“This is about the shooting I was telling you about involving the two officers and me,” I tell him.
“Oh yeah. Yeah.”
I can tell she’s hesitant to pull the photos. Just like thugs can make a cop, cops can make a thug. Unfortunately, Calvin still has a bit of thug left in him—or maybe a lot. Hard to wash away that shit, just like it’s hard to wash away the cop left in me.
“You want me to look at those photos now?” I ask.
The waitress interrupts. “Would you like a menu?”
“No, thank you,” Rattan says.
“Anything to drink?”
“I’m good, thank you.”
The waitress leaves. Rattan pulls the eight-by-ten photographs out of her case jacket.
“Not the greatest, but it’s all we have.”
I look at the first image. It’s definitely the angle, catching the driver in the shadows and only the profile. I look at the second one. The primary officer is closer to the window now, the driver’s head turned slightly toward him. Still shadowy and grainy, but better.
“That’s the best one,” she tells me.
I look through the other photos, which include the one of the driver pointing a gun. Totally blurred out because the officer was running backward. I pick up the second photo again. Suspect looks to be in his twenties, maybe younger. So hard to tell. Gaunt face revealing sharp cheekbones. Shadow falls over the top of his head to his nose and chin. Eyes. Fucking dark, dangerous eyes.
“He doesn’t look familiar,” I say. “What about the other officer’s bodycam?”
“Nothing.”
“Can I show this one to Calvin?”
Thinks about it, then says, “Yes.”
I hand it over the table to Calvin. He holds it but doesn’t look at it right away. I know he’s thinking snitch again. After a moment, he looks. His eyebrows rise for a split second.
Did Rattan notice?
It’s like he recognizes him, but I can’t be sure.
“Naw. No. I don’t know this guy. He the one that shot the policeman?”
“He’s one of them,” Rattan says.
“Can I have that one?” I ask, pointing to the second photo. “There’s a couple of people I might be able to show it to.”
“It’s going to be released to the media, so why not.”
Calvin returns the photo to me. I carefully slip it into my backpack so it doesn’t bend.
“Anything new you can share concerning Luna?” I ask.
“No. It is where it is.”
“Meaning?”
“With IA. Most of us have been pulled to work this and the other homicide.”
“Officer Wiebe?” I ask. “You think all this is related?”
“We’re looking into it” is all she says.
“I appreciate the photo. I’ll keep you informed.”
“All right, then,” she says while slipping the other photos back in the case jacket and then standing.
She shoots Calvin a smile and turns to exit.
When she’s out the door Calvin asks, “Why you didn’t bring up about those boys Ty and Marlon?”
“You heard her. They’re swamped with working these officers that got shot. Besides, even if she did follow through and try to interview those boys, all they’ll do is shut down.”
“True that.”
“You sure you didn’t recognize that dude in the photo? Sort of looked like you did.”
“No. I don’t know him.”
Forty-Two
I can feel the drunkenness. It’s not like it used to be, when one substance balanced out the other. Now I feel like an ordinary drunk. I never liked that feeling, but hell, I need something. I’ve said it before: I prefer the ups over the downs. I miss the ups. So, here’s to the chemically induced ups, nothing but a distant memory.
I dropped Calvin off after the late lunch, drove back to sit on the house on Queen Street. Lights were on, but no action. It doesn’t appear to be a drug house. More than likely, as we already guessed, a place to bed down, a stash house, or both.
Damn press has been lurking around my neighborhood, fishing. Curtains are drawn, and the only light on is dim, emitted by the small end-table lamp beside my sofa.
Before bed I check in with Al.
“Hey, Frank,” he answers.
“I located those two friends of the kid. Looks like they’re a couple of drug boys.”
“Yeah?”
“Just need to figure out how to play it.”
“To what purpose?”
What do I say? ’Cause all I’m doing is fishing.
“A hunch.”
Hunch?
“Because you’ve got a hunch?”
“Yeah, because I’ve got a hunch. You talk to Leslie?”
“Yes, briefly. She’s in trial.”
“Anything other than that going on?” I ask, meaning pending grand jury or some shit like that.
“That I should be prepared for administrative leave without pay.”
“Yeah, you knew that was coming. US attorney’s office moves slow, so of course that’s the department’s next step. You tell your union rep?”
“I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“All right, brother. Keep the faith.”
He cackles something like a laugh.
“Talk later.”
“Yeah.” And then he hangs up.
Keep the faith.
Forty-Three
Prepare for record-breaking cold weather to hit the DC Metro area today,” the weatherman advises on the morning news. Unfortunately, no snow. I do prefer the winter’s ear-nipping cold over the summer’s sticky humidity, though.
I fill a couple of flasks with Jameson, grab a bottled water out of the fridge, put everything in the backpack, and exit through the rear kitchen door to avoid any reporters, or someone worse, who might be lurking around.
I find my car, let it warm up, and then drive around the block to check out if any suspicious vehicles might be parked in the area. When I feel comfortable, I drive to Calvin’s.
