by J. P. Bowie
He and Martin traded looks when Sanders marched into the office area, his face like thunder, and went straight to Hoskins’ door, rapping on it sharply. He disappeared inside and it wasn’t long before Sam, Martin and everybody else in the office heard an angry voice raised in protest. The door was flung open and Sanders stormed out followed by Hoskins and the investigating officer.
“You fuckers did this, didn’t you?” he screamed, pointing a finger at Sam and Martin.
“Did what, exactly?” Sam kept his expression neutral as he looked at the furious detective.
“You went to the captain with some cockamamie shit story about me allowing my nephew and his friends to beat on some punks.” Sanders appeared about to implode. “Fuckin’ lies and you know it.”
“We talked to an eyewitness, Sanders,” Martin said. “He told us about the attack and also told us that the night we saw you and your nephew in the park, Kirby had been set up by his friends, if you could call them that. They were supposed to meet him there and beat up on the kids in the park.”
“Okay.” Hoskins stepped forward. “Back in my office, Sanders. You two also. Let’s go.”
They trooped into Hoskins’ office, which wasn’t exactly designed to accommodate five big men. Hoskins and the investigating officer, who introduced himself as Harold Wentworth, sat behind the desk, Sanders pushed the chair he’d been sitting on up against the wall and sat, while Sam and Martin ranged themselves against the far wall. The atmosphere, thick with tension, could have been cut with a knife.
“Ask Mackie,” Sanders exclaimed. “He was with me the night I picked Kirby up at the park.”
“We intend talking to Detective Mackie later today,” Wentworth said. “First I want to hear from the detectives about this eyewitness to the alleged attack.” He looked to Sam and Martin. “What is this person’s name?”
“Rolando Lopez.”
“Sounds like an illegal,” Sanders spat.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Sanders, surely even you don’t think that a Hispanic name means a person is an illegal.”
“That’s right, Detective.” Hoskins glared at him. “This is no time to be displaying that kind of prejudice.”
This guy is going to bury himself, Sam thought. “Rolando Lopez is a hustler, but he is an American citizen. He told us that your nephew and a bunch of kids attacked some of the hustlers, friends of Joey Carter, the kid that was found murdered yesterday morning.”
Sanders face suddenly lost a lot of color. “I—I don’t know anything about that,” he spluttered.
“But do you know about the attack Detectives Walker and McCready reported to Captain Hoskins?” Wentworth asked. “Were your nephew and his friends involved in that? Think before you answer, Detective. There is an eyewitness to the attack.”
“Several, if we can round them up,” Martin said. “Some of Rolando’s buddies busted the fight up, and he fingered you, Sanders, being there and the fact you drove your nephew from the scene.”
“No way! No fucking way!” Sanders jumped to his feet, his face once again beet-red. “You’re lying, the both of you. You’re just trying to protect those hustlers who should all be in jail. Filthy little fags, all of them.” He regarded Sam balefully. “Of course, you would want to protect them, being a fag yourself.”
Beside Sam, Martin tensed and Sam put a hand on his partner’s arm to restrain him. Much as he wanted to punch Sanders on the nose, this wasn’t the place to do it.
“Detective Sanders,” Hoskins snapped. “That’s enough of that kind of talk. You know it’s against departmental rules—”
“And not only that,” Wentworth interjected. “Disrespectful of a fellow officer. You will apologize right now to Detective Walker.”
“Not on your life.” Sanders sat down heavily on the chair behind him and scowled at everyone in the room.
Hoskins sighed. “Detective Sanders, I am putting you on suspension while an investigation is carried out as to your alleged illicit behavior and flagrant disobedience of departmental rules. You will hand over your badge and your gun immediately, and you will leave the precinct until further notice. Do it willingly or I will have you escorted out.”
“There will be a formal inquiry, Detective,” Wentworth said. “I would advise you to have legal counsel with you. It appears to me that you need guidance in how to behave under such conditions.”
