Blood Line

by Rex Burns

  Fullerton frowned and thought, thought and frowned. “Cover? Maybe he needs some visible means of support. Maybe V and N has him under surveillance and he knows it. Have you checked with them?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s what you want to do, then, Gabe. Classic maneuver for OGs: get a low-paying job to explain their income, maintain a low profile, avoid attention so they can operate without interference.” He nodded again, “You check with V and N. I bet they corroborate that.”

  “I’ll do that, Norm. Thanks.” He paused at the door, thinking of something else. “What about protection? Do the OGs provide that as part of their franchise?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Wager spelled it out. “Suppose another LA organization wants to set up a franchise with a different local gang, but in the same territory claimed by the CMG Bloods. A Crips gang, for instance. Would Hastings help the local Bloods hold on to their territory?”

  “Oh, yeah! It varies though, with the specific situation. Sometimes it’s just advice or tactics. Sometimes even negotiations—divvying up a territory, maybe. I’ve even heard of organizations sending in weapons and muscle if a local runs into something it can’t handle by itself. You find all sorts of variables.” He fished for something in one of the bottom drawers of his desk. “The Asian gangs are big on sending out enforcers all over the country. I just got a new publication on Vietnamese and Laotian gangs if you want to read it.”

  “Some other time, Norm. But thanks.”

  It was late afternoon by the time he got back to his desk, and the ceaseless river of officialdom had washed some more papers into his pigeonhole. Among them was a memo saying that Attorney Dewing had called. Please call back. “We have bad news, Gabe.”

  Lawyers always used the first-person plural when they had bad news for a client. If it was good news, they took credit with the first-person singular. Wager wondered if it was a marketing technique they were taught in law school. “What is it?”

  “Judge Coleman says he won’t grant a motion for dismissal.”

  “Why not?”

  “He says the plaintiff’s charges are weighty enough to be heard.” Dewing’s voice paused for a moment. “Is there anything at all you haven’t told me about the Neeley incident?”

  “Why?”

  “Heisterman—that’s Neeley’s attorney—is acting like the cat that swallowed the canary. And I know he had a meeting with Judge Coleman this morning. Even before I could ask him about the possibility of a dismissal.”

  “Everything’s in the shooting report. I told it just like it happened.”

  “All right. We’ll go with that, then. I’ll be in touch.”

  Wager tried to push out of his mind the disgust he felt about having a trial. But he found that he was reading the routine paperwork twice—once when his mind was on what Dewing had said about Neeley’s lawyer and then again when he forced it back to the page he held. So it was taking him a lot longer to get through the garbage, and when the telephone rang he answered it with a feeling of relief.

  That was short-lived.

  “This is Gargan of the Post, Wager. Tell me more about these charges I hear somebody brought against you. Some guy suing you for false arrest?”

  “You’ll find it in the court records, Gargan. Do your own work.”

  “So it’s true? We got Wagergate now?”

  “The charges are not true.”

  “‘The charges are not true.’“ Apparently Gargan had to repeat things aloud when he wrote them down. “Want to add anything to that?”

  “Just good-bye.”

  “I’ll remind my readers that you’re innocent until proven guilty. Then they can celebrate.”

  “All three of them will appreciate that.”

  This time it was Gargan who slammed down the receiver.

  The next telephone call was more interesting. “You the policeman’s been asking about, you know, that John Erle kid? One got shot?”

  “What do you have?”

  The muffled voice was silent for a moment or two, and Wager heard a bus or truck accelerate in the background. A pay phone near a traffic light. “Might have something. Ain’t nothing I want to talk about on the phone, though.”

  “I’ll meet you.”

  Another pause. “Corner of Dahlia and Thirtieth. Eleven tonight.” The line clicked dead.

  Wager wrote the date, time, and place in the little green notebook that always rode in the vest pocket of his jacket. Sometimes it was for memory’s sake, other times out of habit—a clue in case some future homicide detective needed to trace out Wager’s last day. Then he turned back to the waiting paperwork.

