“Listen to you,” Lloyd said, “you don’t know shit. It paid good when I was doing stickups on my own. Not till I teamed up was I ever caught.”
“And your partner finked on you.”
“A young man I thought I could trust.”
“They all do it now,” Jackie said. “Especially the dopers, they’ll give you anybody you want looking at thirty years. I was wondering,” Jackie said, stirring her tea for no reason, “if you’d like to say a few words about Montez. How he was seriously pissed off over not getting the house.”
“Sign a statement?”
“Would you?”
“You won’t need my help,” Lloyd said. “Whatever Montez is into, he’ll fuck it up all by himself.”
•
They parked the Tahoe in the lot behind the White Castle and sniffed the air crossing the street to the redbrick two-story house: Art saying they ought to pick up a sack of burgers when they were through. Jesus, smell those fuckin onions. Carl saying those bricks must’ve been laid a hundred years ago, that old-style duplex, bay windows up and down, the tall chimneys, oval front doors. “The one on the left,” Carl said. “See how the brick above the door’s all black? From the smoke. That’s the one we want. Twenty-two-ten.”
The door had been battered in to hang on one hinge, the living room charred and smoke damaged, water dripping from the ceiling. Carl went in the kitchen past a blackened dining table, came back and said, “The kitchen’s a mess, all tore up.”
Art said, “What’s this room, pretty nice? Look at that TV hanging on the wall. That cost some money.”
“All they do in the weed business is make money,” Carl said. “You think we ought to look into it?”
Art said, “Shit, I don’t mind. This guy’s out of business, we could take over his customers. You suppose there’s any in the house?”
“What?”
“Weed. I think I got some Zig-Zags,” Art said, getting his raincoat open to pat his jeans. “Yeah, I got a book of one and a halfs. If we get lucky.”
“Cops’ve been through the place,” Carl said.
“Avern said something like a hundred pounds were delivered by the guy got chopped up. But what’d he say to look for?”
“You was sitting there.”
“He told you about it first. I’m on the phone with Smokey.” He said, “Hey,” looking past Carl and out the front window. “A colored guy’s coming to the house. The hell’s he want?”
“I doubt he’s a looter,” Carl said. “He ain’t hesitating or looking around, is he? No, he could be coming back for something stashed—what do you think?—and knows where it is. Let’s step out of the way.”
•
Jerome already had a wanted sheet folded in a pocket of his cargoes he was wearing with a Tommy ski jacket and a black watch cap pulled down over his ears. He ripped down another sheet—Orlando’s profile on it, his rows, his shitty beard with the bare spots in it—from the wall next to the bay window and went inside, into the living room and stopped.
Two white guys standing in the dining room were holding nines on him.
But not saying a word. Not telling him to freeze or do any of that shit cops told you to do. Jerome looked at their black no-style coats, at their regular shoes and said, “Don’t shoot,” raising his hands in the air, one hand holding the wanted sheet, “I’m on your side. I’m checking this place out for Sergeant Frank Delsa. He’s on the police Homicide and my name’s Jerome Jackson, I’m a C.I.”
They still didn’t say anything. Not telling him to go on, get outta here, nothing.
“Y’all are Homicide, too, aren’t you?”
Carl said, “You know what we are, but we don’t know what you are.”
“Man, I told you, I’m a C.I. working for Frank Delsa, Squad Seven. I came over to have a look around.”
Art said, “For what, weed?”
“There wouldn’t be no dank in here now.”
“What’re you looking for then?”
“I’ll know when I see it,” Jerome said.
Art said, “You getting smart with me?”
“You never heard that? I start looking for phone numbers. You look on the wall,” Jerome said, “where a phone was somebody ripped out. A man that don’t mind messing up his walls.”
Carl said, “What’s that you got?”
He came over and Jerome handed him the sheet saying, “Twenty thousand reward, man, for Orlando Holmes, but y’all can’t collect on it, can you, being with the police.”
Art said, “What’s he talking about?” and now both the guys were reading the sheet.
Jerome said, “Frank Delsa gave me one. Y’all haven’t seen it? They some more stuck on the front of the house.”
Art said, “Jesus Christ, we put him away we could score thirty each.”
Jerome didn’t know what he was talking about but didn’t ask. The other one said to him, “See, we been on our vacation, only got back today. We’re helping out here till we get, you know, assigned to some squad needs us.” He said, “But you can collect this money, huh?”
