Chapter 4 Hopper
HOPPER
“I love it when a plan comes together.” His New York accent is low and gravelly.
Silas shakes his head, even as a smile sneaks onto his lips. “Uncle, I’m not sure what we did there qualifies as a plan.”
“You know what I mean,” Hop says as a call comes in.
He digs his phone out from his back pocket and accepts the video call. A pale man with kohl-smudged eyes and a dark, see-through tank top appears on the screen.
“Jake! What a day! Thanks for the heads-up.” Hopper taps his temple. “I’ve been stuck on this latest sculpt, and that little side quest shook things loose for me.”
“I get it, Hop.”
Jake, internationally known multimedia artist, ethereal Gothic clothes hound, and WhiteHat guru, really does get it.
Jake darts a wary glance at the corner of the screen, where Sy’s inked elbow is visible.
“Hey, Silas. You came in clutch today.”
“Thanks.”
Hopper knows that the dads don’t like Sy, but this op was too delicious to keep to himself. Jake’s compliment is a good sign.
“So, um, Hop,” Jake says, his tone careful. “I noticed you got a little inventive with the bodies.”
“I did!” Hopper inhales deeply, then lets out a blissful sigh. “It’s been forever since I’ve had a chance to get in there and really create something.”
“You cut it a little close, though, don’t you think?”
Hopper scoffs. “Not at all. Like you said, Sy stepped up and took the little girl to the police station. I had time to work my magic.”
Before Jake can work up a response, another call comes in. Hopper checks the screen, his face once again morphing into delight as he hits the Accept button.
“Ryder! Excellent work with the cameras!”
Ryder’s in bed with disheveled hair, wearing an oversized Punisher T-shirt, her expression sour. Her many piercings gleam in the low light.
“Hopper, why are you speaking in exclamation points so early in the morning?”
“It’s the evening,” he says, quite reasonably.
“It’s morning in Ukraine. And we don’t speak in exclamation points until my third cup of coffee, remember?”
“Sorry.” Settling into his seat, Hopper takes a calming breath. “You did a very nice job with the cameras, Ryder. Thank you,” he says, his words measured and even.
Ryder draws her chin back. “Never mind. That’s just…unsettling.”
“Whatever,” Hop says, grinning as he turns the camera on Silas. “Look at my chauffeur. Now that’s unsettling.”
Silas, tattooed in horror genre art from his neck to his ankles, keeps his eyes on the road, but lets a slow smile creep onto his face.
“Aw, but he’s such a cutie,” Ryder purrs, teasing her friend.
Silas gives the phone a sideways glare, his silvery-blue eyes filled with a look that would give most people night terrors.
“Okay, fine. You’re both unsettling,” she says, accepting a large mug of coffee from her wife, a tall, statuesque Ukrainian operative-turned-politician (who still likes to get her hands dirty) named Olga.
“But the next time I need to take out every camera in a three-mile radius, can you give me more than a five-minute notice?”
Hopper grimaces. “Sorry, that’s my fault.”
“Technically, it’s my fault,” Jake says, typing something on his computer. “The AMBER alert went out, and within a few minutes, our folks found the bidding war. It only lasted ten minutes, and the winner had to live within thirty minutes of downtown Austin.”
Despite the happy result, disquiet fills the car.
This whole off-the-cuff op could’ve gone sideways in about fifteen different ways.
“I feel a little less bad about having to get up so early,” Ryder says, breaking the heavy silence.
“Hey Olga,” Hopper says, waving. “How did the zlamaty lyod operation in Russia go?”
Olga rubs her chin thoughtfully. “You know videos where people break enormous sheets of ice, and it makes this satisfying crack?” she asks, popping her brows.
“Sure.”
“Very similar to sound a man’s spine makes when you break it.” She smiles.
Ryder snorts. “Just like how my great-grandfather described his Nazi hunting days.”
She and Olga bump fists and exchange kisses.
