Free Hard Fall by Ridley Pearson

temporary.”
    â€œIt’s B.S. is what it is. Temporarily forever, right?”
    â€œA man was murdered. It’s important.”
    â€œYou requested it, didn’t you? You probably had to fight to be sent, didn’t you? They don’t need you out there, do they?”
    â€œYes, yes, and no, if you’re scoring by inning.” He hated being caught by her. He resented her attitude, her approach, everything—especially her being right.
    â€œThe shore, Cam. You don’t want me along, that’s okay. But skip Seattle. Please. Take Dunc to the shore and spend some time with him.”
    â€œI was spending some time with him before you arrived.”
    That accomplished what he was after. She shot across the backyard like a wildfire with a tailwind. He felt like running after her, but he stayed where he was; he took note of that.
    â€œNice going, Dad.” It was Duncan, hanging from the bar.
    â€œIt’s a murder, Dunc. It’s important,” he said from across the lawn.
    â€œSo go,” the boy said to the father.
    Only a few minutes later, he did.

4
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    On saturday morning, August 25—nearly two weeks after the Bernard explosion at National Airport—Daggett stood in the lobby of the Seattle Westin. He spotted the cop before any introduction was made. Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz’s dark eyes looked out from a pale face, the result of long hours behind a desk. He wore a button-down white shirt and a wrinkled tie. His rubber-soled shoes showed the irregular heels of age and the scuffed toes of neglect. Shoswitz looked directly at Daggett; he, too, recognized an FBI agent when he saw one. They shook hands and made introductions.
    Shoswitz had a drawn face and exaggerated, oversized brown eyes. He struck Daggett as a man who might have had a sense of humor once. In a voice unfamiliar with contest, he said, “I thought we’d head directly to Duhning. I have a car waiting.”
    Daggett welcomed the coolness of the Seattle air. He drank it in. The monorail passed overhead, tourists’ faces framed in the windows. A street person draped in dirty burlap walked by, unsteadily holding a steaming plastic cup of coffee. His bloodshot eyes looked right through Daggett.
    â€œYou ever been out here?” Shoswitz asked, somewhat surprised.
    Daggett maneuvered to keep the man on his left. “I was assigned here for a while. Back in the Bronze Age. Met my wife in this city. Met her in a bar. I even remember the name of the band that was playing—Duffy Bishop and the Rhythm Dogs.” For a moment, no more than a blink of the eye, he was right back there. “You remember the little things.”
    Shoswitz nodded, but with sadness. “Still married?”
    I must wear it on my shirt sleeve, Daggett thought. “No,” he said.
    â€œMe neither. Comes with the job, I suppose.”
    â€œMore often than not, it seems.”
    â€œAnd now you’re married to counterintelligence, huh?”
    â€œCloser to the truth than I’d like to admit. Counterterrorism, actually. Foreign counterterrorism. My third year on this squad.”
    â€œKids?”
    â€œA son.”
    â€œI got two daughters. Somewhere. She get your boy?”
    â€œNo, I did.”
    â€œYou’re lucky. That’s the worst part for me.”
    â€œHow many years on the force?” Daggett asked. He felt uncomfortable sharing his life’s story with a stranger, and yet—perhaps it was that they shared a badge, a way of life; perhaps it was their shared failure—he felt a bond between them. Shoswitz had apparently summed him up in a glance.
    â€œMe? Too many, can’t you tell?”
    A beat-up car with black-walls and a bullet hole in the corner of the windshield pulled up, and they climbed in.
    The driver, a sergeant named LaMoia, better dressed than most cops, had a strong hand, like grabbing on to a leg of lamb. He wore his black curly hair long, and