He’s not sitting on the patio chair when I get there. I double-park and wait. After a few minutes, I call him on his cell, but it goes to an automated voice mail.
Where are you, Calvin?
I wait a couple more minutes, then find a parking spot, grab my backpack, and walk to his house. I give the door a couple of hard raps. A few seconds after, I hear scuffling inside, then close to the door, probably someone looking through the peephole.
“Who is it?” a man who is not Calvin says.
“Frank Marr. I’m here for Calvin.”
“Are you the police? He in trouble again?”
“No, sir. He works for me. Part-time. I’ve been picking him up here.”
“He works for you?” he asks through the door, like it’s hard to believe.
I pull out my wallet, put the badge up toward the peephole. Don’t bother to hide the “Retired” that is etched at the bottom.
“I’m a retired police detective. A private investigator now. I hired Calvin because I need the help.”
He unlocks the door and opens it. He’s wearing a bathrobe with polka-dot-patterned pajama bottoms and leather slippers.
“Sorry. It’s my day off.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“No bother. Private investigations, huh?”
“Yes, sir. It’s good work.”
“I apologize. Come in.” He opens the door for me. I stomp my feet on the outdoor rug and step in.
“Thanks. It’s a bit cold out.”
“Record breaking, they say.”
He closes the door.
The house is well kept. Older furniture that carries that musty, old-house smell, but not intolerable.
“So, you the one who been paying the boy cash?”
“Yes, for now. Is that a problem?”
“No, not with that, now that I know it’s good work. It is legitimate work, right?”
My best s
mile. “Of course it is.”
“Well, he was gone when I got home from work yesterday. Left two hundred dollars cash on the dining room table with a note that said, ‘For rent.’ I don’t know where he is now.”
“Does he have a room here?”
“Yes. Of course. He’s been living here for close to three years now.”
“Have you checked his room to see if his belongings are still there?”
“No. I don’t make it my business to go through his room. I just figured he was up to his old ways. I don’t mean he’s—”
“Don’t worry, Mr.…”
“Tolson. Mackolson.” He extends his hand to shake.
I take it.
“Mr. Tolson, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I know about Calvin’s old ways, so no worries. Maybe we should check his room, though, just to see if his belongings are still there.”
“He doesn’t have much in the way of belongings. Few clothes items, couple pairs of shoes. We can look in there. It’s down the hall.”
I follow him to a door at the end of the hallway. He opens it, moves aside so I can look in.
Bed is actually made.
“He make the bed?”
“Of course.”
For some reason, that surprises me.
It looks sterile, like a simple guest room that no one has been staying in. I walk in, open the closet.
Fucking empty.
“His closet is empty,” I tell Mr. Tolson. “Did he have a suitcase or anything like that?”
“Just a backpack. I don’t see it, though. Damn. This is all my fault.”
“Why?”
“Would you like some coffee?”
Shake my head.
He steps out of the room. I follow. He shuts the door.
“I was really on him about the cash he was bringing in. Thought it was drug money, so I would have nothing to do with it. Didn’t take it when he offered it to me. We fought about it. Do you want to sit down?”
“I’m fine. Does he have any other family he would stay with?”
“No. I’m it.”
“Good friends maybe?”
“He never talked about having any friends. Most of them got locked up a few years ago.”
That would be by or because of me.
“Can you try to call him on his cell?”
“Yes, I can do that.”
He walks into the living room, picks up a landline phone, dials. After a minute, he hangs up.
“Went to his voice mail.”
“Well, he’s not the type to sleep on the streets or in some abandoned building, so he has to be somewhere near,” I say.
“I should have believed him.”
“Don’t blame yourself. Has he ever left over an argument before?”
“No. Never.”
“Well, I’ll find him. More than likely, though, he’ll find his way back here. It’s damn cold out.”
“Too damn cold. He may freeze himself to death.”
I pull out one of my legitimate business cards with my regular cell number on it, hand it to him.
“If he shows up, call me or just have him call.”
Takes the card. “I will.”
He looks torn up. I feel bad for him.
Forty-Four
I don’t think that’s why Calvin left, over some little argument with his uncle. Well, not so little, but still, Calvin wasn’t kicked out. My opinion, he left because of something else. He’s been there for three years or so and has probably had similar arguments. He left his job at the deli because of me, and I’m sure he left his uncle’s house because of something having to do with me. I don’t know where to begin to look for him, or if I even should. I think I have fucked his life up more than enough.
There was a time I allowed myself to get close to another guy. Unlike Calvin, Biddy was addicted to crack. Not a good substance to be addicted to. He was sent to jail, and once inside, he wasn’t using. He committed suicide. Wrote a note to me, saying he didn’t like himself sober and not only that, but life was too hard to handle without the self-medication. I feel responsible for what happened to him. Calvin is different because he doesn’t have an addiction (that I know of), but not so different because there’s a part of him, like Biddy, that’s like me. So maybe I should leave it alone. But then I remember that look he had when he saw the bodycam photo. Is that the something else? Is that alone worth my time trying to look for him?