“Since I ain’t on the police, only working for ‘em, yeah.”
Carl said, “What if we help each other?”
“I don’t know,” Jerome said, “I guess.” He wondered should he ask to see their badges. He said, “Even if you don’t get any of the reward we find him?”
“It’s all yours,” Carl said. “As you say, we can’t touch any part of it.”
19
DELSA WASN’T WORRIED ABOUT TAKING DOWN Montez. He believed that once he did, Montez would see he had to deal and give up the two white guys, the shooters. No, Delsa’s problem was Kelly Barr. He couldn’t stop thinking about her and there was nothing he could do about it, no one he could talk to. Jackie Michaels would roll her eyes at him. “You’ve known her, what, three days and you’re in love, huh? Baby, you need to get laid’s all.”
It wasn’t about getting laid.
It was about her.
It was the cool way she looked at him as she smoked the Slim. It was the confidence she showed in her underwear shots, the low-rise thong and the low-rise v-string, the demure way she crossed her arms to cover her breasts.
It kept getting harder to treat her like a witness. Lying in bed in the early morning, the house still, he would think of reasons to call her.
•
At his desk later in the morning he punched her number on his phone. He had a real question to ask and it worried him a little.
Wendell Robinson walked in the squad room, came right to Delsa’s desk as Kelly’s voice said hello.
“Listen, I’m gonna have to call you back. This is Frank Delsa.”
She said, “I know who it is.”
“I’ll get right back to you.”
She said fine.
He hung up and Wendell said, “The guy that was shot thirteen times …? You know I gave it to Four when you started losing people. They identified the complainant as Henry Mendez. Street name, Fatboy,” Wendell said, “a big P.R. kid twenty years old nobody liked much, but had a ‘94 Cutlass with nice rims. Last month Fatboy and three homies held up a party store on Springwells. Shots were fired, the manager and the clerk went down behind the counter, nobody was hit. Fatboy, we find out later, waited in the car. The next day he’s dead, with all those bullets in him.”
“I saw him,” Delsa said, “lying in the weeds back of the cemetery. That was three weeks ago.”
“That’s right, and now just the other day,” Wendell said, “three white boys are I.D.’d on the robbery and picked up. Wayne and Kenny, both twenty, and Toody, eighteen, all three on LEIN for B and E, assault, felony firearms. It’s this Toody that steps up, the smartest one, and asks can he cop to something else and get a pass on the armed robbery. Toody says all he did was wait in the car with Fatboy. He said it was Wayne shot him. Fatboy was complaining about his cut and Wayne was afraid he’d give them up.”
Delsa said, “Who’s working it?”<
br />
“Eleanor Marsh. You know Eleanor, big, good-looking white woman. Came to Four from Vice about a year ago. She’s working with you now. Jackie’s got her checking with the Crime Lab on Paradiso and the girl.”
“Jackie told me,” Delsa said.
“Fine-looking woman,” Wendell said. “I know working Vice she liked to get out on the street in a little skimpy playsuit and white boots. You’d see her over on Cass hustling the johns.”
“Eleanor and Maureen were good friends,” Delsa said. “She’d come over and hang out.”
“Well, Eleanor took what Toody said and asked Kenny what he knew about Fatboy getting hit, waving a plea deal on the robbery at him, and Kenny jumped at it. He said they went down by the cemetery looking for a crackhead Fatboy could shoot to prove himself, get off the hook. Only Wayne tells Kenny to give Toody the gun, the Ruger. Kenny’s the gun guy. He picks them up different ways, some doing burglaries and sells them. Wayne tells Toody to shoot Fatboy, but he can’t do it. He hands the gun to Wayne and Wayne empties it into Fatboy, shoots him seven times in the head, six in the body. So then it’s Wayne’s turn to be questioned. Eleanor asks him where he was that night. Oh, he was visiting his girlfriend in Clawson. Took her to dinner at the National Coney, Fifteen and Crooks. Wayne stays with that, won’t budge, even though his prints are on the Ruger and all over the car, the Cutlass.”
Delsa wished Wendell would hurry up.
