Free Nocturnal by Scott Sigler Page B

obviously; checking them again seemed more of a nervous tic than anything else.
    She stared at Bryan. He tried to sit still.
    Chief Zou left the folder on her desk as she opened it again. This time she leaned forward and read aloud from it.
    “Regarding the incident of January first,” she said, “the use of lethal force against Carlos Smith, a resident of South San Francisco. Preliminary findings indicate that Inspector Bryan Clauser acted in a manner appropriate with the situation. Inspector Clauser’s actions saved lives.”
    She closed the folder, straightened it, then stared at him. “We still have to go through the formal review board, but I can’t imagine there will be an issue. Based on the eyewitness accounts I read, I will communicate to the review board my opinion on the situation.”
    The breath slid out of Bryan’s lungs. He was off the hook. “That’s great, Chief.”
    Robertson came around the desk, clapped Bryan on the back. “Come on, Clauser,” he said. “You knew this was a righteous shoot.”
    Bryan shrugged, tried to play the part. “I keep winding up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    Robertson shook his head. “You did what had to be done, and this isn’t the first time. You saved lives. You had no choice.”
    Zou turned to Jennifer. “Miss Wills? Any further comments from the DA’s office?”
    “No, Chief Zou,” Jennifer said. “Considering Smith’s record of violence, even the usual San Francisco protester crowd will probably ignore this one. We’ll be ready for the inevitable lawsuit from Smith’s family, but between the witnesses and the security camera footage, we’re in the clear.”
    Zou nodded, then turned back to Bryan. “I have some more good news. Steve Boyd investigated the apartment of Joseph Lombardi, also known as Joe-Joe Lombardi. Boyd found evidence to make Lombardi our lead suspect in the Ablamowicz case. We have that name because of you and Pookie.”
    Bryan nodded. Lanza had given up Joe-Joe, true, but it remained to be seen if anyone would ever see Lombardi alive again. Lanza needed someone to go down for the crime, to show the Norteños that blood had been settled with blood. Odds were that Lombardi would turn up dead.
    The white-haired Sharrow stood. “Chief Zou, does Clauser need to be on desk duty while this case is with the shooting review board?”
    “No,” Zou said. “This was a clean shoot. Inspector Clauser, you and Inspector Chang will continue to work on the Ablamowicz task force. We need you guys too much right now to put you behind a desk. That’s it, people. Get back to it.”
    He felt so relieved it almost made him forget about his sour, churning stomach. Bryan didn’t care about Carlos Smith, but he did care about his job. Anything could happen in a shooting review. Ignoring his body’s numerous complaints, Bryan stood, thanked everyone for their support, then walked out of Chief Zou’s office, happy to still be a cop.

The White Room
    W arm
.
    Toasty warm. Blankets. Soft blankets,
dry
blankets. Clean clothes that slid against his skin, skin that was scrubbed free of dirt and grime and sweat for the first time in months.
    Aggie rolled over … and heard a metallic rattle.
    He blinked a few times as he woke. Was he wearing … 
pajamas
? He flashed back to his childhood bed in Detroit, to his mother gently waking him with loving words and hugs, the smell of pancakes filling the small house. But this place didn’t smell like pancakes.
    It smelled like paint. It smelled like bleach.
    He was on his side, the blankets bunched up around him, lying on a mattress so thin he could feel the hard floor beneath. The world seemed to move, to
wave
, but he knew from long experience that was just the horse talking. He opened his eyes and blinked — yeah, he was still more than a little high.
    Was this really happening?
    Just inches from his face was a wall made of broken bricks and rounded stones, all coated with a glaze of bright white