Hopper sends her a thumbs-up, and Jake, who’s been splitting his attention between the conversation and his screen, holds up his hand.
“Did you see who the junior detective was on this case?”
Hopper shakes his head. “I haven’t had a chance to look into the details. I had a lot of mayhem to do and not a lot of time to do it.”
They laugh, and Silas asks, “By the way, why did you do that with the head?”
Hopper shares a picture of his masterpiece with the group.
The collective gasp makes him smile.
“I was at the Met the other day for the pop-up Reni exhibition,” he explains, gesturing excitedly, “and today there was this short katana on the wall and a huge platter on the refrigerator, so…”
Hopper thinks that’s a perfectly reasonable train of thought, but the confused stares indicate otherwise.
“Reni?” Ryder asks, already typing.
Recognition dawns in Jake’s eyes. “Oh right. Salome carrying the head of John the Baptist.”
Hop grins as Jake shares a split screen with a reference photo of the painting and the image from the buyer’s house. Ryder looks impressed. Hopper’s recreation was surprisingly faithful.
Silas glances Hopper’s phone. “The buyer’s expression is so serene.” He taps his thumbs on the steering wheel. “Did you remove his head postmortem? To avoid the whole rictus of terror?”
Jake snorts, and Hopper rubs his hands together.
“Did I miss something?”
“Oh, sweet, innocent Sy,” Ryder says, hand to her chest. “Hop never does anything postmortem.”
“Facial expressions are surprisingly easy to manipulate on a fresh kill,” Hopper adds, as though that were obvious.
Sy chuckles, and Jake clears his throat.
“As I was saying before, the junior detective on this case is a familiar face.”
Jake shares the file on Detective Boone Hitchens, along with his department-issued ID photo. “Hopper, remember that camp counselor you sponsored for Liam’s criminal justice scholarship?”
He taps his chin. “The skinny Eagle Scout Maverick had a crush on?”
“The very one.”
“Oh wow. I forgot he’s an artist too,” Hopper says, scrolling through the file. “And he’s got a minor in art history. No wonder they put him on the case.”
Ryder’s heavily decorated brows come together as she scrolls through his information. “He’s awfully young to be a detective.”
Hopper snorts. “I always knew he’d be a great cop.” Just as quickly, his expression falls. “Shit. I do hope he’s good at his job, but not so good that he catches us.”
Ryder and Jake roll their eyes, the synchronicity impressive given the time difference. No one’s gotten through their brick wall of digital defense in the twenty-plus years they’ve been operating together.
“Wait.” Silas taps his thumb on the steering wheel. “Isn’t he the guy who arrested Brantley Whitaker at Rami’s charity ball?”
Jake curses, and the sound of furious typing fills the car, followed by silence.
“Shit, you’re right.”
That’s one helluva complication.
Brantley was released after agreeing to testify against his father. Brantley’s subsequent death, his father’s connection to the Guardians, and Boone’s familiarity with both that case and tonight’s murder make all of this…oof.
Messy.
“I should invite Boone to join me at the foundry,” Hopper says thoughtfully.
Everyone looks at each other, confused.
“To…throw him into the kiln?” Sy asks, turning onto Rainey Street.
“No!” Hopper huffs out a laugh. “To paint with him. Maybe keep an eye on him.”
“That actually makes sense,” Jake says, tapping out something on his computer. “But let me do a deeper dive on him to make sure we know who we’re dealing with.”
Hopper agrees, and they end the group call as Silas pulls into the parking garage. Before they exit the car, Hopper grabs Silas’s hand across the console and looks into his eyes.
“I’m so glad we got to do this together.” His words are wonderfully sincere.
A small grin forms on Silas’s lips. “I think we make a really good team.”
Hopper laughs and raises his fist. “Go murder!”
It’s said with the same warm enthusiasm he brings to everything: drive safe, go make something beautiful.
Sy squeezes his hand once and lets go.