“Now this jailhouse lawyer named Dominic talks to Eleanor. He’s on Four Northeast, same as Wayne and the boys. He says Wayne came to him for legal advice. Said he pumped thirteen bullets into Fatboy, kept shooting even though the man had to be dead. What he wanted Dominic to tell him, would it work as an insanity defense if he started acting crazy?” Wendell shook his head. “They don’t think before they shoot somebody. They do all their thinking after.” He turned to go and stopped. “Eleanor’s coming to see you. Has something looks pretty good from Firearms.”
He turned again and walked out.
And Delsa punched Kelly’s number. This time he had to wait to hear her voice.
“I’m sorry I had to cut us off.”
“That’s okay.” She said, “Listen, I’m working tomorrow night, a fashion show at the DIA, the art institute. It’s black tie, if you want to come.”
“I want to stop by, pick up Chloe’s driver’s license.”
There was a pause.
“I have it?”
“I gave it to you the night we left the scene.”
She said, “The scene—you mean Paradiso’s?”
“You put it in your coat pocket.”
She said, “I have to leave soon, drive up to Saks for fittings.”
“When can I pick up her license?”
She said, “Let me see if I have it.”
•
The squad room door opened and Wendell came in again, with Eleanor Marsh this time, Eleanor smiling at him, Wendell saying, “I meant to tell you—”
Delsa heard Kelly’s voice, “Frank …?”
He held up his hand to Wendell and said to Kelly, “I’m sorry, I’ll have to call you back.”
This time as he hung up Wendell said, “The guy shot in the SUV on St. Antoine? Remember that one?”
“Last year,” Delsa said, “right before Christmas,” and watched Eleanor Marsh looking around the empty squad room, Jackie and Harris both on the street. Wendell had it right about Eleanor, a tall, good-looking brunette in a black suit, the skirt fairly short.
Delsa said, “I remember we couldn’t get a lead on that one, no witnesses, nothing.”
“Let me tell you what happened,” Wendell said. “Two boys come along, one of ‘em’s Maurice Miller. They see the man sitting in his vehicle making a phone call. You like irony? If he’d been talking on the phone while he’s driving, he’d be alive today. The two boys go in the grocery store right there, come out, the man’s still talking on the phone. They run around the corner, down the block to Maurice’s house. They come back with a nine and Maurice shoots the man in the head. They gonna jack the car. But now it’s all messed up inside with the man’s blood, his brains, hair stuck to the windows. They don’t want the car now.”
Delsa hung on knowing it was about to get good.
“Yesterday, Juanita Miller comes home from work, her brother Maurice is eating pork and beans, the can sitting on the sink. Juanita blows up. She bought that can of Van Camp’s hickory-smoked pork and beans for herself, not her lazy-ass brother. She yells at him to go get her another can right this minute. Her lazy-ass brother tells her to get fucked. Instead …”
Eleanor was grinning, waiting for the punch line.
“Juanita calls Homicide, calls us direct. You know how she has the number?” Wendell said. “A Homicide card was left at that house one time we stopped by to ask about Maurice. She tells the desk Maurice is the one killed the man on St. Antoine last year, in his SUV. She’s asked does she know where the gun is. She thinks it’s in the house someplace. Does she know where Maurice is. Juanita says, ‘He’s in the kitchen eating my fuckin beans.’”
Eleanor laughed out loud and Delsa said, “You know what Jackie always says.”
“About thanking God they’re stupid? That one?”
“That one.”
“I also meant to tell you,” Wendell said, “I called Avern Cohn this morning. I think I’ve known Avern my whole adult life. You can’t trust him, he talks out of both sides of his mouth at the same time, but he’s good at making deals for his clients. I asked was he representing Montez Taylor. He goes, ‘Oh, what did the boy do now?’ Like he isn’t on top of the Paradiso hits. I told him Montez pulled out your card yesterday and threatened me with it. I don’t leave him alone he’s gonna bring you in to defend his raggedy-ass name. I said for him to tell Montez to think up a more interesting story for us, don’t make himself so lily-white. Give you a chance to come up with one of your famous plea deals. I thought he’d like that.”
Delsa listened to every word. “What’d he say?”
“He played dumb, like he didn’t know what I was talking about. And that’s hard for Avern, considering the high opinion he has of himself. But that’s the way I see it’s gonna happen. Montez gives us his shooters in return for twenty-five to life. He can be out for his sixtieth birthday party.” Wendell said, “Frank, I’m leaving Eleanor with you,” and walked out.
