The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  “He’s mentioned it,” Cassian replied, smiling, enjoying Train’s embarrassment at the attention.

  “Best damned athlete this city’s ever produced in any sport— least this corner of it. An’ one of the finest people, too.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Cassian said. “We’re still debating where to put the statue down at the station.”

  She looked at Train again and nodded toward Cassian. “Smart mouth on that one, huh?” she said quietly.

  Train looked over at his partner. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You’d like him.”

  She nodded slowly. “Probably would, at that.” She looked down at her hands. “I won’t keep you anymore, son,” she said, “but I sure am glad to see you.”

  “Thank you.” Train took her hand and kissed it again. “Me too.”

  “Now you git,” she ordered, and Train turned and walked with Cassian back toward the house where Shantal and Jerome Washington lived.

  Chapter Nine

  THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN on the second knock, and Train wondered whether the woman standing at the threshold had been watching the exchange at the house next door. Shantal Washington had aged significantly since Train had seen her at Jerome’s sentencing. Although he’d been the arresting officer, his testimony at the hearing had been muted, and he’d argued for leniency, telling the judge that he’d known both Jerome and his family for most of his life, and that he believed there was still something worth saving in the young man. Shantal Washington’s attitude toward Train hadn’t softened, though, and she still blamed him for the two years her son had lost in prison.

  “Shantal,” Train said, nodding at the woman in the door. “How you doin’?”

  “What’re you doin’ here, D-Train?” Shantal’s voice was full of anger as she spat out his high school nickname.

  Train sighed, realizing that there was no way to ease his way into the encounter. “We need to talk to Jerome,” he said.

  “What fo’?” Shantal Washington demanded. “Ain’t you done enough to him yet?”

  “I think it’d be better if we left that between him and us,” Darius answered. “He here?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “He ain’t.”

  Train frowned at Cassian, then turned back to Jerome’s mother. “This is the address he listed with his parole officer. If he moves, he’s supposed to let them know down there. If he doesn’t, it’s a violation of his parole.”

  Jerome’s mother looked nervous. “He still lives here, he just ain’t here right now.”

  “Is he at work?” Train pressed.

  Shantal Washington bit her lip. “He got fired,” she finally admitted, shaking her head. “His boss said you couldn’t trust no convict.” She shot a glare at Train. “That’s what you did to him.”

  The muscles in Train’s jaw clenched as he fought back the urge to defend himself. It wouldn’t do any good, and it would only make things more difficult. “We need to talk to him, Shantal. It’s important.”

  “Yeah, well then I guess you gotta come back later, ’cause he ain’t here now.” She shook her head and looked like she was going to cry. “Why don’t you just leave him alone, Darius?” she said after a moment, her voice pleading. “You ain’t taken enough of his life?”

  Train considered their position. They had no warrant, and couldn’t force their way in to check the place out without facing charges later. Besides, looking at Shantal he could tell she wasn’t lying; her son wasn’t there. “All right, Shantal, we’ll come back later. You tell him we’re lookin’ for him, though, okay?”

  “Yeah, I will,” Shantal said. She glared at the two officers as they turned and walked away. “He’s a good boy!” she called after them. “You leave him alone now, you hear?”

  Train heard, but he was already down off the porch and headed back toward the car.

  z

  “What now, boss?” Cassian asked as they climbed back into the car.

  Train flipped open his notebook. “I’ve got the address of the place where Jerome’s parole officer got him a job. We could head over there, but I’ve got a feeling that’ll be a dead end. Shantal’s got no reason to lie about him getting fired.”

  “Might be worth a shot anyway,” Cassian said. “Sure beats the hell out of sitting here waiting for him to come home, sweating our balls off in this goddamned car.” He looked over at Train. “Too bad we don’t have a neighborhood watch program set up out here,” he joked. “Somebody might have seen the man recently.”

