Port City Black and White

by Gerry Boyle

“He’s back. Boat turned around soon as they heard.”

  “Oh, well. My apologies to him. Toby something.”

  “Koski,” Brandon said. “I’m sure it’s in the reports.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  They stood as the wrecker driver checked the hooks. There was a Wellesley College sticker on the back window.

  “Must be a previous owner,” Estusa said, nodding toward it.

  “I don’t know,” Brandon said.

  “I mean, she doesn’t seem like Wellesley material. Maybe community college, on a welfare program.” Estusa grinned.

  “What do you know about her?” Brandon said.

  “Just what I heard.”

  “Shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Or read.”

  Estusa’s eyebrows twitched. He kept up the smug grin as the wrecker pulled away.

  “You ID her?” he said, like he was commenting on the weather. Rain letting up.

  “Some of us knew her,” Brandon said.

  “Is that hard for you?”

  Brandon turned and looked at him. “What?”

  “The violent death stuff, I mean. After, you know . . . what happened with you.”

  “Thought you said you didn’t know me.”

  “No,” Estusa said. “What I said was that I hadn’t met you. I read the stories from back then. Everybody did. Would have written them but I was on City Hall.”

  Brandon didn’t answer.

  “You still with her? The woman you saved?”

  Again, no answer.

  “Mia, right? I always thought that was a cool name. So some of us, we were surprised when we heard you’d joined up with Portland PD. Or any PD, for that matter. I mean, when you’ve already had that experience, the fatal shooting and all, to put yourself in the position of maybe having to do it again.”

  Brandon turned to him and smiled. “Geez, Matt, I thought you’d want to cover today’s story. Chantelle Anthony and the missing baby. Not my story.”

  “In a way, it’s all connected,” Estusa said, easing his notebook out of his back pocket, a pen from the other side, like a dove from a hat. “All of the death, the trail of tragedy, you know.”

  Brandon didn’t answer.

  “So,” Estusa said, “maybe we could get a coffee, when you get off your shift. Talk a little.”

  “About what?” Brandon said.

  “About how you’re doing. I know this may be difficult for you to dig back up, but it’s very unusual for anyone to have done what you did. Had to do. How many police officers begin their careers with that experience? And recent, too. It’s not like it was ten years ago.”

  Estusa smiled, his eyes crinkling. His sympathetic face, Brandon thought. The guy was good.

  “I’d love to talk to Mia,” he said. “About her recovery, the two of you coping with the past, and now the present. Does she worry about you? Does she fear that you both dodged a bullet and another one might be coming?”

  Brandon looked away. Flashed back to Fuller, the black blood spatter on the white wall. His cry as the life drained out of him. Mia’s dry sobs as Brandon led her away. He turned to Estusa, his smile still in place.

  “There’s nothing to say,” Brandon said.

  “Oh, I know how you feel. But it really is of interest to anyone who read those stories. I mean, Sergeant Griffin’s murder—it shook the community to its core. They’ll want to know how you’re doing, what it’s like to move forward with this. As a young guy. As a young police officer.”

  “I don’t think so,” Brandon said. “It’s over. Done.”

  “But you must think about it. I mean, when you hear a gunshot? When you see Griffin’s friends? When you and Mia are alone? I mean, it has to be there.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got the story written. Don’t need me.”

  Estusa grinned. “Oh, that’s just the writer in me. I don’t know what the actual story would say.”

  “No, I’m really not interested.”

  “Well, just think about it,” Estusa said. “We can touch base tomorrow, the next day.”

  “I did think about it. No, thanks.”

  Estusa’s expression changed, smile in place but harder, like concrete had dried.

  “You know I can write it without you,” he said.

  “How will you know what I think when I hear a gunshot?”

  “I can talk to your fellow officers. I can talk to experts.”

  “Sounds pretty dull to me.”

  Estusa sidled closer.

  “Brandon, I’m gonna be straight with you: This is a good story. It’s a very good story. An important story. And no offense, but I’m not gonna drop it just because you don’t want to take part. What kind of reporter would I be?”

