Chapter 4
Casey hadn't really known what to expect when she went into Walsh's locker. Considering Kowalski's, she wouldn't have been terribly surprised to find anything from drugs to a blow-up doll, even though neither of those were really Walsh's thing. She would not have been surprised to find out that he really did write poetry, though.
She hadn't wanted to do it. Walsh wasn't dead, and going through his things was almost like admitting that he would be. The entire city was in an uproar over the psycho supervillian who'd kidnapped a cop, but as the minutes ticked by and the brass became increasingly suspicious that Walsh knew the guy beforehand, the threat of them tossing all his belongings grew. So Casey had quietly slipped out of the war room and down to the lockers, where she not-so-quietly used bolt cutters to remove Walsh's lock.
The most startling thing, she decided, was that it was so neat.
Extra shirts were hung on the left side, spare pants on the right. His own personal weapons shop had a little storage hanger on the back--there were knives, and guns, and a baton and something that looked suspiciously like a grenade--and the top shelf had some books and random items like gum or spare handcuffs in a nice row.
The second-most surprising thing was the bow that leaned crosswise in the small space, sleek and well-worn. A quiver was in the back corner filled with shiny arrows that Casey was pretty sure weren't for hunting game.
She reached out wonderingly to touch the bow when a calm voice from behind her said,
"Stop."
She spun around just in time to have two black-suited men pass by her, carrying a cardboard box. They started pulling things out of Walsh's locker and Casey glared at the man responsible: short-statured, thinning hair, but with the presence of someone you didn't want to fuck with. His eyes were tight with worry, black circles beneath them, and he was clearly forcing the smile onto his face.
"Those are my partner's things--"
"We know, Ms. Shraeger. And they will be returned to him once we get him back."
Casey frowned.
"You're not cops. What, then? CIA? FBI?"
"Classified," the man replied smoothly. He walked past her to reach into the now mostly-empty locker, picking up the quiver of arrows and carefully placing them into the box. He went back for the bow, his hand running across the upper limb with an odd expression of nostalgic fondness.
"But you're going to get him back?" Casey couldn't help the waver that made it into her voice. She knew the NYPD was at a dead end, and the idea of losing Walsh made her guts turn to ice. The rest of the 2nd could barely function without him, and she knew that he was one of the few things that kept her sane on the job.
The agent picked up the bow, tucking it gently away before looking up at her. His eyes glittered, fierce and deadly.
"Yes. I will."
Casey didn't doubt him for a second.