Webster opened his mouth to remind her of the lack of warrant. Then closed it again. It was her show, after all.
She used her master, keyed in her badge number. A more sophisticated system would have requested her to state her police emergency, but this one simply unlocked the outer doors.
“Fourth floor,” she told him, heading inside and to the single elevator. “You carrying?”
“Yeah.”
“I wasn’t sure you guys in IAB carried anything but a data book. Keep your weapon harnessed.”
“Well hell, I was looking forward to going through the door blasting. I’m not a moron, Dallas.”
“IAB, moron. IAB, moron. I can never tell the difference. But enough of this frivolity. Stand back,” she ordered when they reached the fourth level. “I don’t want him seeing you through the peep.”
“He may not open the door for you.”
“Sure, he will. He wonders about me.” She pressed the buzzer on the side of the do
or. Waited. She felt herself being observed, kept her face blank.
Moments later, Clooney opened the door. “Lieutenant, I wasn’t—” He broke off when Webster shifted into the doorway. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Can we come in, Sergeant, and speak to you?”
“Sure, sure. Don’t mind the mess. I was just making a sandwich the old-fashioned way.”
He stepped back, casual, easy. A good, smart cop, she thought later. That’s why she missed it.
He brought up the knife fast, a smooth, quick motion, aimed at her throat. She was a good, smart cop, too. She might have dodged it. It was something she’d never know for certain.
Webster shoved her, hard enough to knock her off her feet, and the movement, the twist of his body put him in the path of the knife.
She shouted something as the blood spurted. Something as Webster went down. And was already scrambling to her knees, already reaching for her weapon as Clooney sprinted across the room. If she’d fired without warning, fired into his back, she would have had him. The instinctive hesitation, the ingrained loyalty, cost her an instant.
And he was out the window and clambering down the fire escape.
She rushed to Webster. His breathing was short, shallow, and the blood was coming fast from the long slice that ran from his shoulder down across his chest.
“Jesus, Jesus.”
“I’m okay. Go.”
“Shut up. Just shut up.” She ripped out her communicator as she leaped to her feet and ran to the window. “Officer down. Officer down.” She rattled off the address, scanning for Clooney. “Immediate medical assistance required this location. Officer down. Suspect fleeing on foot, heading west. Suspect is armed and dangerous. White male, sixty years.”
Even as she spoke, she was shrugging out of her jacket, tearing through the apartment for towels. “Five feet, ten inches, one hundred and eighty. Gray and blue. Subject is suspect on multiple homicides. Hold on, Webster, you stupid son of a bitch. You die on me, I’m going to be supremely pissed.”
“Sorry.” He sucked in his breath as she ripped his shirt, pressed the folded towels over the wound. “Christ, it really hurts. What the hell kind of . . .” He bore down, fighting to stay conscious. “What the hell kind of knife was that?”
“How the hell should I know? A big, sharp one.”
Too much blood, was all she could think. Too much blood, already soaking through the towels. It was bad. It was really bad.
“They sew you up. You’ll get a goddamn commendation out of this scratch. Then you’ll be able to show it off to all your women and make them giddy.”
“Bullshit.” He tried to smile, but he couldn’t see her. The light was going gray. “He opened me up like a trout.”
“Shut up. I told you to shut up.”
He made a little sighing sound, then obliged her by passing out. She cradled him, sopping at blood, and listened for the sirens.