Fuckin’ A.
“You be good, Frankie,” she says.
“And you stay safe in your new job, Darling.”
She turns and walks back to the car. Eman waits for her to get in the front passenger seat, and then he gets in. It’s all good. She doesn’t know that I know where to find her.
I continue watching the video, but step back to let her car pass me. I watch Eman drive slowly by my car and out of the lot.
Those boys aren’t in the fucking wind. They’re in the river’s current.
I pause the recording and walk back to the car.
I turn it back on when I get in, and Calvin and I watch the whole event unfold, but in real time.
We keep watching, and when I hear Calvin in the background of the recording yelling something inaudible to Rule, the camera is still focused on me as I try to get myself off the ground, like he wanted a good angle when Rule shoots me at close range. That’s when I hear Ty clearly, saying, We need to roll out, Rule. It’s mostly inaudible, but you can hear Rule off camera saying something about calling him out.
Calvin’s voice is heard in the background, yelling something hard to understand. Ty is too far away. That’s when the camera goes blurry, like Ty is moving it too fast, and then all we see is pavement. Darkness after that, but with sound, like he shoved it in a pocket, and then only the sound of him running, and then it stops recording.
“That’s the shit,” I say.
“That what you all mean by ‘the shit’?”
“Oh yeah. This clears the fuck outta us, brother.”
I give Calvin a slap on the back. He smiles a big smile.
I tap on the video before this one. It shows a close-up of Rule, face all bright, and I realize it’s because it’s from a marked cruiser’s spotlight bouncing off the interior rearview mirror.
“Stay cool, y’all. Stay cool. You get all this, Marlon? You get all this shit?” Rule asks, keeping his eyes focused on the exterior mirror, probably watching the officers approach.
I stop the video.
“Why you do that?”
“’Cause this ain’t for our eyes. I’ve seen enough of this kinda shit in the academy. It’s different now.”
“I should watch it, though,” he says, like he is reverting back to who he was.
“This is real, not some staged YouTube shit. You feel me?”
“Yeah,” he says, like he’s embarrassed.
I scroll the screen, getting a quick look at all the images, until I land on one that looks like the side of a trailer. I tap it, then press Play.
It shows the scene in front of whoever is walking, like a handheld, gravel on the ground, construction trailers in the foreground. It’s the lot, and I’m afraid to watch, but this one we have to.
“This looks like this place. In fact, right over there,” Calvin says, pointing to a trailer about twenty yards to the side of the two trailers Tamie was parked between, and where we used to always park.
The camera pans left, shows Marlon and Ty walking side by side. Ty smiles at the camera.
“We gonna catch this shit now, Taytay. Be some good action,” Ty says to the camera.
“Play it smart, boy,” Marlon says. “This is business now. So shut the fuck up.”
Camera pans back as they get to the trailer. It’s focused on the back tire of the large trailer.
“They parked on the other side of that one there,” a voice that sounds like Marlon says.
The camera pans up, and whoever is holding it steps out to show the other trailer.
“You move on up, real stealthlike, get them both in the car. That’s fucking all we need.”
“I got it,” an unfamiliar younger voice says.
“So fucking do it,” I think Ty says.
Calvin and I are glued. Silent. He can’t be feeling what I’m feeling, though.
The one holding the camera turns, gets another shot of Ty and Marlon, as they’re leaning down, looking under the trailer toward the other one.
Forward again, as he steps closer.
Fuck. We can make out the rear of what appears to be Luna’s cruiser.
Moving a little closer, and there’s Luna with a cigar. He turns, the kid still stepping forward, like he’s trying to get a better angle.
Al draws his weapon, yelling several commands to drop the gun. The stupid kid walks forward a couple more steps, says, “This ain’t no gun.”
Al yells again, then several flashes from the muzzle of his weapon. Camera falls, still recording.
“Fuck, man,” Calvin blurts out. “Fuck. He ain’t have no gun. Fuck.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I say.
“Get the fucking phone!” one of the boys yells. Someone scooting along the gravel, and a hand scoops up the phone and it goes blank.
Eighty-One
Al pours Leslie a couple shots of scotch.
“That’s too much,” she says.
He ignores her.
Leslie’s not smiling. She looks distraught, almost like she’s been crying. What the fuck? She just saw what we saw, and now we have to show it to Al.