Sanders glared at him, opened his mouth then snapped it shut as if he’d thought better of what he’d been about to say. He stood and, without a word, handed over his badge and his gun then, with a final venomous look at Sam, strode out of the office.
“That went well,” Martin muttered.
Hoskins sat back in his chair with a disgusted snort. “So, give me some good news.”
Sam said, “It’s possible we have found Joey Carter’s killer.”
“Oh yeah? Let’s hope you’re right. Keep me informed. I have to write a report on the case and have it upstairs no later than tomorrow afternoon.”
“Will do, Captain,” Martin said. “Anything else for us?”
“No, that’ll be it for now.”
“Okay.” Sam nodded at Wentworth. “Nice meeting you, sir.”
“A pity about the circumstances, but nice meeting both you and Detective McCready.” Wentworth stood to shake their hands. “Good luck with the case you’re working on.”
Chapter Ten
“So…” Sam clapped Martin on the back as they walked back to their desks. “How d’you want to do this?”
“I say I’ll hold him down and you stomp the shit outta him.”
Sam laughed. “Not Sanders, my friend, the ginger boys.”
“Same thing, they’re all scum, but…” He grinned at Sam. “They have to have their day in court so I’ll be good and play by the rules…this time.”
“Of course you will. That’s what we do.” Sam picked up the keys to their car and made for the exit. “We’ll talk about strategy on the way.”
Martin snorted. “Yeah, strategy, right.”
On the way over Sam asked how Liz and the kids were doing and Martin said ‘fine’ and they were expecting him to stop by. “At least Sara and Abe are, looking for some gifts from Unca Sam of course. And Liz will want to hear all about the guy you’re waiting to get solid with.” Martin cackled. “Solid with! Oh boy, I crack myself up sometimes.”
Sam scowled at him. “You are so not funny.”
“Yes, I am, man. Solid with.”
Sam tried hard not to chuckle, but in the end he had to give in, more because he appreciated Martin’s easygoing attitude than anything else. They were still laughing when Sam pulled up outside Grandma Bassinger’s apartment building.
“So, here goes nothing,” he muttered as they walked the few steps to the front door.
“Who is it?” Sam recognized the elderly woman’s voice answering his knock.
“Sam Walker, ma’am.”
“Who?” She opened the door anyway and Sam flinched when he saw the bruising on her left cheek.
Those sons of bitches. He flashed his badge and put his finger to his lips at the same time. “Are they here?”
“Dead to the world. They came home drunk as skunks last night and wrecked my living room.” She pulled the door open wider. “Look what they did. And I don’t have the strength to lift any of that stuff.”
Sam and Martin stepped inside and Martin swore under his breath. Wrecked was the right word. Every piece of furniture had been upended, broken glass scattered everywhere and Mrs. Bassinger in tears.
“Why’d they do this?” Sam asked, keeping his voice low.
“Some business deal gone sour. I managed to get that much before they went berserk. Why the hell they couldn’t have busted up a bar instead, I don’t know.”
“Okay, ma’am. I want you to step outside for a few minutes. Can you go visit a neighbor or something?”
She nodded. “Mrs. Castaña will be home.”
“We’ll come get you wh
en it’s all clear, okay?”
She nodded again and slipped out through the front door. Sam shook his head, watching her go. “Those bastards. Let’s get ’em, Martin.”
They used no stealth, just kicked the bedroom door open, guns drawn.
“What the fuck?” Two surly faces greeted them, bleary-eyed and bloated. The room stank like a brewery.
“Up!” Martin commanded. “Hands where we can see them. Jesus!” Two naked hulks sprouting morning wood was obviously too much for Martin’s eyes. “Put something on, for Chrissakes.”
