Hold Tight
“May I help you?”
The uniformed officer looked too young to be working the desk. Maybe this was another example of how TV shaped us, but Mike always expected a grizzled veteran to be working the desk, like that guy who told everyone “Let’s be careful out there” on Hill Street Blues. This kid looked about twelve. He was also staring at Mike with undisguised surprise and pointing at his face.
“Are you here about those bruises?”
“No,” Mike said. The other officers started moving faster. They handed off papers and called one another and cradled receivers under their necks.
“I’m here to see Officer Huff.”
“Do you mean Captain Huff?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask what this is regarding?”
“Tell him it’s Mike Baye.”
“As you can see, we are pretty busy right now.”
“I do see,” Mike said. “Something big going on?”
The young cop gave him a look, clearly suggesting that it was none of his concern. Mike caught snippets about a car parked in a Ramada hotel lot, but that was about it.
“Do you mind sitting over there while I try to reach Captain Huff?”
“Sure.”
Mike moved toward a bench and sat down. There was a man next to him in a suit, filling out paperwork. One of the cops called out, “We’ve checked with the entire staff now. No one reports seeing her.” Mike idly wondered what that was about, but only to try to keep his blood down.
Huff had lied.
Mike kept his eyes on the young officer. When the kid hung up, he looked up and Mike knew this was not going to be good news.
“Mr. Baye?”
“Dr. Baye,” Mike corrected. This time maybe it would come across as arrogant, but sometimes people treated a doctor differently. Not often. But sometimes.
“Dr. Baye. I’m afraid that we are having a very busy morning. Captain Huff has asked me to assure you that he will call you when he can.”
“That’s not going to do it,” Mike said.
“Excuse me?”
The station was pretty much open space. There was a divider that was maybe three feet high—why do all stations have that? Who is that going to stop?—with a little gate you could swing open. Toward the back, Mike could see a door that clearly said CAPTAIN on it. He moved fast, causing all kinds of new pains to sparkle across his ribs and face. He stepped past the front desk.
“Sir?”
“Don’t worry, I know the way.”
He opened the latch and started hurrying toward the captain’s office.
“Stop right now!”
Mike didn’t think the kid would shoot, so he kept moving. He was at the door before anyone could catch up to him. He grabbed the knob and turned. Unlocked. He flung it open.
Huff was at his desk on the phone.
“What the hell . . . ?”
The kid officer at the front desk followed quickly, ready to tackle, but Huff waved him off.
“It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry, Captain. He just ran back here.”
“Don’t worry about it. Close the door, okay?”
The kid didn’t look happy about it, but he obeyed. One of the walls was windowed. He stood there and looked through it. Mike gave him a quick glare and then turned his attention to Huff.
“You lied,” he said.
“I’m busy here, Mike.”
“I saw your son before I got jumped.”
“No, you didn’t. He was home.”
“That’s crap.”
Huff did not stand. He didn’t invite Mike to sit. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back. “I really don’t have time for this.”
“My son was at your house. Then he drove to the Bronx.”
“How do you know that, Mike?”
“I have a GPS on my son’s phone.”
Huff raised his eyebrows. “Wow.”
He must have already known this. His New York colleagues would have told him. “Why are you lying about this, Huff?”
“How exact is that GPS?”
“What?”
“Maybe he wasn’t with DJ at all. Maybe he was at a neighbor’s house. The Lubetkin boy lives two houses down. Or maybe, heck, he was at my house before I got home. Or maybe he just hung out nearby and thought about going in but changed his mind.”
“Are you serious?”
There was a knock on the door. Another cop leaned his head in. “Mr. Cordova is here.”
“Put him in room A,” Huff said. “I’ll be there in a second.”
The cop nodded and let the door close. Huff rose. He was a tall man, hair slicked back. He normally had the cop-calm thing going on, like when they’d met up in front of his house the night before. He still had it, but the effort seemed to drain him now. He met Mike’s eyes. Mike did not look away.
“My son was home all night.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I have to go now. I’m not talking about this with you anymore.” He started walking to the door. Mike stepped into his path.
“I need to talk to your son.”
“Get out of my way, Mike.”
“No.”
“Your face.”
“What about it?”
“Looks like you’ve already taken enough of a beating,” Huff said.
“You want to try me?”
Huff said nothing.
“Come on, Huff. I’m already injured. You want to try again?”
“Again?”
“Maybe you were there.”
“What?”
“Your son was. I know that. So let’s do this. But this time we go face-to-face. One-on-one. No group of guys jumping me when I’m not looking. So come on. Put away your gun and lock your office door. Tell your buddies out there to leave us alone. Let’s see just how tough you are.”
Huff gave a half smile. “You think that will help you find your son?”
And that was when Mike saw it—what Mo had been saying. He had been talking about face-to-face and one-on-one, but what he really should have been saying was what Mo said: father to father. Not that reminding him of that would appeal to Huff. Just the opposite. Mike was trying to save his kid—and Huff was doing the same. Mike didn’t give a damn about DJ Huff—and Huff didn’t give a damn about Adam Baye.
They were both out to protect their sons. Huff would fight to do so. Win or lose, Huff wouldn’t give up his child. The same with the other parents—Clark’s or Olivia’s or whoever’s—that was Mike’s mistake. He and Tia were talking to the adults who’d jump on a grenade to protect their offspring. What they needed to do was circumvent the parental sentinels.