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Blood was spreading across his Windbreaker. Still, he grinned.
“Look who’s talking,” he said.
CHAPTER 96
MY CAR WAS a reasonable barricade against the fusillade of gunfire to my left, but I wouldn’t call it safe. I heard the banshee cry of an ambulance siren, then a second one, the sounds cutting out as the EMTs parked under the freeway.
I sat cross-legged on the ground next to Swanson. He was humming “The Star-Spangled Banner,” breaking into words now and then. “Mmm-mmm. Rockets’ red glare. Mmm-mmm, bursting in air.”
I folded the vest and put it under his head. He seemed peaceful. Maybe he was going into shock. Maybe he’d taken a hit to his spine. Maybe he was bleeding out.
He said, “It’s been good knowing you.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “You’re tougher than this. We’re cops, right?”
“I want you to do something for Nancy. The kids.”
“That’s your job, buster.”
“Say that I died … on the job. That’s the truth.”
“Talk to me, Swanson. It’s the least you can do.”
“… that our flag was still there.”
“Swanson, are you known to some people as One?”
I heard an engine start up, tires squeal. There was renewed gunfire. From the sound of it, a vehicle was making for the freeway exit at the far end of the street.
Swanson said, “Numero Uno. That’s me.”
Did he understand me? Did he know what I was asking him?
“You were the number one guy in the Windbreaker cop crew?” I asked.
He laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“The way it sounds. Numero Uno and the Windbreaker Crew.”
“Why did you fucking do it?”
He sighed. “If I did it, it was a victimless crime.”
“What the hell do you mean by that? Over a dozen people are dead.”
“Stealing drugs from dirtbags. That’s victimless.”
How did a man become a cop—a superstar—and think like that? But I knew the answer. They were called public-service homicides. In other words, he figured, justifiable.
“What about Calhoun?” I asked him.
He lifted a hand and pointed in the general direction of the gunfire that was still raging.
“Poor Tommy.”
Swanson’s voice slurred. His hand dropped.