  He was at home when Dewing called again. The pace of electioneering had been increasing as the days grew shorter; one of Elizabeth’s meetings for this evening was a potluck dinner at a neighborhood social club, and she wasn’t certain how late it would run. So Wager had gone to his own apartment and rummaged through the refrigerator to dig out a frozen Salisbury steak. He had just settled down to unpeel the plastic sheet from the smoking wad that filled the middle compartment of the little tray when the phone rang. He had been spending so much time at Elizabeth’s home that his apartment had a slightly musty, unlived-in feel to it, as if the air was seldom stirred, and even the ring of the bell seemed to echo a little. In fact, the sound surprised him—not many people had his home number. “Hello?”

  “Detective Wager? That you?”

  He recognized her voice. “It’s me.”

  “I’m glad I found you. I tried that other number you gave me and left a message on the recorder, so you can disregard it when you get to it.”

  That would be at Elizabeth’s. “OK. What’s up?”

  “What can you tell me about Nelda Stinney?”

  “Who?”

  Dewing repeated the name. “She’s Heisterman’s ace in the hole, Wager. Remember, I told you I thought he was acting like he had something up his sleeve? He does: a witness. Claims that Neeley tried to surrender before you shot him.”

  For a numb long moment, Wager stared at the wall. “That’s bullshit, Counselor. Neeley said ‘Don’t shoot’ and then brought out a sawed-off shotgun.”

  “The shooting report says you fired first.”

  “I fired when his intent was clear. Our weapons went off at just about the same time.”

  “Just like it says in the shooting report.”

  “Just like that.”

  “The witness says Neeley fired from the floor after he was hit. That he shot back in self-defense after he had put the gun down and raised his hands, and after you shot and wounded him.”

  “That’s a goddamned lie! And just where was this witness standing when everything was happening?”

  “She says she was looking through a crack in the door of a neighboring room. She says she heard someone shouting and opened her door to peek out. She saw Neeley set the gun down and stand up with his hands raised. Then she heard a shot. She couldn’t see where it came from but she did see Neeley go down wounded. And while he was on the floor, he grabbed the shotgun and fired off a round. Then she closed the door and crawled under the bed.”

  “The witness is lying.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “People lie to themselves and even to God, Wager, let alone attorneys.” She waited another moment. “You never heard of or saw this person?”

  “No. And if she saw anything like that, why didn’t she come forward earlier?”

  “That’s something else to ask, isn’t it? For me to ask, Wager. In court. You stay the hell away from this witness, you understand? Any hint of witness tampering will get your badge faster than pissing on the mayor’s shoe.” She waited until he acknowledged that he’d heard her. “Do you have any witnesses that heard the shots? That can testify how closely together they were fired?”

  “No. The shooting team’s supposed to interview witnesses.”

  “Th
eir report doesn’t say anything at all about witnesses.”

  “Then they didn’t find any. Including this Nelda whosis.”

  “Stinney,” the attorney said. “Think they could have missed her?”

  “No. Because she didn’t see what she says. It didn’t happen that way.”

  “I’ve looked over the shooting report, Wager. There’s not a thing in it that conflicts with her story.”

  “Except my by-God statement about what happened!”

  “That’s right—nothing except your word. Against hers.”

  Dewing was right. The report’s evidence was physical—the place where the wounded man was found, the location of the shotgun, the location of bullet holes and bloodstains. There were no corroborating statements from anyone else. Wager found himself looking at his NCO’s sword hanging on the blank wall of his apartment. “She’s lying, Counselor.”

  “All right But it would be nice to have some proof of that. Admissible proof.”

  “I’ll talk to Lieutenant Maholtz.” He was from the Boulder PD and had headed the regional team that had been called in to assess the shooting. “Maybe he’ll remember a name—somebody he didn’t think was worth including in the report.”

  “No, you won’t talk to Lieutenant Maholtz. I will. You may not like it, Detective Wager, but you have to stay out of this and let me do my job. OK?”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Elizabeth had said she would call sometime during the evening, and if they both weren’t too exhausted, maybe they could meet for a drink after her last meeting. That gave Wager time to drive back over to the headquarters building and drop into the Vice and Narcotics section. It wasn’t that he liked the place that much, but it was a hell of a lot better than sitting in his silent apartment and getting angry thinking about one Nelda Stinney. By this time of night, the section’s officers had reported in, and most of them had been assigned to their evening’s patrols and raids, the younger ones bustling out into the streets with that brisk eagerness of people looking for excitement. But Wesloski, catching up on the paperwork, was waiting for him.

