Amerikan Eagle

Hanson said carefully, “I like to keep a close eye on all my officers, both on duty and off duty. I don’t like surprises. The Police Commission doesn’t like surprises.”

“I’m sure.” The nausea had been replaced by something harder.

“So you know, there’s a limit to our interest, you realize. We know what’s on the streets of Portsmouth, the temptations, the flow of booze and money. We do what we can, and as a sergeant, you were pretty straight and narrow. But then there are circumstances that get to the level of us paying close attention.”

Sam looked out the window.

Hanson said, “Do you have any idea how many cops can afford a home on their own? With just a few years on the job? And with a pregnant wife to boot?”

Sam looked back. “I saved a lot. Worked overtime when I could.”

“Certainly,” Hanson said. “But a few weeks before you bought your house, there was an amazing coincidence. William Cocannon. Never made a formal complaint, but he let people know that somebody whacked the shit out of him early one March morning, stole several hundred dollars, just about the time you managed to scrape together enough money to get your house. I know the president of the First National. He told me you were short for the down payment, and then the day after Wild Willy got whacked, you showed up with enough money to make up the difference.”

Sam felt the room getting colder. Hanson said, “So have I made my point? Or do I need to talk again about your wife and her friends?”

“You’ve made your point.”

Hanson said, “Good. So there’s no misunderstanding. I’m getting your sorry ass out of here, though a lot of strings are being pulled, favors are being called in, and I’m getting you back to Portsmouth. Where you’ll resume your duties as probationary inspector, including working as a liaison with the FBI. Who, by the way, claim that they miss you very much. Which is one of the reasons I came out to fetch you. To keep the FBI happy.”

“And the department’s Log… who gets to write about what just happened to me? Or you?”

Hanson said carefully, “The Log will be correct. It’ll say you and I were in a small town in Vermont as part of an investigation. An investigation, I’ll remind you, Probationary Inspector Sam Miller, that is closed. Forever. Do you understand?”

“But I know who he was. And where he came from. And—”

“Sam.” His voice was sharper. “Drop it. That’s an order. You promise me it’s dropped, and you’re back in Portsmouth tonight. You say anything else, and so help me God, you’ll be back on the other side of the fence in sixty seconds. Do you understand?”

“Sir… it’s a homicide. In your city. Our city.”

Hanson said, “A refugee from New Mexico, previously from Europe, who had his neck snapped by someone and got dumped from a railroad car passing through our city. That’s all it was. All right? Leave it to the FBI. Or you can stay here.”

Sam wiped at his face, looked at his boss. Maybe it was the hunger or the exhaustion or the bitter realization that he was giving up, but for a moment or two—or maybe longer—it seemed there were ghost images on his boss’s chest, as if Sam could, through the fabric, see the photos again. The German soldiers lined up with rifles, smiling. The Jewish men and women, forced into a line. The shooting. The German soldier at the end, kicking at a baby’s corpse as if it were a delightful sport.

Sam struggled to gain his voice and said, in almost a whisper, “The case is dropped. You have my word.”

“Good,” Hanson said, coming over, slapping him on the shoulder. “Like I said earlier, when this summit is all wrapped up, you’ve got a bright future in the Party, even with these stunts you’ve pulled.”

Sure, Sam thought. A bright future tattling on my father-in-law for your benefit, for the benefit of the Nats against the Staties.

Hanson said, “Now. One more thing. You realize that whatever I tell you here stays here? Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Hanson shook his head. “No, I don’t think you do. What I mean is, everything stays here. Nobody else gets told. Not any other cop, not your wife, no one. If it’s ever found out that you’ve blabbed about this place, then you and anyone else you’ve talked to—even if it’s your boy, Toby, by mistake—you come back here. Forever. Now. Tell me you understand that.”

In answer, Sam rolled up his left sleeve, showing the numeral three. “And this? How do I explain this to Sarah?”

“You’ll think of something,” Hanson said. “A drunken late visit to a tattoo parlor off the harbor, I don’t care. But the secret of Burdick remains a secret. Understand?”

“Yeah. I understand it all.”

“Good.” Hanson took a breath. “Let’s get out of this dump.”

* * *