Delsa looked up at her standing by his desk now holding a folder, ready.
She said, “Frank, you won’t believe this.”
He almost asked her to wait, let him make a phone call first. But she was eager to tell whatever it was he wouldn’t believe and he said, “You tell me, Eleanor, you know I will. Have a seat.”
She sat down and rolled the chair around the corner of the desk to face Delsa and tugged at her skirt without getting it down much on her thighs. She placed her folder on the desk and took out witness statements, requests for laboratory services stamped FIREARMS and Medical Examiner postmortem summaries and opinions.
“I go to Firearms to check on Paradiso and the girl, Chloe. The first thing I find out, two different guns were used, both nine-millimeter.”
“How’d they treat you?”
“Firearms? They couldn’t of been nicer if I’d blown them. I’m kidding. The gun they’re pretty sure of is a Smith & Wesson, the one that did Paradiso. The other one, they’re leaning toward a Sig Sauer. It’s all, you know, lands and grooves, the way the bullet twists … We didn’t get into any of that in Vice. So then they checked out the bullets on I-BIS, and I have no idea what that stands for.”
“I think it’s Something Ballistics Identification—no, Interpretation System,” Delsa said. “Compare our slugs to bullets from other shootings. They found a match?”
Eleanor said, “You know the guy that was shot thirteen times?”
“If this is what I’m not gonna believe,” Delsa said, “I don’t. Wendell said Fatboy was shot with a Ruger.”
“I know that,�
�� Eleanor said. “The reason I mention Fatboy, he was in on a robbery, a party store on Springwells, the day before he was killed. Shots were fired in the store. They dug the bullets out of the wall and put them on I-BIS, pretty sure they’re from the same gun that did Fatboy.” Eleanor shook her head. “The ones in the wall were from a Smith & Wesson. Then I come along and ask about the Paradiso slugs. Frank, they compare to the ones dug out of the wall. They’re as close a match as you can get.”
Delsa had to stop and think.
“But those guys couldn’t of done Paradiso.”
“No, they were already in custody. Wendell told you Kenny sold guns he managed to pick up? I went over to Four Northeast to ask him what he did with the Smith, since it wasn’t in his apartment. We’re in the interview room with the glass between us? Kenny goes, ‘I’ll tell you if you show me your tits.’ I hadn’t heard that since Pine Knob, Jesus, trying to get backstage.”
Delsa let it pass.
“I said to Kenny, ‘Shame on you, I’m old enough to be your mother, you punk. Tell me what you did with the gun or no deal on the robbery.’ He said he sold it to a guy. What guy? A white guy he ran into at Paycheck’s Lounge in Hamtramck. Gave Kenny four-fifty and took the gun off his hands. I said, ‘This guy walks up and asks if you happen to have a gun for sale?’ Well, actually the guy called and Kenny told him where to meet him. I asked how the guy knew he sold guns. He said somebody must’ve told him. The guy did come by Kenny’s place one time before, but didn’t see anything he liked.”
Delsa said, “Just the one guy, nobody with him?”
Eleanor said, “Frank, I looked through your case file and read Kelly Barr’s statement about seeing two white guys, so I asked Kenny if there was another guy. There was, and Kenny happened to sell him a Sig Sauer when they came to the apartment. Then, by the time the other guy called him, Kenny had the Smith and they met at Paycheck’s.”
Eleanor waited for Delsa to ask the key question.
But he didn’t. He wanted to know about matches, if Firearms came up with any more.
“One,” Eleanor said, “but it wasn’t a homicide. A guy shot at in his car, on Gratiot. I had to go to the Ninth to get the report. It’s in here,” she said, shuffling through her papers, “somewhere. Santonio Davis, black male, forty-one, known drug dealer. He’s driving north on Gratiot, mid-afternoon, and two white guys in a car start shooting at him. Santonio gets up to sixty weaving through traffic, bangs off a car, swerves over to the southbound side of Gratiot and gets hit by a semi. Santonio’s okay, tells the police somebody was shooting at him. Firearms takes the bullets they dug out of the upholstery and the dash, puts them on I-BIS and comes up with a probable match to both guns used at Paradiso’s, the Smith and the Sig.”
Mr. Paradise Page 14