3rd Degree (Women's Murder Club 3)

“Everybody’s got a grudge against those bastards,” Jacobi said, “including me.”

“This individual’s doing a bit more than some casual bitching at the customer service rep. He’s been picketing headquarters, handing out leaflets urging people not to pay their bill. Free People’s Power Initiative, it was called. We got the sense,” Santos said, chuckling, “that this was a very angry individual.”

Martelli picked up the story. “Crazy bastard is always lugging around this big duffel. We figured it was filled with these leaflets of his. One day this undercover guy stops him and gets him to open the bag. Guy’s got a goddamn M49 rocket launcher in there. Next we raid his house. There’re grenades, C-4, blasting caps. The Free People’s Power Initiative. They were planning to blow up the fucking power company

over their bill.”

“So, Joe,” I said, shifting the subject, “you mentioned radicals moving down here to disrupt this G-8 meeting? That’s a place to start.”

“Do better than that…” Santos popped another Mento and shrugged. “One of our undercovers told us there’s some kind of rally planned today. A B of A branch, over on Shattuck. Said some of the biggies’ll be around. Why don’t you come see for yourself. Welcome to our nightmare.”

Chapter 40

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, we pulled up about two blocks from the Bank of America location in Santos and Morelli’s unmarked car. About a hundred demonstrators were crowded around the entrance to the branch; most were holding crudely painted signs: A FREE MONEY SUPPLY IS THE SIGN OF A FREE PEOPLE, one read. Another, GIVE THE WTO AIDS.

An organizer in a T-shirt and torn jeans was standing on the roof of a black SUV, shouting into a microphone, “Bank of America enslaves girls before puberty into oppression. Bank of America sucks the people’s blood!”

“What the hell are these people protesting,” Jacobi asked, “mortgages?”

“Who knows,” replied Santos. “Child labor in Guatemala, the WTO, big business, the fucking ozone layer. Half of them are probably losers they pick off the welfare line and buy with a pack of smokes. It’s the leaders I’m interested in.”

He took out a camera and started snapping shots of people in the crowd. A ring of about ten police stood between the bank and the protesters, riot clubs dangling at their sides.

Things Cindy had said began to resonate. How in the comfort of your own life, you could just turn the page when you read about the uninsured or the poor, or under-developed countries drowning in debt. But how some people couldn’t turn the page. A million miles away, right? Didn’t seem like that now.

Suddenly a new speaker climbed on top of the SUV. My eyes bulged. It was Lemouz. Imagine that.

The professor took the microphone and began shouting. “What comprises the World Bank? It is a group of sixteen member institutions from all parts of the world. One of them is the Bank of America. Who loaned the money to Morton Lightower? Who were the underwriters who handled his company’s IPO? The good old B of A, my friends!”

Suddenly the mood of the crowd changed. “These bastards should be blown up!” a woman shouted. A student tried to start a chant: “B of A. B of A. How many girls have you killed today?”

I saw pockets of violence begin to break out. A kid hurled a bottle at the window of the bank. At first I thought it was a Molotov, but there was no explosion.

“See what we have to deal with over here,” Santos said. “Problem is, they’re not all wrong.”

“Fuck they’re not,” contributed Jacobi.

Two police officers invaded the ranks and tried to corral the bottle thrower, but the crowd banded together, impeding their way. I saw the kid take off down the street. Then there was screaming, people on the ground. I couldn’t even tell where it all had started.

“Oh fuck.” Santos put down his camera. “This could be getting out of hand.”

One of the cops swung his stick and a long-haired kid sank to his knees. More people began to throw things. Bottles, rocks. Two of the agitators started wrestling with the police, who dragged them down, pinning them with their sticks.

Lemouz was still barking into the microphone. “See what the state must resort to—cracking heads of mothers and children.”

I had taken about as much as I could sit back and watch. “These guys need help,” I said, and went to open the door.

Martelli held me back. “We go in, we get made.”

“I’m already made,” I said, unstrapping the gun from my leg. Then I ran across the street with Martelli a few strides behind.

Cops were being shoved and pelted with debris. “Pigs! Nazis!”

I pushed my way into the throng. A woman held a cloth to her bleeding head. Another carried a baby, crying, out of harm’s way. Thank God somebody had a little common sense.

Professor Lemouz’s gaze fixed on me. “Look how the police treat the innocent voice of protest! They come with drawn guns!

“Ah, Madam Lieutenant,” he said, grinning down from his makeshift podium, “still trying to get yourself educated, I see. Tell me, what did you learn today?”