Shit. I don’t even know what my next move is for Luna, and here I am posing all these fucking questions.
For some reason it’s hard to move on.
I sit in the car, parked on Hobart. The house Calvin stayed in is in view. I’m halfway through one of my flasks, now lighting another cigarette. The car is turned off and my window is partway down so it won’t get fogged up inside. I’m dressed appropriately. The cold nipping at the tip of my nose is all.
Phone rings.
Leslie.
“Hello, Leslie.”
“Can you get to Luna’s house? There’s been an incident, and I’m stuck in trial.”
“Incident? Al okay?”
“Yes. He’s okay. Some rounds were fired through his window. I don’t know if he was the target or if they were stray bullets from a nearby shooting.”
“Shit. I’m on my way.”
“Call me when you get the info from the police. I need to know. Leave a message if I don’t answer.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
She disconnects before I can say anything.
I start the car and head to Al’s as fast as I can.
When I get there, I park behind a Crime Scene Search van that’s double-parked in front of the house. A marked cruiser and two unmarked units are also double-parked near the front of Al’s house.
As I’m walking, I notice the front window to the left of the door is broken out. Sharp, jagged pieces of all sizes still line the frame. I hustle up there, but I’m stopped at the door by a uniform.
“I’m sorry, sir. Can I ask who you are?”
“Frank Marr, a friend of Al Luna.”
“Let him in,” a familiar voice from inside says.
The officer moves aside.
I walk in, notice the familiar voice as Freudiger’s, and wonder what the hell he’s doing here. Al is sitting in his armchair, wearing a winter coat and being interviewed by a district detective. He acknowledges me with a tilt of his head. I notice a shattered bottle of scotch on the end table, a pool of scotch still on the surface. His personal weapon, a Glock 23, is on the sofa, unsecured. He’s still a detective on administrative leave, so they aren’t worried.
Another uniform officer is taking notes. Two Crime Scene techs are in the living room area, one taking photos and the other on a ladder cutting into the ceiling, where I notice several bullet holes. Freudiger walks toward me, extends his hand to shake. I take it.
“What are you doing here, Johnny?”
“Believe it or not, I was only a few blocks away when this happened. Afraid I was on my way here to serve Al a subpoena.”
Subpoena. Has to be for information regarding Al’s source, Tamie. I don’t respond to that.
“You see anything?” I ask.
“No. By the time I got here, it was over. I was the first here.”
“It looks like it was a drive-by, intentionally targeting Al’s house?”
“Yes. That’s what it appears to be.”
“He looks okay. Damn. You think it’s related to the shooting? Retaliation?”
“I don’t know about retaliation or anything like that. It could just be the result of all the protesting and his name and address getting leaked somehow. District detectives are going to look into everything.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“That’s up to him.”
I don’t know the young detective interviewing him. I notice he has an investigator badge hanging on his neck, so he hasn’t made detective yet.
“Don
’t want to interrupt,” I say. “You okay, Al?”
“Lost a damn good bottle of scotch.”
The uniform officer chuckles. Al shoots him a hard glare.
“Leslie called me. I came over right away. I’ll let the detective here finish up, and then we’ll talk, okay?”
“Yeah. You mind pouring me some Jameson on ice? It’s in the kitchen. You know where the glasses are.”
“Of course. But I should call Leslie first. She’s worried about you.”
“All right.”
I walk to the kitchen, pull out my phone and tap to call Leslie. It rings and goes to voice mail.
“I’m here. Window is shot out, but he’s okay, just a little rattled. Johnny Freudiger is here. He has a subpoena. I assume it’s for information revealing the source who was with him prior to the shooting. Call me. Bye.”
I find the half-empty bottle of Jameson on the counter near the sink, grab two glasses from a cabinet and ice out of the freezer for Al’s glass. I give him a good pour and myself a three-finger shot, which I down right away. I think about my breath. Forgot my mints in the car, but who gives a shit.
I bring the drink to Al. He takes a nice sip right away.
“Calm my nerves.”
I’m obviously here toward the end of the interview.
“Anything else you would like to add?” the investigator asks.
“You got everything,” says Al.
The investigator hands Al his business card.
“My personal cell is on there. Call me if you remember anything else.”
“Yeah,” he says, taking the card and then setting it on the end table in the pool of scotch.
The investigator grins, turns and walks to the officer taking notes.
“Can you guys stick around until Crime Scene is done here?”
“No problem,” the uniform says.
“Talk later.” He nods toward Freudiger and exits.
The uniform officer who was taking notes is an older 5D guy, an MPO patch sewn onto the left shoulder of his shirt. He has a scruffy beard, like he hasn’t been home for a while.
“I thought you guys had a unit sitting outside?” I ask him.
“No, man. Sarge pulled that last night. All these robberies and shootings going on, you know. Low manpower and shit.”
Trigger Page 14