  “Coffee?”

  Wager, learning caution this late in the day, took only half a cup. “Did you come up with anything on the local CMG Bloods and Roderick Hastings?”

  “Funny you should mention that.” The man was thin with a triangular face, hair brushed straight back in a high cliff above his forehead, and a bushy mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth. From across the desk with its litter of papers on top of the glass and photographs under it, Wager could smell the odor of stale cigarette smoke from Wesloski’s clothes. He was glad he wasn’t spending eight hours on stakeout in a closed car with the man. “We’ve run across a couple of new faces lately in the crack raids—they’ve turned out to be CMGs. It’s the first time we’ve contacted some of those lads.”

  “Fullerton says they’re tied in with the LA group.”

  Wesloski nodded. “I got his memo on that. I think he’s right for a change, and that’s all we need’s another goddamn pipeline to the Coast. But I haven’t turned up any leads on this Hastings dude.”

  Wager showed him a copy of the photograph from Hastings’s jacket.

  Wesloski studied it and shook his head. “Never seen him around. Wouldn’t forget that nose.” He added, “But that don’t mean anything—if he is the CMG tie to LA, he’s not going to work the streets, so we’d be less likely to contact him.”

  “What do you have on Big Ron Tipton?”

  He ran a hand up the pompadour of hair and down the back of his neck, the gesture sending out another puff of nicotine. “I’ve been hearing a few rumors lately about him and some goddamn gang war coming down. Walt Adamo was asking around about that yesterday, in fact. But I haven’t run across anything to back it up.”

  Wager told him about John Erle Hocks.

  “And the kid was working for Big Ron?”

  “I’m pretty sure he was.”

  Wesloski clicked his ballpoint pen a few times. “We know Big Ron’s around and dealing. But he’s always worked alone and on the street, always been small-time. Sells eight balls only to the chippers he knows and doesn’t go around looking for new customers. That makes him hard to catch—like a goddamn cockroach.” More clicks. “This is the first I heard about him maybe expanding.”

  “He’s a Blood,” said Wager.

  “Yeah—what I hear. Fuckers’ll take anybody.” Then Wesloski looked up at Wager, understanding. “You mean he might be tied in with this Hastings?”

  “How’s that strike you?”

  “But he’s not a CMG Blood; he’s either with the Three-Niners or the NCBs—the North Carolina Bloods. And he works strictly for himself.” He shook his head again. “Always has been a loner. One of these guys who learned just one way to work the street and sticks to it. Too damn bad it’s a good way for him.” Wesloski added, “We tried to turn one of his customers once—use him as a witness against Tipton. Somebody, and we know damn well who that somebody was, tore the poor bastard apart before he could testify. I mean wrecked him—crippled, scrambled brain, just about beat him to death. Tipton’s customers know damn well what’ll happen to them if they fink.”

  “Could the CMGs want to move in on him?”

  “Always possible.” Gang affiliations, both group and individual, were shifting and transient; today’s Blood often became tomorrow’s Crip after a squabble among the bros. “Let me talk to a few people, see what I can sniff out.”

  It was the best he’d be able to do for now; Wager thanked Wesloski and dropped by his now silent office. Since the Homicide section had been put on day shift as a way of saving money, the only detectives to use it at night were the duty standbys called in for a new shooting. Apparently that hadn’t happened yet tonight; all the desks were empty. The Assault section, whose offices were in another corner of the Crimes Against Persons wing, were busy day and night, and from their direction came the mechanical chatter of radios and a television, mingling with the warble of telephones.