  “A reporter who cops’ll talk to.”

  “Hey, don’t pull that one on me. I have plenty of sources. More than enough. In a year I’ll be out of here anyway.”

  “Headed for the big time?” Brandon said.

  “Bigger,” Estusa said.

  “National Enquirer hiring?”

  Brandon paused.

  “Okay, you know what I want to say?” Brandon said. He moved close, took Estusa by his thin, bony arm. Light rain spattered the notebook page but the pen was poised. Brandon leaned over, close to Estusa’s ear.

  “Go to hell,” Brandon said.

  Whatever Toby told the detectives, it convinced them he didn’t have the kid stashed in the hold of the boat. The chief, Edmundo Garcia, direct from Pittsburgh PD, called a press conference. Estusa was there, along with two local TV crews, with woman reporters all made up, and a blogger, a bearded guy in a khaki suit and black sneakers.

  Estusa made eye contact with Brandon from across the room. Garcia, in full uniform complete with gold braids and hat, said investigators were turning to the public, as the leads they’d been tracking since the baby went missing hadn’t panned out. He held up an eight-by-ten of Lincoln Anthony Koski, let the TV cameras zoom in. The baby was smiling, didn’t know what was coming.

  “We are asking that if you have seen this child, or have seen suspicious activity that might be related to his disappearance, please call 911,” Garcia said, staring into the cameras. “We need your help.”

  And then he asked for questions, the cops staring at the press like bodyguards.

  One TV reporter, blonde, made up like a movie star, sunglasses pushed back on her head, asked if the police had any theories. Garcia said they could speculate but needed more information to know in which direction to move.

  The other TV reporter, not to be upstaged, asked if police thought the child had been abducted by a stranger. “And if so, should parents in the community be more protective at this time?”

  Garcia said he had no idea who had taken the baby—that’s why he was asking for help.

  And Estusa, moving up in front of the cameras like the TV reporters were his warm-up act, asked if an Amber Alert had been issued. “And if not, why not?”

  The chief said no. At the time the disappearance was reported, there was the possibility that it was a misunderstanding, that a family member had the child.

  “Because the mother was under the influence of drugs?” Estusa said.

  “We’re not commenting on the details of the investigation,” Garcia said.

  “Who first discovered the baby missing?”

  “Two patrol officers responding to a noise complaint.”

  “The mother didn’t call to report that the child was gone?”

  Somebody had been talking, Brandon thought.

  “No,” Garcia said. “That’s not my understanding. Not initially.”

  “Had she been cooperating with the investigation?”

  “Yes, fully. She was very upset, as you can imagine.”

  “Had she been investigated for child neglect prior to this?”

  “I don’t know that there was a formal investigation, no,” Garcia said.

  “But there were complaints?”

  “Again,
those are details we aren’t ready to discuss at this time.”

  “When will you be ready?” Estusa said.

  “You’ll be the first to know, Matt,” Garcia said.

  He started to move away, press conference over. But Estusa called out, still holding his notebook. “Who were the patrol officers who responded to the mom’s apartment?”

  Garcia stopped, looked at him, over at Lieutenant Searles.

  “I don’t know, offhand. But we can get that information for you.”

  “I’m told one of them was Officer Brandon Blake,” Estusa said.

  Garcia glanced at the lieutenant. The lieutenant nodded.

  “Yes, I believe that’s true. Officer Blake and his partner were the first responders.”

  He looked at Estusa. Waited. Estusa looked at Brandon and smiled. He closed his notebook. “That’s good for now, Chief,” he said.

  “He’s a weasel,” Brandon said.

  “Screw him,” Kat said.

  “You’re not on probation.”

  “No,” Kat said. “I’m not.”

  They were in Kennedy Park, after bouncing around Parkside looking for the guy with the bad eye, everybody offering up somebody but not the guy they wanted.

  “It’s like Iraq,” Brandon said. “Turning in your enemies for the American bounty. You want a terrorist? I’ll give you a terrorist.”

