by R. A. McGee
Badway pulled up the front of his shirt to draw his revolver.
Aram’s eyes were drawn to the pizza boxes flying through the air. As he moved to look at Porter, the muzzle of the shotgun moved from Erin’s head. The frightened girl heaved herself off the leather chair and fell into a heap on the floor.
By the time Aram’s muzzle swung up toward Porter, it was too late—Porter already had his Glock leveled. He fired four shots. The bullets tracked up the man’s body: between the nipples, smack on the collarbone, front of the mouth and through the nose.
Badway had taken a big step to the right as he drew. He fired two shots from the .38 revolver he carried, one into the shoulder and the other into the chest of Petrosian. The man never even raised his own pistol.
Aram was dead on his feet, but his body didn’t understand that yet. The rounds piercing through him caused his body to seize, an involuntary contraction of his muscles. He squeezed the trigger of the shotgun, which had pointed itself directly at Petrosian. As Badway’s second round hit, Aram blew a hole through Petrosian’s chest.
The pizza landed with a thud, and little balls of sausage rolled across the floor.
Porter wasn’t very hungry anymore, anyway.
Erin was on her feet in moments, burying herself in Porter’s chest. He was careful to move the gun out of her way and point it in a safe direction.
Badway moved across the room, kicking the pistol and shotgun away from the Armenians—a practiced but ultimately unnecessary move. Both men were dead as doornails.
Porter pulled his pocket knife and gently cut the tape from Erin’s wrists. She pulled him tight and he released her gag.
“I just wanted to check on you,” she said between sobs. “Make sure your head was okay. They grabbed me.”
“Don’t look,” Porter said as she tried to turn toward the scene. He led her to the door.
“Cops?” Badway said.
Porter thought for a moment. No easy way to hide the bodies. It was also likely that the elder Petrosian knew where his brother had been, and could easily come looking. Best to do everything aboveboard. “Cops.”
Porter was nearly out of the apartment when he turned over his shoulder. “Badway?”
“Yeah, bro?”
“You gotta get this door fixed.”
Twelve
The police came to Badway’s building for the third time in as many days. The response was even greater than before, the news of a double homicide bringing all available units. Coupled with the ambulances, paramedics, and unmarked sedans with detectives, the Bump House was a circus.
Badway took Porter’s Glock and unloaded it, placing it on the unfinished plywood bar in the apartment, slide locked to the rear. Likewise, he emptied his revolver, and left the cylinder open and lying next to Porter’s gun. He didn’t touch either of the Armenians’ weapons, leaving them where they had landed after his kick.
Porter held the shaking Erin in the downstairs courtyard, outside the back of the club, and didn’t let go until the police separated them, pulling her aside for a medical check with the paramedics and further questioning. The arriving officers told Badway and Porter to sit in a pair of metal patio chairs there in the courtyard.
Porter was optimistic. He and Badway were merely sitting in rusty metal chairs, not handcuffed while they stared down the barrels of the arriving officers’ pistols. It was a good sign. Maybe the cops in Virginia were smart enough to know when a homicide wasn’t murder. If they could figure that out, there was a decent chance the pair would stay out of jail.
If he were home in Tampa, Porter would never go to jail—not for something that was cut-and-dried self-defense. He knew a good chunk of the force from his prior time in law enforcement, and those he didn’t know would be scared off by his bulldog of a lawyer, who was himself a former police officer.
He had no such connections in Virginia.
For a time, all was well. Officers went up and down the stairs; a crime scene investigator went up with cameras and bags to preserve the scene; paramedics stood idly by, watching the chaos as their services were not needed.
Then, a snag in the action.
A thin, blond man arrived. Impeccably dressed, wearing a full suit and a trench coat, he looked around slowly, even as everyone avoided him and carried on with their business. His impressive talent for dressing aside, the man was constantly fidgeting, rubbing his face and absentmindedly chewing his fingernails. He checked and rechecked every report that came from the apartment, spent numerous minutes on the phone, and looked lost at the scene.
Then he looked up at Porter and Badway, nodded his head, and moved toward the seated pair.
“Gentlemen? I’m Detective Sergeant Milo Sardi.”
Porter shook his extended hand, which almost dripped with sweat.
“I’m the on-call homicide detective. I got a call about the incident here involving…” Sardi pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. “Involving two dead bodies, and a possible kidnapping? We’ve already taken a statement from a young lady… Erin Weaver.”
Sardi looked back and forth between Porter and Badway, then shuffled through a stack of papers in his hand.
“You are… Phillip Porter, aged thirty-five, a resident of Tampa, Florida. And you are Robert Badway, aged thirty-seven and the new owner of this building.”
Porter stifled a laugh. Sardi acted like reading from a printout of their driver’s licenses was a great feat of investigative work.
“Two men died here tonight. Frankly, I don’t think anything’s funny,” Sardi said, looking at Porter.
Porter shook his head and bit his tongue.
Sardi looked from Porter back to his notebook. “I was wondering what you gentlemen could tell me about the incident.”
Porter and Badway looked at each other.