  Train thought for a moment, and then suddenly opened the door to the car again. “We do,” he said as he got out. He walked up the lawn toward Thelma Thornton’s house, right toward the old woman, who was still sitting on her porch.

  She saw him coming and started shaking her head. “Don’t you do this to me, Darius Train,” she said as he neared the porch.

  “Do what to you, Miss Thelma?” He tried to force a smile.

  “You can gimme that fool’s grin all you like, but I can see the look in your eyes. You want me to say something that’s gonna get somebody in trouble.” She shook her head again. “Good Lord, son, don’t you know I still gotta live here?”

  Train held up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I won’t ask you to say anything that’ll get anybody into trouble. We’re just looking for Jerome, next door, and his mother doesn’t know where he is. I just thought, maybe, y’know, because you always seem to know everything going on in the neighborhood, you might have an idea where we might find him.”

  Thelma Thornton shook her head once more, though less forcefully this time. “Just like the police to use an old lady for information.” She looked at him. “I’d have hoped you’d be better,” she said.

  Train returned her look, his own eyes deadly serious. “It’s important, Miss Thelma,” he said. “A young mother was murdered yesterday. I’m not lookin’ to jam Jerome up for something he didn’t do, but we gotta talk to him. And the longer it takes for us to find him, the worse it’s gonna be for him.”

  She sighed and let her needlepoint fall onto her lap. She leaned in and spoke quietly. “Now I don’t know for sure, you understan’,” she said reluctantly. “A lot of what I hear is nothin’ more than rumor.”

  “We’ll take anything we can get, Miss Thelma. Even rumors.” Train knew that Thelma’s rumors were generally more accurate than anything printed in the daily papers.

  “I heard he’s running a shack down on G Street—you know, the one near Eighth? My guess is that you’d find him there,” she said. Then she added quickly, “You know him, though, Darius. He was a good boy once. It’s just the damned drugs that changed him.” She looked him in the eyes again. “And prison.”

  Train felt as though he’d been slapped, but it was worth it. He’d gotten the information he needed. “Thanks, Miss Thelma, I appreciate it.”

  “If you really appreciate it, you’ll go easy on that boy, Darius. An’ you’ll remember who you are an’ where you come from.”

  Chapter Ten

  CASSIAN KNEW THE “SHACK” Thelma had referred to. It was a rundown, boarded-up townhouse on G Street between Seventh and Eighth—only blocks from Elizabeth Creay’s house—that harbored, at any given moment, between five and twenty lost souls who used the shelter to indulge whatever particular demons plagued them. It was mainly crack cocaine, but crystal meth and heroin were not unusual either.

  The prospect of raiding this particular type of spot was never appealing; by nature it was a dangerous, unpredictable task, made all the more so by the reality that any number of the residents could be armed—and high. As a result, Cassian and Train called in two squad cars for backup so they could mount a full-scale assault on the dwelling.

  They met up with the squad cars a few blocks from the house and parked in back of a gas station off Pennsylvania. Train quickly mapped out their strategy. “Kiper and Halston,” he said, pointing at two of the officers. “You go through the alley and block any escape out the back. Minnelli and Jackson, you’ll
go in through the front with me and Cassian.” All four of the cops nodded. “Remember, we’re looking for one guy in particular—Jerome Washington—we’re not looking to clean the place out as a matter of policy. Detain all those inside until we know whether we’ve got our guy. If you see anything obvious—weapons or drugs actually in the possession of anyone you pat down—we’ll take them in, too, but that’s purely a secondary issue. Hold your fire unless you face an affirmative threat. I want to get out of this without anyone getting hurt.”

  The four officers nodded again.

  “Okay, Kiper and Halston, you two take off. We go in exactly five minutes.”

  The two officers headed out, and Jack took a moment to check his weapons. Like most police officers, he carried two, one in a shoulder holster and one strapped to his ankle. He looked over at his partner, who had unlocked the shotgun from underneath the front seat of the car. “That may be a little overkill, don’t you think?” Cassian asked. “Remember what Miss Thelma said: ‘You gotta take it easy on the boy.’ ” He mimicked Thelma Thornton’s high-pitched voice.