  He only intended to check his home telephone recorder—Elizabeth might have called by now—but a couple of switches was all it took to access the CCIC. He typed in the name Nelda Stinney and everything else about her that he knew—which was her sex. This time was a busy time for the central files, and the computer asked him to Please Wait. He did, filling the time by calling his home phone and punching in the codes that relayed his messages. There was only one. Elizabeth’s tired voice said she would be home by ten. The CCIC was still clogged with traffic; Wager turned on another computer and sent the same name to the National Crime Information Center. Their answer came back quickly: No Record. When, finally, the Colorado files gave him the same message, he headed back across town.

  Elizabeth looked as tired as she had sounded. The flesh under her eyes was puffy with weariness, and the wrinkles by her eyes and mouth that were usually faint were now dark lines. She had already taken a bath and was wrapped in a terry-cloth robe that mashed comfortably against Wager’s chest. The faint perfume of soap and shampoo mingled with the fragrance of skin still warm from soaking in the hot water.

  She didn’t think Wager smelled as nice. “Phoo! Where have you been?”

  “Talking to a chimney.”

  She told him about Dewing’s message, and he told her about Wesloski.

  “But what would your cousin have to do with something like that?”

  Wager had asked himself the same question and had come up with half a dozen answers, none of them satisfactory. “Maybe Julio saw or heard something. I don’t think he was actually involved in anything, not like John Erle. I don’t have any evidence for it—he wasn’t out on the streets, he didn’t throw around any money, none of his acquaintances even hinted that he might be dealing. But someone was after him for something, and they got him.”

  “But so far there’s no demonstrated tie between the two killings, Gabe. It’s merely a post hoc argument.”

  Whatever the hell that
was. “It’s just a theory, Elizabeth. I’m not building the whole damn case on it. I’m just asking what-ifs.”

  “Don’t get huffy. If you don’t like my ideas, don’t ask for them. God knows, I have other things to think about.”

  Wager was tired too. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet, and he felt the familiar edginess that always grated across his nerves when a case—or this time two cases—didn’t move as fast as he wanted them to. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I have a hard time letting go of work.”

  She smiled wryly. “So I’ve noticed.” Then she added, “And so do I.” She pulled his arm, leading him to the couch, and curled up beside him. “So let’s both let go. Let’s just be together for a few minutes. No talk.”

  Slowly, he felt the rigidity ease out of his spine and neck as the warmth of her body spread into his. Beneath his arm, she sighed deeply and nudged closer, and Wager, eyes closed, let himself drift into a comfortable darkness. “This—”

  “Shhh!”

  Not a word. Just silence and touch. Warmth, softness, union. But it could only last so long. “I’ve got to go, Elizabeth.”

  “Go?” Sleepily. “Where?”

  “Somebody wants to tell me something about John Erle.” He sighed and slowly unfolded his arm from her shoulders. “I’m supposed to be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake—there is truly no rest for the weary.” She blinked and yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I was almost asleep.”

  He stood, pulling his coat on over his holster and pistol. “Best thing for you. You go on and get some rest—I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be in the Transportation Committee meeting until noon.”

  “Call you then—maybe we can have lunch together.”

  He could still smell her perfume and feel the softness of her lips and tongue against his as he guided the Camaro toward the north side of the city. Thirtieth Avenue ran parallel and a block south of Martin Luther King Boulevard, and he made good time on the almost empty street, even managing to catch a green at Colorado Boulevard’s long light. Then he began reading the street signs for Dahlia. Double alphabet in this part of town: Bellaire, Birch, Clermont, Cherry, Dexter … He turned right at Dahlia, slowing to a cruise through the quiet intersection a block down the street. The lingering warm sensation of being with Elizabeth was gone now, replaced by a close study of the neighborhood. The orange sodium light up in the leafy branches showed all four corners empty. Silent homes filled three, and on the southwest corner loomed the dark box of Stedman Elementary School, a large square of freshly painted but shadowy walls, fenced playground, closed windows giving watery reflections of the slow passage of his headlights. Circling the block, he crossed the intersection from west to east; still nothing. His watch said 10:23. Wager circled the area on the surrounding streets, checking parked cars and peering into the shadows of nearby shrubbery and hedges; then he came back to the intersection from the south and coasted to the curb to stop where the streetlight shone brightest.