He turns to me and Calvin sitting on the sofa, both of us at either end again. He pours me a nice double. Offers some to Calvin.
“No, man. I can’t get used to that stuff. Sorry,” he says.
“We’ll convert you soon enough. Want some lemonade, then?”
“That’s all right.”
“Joking. I don’t have lemonade.”
Al sits in the armchair.
“So, you got something?”
I don’t respond.
“What’s the matter, Frankie? You okay?” he asks.
“Tired.”
“They recovered some evidence, Al.”
“For the shooting?”
“Yes,” she says. “The shooting was recorded on a smartphone.”
“Well, that’s fucking good news. That means there were some of his boys there, and they took the gun from the scene.”
“No, Al,” she says calmly. “There were two of his boys on the scene, but all they were there for was to capture a recording of you with your CI. She was burned, and they were part of a fucking bad crew she was working with, and they wanted to get the both of you together.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The boy had a cell phone, not a gun.”
“Fuck you all. He had a gun. Show it to me.”
I look at Leslie. She nods. I take the phone out, open it to the video, and show him, holding it in the palm of my hand close enough so he can see.
He watches intently, holding his glass of scotch and taking an occasional sip. When it comes to that moment in the recording, his face drops, along with the glass. It hits the floor, but doesn’t break, only spills the contents.
Al drops his head between his knees. “No. That can’t be. It was a fucking gun.”
“Listen to me, Al. These were some crazy motherfuckers. We got them recording the shooting of those officers on Twelfth and the other officer who was flat-out executed in his car.”
“I shot a fucking little kid holding a cell phone. Why didn’t he fucking drop it? I told him to drop it.”
“Al, you might be okay on this,” Leslie says.
“Okay? How the fuck am I gonna be okay?”
“There are several similar cases, and the officers didn’t go to jail,” Leslie says.
“It’s all about your level of fear,” I say. “In your head it was a gun. It was more than twenty yards away. The phone was black.”
“It was a fucking cell phone. Clear as day on that video.”
“We’ll fight this, Al.”
“No. Just get rid of the phone, and then we’ll fight it.”
“We can’t do that,” Leslie says. “This also involves those officers who were shot, two of them murdered.”
“Leslie’s right, Al. And I don’t think you’ll go to jail on this,” I say.
“How the fuck do you know?”
“Re
member the officer who shot the old man when he pulled out his wallet too fast?”
“Am I supposed to laugh?”
“You have Leslie. You’re going to fight this. You’re a good cop, a great detective with a perfect record. It probably won’t even make it past the grand jury, after they see what Calvin and I saw on there. I couldn’t even watch. Can you imagine how that’s going to affect those civilians on the grand jury? Listen, I’m going to drop Calvin off and come back and stay here with you, brother.”
“I don’t need you to stay here.”
Fucking worried he’s gonna kill himself.
“You stay here with him, Leslie, all right? I have to get Calvin home.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
Al doesn’t say anything. He keeps his head tucked between his knees. I think he’s sobbing.
I take Calvin home.
“I seen a lot of bad shootings on the TV,” Calvin says in the car. “Lot of those cops get off.”
“There are bad shootings. There are also justified shootings. I told you that before. Unless you walk in their shoes when it happens, you don’t know shit.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m not mad at you, man. We have a job, and you did good on this one.”
“Working tomorrow, then?”
“I’ll be here by eleven a.m.”
He grabs his pack and steps out. He limps along the sidewalk. Must’ve been all that sitting.
Eighty-Two
I release the phone to Leslie so she can turn it over to Detective Rattan.
Al’s reclined in the armchair, sleeping. Leslie put a blanket over him. I walk her to the door to let her out.
“He’ll be okay.”
“I know. He’s got you.” She wraps her arms around me, and I hug her back. She lets go.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” she says.
“Okay. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I step out to the porch, watch her walk to her car parked across the street, get in, and start it. She waves, then pulls out and drives.
I shut the door and lock it behind me. Double-check to make sure.
I head to the living room, undress to my boxer shorts, T-shirt, and socks, sit on the sofa to finish my scotch.
I don’t wake up to drool on the cushion and the side of my face, because I didn’t sleep. Someone knocks on the door. I check the time.
Fucking 8:00 a.m.
Al’s still sleeping. Snoring. I grab my pants, put them on and walk to the door, and look out the peephole. It’s Leslie.