  “If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t disrespect a woman like that. She’s seen more shit than you’ll ever hear about, and she still keeps her life wired tight.” He nodded toward the shotgun in his hand. “As for this, it’ll let the people inside know we’re serious. If they get the idea we’re being tentative, this thing could get out of control pretty fast.”

  “Speak softly and carry a twelve-gauge?” Cassian asked.

  “Something like that.”

  Cassian shrugged and walked around to the back of the car. He popped open the trunk and took out two Kevlar vests with POLICE stenciled across both the front and the back. He took off his sport coat and threw it in the backseat. Then he slipped his arms through the straps in one of the vests. After he’d buckled himself in, he took the second vest and tossed it on the hood of the car in front of Train. “You forgetting something?” Cassian

  asked, nodding at the vest.

  “Nope,” Train said, shaking his head.

  “Come on, Sarge, the city shelled out millions of dollars so we could each have one of these. The least we can do is wear ’em.”

  Train scowled as he picked up the vest, holding it up in front of his huge torso. “This thing doesn’t even cover me,” he pointed out. “It only works for skinny little white boys.” He tossed the vest back on the hood.

  “Let’s not make this a racial thing,” Cassian cracked. “I don’t want any of our people mistaking you for one of the bad guys and taking you out by accident.” He pointed to the yellow lettering on his own vest. “See? This makes clear which team you’re on. And like you said, we’re better off going in with a strong message.” Cassian picked up the other vest and held it out to his partner. Train could be stubborn, he knew, but he generally gave in to reason.

  The huge man rolled his eyes as he slipped off his suit jacket. It was a struggle for him to get the vest around his frame, and once it was on it looked comical, the protective padding covering only a small portion of his chest. It was all Cassian could do to suppress a smile.

  “Don’t fuckin’ start with me,” Train warned his partner, sensing the younger man’s amusement without even looking up.

  “What? You look great,” Cassian deadpanned. “I’m sure it covers part of your heart, at least.” He caught Train’s glare, but looked down at his watch to avoid eye contact. His face became serious. He looked over at the two remaining officers, who were similarly clad in protective gear. “It’s time,” he said. “You boys ready?” He could feel the tension in all of them. As a cop, there were few things more dangerous than walking into a crack house. There was always the very real possibility that one of them might not walk back out alive. It was one of the things about the job that had taken Cassian a while to get used to, and as he snapped his spare gun into his ankle holster, his mind went to his brother. Then he looked up at Train. “You good to go?” he asked.

  Train picked up the shotgun, which he’d rested on the hood of the car as he pulled on his vest. He pumped a round into the chamber. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  TRAIN COULD FEEL HIS HEART beating as he and Cassian came up the street from the east. Minnelli and Jackson simultaneously hurried in from the west, the two cars converging directly in front of the derelict house. The approach allowed them to get a good look at the entire block to scope out any hidden dangers. The street was quiet, though, and they exited their cars quickly.

  All four of them ran silently up the front steps and fanned out on either side of the door. Train held up his hand, counting to three with his fingers, and on signal Jackson stepped in front of the door and kicked in the decaying portal.

  “Police!” Train shouted. “Everyone down on the ground!”

  The interior of the house was dark, and it reeked of sweat and sex and despair. There were five people in the main room, lounging in various states of drug-induced stupor. Two of them—a young man and an older-looking woman—were fully unconscious, splayed out on the floor in a corner of the room on top of each other, bare from the waist down. The other three—two teenage girls and a man who looked to be in his early twenties—were reclining on a torn, stained sofa in the middle of the room. They looked up in confusion. One of the girls cracked a nervous smile and covered her face bashfully.