  The head scarves were like Iraq, too, but the little girls were from Sudan and Somalia, all covered up as they pedaled pink Wal-Mart bicycles. Brandon and Kat got out of the car, approached an older African man who was shouting at a line of teenagers, leaning against a graffiti-sprayed block wall.

  “They spit,” the man said. He pointed down at the leg of his black trousers, the white glob of mucus. “That is assault. They commit assault on me. I want them arrested, taken to the jail.”

  One of the teenagers laughed. Someone said, “Stupid old fuck.”

  Kat turned to them, smiled, and strode to one end of the lineup. Brandon took the other. Kat said, “I smell weed. That’s probable cause. Empty your pockets.”

  A tall white guy, sallow and sweaty, chains around his neck, said, “Yeah, right, bitch.”

  Kat smiled, moved slowly to him, until their chins almost touched. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I thought you were a tough guy.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Guess you’re not. All talk, can’t get it up. That’s what your girlfriend said anyway.”

  The rest of the group laughed. Kat smiled, turned to them.

  “Who spat on this gentleman?” she said.

  The faces turned to stone.

  “Okay, the pockets,” she said. “The pockets or the spitter. Your choice.”

  She looked at the sallow guy. “You the spitter, Ace?”

  The sallow guy stared at her, silently loathing.

  “I’m gonna count to five. And then I’m gonna smell weed and I’m gonna think I saw crack tossed. This is an area known for drug transactions.”

  They stared, unblinking. Brandon waited.

  “One,” Kat said. “Two. Three. Four.”

  “I did it,” the sallow man said.

  Kat turned to him, smiled broadly. “Don’t you feel better now, telling the truth?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Turn around,” Kat said. He hesitated. She touched the top of her Taser. He turned. The cuffs came out, snapped on, first one wrist, then the other. She took his wallet out of the back pocket of his shorts, flipped it open, closed it.

  “Pleased to meet you, Byron,” she said.

  She patted him down, front and back and inside his legs, fished inside his basketball shoes, big and unlaced. From the right shoe she pulled a box cutter.

  “Don’t tell me. You work at the Piggly Wiggly.”

  Kat turned him, led him to the cruiser. She took the back of his head, guided it under the doorjamb. He jerked his head away, turned and spat in her face, saliva spattering her forehead.

  She leaned close, wiped her forehead on his back. Brandon took the guy by the shoulder, jammed him into the cruiser, slammed the door. “You just got yourself six months, chump,” she said.

  “Friggin’ dyke,” he said. “Why don’t you go find that fuckin’ baby instead of jerkin’ us around.”

  “This is bullshit,” one of the guys said.

  Kat nodded toward the old man, standing off by himself, arms folded, waiting. “Take his statement, Blake,” she said. To the line of guys she said, “You got somewhere to go, boys? Or you wanna go for a ride, too?”

  It was 5:30. They’d arrested a kid for assault, for punching his girlfriend in the face in the parking lot of the Back Bay supermarket. Called MEDCU for a guy who was on the sidewalk at Longfellow Square, depressed and threatening to slash the arteries in his ankles. Different.

  They cited a homeless guy for pissing on a fire hydrant on Forest Avenue. (“Dogs do it.”) Arrested a rich lady from the suburbs—khaki skirt, lime-green sweater, pearls—on Congress for drunk driving and refusing to submit to arrest (slapping Brandon’s hand away). Standing by her Lexus SUV, Miss Pearls claimed she’d had one Grey Goose martini, but then she blew a 0.28, three times the legal limit. At the station, she said Brandon had groped her breast as he put her in the police car. Kat said in writing that nothing of the kind had occurred.

  “Like cops don’t always stick together,” the woman sputtered as they rolled her fingers in ink. “I want my lawyer right now, you hear me? I’m gonna own you, you limp-dick loser.”

  Underneath they’re all the same, Brandon thought. He said nothing.

  At 6:05 he pulled into the marina lot, took his kit bag from the truck, locked it. He glanced over, saw a silver Mercedes SUV, a sticker on the back window: a blue flag with a yellow trident. Like Poseidon, Brandon thought, as he buzzed through the gate and walked across the yard, down the float. From a distance he could see people in the helm area of Bay Witch. Then he could hear reggae music, laughter. Mia’s voice, another woman, then a man, a big hearty laugh.