I unlock the door and let her in.
“It’s like you just left,” I say.
“That’s how it works when you get older.”
“I ain’t old.”
She takes her coat off, wraps it over a wooden chair.
“You call Detective Rattan?” I ask.
“Yes. I’m driving Al to VCU.”
“I don’t think it’s called VCU anymore.”
“I’m driving him there and giving her this phone. I will tell her it was turned over to you by a source, right?”
“Yeah, and I’m fucking gonna get that source to talk.”
“That would work to your benefit. Wouldn’t want them to think you got it some other way.”
“I didn’t, Leslie. That’s the truth.”
“I’m going to make coffee. You want some?”
“No. I’ll get some on the way home. I need to change. Call me after you meet. Let me know.”
“I will.”
She goes into the kitchen to make coffee. I look at Al, still sleeping. Hope she lets him sleep for a while longer.
When I get home, I shower, shave, even brush my teeth. I dress in an older suit and finish my second cup of coffee, which doesn’t do anything to perk me up.
When it’s time, I make my way to pick up Calvin, double-park like I always do. He’s not out like he usually is, though. I check the time. It’s after eleven. I’ll give him a few and then knock on his door.
A few minutes later his door opens, and Calvin steps out.
“Shit,” I say to myself.
He’s dressed in what looks like a tailored navy-blue suit, white shirt, dark-blue tie, and black overcoat. He’s shouldering his pack.
He hustles to the car and gets in.
“Look at you. Fuck. You’re the man.”
“I ain’t the man. I just got a good job and want to look the part.”
“Well, that you do, partner.”
He sits down.
“When did you get that?”
“Couple days ago. Just didn’t feel comfortable wearing it for some reason, until now.”
“You look damn good in it.”
“I don’t roll that way, so don’t go thinking anything.”
“Never crossed my mind.”
“What do we got today?”
“Finish this job.”
“Thought it was finished.”
“No. Cordell sure as fuck ain’t finished, and I don’t know, but I’m thinking your pops might be okay with that.”
“Hell, I know I’m good with that. Now more than ever.”
We roll out. I slide down the window, get some of the cold winter air to slap my face. See if that works.
Acknowledgments
Big thank-you to all the bookstores and libraries that have been there for me. There are too many to list, but I would like to give a special shout-out to my friends Eileen McGervey, Terry Nebeker, and Lelia Nebeker at One More Page Books in Arlington, Virginia, who were there from the start; Laurie Gillman at East City Bookshop, Washington, DC; everyone at Politics and Prose, Washington, DC; Kelly Justice at Fountain Bookstore, Richmond, Virginia; Otto Penzler and my rum buddy, Thomas Wickersham, at Mysterious Bookshop, New York City; my compadre in music, Patrick Millikin, at Poison Pen Bookstore, Scottsdale, Arizona; the man of mystery Scott Montgomery at Book People–Mystery People, Austin, Texas; Mystery Mike Bursaw and Virginia and John at VJ Books, on the Web.
A special thanks to my friend Jacques Filippi, who brought it all together for me in Quebec City, when Frank Marr was just an idea and I made it through my first panel; Bill Stankey, for all his encouragement throughout the years and for introducing me to Hunter S. Thompson; my Mulholland writing family, especially Chris (Cordell) Holm, Owen Laukkanen, Joe Ide, and William Shaw.
Thank you, Peggy Freudenthal, production editor at Little, Brown/Hachette Book Group, for cleaning up the books and providing such great copy editors.
For my brothers and sisters at the Metropolitan Police Department, Washington, DC, both active and retired. Stay safe and fight the good fight.
The Frank Marr trilogy would not exist if it were not for my incredible agents, Deborah Schneider and Jane Gelfman, and my equally incredible editor, Josh Kendall, at Mulholland Books, who knows Frank Marr as well as I do.
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About the Author
David Swinson is a retired police detective, having served sixteen years with the Washington, DC, Metropolitan Police Department. Before joining the DC police, Swinson was a record store owner in Seal Beach, California, a punk rock–alternative concert promoter in Long Beach, California, and a music video producer and independent filmmaker in Los Angeles. Swinson lives in northern Virginia with his wife, daughter, bullmastiff, and Staffordshire terrier.
Follow him on Twitter @casejackets or visit his website at www.davidswinson.com.
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