“C’mon, you know no one pays attention to that shit.”
“Maybe back in the day. Fuck, man. Everything nowadays is monitored.”
“It’s for your partner, our friend. Get me what you can on him, Jimmy.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Today, if you can, brother.”
“Talk later.”
“Thanks.”
I set the phone on the end table.
My vinyl collection is sitting across the living room, collecting dust. I get an urge to listen, but nothing depressing or anything that might set off a trigger. Certain music will do that.
I walk across the room, get on my knees and leaf through the records, land on Going Out in Style. Bought the album when it was first released. I place it on the turntable, set the stylus on the record, and turn up the volume. Gotta listen to these guys loud.
I sit back on the sofa, light another smoke, and try to figure out the next step. Funny how a smoke can focus you, pull down one deep groove of thought. The gun’s got to be found, or the story that leads to it.
I’ll have to drop by the scene. Even though I know the location well, it still helps to see where it happened. I’m also going to trust that Jimmy is gonna get me what I need on Arthur Taylor. I’ll just be walking over the detective’s tracks on that one, so I have to be careful not to step on her toes. I’ll give her a call soon.
Dropkick Murphys get me going. Hard not to. Thanks to them I have me a nice shot of Jameson. Just one, ’cause I gotta roll. After side one plays itself through, I grab my backpack and head out.
Flurries stopped. A light cold wind is pushing the clouds through. That’s probably about all this city will see. Every year the winters here are milder. We need a hard-hitting snowstorm. It’d be good for the city. Paralyze it.
Twenty-Two
I pull into the lot. Three cargo trailers are lined up on the other side near a chain-link fence that surrounds the area. There’s enough room to park a couple of cars between them. Al would have parked between the second and third one with the first one about thirty feet from Sherman Avenue. Good concealment if you’re meeting with a CI or a source. I met here several times with Tamie Darling both back in the day with Al and as a PI.
There’s no crime scene tape. Looks like a crew of people have been working the area, though. The gravel’s kicked up around the trailers, probably EMT and the detectives on the scene. I park my car between the two trailers where Al would have parked when he was here. I step out, slip on my overcoat, and walk to the rear of my vehicle, look around the second trailer to the third one on the other side. The end of that trailer sticks out about ten feet beyond the other two. The kid he encountered that day could have easily concealed himself on the other side of the trailer and then moved out to the back where he would have a good angle on the rear of Al’s car, and on him. But still, it’s about twenty yards. That’s a tough distance to hit a target. I’m not surprised Al emptied a magazine with only a couple rounds hitting the other.
I walk to the area where the body would have fallen. The fire department or Crime Scene cleaned up well. What appears to be dried blood is only on bits of soil and rock.
I hear tires over gravel and turn toward the entrance to see what looks like a detective cruiser. It has a little antenna sticking up from the rear trunk and a front tag that looks like it is from the DC government.
One person driving. The car pulls up to the far side of me, but still a good distance because I’m sure the driver doesn’t know who the fuck I am. When it parks, I can see through the front passenger window that it’s a female and that she’s on the mic, probably running the tag of my car through the dispatcher.
I turn to face her direction with my hands to my sides and a smile on my face. A moment later I can hear the muffled voice of the dispatcher filtered through the car. The driver mouths something like “copy,” turns my way, then exits her vehicle.
She walks toward the front end, her detective badge hanging around her neck. She’s wearing slim-cut suit-type black pants, with a short-cut black blazer that matches the pants. I can make out her Glock 17 holstered at her right hip and the magazine pouch on her left, housing two mags. She is attractive, looks to be in her early thirties, keeps her hair pulled back tight in a ponytail.
“I’m assuming you’re Detective Rattan?” I ask.
“I don’t know you,” she says. “You with DC police?”
Her assumption makes me feel good. I still have the look, maybe because I’m not so disheveled anymore. Must be the suit.
“Retired detective. Frank Marr.”
“I’ve heard of you.”
“Don’t know if I like the way that sounded.”
“Mostly good. Some bad.”
She moves around her car toward the passenger side, walks toward me.
“Detectives Millhoff and Caine have talked about your escapades.”
“Escapades? I don’t know how to take that, either.”
When she’s in front of me, I extend my hand to shake. She accepts. Firm grip. Soft hands.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I’m a PI now. Al Luna is a good friend of mine and my former partner when I was on the job at NSID.”
“You don’t look old enough to be retired.”
“I took an early out.”
I should ask what she’s doing here because you’d think they finished up with this scene and there shouldn’t be anything left to follow up on.
“So, you’re working for Luna?”
“Helping, ’cause I believe him.”
She’s smart enough not to respond to that.
“I’m checking out the scene. I know you all canvassed for surveillance cameras, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t do the same. And it doesn’t look like a secured crime scene anymore.”
“It’s not.”
“Something you missed here, then? That’s why you’re back?”
A bit of a hard half smile because she knows I’m fishing.
“No. I was at the Fourth District picking up a report and thought I’d drive by here on my way back to the office. Saw you, thought you might be a cop and wondered why you were here.”