  “Down!” Cassian shouted at the three on the couch, pointing his gun at them. “Get down on the floor!”

  The three addicts continued to stare at the officers. The young man’s mouth worked back and forth involuntarily.

  “Down!” Minnelli, the youngest of the officers, shouted again, getting frustrated. “On the ground!” He reached out and grabbed the man by the back of the neck, pulling him forward and forcing him down on the ground. The physical contact seemed to break the spell.

  “Hey!” the young man protested. “Fuck! Get off!”

  “What are you doing!” one of the girls shouted. “Lay off him!”

  “You too, girls, down on the ground,” Train said loudly. His voice was more controlled, but he held the shotgun at attention. Both girls on the sofa looked at each other and moved slowly onto the floor.

  “Fuckin’ cops,” one of them muttered.

  Once they had the three addicts on the floor, Train looked up at the other officers, who had done a quick tour of the first floor of the townhouse. “No one else down here,” Minnelli said. Just then, they heard footsteps from upstairs, and they all swung their guns over toward the staircase. Then it turned silent again.

  Train looked at Jackson. “You got these guys?” he asked, pointing to the five people lying on the ground.

  “Yeah, I got ’em, Sarge,” Jackson replied.

  Train nodded to Cassian and Minnelli. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, moving toward the staircase.

  “I’ve got point,” Cassian said, stepping in front of Train and heading up the stairs. He moved with fluid grace as he panned his gun up, tensed for anything that might move or jump out at him. It took only a few seconds for him to climb the stairway and round the corner at the top, with Train and Minnelli right behind him.

  The second floor was in better condition than the first. The entire area was open space except for a door at the far corner. A fraying rug covered the weathered floor, but a few of the boards that had covered the windows had been removed, letting some light in. A good-looking black man with close-cropped hair in jeans and a T-shirt sat on a large overstuffed chair near one of the windows. A thick gold chain hung around his neck with a large ruby-studded “J” weighing it down.

  “Freeze!” Cassian shouted at the man.

  He held his hands up. “I’m frozen, man,” he said calmly.

  Train and Minnelli rounded the corner at the top of the stairs behind Cassian, guns drawn. The man on the chair seemed to recognize Train instantly. “D-Train,” he said, shaking his head. “I shoulda guessed.”

  “How’s it goin
’, Jerome?” Train responded, still swinging the shotgun in every direction, checking to make sure there was no one else on the second floor. “You alone up here?” he asked.

  Jerome Washington shrugged. “Far as I know.”

  “And how far would that be?” Train asked. He moved over toward the door at the end of the room as Cassian and Minnelli kept their weapons pointed toward Jerome.

  “You know,” Jerome replied. “Far as I can know. I been sleeping.”

  “What’s behind the door, Jerome?” Cassian asked as his partner tried the knob. It was locked.

  “Bathroom,” Jerome answered. “You probably don’t want to go in there, though.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “I had some Mexican fo’ breakfast, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “I thought you said you were sleeping, Jerome,” Train said, stepping back from the door and considering his options.

  “Yeah, well, you know. I been sleeping for a while, but I was in there earlier.”

  Train looked at Jerome and then turned back toward the door. After another moment’s thought, he stepped back and reared up on one foot. He shifted his significant weight as he lunged forward and kicked open the door with a deafening crash.

  The gunshots rang out instantly, two of them exploding the wood by the doorjamb, and the third hitting Train squarely in the chest. The huge man went down, rocking the entire house as he hit the floor.

  “Sarge!” Cassian yelled, moving quickly to the side of the door. He grabbed his partner and tugged at him with all the strength he had, dragging him out of the doorway. Train winced as he rolled over, grabbing at his chest. He coughed and sputtered as he felt for a hole in the Kevlar. As helpful as the vests could be, the prevalence of armor-piercing “copkiller” bullets on the street made them far from a guarantee. After a moment, he was sure that he was all right. His ribs would ache for days, he knew, but he’d survive.