  Lily and Winston.

  “Damn,” Brandon said.

  He sighed, then took a deep breath, tried to gear up. Stepping aboard, he crossed the aft deck, started to move forward to the stateroom. Mia called: “Brandon, come on up. Lily and Winston are here.”

  He put his bag down, climbed the ladder to the helm, tried to get a smile on, stepped into the lounge.

  “Hey, baby,” Mia said, coming out of the captain’s chair. She gave him a hug, a wine-flavored kiss. Lily and Winston smiled from the L-shaped settee, in shorts and flip-flops, half-full wineglasses in hand.

  “Hello there, Brandon,” Lily said.

  “Love the boat,” Winston said. “We’re ready to move in.”

  “Spend a winter aboard,” Brandon said. “That’ll cure you.”

  “Oh, she’s just lovely,” Lily said. “Boats are female, right?”

  “And the name, Bay Witch,” Winston said.

  “Boat names are so lame most of the time,” Mia said. “There’s one here, Boys ’n’ Gulls.”

  “This is just spot-on,” Winston said.

  “I told Lily and Winston we’d take them out on the bay soon, Brand. Brunch on Great Diamond?”

  “Sure,” Brandon said.

  “Oh, you’d love it,” Mia said, a burble in her voice that told Brandon this was her second glass. “Mimosas on the back deck.”

  “Aft,” Brandon said.

  “He’s always correcting me. Why don’t they just say front and back? You know what I mean.”

  “Heave to there and shiver the forelock, matey,” Lily said. “You are the first mate, aren’t you, Mia?”

  “I’m not the first but I’m the best,” Mia said, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Did I say that?”

  They all laughed and Brandon smiled, figured maybe they were three glasses in. He must have looked weary because Lily said, “Hard day at the office?”

 
“Oh, the usual nonsense,” Brandon said.

  “I don’t know how you can stand it,” Lily said. She crossed her long, tanned legs and smiled. “I mean, some of the people you must have to deal with.”

  “Somebody has to do it,” Winston said. “Brandon stands between us and anarchy.”

  “Or at least a crime wave,” Mia said.

  “You’ve been in the Old Port on a Friday night,” Winston said. “Man, it’s craziness.”

  “Where’s your gun, Brandon?” Lily said. “Your billy-club thing and handcuffs?”

  “I left them below. After a whole day lugging that stuff, you’re ready to get rid of it.”

  “Sometimes in the morning I know it’s Brandon coming down the dock because I can hear all his stuff creaking,” Mia said. “You want a beer, babe?”

  “I think a shower first.”

  “Lily and Winston asked us to come to the restaurant tonight for dinner.”

  “Our treat,” Winston said. “After what happened at the house.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Brandon said.

  “No, we absolutely insist,” Lily said. “And Winston is trying out a new assistant chef, so he may actually be able to sit with us.”

  “Eight o’clock, honey,” Mia said. “That gives you time to wind down.”

  She turned in the captain’s chair toward Lily and Winston.

  “Sometimes Brandon needs a little transition time,” Mia said. “To go from criminals and all of that to regular people.”

  “I’m sure,” Lily said. She sipped her wine, eyed Brandon. “Hey, I heard about the mother of that baby, the one that disappeared?”

  Brandon looked at her.

  “What about her?” Mia said.

  “It was on the radio,” Lily said.

  “I’ve been writing,” Mia said.

  “She jumped off the bridge,” Lily said.

  “Oh, my God,” Mia said.

  “Man, that’s just too sad,” Winston said.

  “What happened, Brandon?” Mia said.

  They looked at him. He told them. Hundred words or less.

  “Oh, my God, the poor thing,” Lily said. “She probably blamed herself.”

  “And the baby was maybe the one good thing in her life,” Mia said. “Guys come and go, her family totally dysfunctional. Drugs and alcohol.”