Flashback

Voices from just beneath the standpipe now. Perhaps they hadn’t seen the vertical access. Val prayed they hadn’t. He had a few seconds to get around the first bend.

Flashlight in his left hand and Beretta in his right, Val ran. And ran.

1.09 Denver and Coors Field—Tuesday, Sept. 14

No one in the Denver Police Department when Nick was there ever blurred female detective K. T. Lincoln’s initials to sound like the soft, feminine “Katie.” At least not to her face. When talking to Detective Lincoln on a first-name basis, it was always “K… T” with a certain pause of respect, if not outright fear, separating the hard-edged consonants. It was rumored that no one, not even the captain or commissioner or those in Human Resources who handled her paperwork, had a clue as to what the K or T stood for. Behind her back, of course, there were plenty of foul and sexist variations. She tended to scare men and—as Nick had quickly discovered when he was her partner—the more insecure the men, the more quickly they frightened.

Detective First Grade K. T. Lincoln had never scared Nick Bottom, but it was probably because the two had worked together so well.

But now, seeing the scowl on her face as she came striding toward the booth near the back of the Denver Diner where Nick sat waiting, he felt some of that insecurity and fear. The absolute certainty that this hard-featured, frizzy-haired, six-foot-two scowling woman of color was packing a 9mm Glock on her hip never helped ameliorate that particular stab of anxiety.

“I’ve got some coffee coming for you,” said Nick as she slid into the booth opposite him. They used to catch breakfast here often after a night shift at Denver Center. Dara had never minded, nor had K.T.’s partner.

It had been almost five and a half years since Nick had seen or talked to K.T. She’d been promoted to lieutenant and made squad commander since then… a position that Nick himself might be filling if it hadn’t been for his flashback addiction. And his total screwing of the proverbial pooch on every front.

“I don’t want any coffee,” K.T. said coldly. “And the answer to what you’re going to ask me is no. Now, is there anything else, Mr. Bottom? I have an early meeting with Delvecchio’s Emergency Service Unit guys. I need to shove off.”

That mutt Delvecchio is running ESU now? thought Nick. He said, “What are you saying no to, K.T.? I haven’t asked anything of you yet. What did you think I was going to ask?”

“I won’t be your sniper-second at Coors Field this afternoon,” the lieutenant said. Although Nick had never once come on to K. T. Lincoln, he’d always seen her as an attractive woman despite her size, rugged features, and short wild hair. Nick had once told Dara that he was able to imagine K.T. being descended from Abraham Lincoln—if the former president had mated with a beautiful black woman with K.T.’s café-au-lait complexion and chicory-bitter personality. Like President Lincoln (despite the inevitable rumors by second-rate history writers desperately seeking a new angle on the most-written-about president in U.S. history), K. T. Lincoln preferred women in matters of romance.

But it was her deeply recessed, dark, and strangely Lincolnesque—and only sometimes sympathetic—brown eyes that were the main similarity between the sainted president and the scowling and silent squad commander.

“How’d you know I was going into Coors?” asked Nick.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” said K.T. “Everybody in the department’s been watching you make an asshole of yourself working for Nakamura. You think you’re going to get special permission from the governor on down to see Oz, Dean, Delroy Nigger Brown, and the rest of these chumps—everything being greased from the Advisor’s office—and not have us know what you’re doing? Come back to Planet Earth, Bottom.”

“What happened to ‘Nick’?” asked Nick.

“He died at the bottom of a flashback addict’s sniffer vial,” snapped K.T.

Stung, Nick said, “I have a sniper-second for Coors.”

“One of Nakamura’s thugs,” she said. “Good. You don’t need me, then. If there won’t be anything else…” She started scooting out of the booth.

The waitress accidentally blocked K.T.’s exit for a moment, bringing both their coffees and Nick’s big breakfast of eggs, bacon, and hash browns. Nick said hurriedly, “It’s about Dara.”

The lieutenant paused. Then sat down.

“What’s about Dara?” asked K.T. sharply when the waitress had refilled their coffees and left.

“Danny Oz, the Israeli poet who was one of the last people interviewed by Keigo Nakamura…”

“I remember who Oz was,” said K.T.

“… told me yesterday that he met Dara and an unidentified fat, balding guy who must’ve been ADA Harvey Cohen on the day that Keigo interviewed him. I need to know why she was there, K.T.”