“Go for it, Sarge.”
“I think this is more up your alley,” Badway said.
“Hello?” Sardi said, tapping his pen against the notebook. “Did you hear me?”
Porter sighed. “Officer Sardi, here’s the thing—”
“Detective Sardi.” He tapped the large golden badge that hung around his neck and dangled against his custom-tailored shirt.
“Detective,” Porter said, squinting his eyes at the man. “I’d love to tell you what happened. It’s a hell of a story. But we need our lawyer before we answer any questions.”
“I’m just asking what happened. A simple overview, if you will. Generalities. You’re not under arrest. I haven’t read you your Miranda rights. I just need to get a feel for what happened.”
Porter picked his words carefully. “If your guys talked to Erin, then you have the gist. I’m gonna need that lawyer. I’m sure you understand.”
“Trouble is, I’m not sure I do,” Sardi said. “If everything happened how Ms. Weaver says it did, you could tell me your side and help clear things up. Only guilty people need lawyers.”
Porter had known Sardi would say that. It was the mark of an inexperienced investigator, someone new to the job. Porter had seen innocent people given jail time because of things they’d said in an interview—honest, truthful statements twisted by an overzealous prosecutor—or had their lives ruined in civil court by a lawyer with a political agenda or ambitions. Porter wouldn’t give anyone the faintest sliver of information to hang him with.
In reality, seasoned investigators understood that the facts made the case, and didn’t put their faith in statements. Porter never cared much if people lawyered up. He didn’t take it personally. Apparently, Sardi did.
“Can I ask you something, Detective?” Porter said.
Badway sat back down and crossed his legs, playing with his mustache and staring up into the evening sky.
“Sure,” Sardi said.
“How long have you been a homicide detective?”
“I’m not sure how that’s relevant—”
“I figure less than a year, right? How else do you get the short straw of being on call on a Friday nig
ht?” Porter said.
“If you must know, on-call rotates in Homicide Division. I happen to be covering for a colleague,” Sardi said.
“You cover the weekends a bunch, don’t you? Because everyone gives the new guy the shit assignments.”
Sardi blinked for several moments, his blond hair frozen in a protective layer of hair gel. “I don’t see how any of this is germane to the—”
“The point is, when you aren’t so new, you won’t be surprised when smart people lawyer up,” Porter said. “Give it some time.”
Badway snorted on the chair below Porter.
Sardi made a notation in his notebook. “Looks like we have ourselves an impasse. You’re so smart you need a lawyer, and I don’t feel comfortable letting you walk free until you talk to me. I won’t be the guy who lets two murderers walk the streets. Not me,” Sardi said.
Badway exhaled loudly. “What are you saying, Sardi?”
“Detect—”
“That little badge should say jackass on it,” Badway said.
“Excuse me?”
“I think he’s saying we get to take a ride in a cop car,” Porter said.
“At least you seem to have a sense of humor about this,” Sardi said.
“I have to. Smacking some sense into you would only make the problem worse,” Porter said with a smirk.
Sardi took a step back from the men and made a notation on his pad.
“I was kidding, Sardi, don’t write that down,” Porter said.
“You’re telling me you’re going to take a small business owner to jail? People break into my house to kill me and I go to jail? I’m the victim, you idiot,” Badway said.
Sardi continued writing. “As Mr. Porter so glibly noted, the two of you are going to main booking until we can sort everything out.” Sardi pulled a small, laminated card from his breast pocket. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law or other hearing. You have the right to have an attorney present during all questioning—”
Porter laughed, interrupting the detective. “See?”
“…during all questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to you by the court, at no extra charge. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Yep,” Porter said.
“Affirm,” Badway said, standing to stretch out.
Sardi flagged down two uniformed officers who were standing by the back door of the Bump House. “Exeter? Johnson? I need you to take these two down to processing for me.”
The officers looked at each other and then Sardi. Exeter, a thickly built white man wearing a baseball hat with a badge on it, spoke up. “Why can’t you do it yourself?”
“My vehicle doesn’t have a cage,” Sardi said.
“But they aren’t the perps,” Johnson said. This officer was much darker than Porter and had a thick mustache.
“We can’t know for sure, Officer, not until we finish the investigation.”
Exeter sighed and adjusted his baseball hat. “Okay, Milo.”
“Good.” Sardi turned back toward Porter and Badway. “I’ll see you two in the processing area shortly.”
“Don’t lie,” Porter said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re going home. I bet you’ll be asleep in your Gucci pajamas in the next twenty minutes. You’ll come see us in the morning, which means we’re spending the night in jail.”
“If you have any problems with how I do things,” Sardi said, “be sure to tell your lawyer.” With that, Sardi spun on his heel and exited the courtyard.
“He thinks he looks cool when his trench coat twirls like that. He doesn’t realize what a douche he really looks like,” Johnson said. “He wouldn’t even have this job if his daddy wasn’t friends with the mayor.”
“There’s always one,” Porter said. He turned around, placing his hands behind his back.