“Driving by the scene. That’s good. Still in your head, then.”
She looks at me like she’s wondering why I’d say that.
“I mean most of the detectives I know, except for Millhoff and Caine, would have already closed the case with what they have. Let Internal Affairs run with it. I’m sure Luna would appreciate that you’re still working it.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
Wow, she’s such a rookie. I wanna ask how much time she has on, but I know she’d take it as an insult. Probably already getting razzed for being assigned to Homicide because she doesn’t have that much time on as a detective. Who’d she have to fuck to get here? is what her coworkers might be wondering.
She reaches into her right front pants pocket, pulls out a card and offers it to me. I take it.
It reads: DETECTIVE LORI RATTAN, HOMICIDE UNIT. Her cell and office numbers are on the bottom.
“If you come up with something.”
I slip it into my shirt pocket.
“I’ll be sure to call. Appreciate it.”
She turns and walks back to her car, drives out, taking a left onto Sherman.
Older-model cars that look abandoned are parked against the back fence at the 9th Street side. I walk there and peer into the vehicles one at a time. Ignition is popped out of one, but none looks like some homeless person is making it a home.
Couple cars drive north on 9th, passing the firehouse on the other side of the big building on my right. The second car is an old hooptie, music thumping from within. It slows as it passes me. I can’t make out how many times it’s occupied or even what the driver looks like. The tint is heavy. It speeds up after it passes, skidding tires on pavement. Fucking mopes.
I walk around the inside perimeter o
f the lot. I don’t know what I expect to find except maybe a little motivation.
All the construction going on and not one surveillance camera to catch even a glimpse of the scene.
I hear feet shuffling on the gravel at the other side of the trailer to my right, near Sherman Ave. I walk to the rear of my vehicle and look toward the trailer that pokes out farther than the others.
Nothing.
I stand there. Traffic along Sherman is busy.
Then again. Someone is walking on the other side of the trailer. And two young boys, looking like fucking mopes, appear. They’re wearing puffy winter coats and red tactical-type shemaghs that conceal most of their faces. I flick my cigarette to the ground. They stand there looking at me, and the taller boy standing to the right of the other raises his right hand, directed toward me and gesturing like it’s a gun, and his index finger pulls the trigger. They’re baiting me. Want me to chase them.
“Fuck the poleece,” the tall one says.
I grip my 19, ready to draw. They both raise their hands, like the protesters do, turn and walk toward the gate and then left along the sidewalk at Sherman.
I pull my weapon, keep it tucked to my side, rush to my car, and start it, back out, my rear tires spitting gravel out as I skid and turn toward the gate.
Cars going each direction, so I can’t make the turn, but I’m poking out far enough to see down the sidewalk.
Gone. They must’ve hoofed it. All those construction barricades along the road to prevent parking, so I’m sure they ran up to Barry Place. Fuckin’ balls, man. Gotta have fucking balls to pull some shit like that thinking I’m the police. Damn, they had to be smoking dippers or some shit.
I never doubted you, Al, but now I got confidence.
Twenty-Three
I manage my way out, turning left on Sherman. When I get to Barry Place, I make a left. It’s nearing lunchtime, but still a lot of construction workers around. The whole north side of the block is fenced in, but a couple of workers are leaning against the chain-link fence on the outside perimeter, one of them smoking. I pull to the curb across from them, slide down my window.
“You guys see a couple of dudes running this way?”
They look at each other, back to me, I’m sure wondering who this guy in a Volvo is.
“I saw them snatch something from the bed of a work truck, looked like a Sawzall. Just being neighborly.”
“Shit. They ran up there and down 9th,” says the smoking man. “Didn’t see them carrying anything with them, though.”
“They might have dropped it back there when they saw me. I’ll see what I can do. Thanks.”
I speed away, take a right on 9th. I’m sure they’re long gone, and I’m wondering if it was those mopes in the hooptie that drove by the lot. Maybe they looped around, parked down here somewhere. Damn, wish I’d gotten the tag.
That’s the way it is nowadays for the police. Morons who aren’t afraid of them anymore ’cause they know most of the cops are scared to act. And the kinda scared I’m talking about is the fear that if you act, justified or not, you’re gonna get hung out to dry. Most of the guys and gals in the department have families to think about and who they want to go home to. There have been some shootings in this area, up around Garfield Terrace, which is near where I live. A few armed robberies, too. DC is getting loose again.
I feel like those two were baiting me, trying to get me to draw on them and get in a foot pursuit. Fucking felt like a setup. It was the tall guy’s hand plain as day, though. No gun that I could see. I don’t believe Al would have pulled his gun out in that kind of situation either. He damn well would’ve been prepared to, though.
I canvass the area a bit longer, then drive to Al’s house.
I notice Al peeking out the curtain to see who it is. I shoot him a wave. He opens the door. He’s cleaned up. Looks like he showered and shaved, and he’s out of the clothes he’s probably been wearing for a few days.
“You’re looking better.”
