sea of faces and shook her head. "If you are going to drop this course, please do so before the seventeenth. Be sure to read the assignment. And do not blow it off; I will know if you do. Do you have questions about anything? That's it then; I'll see you Wednesday." As if a single unit, the students stood, shuffled, gathered, and began to leave.
Gleason smiled as she walked back to her office. This just might work, she thought.
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Eames had not said a word to Sledge since she walked out last night. First, she was shocked by his comment about them never living together. Then, she had been mortified. After that, she was crushed. Now, she was pissed. Goddamn him anyway. That bastard. Who does he think he is?
From the corner of her eye, she watched him approach with his cup and a sheet of paper. Here he comes, she thought. You are going to crawl on your belly, big boy, just like the snake you are. You are going to crawl for a long, long time.
"Alex," he stood beside her and handed her a sheet of paper. "This came out of the printer for you. I didn't think you'd want anyone to see it." He turned and walked toward the coffee room.
She read it and then saw him standing in the coffee room watching her. They locked eyes for a moment and then an itch started up under her right eye. She continued to look at him and scratched it with one particular finger.
Damn him if he didn't smirk at her.
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"Put down your weapon! Put it down! Do it NOW!" Bobby Goren shouted to the old man pointing his weapon at Bobby's chest.
Bobby trained his weapon on the old man and then said, "Come on, put down the gun." Bobby could see the man's arm start to shake; the old guy was getting tired. "Let's quit this and then we all get to go home. Lower the gun," Bobby tried to reason with the man.
He and Eames had come to interview Jessup Zankowsky, a witness had named Zankowsky as one of three individuals who had been at the jewelry store just before the safe had blown. The perps killed the owner and cleaned out the safe.
It was an old-fashioned safe robbery. One of the stolen items, an ancient piece worth untold millions, belonged to a private collector; it was at the jeweler for a repair. The value of that single piece warranted the involvement of the Major Case Squad.
Zankowsky had opened the motel room door with his gun drawn and Eames and Bobby immediately did the same. Bobby had lured the old man out of the doorway and into the parking lot by backing away, letting Eames slip into the room behind the old geezer.
Eames had called for backup and cuffed the old woman sitting on the edge of the bed. Alex did not want to take out the guy from the back, she really didn't think he would shoot Bobby. Besides, the old woman was crying, pleading with her not to shoot him, "That old bastard is no good with a gun, just explosives. He's a good man, don't shoot him."
Because Bobby and Eames had come to interview the man, neither wore a vest. They had conducted hundreds of interviews and safely negotiated more than a dozen hostage situations and stand-offs without losing a life. Well, Clive Donohue was the lone exception. That did not really count because Bobby had been the one taken hostage.
"Ok, look, let's just talk, you and me. Here, I'm putting down my weapon. You do the same." Bobby bent and set his gun on the gravel parking lot. He stood with his hands raised beside his shoulders. "Your turn."
Four black and whites careened into the parking lot and the old man looked startled. His eyes left Bobby and took in the police cars in the plumes of dust. Bobby could have taken the old man's gun had he been two steps closer.
"Come on, put it down," Bobby watched the man's arm shake. He's not going to be able to hold it up much longer, he thought. "Come on. My arms are getting tired. Let's just both put them down and talk. I'll call off these other guys. What do you say?"
The old fellow looked at the tall detective and thought, he looks like Joey, that sonnabitch Joey. The old man squeezed off a shot.
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"Brine, you feeling ok? You look like shit."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming down with something, that's all."
Actually, Sly Brine hadn't slept in three nights and he couldn't remember when he last ate. This whole situation was making him crazy. He had to get out, why had he said he'd do such a thing. What was he thinking?
"Well, if you're feeling ok, get your ass over here, this fork isn't going to drive itself."
Brine nodded and moved toward his vehicle. His mind spun with options. What the hell, I'm as good as done anyway. I have no life. I have screwed up on both sides of heaven. Nothing matters now.
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"Dr. Wintermantle, may I have a word?"
She looked up and there he was, standing in the doorway to her office, "Of course, Malcolm. Come in," she answered grinning.
"So, how was your first class?" he asked with a smile.
"Huge. Dear God, Malcolm, how can I ever get to know so many students?"
"Oh, you won't, and don't try. About a quarter of them will drop before the third class. And then, another fifteen percent will drop."
"That's comforting, I guess. Was there something else?"
"Actually, yes, as you know from previous university work, publish or perish is the standard. So, Willow and I were wondering if you would join us in working on an article for the BSAS journal."
"Oh, Malcolm, I don't know. This is my first semester, I have so many classes, and some of the courses are new. Thank you for thinking of me, but I, I don't think I would be of any help; perhaps next semester."
Malcolm stepped closer and went to shut the office door, but he caught her look and thought better of it. "Gleason, the three of us each take a third and all of us get our names on the whole thing. It's a good deal. You know one article a year is expected. Think about it, won't you? Besides, you will need something to fill your time away from your detective."
He knew he should not have added that last bit, but out it came anyway. Gleason shot him a look and replied, "I'll think on it. When do you need my answer?"
"Willow and I were hoping to meet Wednesday evening to talk topic and perhaps begin an outline."
"I'll let you know by then. I really have to prepare for my next class."
"Have a good one."
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"We good?"
"We good." Turnbuckle and his gangsta pal engaged in a complicated series of hand maneuvers that resembled a greeting or symbol of agreement in some cultures. "We meet here, right here. You gotta be on time, man. No shit, this is going down like clockwork. You stand outside, watching for anyone, anything. You see something, you signal us. The other guy and me, we go in, he shows me the good stuff, we bag it up, we're back outside, and the three of us take off. We split the goods and we don't know each other after that. Cool?"
"Uh huh."
"Fuck, man! Don't you want to know anything? Like 'what's the signal?' Or, 'when we doing this?'" Melvin Turnbuckle was beginning to rethink his decision-making on selecting this jerk-off.
"Yeah, man, sure. I just figured you'd tell me when I needed to know them, you know. Don't get all corporate on me."
"Ok, ok. We're good, then, right?"
"Yeah, man, we're good."
This was the biggest thing Turnbuckle had ever considered. He had an absolute expert to pick out the best things in on the deal and – he had thought – a trustworthy lookout with an IQ greater than the current temperature. Ok, things work out, he told himself. Things work out. Right.
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"Officer down!" someone shouted into the radio.
The old man flew backward and dropped. Four officers each put one slug into his upper chest.
Eames and everyone else ran to the other body on the ground. He was on his back, his eyes slowly opened and his colleagues told him to stay still, don't move. Bobby Goren knelt down and said, "Did it stop? Open his shirt! Did it stop!"
"Detective, he's not bleeding. It stopped," a uniformed said, standing over the officer and the kneeling detective.
"Don't rip it," the downed officer whispered sluggishly, "unbutton it, don't rip it."
"Hell, he's fine," Sledge said, looking down at Bobby and the officer.
"Let me see it," Bobby said. There, buried in the Kevlar of the officer's vest, sat the .22 slug the old man had gotten off. Bobby sighed with relief and stood up. EMTs trotted over and began to assess the officer.
Bobby wiped his eyes with his right hand.
Sledge stood by and asked, "You ok, man?" Bobby nodded assent. "You are one lucky son of a bitch. Had that geezer had any kind of steady aim, you'd be a goner."
"Yeah, I know. I know," Bobby said softly. He really wanted to hear Gleason's voice.
"C'mon, Alex will drive you back. Take the rest of the day to finish the paperwork and then head home. Call your woman." Sledge was grateful Goren had not been hit, it would have destroyed Alex.
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