“Nah. I’ll cuff you in front. I’d rather not put them on you at all, but policy…” Johnson slipped the cold cuffs onto Porter’s wrists, careful not to make them too tight.
“Milo doesn’t know shit,” Exeter said. “Like I’m supposed to be sorry that a couple thugs broke into your place and you guys filled them in.”
Exeter cuffed Badway, and the group walked through the nightclub and out the front door onto the street. There were several squad cars and a pair of ambulances still lingering. All the vehicles had their lights on, creating an ominous, strobed atmosphere in the street.
Time had passed quickly while the police had done their duties, and it was almost time to open the club. The regular workers of the Bump House were standing together in a small group across the street.
“We’re closed tonight, guys, sorry,” Badway said as Exeter walked him past the group, to a waiting cruiser at the end of the block. “I’ll call you when I can.”
In the back of one of the ambulances, Erin Weaver sat, a thick blanket around her shoulders. As the cousins walked by in handcuffs, Porter saw her stand off the back of the ambulance and try to push her way past the paramedics. The men stopped her from running over.
Porter held up his handcuffed hands toward the girl, palms open, and said, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Erin stopped moving forward but looked confused at the entire procession.
Exeter opened a door and let Badway in first, then walked Porter around to the other side. “Watch your head.”
Porter’s legs pressed against the partition that separated the cops from the arrestees in the back seat. It was uncomfortable, but at least his hands were in front of him.
“We got long to go?” Badway said through a small grouping of holes in the Plexiglas.
“Nope,” Exeter said, then drove off into the darkness, lights still flashing.
Thirteen
Exeter must have set a land speed record getting to the Fairfax County Jail. By the time Porter had figured just the right way to position himself to relieve a creeping pain in his knee, they were there.
The power of flashing lights, Porter thought.
The car sat for a moment outside two large metal doors. The sally port was the first level of entry into any jail or prison—an area that was not open to the public, but not sterile and free of weapons and contraband like the inner sanctum.
Exeter and Johnson left Porter and Badway in the squad car and placed their weapons, OC spray, and other prohibited items in lockboxes attached to the brick wall outside the main entrance to the jail.
Once the large metal door of the sally port slammed shut, the officers pulled Porter and Badway from the vehicle and walked them to the main entry door, which was just as metal but not nearly as large. Exeter pressed a small metal button on the call box.
“Yes?” the box squawked.
“P.D. bringing in two.”
“You lock everything up?”
“Already done,” Johnson said.
There was a hiss of air, and the metal door slid open.
Exeter and Johnson handed Porter and Badway over to an intake officer, with a stack of paperwork.
“Thanks for being relaxed about this,” Johnson said to the men. “Nobody wants to go to jail.”
“I hear the food’s good,” Badway said. “I could use a little vacation.”
Porter nodded as the two officers turned and walked back out into the sally port, a hiss of air following them as the door slammed shut behind them.
The intake officer at the jail patted Porter and Badway down and searched them. Then, he made them change into white jumpsuits and hard orange plastic flip-flops.
Porter slid the shoes on.
“I need your socks too, sir,” the intake officer said.
“When is the last time someone disinfected these slippers?” Porter said.
The intake officer said nothing, but held open the bag that contained Porter's clothes and property. Porter pulled his socks off and dumped them into the bag as well. The flip-flops were cold and w
et under his bare feet.
Porter and Badway were taken to a small room with an array of machines. Porter recognized them all. In the corner was a breathalyzer, and against the thick white-painted cinderblock wall was a fingerprint machine. Once their prints were entered into the NCIC database, there would be a brief wait and the intake officer would know exactly who they were and if they had a prior criminal history.
The intake officer was quick and efficient, and led Porter and Badway to a bank of thick rubber chairs in front of a television, which was playing reruns of the show Cops.
It was the first time the two had been alone enough to speak to each other.
“I guess the Petrosian problem was bigger than I thought,” Badway said.
“If you thought it was bad before, imagine what big brother’s gonna say now. Gear? Gerd?” Porter said.
“Gor.”
“Well, the name fits,” Porter said. “I’m going to make sure to tell him you’re the one who shot his brother,” Porter said with a smile.
“I’m not worried about those guys.”
“Word?”
“I have bigger things to think about,” Badway said. “We’re supposed to be meeting up with Kevon. What’s he gonna do now?”
“If he’s smart, he’ll move around. Can’t be a target if no one can find him. He won’t have to worry about Vance or any of the Parabellum goons.”
“He’s counting on us, and we’re here,” Badway said. “We told him we’d help him.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t count on having to shoot a guy in your living room this afternoon,” Porter said. “One crisis at a time, Sarge. We can’t help anyone if we’re locked up. How do we get out of here?”
“When I get a phone call, I’ll holler at Cat. She can fix this,” Badway said.
“For you, maybe. She’d probably let me stay in here until next week. I’ll call my guy, just in case. It can’t hurt to have more than one person trying to get us out. Then we’ll go find your boy.”
An overweight man in a tight pair of maroon scrubs appeared at the front of the waiting area. “Badway?”
Badway stood and went over to the man, following him out of the waiting area.