Sam’s first instinct to laugh died as he caught a furtive move from the taller brother. Somehow he’d got a gun in his hand and it was pointed straight at Martin’s chest. The roar of the gunshot in the that small room was deafening. Martin went down, but so did the gunman when Sam shot him. The other brother screamed and lunged for Sam, who collapsed under the sheer weight of the man. Sam gagged at the combined stench of the suspect’s rank body odor and boozy breath. He rammed his gun into the side of the giant’s head and dazed him enough that he was able to wriggle out from under the naked body.
He thanked the gods that they’d had the foresight to have a black and white follow them to the address. Two police officers barreled into the room.
“Cuff that one,” Sam barked then called 9-1-1. He reeled off the need for an ambulance, giving the responder the address and details of the emergency. He knelt by Martin’s side, feeling for a pulse.
Oh, dear God, please don’t be dead, Martin, please… There was a pulse, weak, but it was there. But there was so much blood.
Martin.
“This one’s dead,” one of the officers said, indicating the brother Sam had shot.
“Call it in.” Sam sat on the floor by his partner’s side, holding his hand while he waited for the paramedics to arrive.
* * * *
He called Liz from the hospital and she was there within a half hour. His words of comfort seemed hollow to his own ears, but she clung to him as she sobbed, oblivious to the other detectives and police officers who had gathered in the waiting room, hoping for good news but fearing the worst. He couldn’t even utter the platitudes so many thought necessary at moments like this. He’s a fighter, he’ll pull through, don’t worry, it’ll be okay, just you wait and see.
They sat side by side, Liz’s head on his shoulder, not saying very much at all while Sam went over and over in his head how this could all have been avoided. Had they been too cavalier, too sure that they could take down two drunks without giving enough thought to how it could so easily go wrong?
Truth be told, Sam hadn’t expected them to be crazy enough to try and shoot their way out. Nothing on their record had indicated armed violence, but criminals could often be reckless, not wanting to face more years behind bars. Guess they reacted like the cornered rats they are. Kill the cops and get the fuck out.
“The kids being looked after?” he asked, thinking what a dumb question it was.
“They’re with my sister.” Liz leaned her head on his shoulder. “It’s his thirty-fifth birthday next month,” she murmured. “We were going to have a party. Have you and some of the other guys over. His mom and dad are flying from Atlanta…oh God, I have to tell them it’s off…it’s…”
He put his arm around her. “We’ll still have the party, Liz. I know Martin’s gonna be okay. I told him he had to be for your sake and the kids…and me…” They held each other as they cried together. Sam didn’t give a damn that all the other men and women in the waiting room could see him sobbing his heart out. It was Martin after all, his partner, his best friend. Until Justin, his only friend, really.
He jumped when a loud voice called out, “Mrs. McCready!” Liz sprang to her feet and grabbed Sam’s hand, forcing him to stand also.
“If you’d like to come with me, Mrs. McCready.” The doctor, tall and reed-thin, gave her a benign smile.
“Sam has to come too,” Liz said. “He’s Martin’s partner and I need him right now.”
The doctor nodded and led the way through a door into a long hall, Sam and Liz following in his wake. They entered a room in ICU and Sam felt physically sick at the sight of his partner hooked up to just about every available machine he could imagine. He put an arm around a trembling Liz while the doctor intoned Martin’s diagnosis.
“But the good news, Mrs. McCready, is that your husband will survive. The bullet passed close to his heart but missed the important arteries. Most of the damage is in tissue and bone which of course will take a considerable amount of time to heal. His recovery will be slow and painful, but he will recover.”
Liz all but collapsed against Sam. “Oh, thank God, thank God,” she murmured over and over. Sam led her over to the chair by Martin’s bed. “Thanks for the good news, Doc,” he said, staring at Martin and finding it hard to believe that the man lying there so still and vulnerable was the same one who just a few hours ago had been a formidable presence in their confrontation with Mrs. Bassinger’s grandsons.
“Told you he’d be all right,” he whispered close to Liz’s ear. “He’s way too ornery to let a bullet stop him.”