“Tired of moping around, feeling sorry for myself. Come in.”
He locks the door behind me.
The bottle I bought him is on the end table and is more than half empty.
“You want a drink?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” I say, even though I shouldn’t. Feels like I’m encouraging him in the wrong direction.
He walks to the dining room, returns with a clean tumbler.
“Neat, right?”
“Yeah, just a couple fingers.”
He pours more than that, hands it to me. I sit on the armchair. He sits on the sofa. The blanket that was spread out on the sofa is now neatly folded and resting over the back.
“You see the news?” Al asks.
“Yeah, all those fucking protesters at headquarters.”
“No, I mean the morning news.”
“No. What’s up?”
“An officer from 4D got ambushed. Midnight shift. Shot in his car.”
“Fuck.”
“They’re trying to determine whether it was terrorism.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah. Pronounced at MedStar.”
“You got a name?”
“Weibe, young officer. Not even five years on.”
“Damn. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s how it is out there now. Fucking war zone.”
“It is, brother. Where did it happen?”
“Georgia Avenue. I think near the corner of Otis. He was parked in his car. Probably a drive-by ’cause they recovered ejected casings scattered in the street.”
“Damn.”
Al raises his glass. “Here’s to officer Sam Weibe.”
We clink glasses together and take sips.
“I need to know what you were investigating, Al.”
“I thought we went over that already.”
“Not in detail.”
“Like I told you, a few low-level mutts. Officials aren’t giving us the time we need to investigate anything long-term, so we’re doing quick hits like these guys, not more than a week. I was getting ready to send a special employee into their house to make a buy. Heroin, but nothing like major players.”
I don’t want to know the exact location because it’ll be too tempting for me, so I ask, “What area? No address. Just the area.”
“Fuck. I’ll give you the address. Not like anyone’s gonna hit it now.”
Shit.
He gives me the address.
“That is a spot Cordell Holm used to control. Did you know that?”
“Fuck no. Like I said, we don’t get the time to look into things the way we used to.”
“When were you going to hit it?”
“Was going to draft an affidavit for a search warrant right after I sent the SE in, which would’ve been the day I got into the shooting.”
“Was Darling working this one for you?”
“Fuck no. You seen her. Cleaned up. No one’s going to sell to her. I use her mostly for phone calls. You don’t think this has anything to do with those corner dopes, do you? They’re not smart enough and they don’t got the balls for something like that.”
“A week-long investigation and you know them like that?”
“I still got my Spidey sense, Frankie.”
“I don’t doubt that. You identify any of their vehicles?”
“No. Just the info on the house—when they re-up and how they work, which is mostly outta the back door into the alley. What are you thinking here?”
“Just ruling things out is all. I’ll go sit on the house for a bit, maybe later today.”
“I think it’s a waste of time, but do what you have to.”
I decide not to tell him about the hooptie or the two boys at the lot, ’cause that’ll get him worked up. If I ever do see those two again, I’ll fucking get one of them identified, and that’ll be the one that’s still conscious.
Twenty-Four
Damn, this block hasn’t changed. Still rollin’ like it
did when I was working. Couple dudes looking like clowns, riding up and down the street on 50cc mini bikes. About four others hanging at the stoop and on the front steps of the house Al identified. He was right. They don’t look like high rollers, more like orphans. I’m parked a block back, but I have a good view. None of them wearing anything that looks like the ISIS wannabes that fucked with me at the lot. I scan the block with my binos, checking out all the vehicles. More than a couple of hoopties, but none of them match the description of the one that drove by on 9th Street.
The longer I hang, the more I want to hit that house. But I can’t if it’s busy like this all the time. Maybe if they go out at night. Damn. The way I think.
Another boy exits the house.
Fuck if it isn’t Playboy! Sonofabitch.
What’s he doing there, unless he’s back in the game? And after I warned him what would happen if he ever chose that path again. What else would he be doing there? Fucking idiot.
He knocks knuckles with a couple of the boys on his way down the steps and walks west, my direction.
He’s on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. I slump down, try to stay out of his sight. After he walks by, I start the car and pull out, make the first right so I can go around the block before he gets to the next corner.
When I get to the corner around the block, I can see him crossing. If he continues west on that road, he’ll hit 16th, and then it’s only about four blocks to his house. I hate following walkers, especially on these narrow roads. No place to turn in and park, and you always have to maintain a decent distance and depend on your binos.
Fuck this.
I drive up, make the next left onto the road he’s walking, and pass him. He doesn’t look my way. He’s smoking a blunt. I drive about twenty yards ahead of him and double-park so that the front passenger door will open between the front and the rear of two cars parked along the curb.
I wait until he’s a couple of cars behind me, then step out and close the door. I look the other way while I walk around the front of my car toward the sidewalk, try to keep him from seeing my face. I walk a car’s length ahead of him and cut in front of a parked car. Just as he’s getting ready to pass, I step to the sidewalk and snatch him up by the left arm. He drops his blunt to the sidewalk. Smells good. Strong.
Trigger Page 7