Liz nodded and laid her hand over Martin’s, squeezing gently. “It’s funny. The times I’ve worried about him getting hurt…and you too, Sam. I knew it was probably on the cards and I wondered how I’d deal with it…”
“And now you’re gonna have to deal with him getting better. And you know as well as I do he is gonna be one grouchy bear when he comes to.” Sam figured some levity was due and he was relieved when Liz smiled. “You be all right if I go tell the guys how he’s doing?”
Liz nodded. “And I know you have things to take care of, so don’t worry ’bout me. I’ll be fine right here now I know he’s gonna be okay.”
He dropped a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll stop by later and check up on you both.”
He went back to the waiting room and was immediately surrounded by officers and detectives wanting to know how Martin was doing. Once he’d given out the news, Hoskins steered him to the exit.
“We need to question Dwight Rothman ASAP and get him booked as an accessory to shooting McCready. I’ve been over the scene. The old lady’s in shock, of course, but she’s going to stay with the neighbor until forensics are through and I can get the place cleaned up some. I’ve got officers checking out that list of addresses you found and sent me copies of. An officer has already reported in that the owners of two of the houses he visited had attempted break-ins. One of them has a dog that took a bite outta some guy climbing the perimeter wall.”
“Darius Hellman had a bandaged arm,” Sam told him.
“Oh yeah? We’ll have the coroner check for teeth marks. But here’s the deal. We found a shit-ton of cocaine in a suitcase under one of the beds. Street value around two hundred grand.”
Sam whistled through is teeth. “So we got Rothman on drug dealing plus being an accessory. Once we get him for Joey Carter’s murder, he’s never comin’ out!”
* * * *
Dwight Rothman cast Sam and Hoskins surly looks when they entered the interrogation room. A nervous sandy-haired young man sat alongside him.
“I’m Alex Hardy, Mr. Rothman’s attorney.”
Poor you, Sam thought. They’d let Rothman dress in a T-shirt and shorts, but he still stank of booze and Hardy was not happy about it, from the look on his face. Someone had stuck a Band-Aid on the left side of Rothman’s forehead where Sam’s gun had collided with his skull, but there were two more bruises on his right cheek.
“Right, let’s get to it,” Hoskins said. He passed the notebook the police officers had taken from Rothman’s room across the table in front of Rothman. “In addition to charging you with being an accessory in the attempted murder of Detective McCready, what can you tell us about these addresses?”
Rothman barely looked at it. “They’re people’s houses, I guess.”
“And why were they on a list in your room?”
Rothman shrugged. �
�Something my bro was doing, maybe.”
“And what might that be?”
“I dunno. His business.”
“And yours,” Hoskins snapped. “Two of the houses on the list had recently been broken into. The owner’s dog took a bite outta the burglar’s arm. Your bro has a bandage on his arm. What is the coroner gonna find under that bandage?”
“Shit if I know,” Rothman snarled. “What am I, my brother’s keeper?”
Hardy gaped at him then threw Sam and the captain a worried look.
“Okay. Tell me, Dwight, how’d you come by those bruises on the right side of your face?”
“I don’t remember.”
Sam smiled wryly. “Let me help you remember. Do you own a bomber jacket made of a kind of tweed material?”
“What of it?”
“Do you, or do you not, own a jacket like the one I just described?”
“Maybe.”
“And did you know a young man named Joey Carter?”
“Detective…” Hardy butted in. “What has this to do with the charges against my client?”
“I’m adding a new charge,” Sam said, fixing his eyes on Dwight Rothman. “One of murder.”
“What?” Hardy’s eyes bugged out of his head while Rothman stood so suddenly the chair he’d been sitting on careened against the wall.
Hoskins stood also. “Sit down, Rothman.”
Calmly, Sam said, “Dwight Rothman, I’m arresting you for the murder of Joey Carter.” He read the fuming man his rights while the police officer in the room forced him back into his chair and cuffed him.
“Now, where were you three nights ago around midnight?” Sam asked.