by David Grace
“Did Warner fill you in on his meeting with Latwan Monroe?” Virgil asked, struggling to keep the fire in his chest out of his voice.
“Yeah. How do you want to handle this?” Stan asked, though from his worried expression the real question on his mind was, “Are you going to be able to do this?”
“The best way would be for us to wire him up and let him take the meeting with Monroe, then follow them back to the rest of the gang.” Virgil’s uneasy expression didn’t match the simplicity of his plan.
“But?”
For a moment Virgil pretended not to understand, then wiped his face with a tissue.
“If Latwan spots us he’ll instantly put a bullet in Warner’s head and make a run for it.”
“That won’t help him if we have a GPS on Warner.”
But Warner will still be dead, Virgil thought. Instead he answered, “Then what? We’d still have to take Latwan down, but it would be someplace we can’t control. That means possible hostages and civilian casualties.”
“Then we’d better not let Monroe see us.” Virgil frowned then looked away. “How else are we going to get the rest of them?” Stan demanded.
“Maybe we can flip Monroe.”
“Come on, Virgil. These guys have killed 13 people. The State’s Attorney can’t give Monroe a deal so why would he cooperate? Following Warner to the meet is the only way.” Virgil clamped his lips together and tried to come up with another plan but his brain seemed have gone on strike. “It’s not like he’s a civilian,” Stan said and nodded toward the squad room. Virgil followed Kudlacik’s gaze.
Warner was sitting in a steel chair, back rigid, his eyes darting. He rubbed his palms against his jeans, then turned and caught Virgil’s stare. For an instant his uneasy expression turned hopeful, almost like a kid who’s come home and been told that his father has something important to discuss with him.
“If we send him out there wired up the odds are he’ll be dead by the end of the day and we’ll still end up in a gun fight with those assholes.”
“If we don’t get Monroe on tape admitting that he did the killings we won’t even be able to arrest him. We’ll have nothing.” Virgil bit his lip, then looked away. “I understand what you’re saying, Virgil, but it’s his call. We should at least lay it out for him and see what he says.”
“Yeah, OK,” Virgil agreed a moment later. “It’s his call.”
* * *
“What do you think?” Virgil asked after explaining the plan. Troy just shrugged. “You understand the risks?”
“Yeah, they could blow my brains out,” Troy said with a sour laugh.
“You don’t have to do this,” Virgil told him, earning another frown from Kudlacik.
“I do if I want all the money, and I want all the money.”
“Any questions?” Virgil glanced at the rest of the team.
“You said you won’t actually be following the car? Where’re you going to be?” Troy asked.
“We’ll be keeping track of you from a couple of blocks away.”
“How big is the GPS tracker thing?” Virgil made a gesture with his fingers about an inch apart. “What happens after I meet with the boss?”
“Tell Monroe to take you back to where he picked you up. A separate team will stay on the boss man. We’ll take them both down once you’re in the clear.”
Troy thought about that for a moment then said, “That sounds like it should work.” Stan smiled until he added, “I’ll need a gun.”
“We can’t give you a gun,” Kudlacik told him.
“If Latwan gets squirrely I’m going to need protection.”
“We can’t–” Stan began.
“How are you going to explain where you got it?” Virgil cut in. “He knows you’re low on cash. If you suddenly show up with a piece he’s going to wonder who gave it to you and what you told him about why you needed it. If he starts wondering about who you talked to or what you told them he might go looking for a wire and if that happens . . . .” Virgil let the sentence hang. Troy considered that then shrugged.
“Yeah, OK. Is there anything else?”
“When he picks you up–” Stan began and again Virgil interrupted.
“When he picks you up, keep your mouth shut. Don’t ask him any questions. Don’t look around. Just sit there and look straight ahead. Act like he’s a cab driver taking you someplace and you’ve got a sore throat.”
Warner gave Virgil a long look then stood and said, “Wire me up.”
* * *
Latwan picked Troy up outside his hotel shortly after four. He greeted Warner with little more than a grunt and chirped the tires as he pulled away from the curb. When Troy climbed in he noticed that Latwan’s eyes were puffy and streaked with red. Coming down from a jolt of crank, he thought and stared straight ahead.
“Don’t give the boss any shit,” Latwan ordered a few minutes later when they stopped at a light.
“OK.”
“Because I’m bringing you in and if you piss him off then I’m in the shit and I don’t like it when people put me in the shit.” Latwan frowned and waved a finger in Troy’s face.
“Got it.”
Latwan thought about that for half a second then frowned even more. “You messin’ with me?”
“No. I won’t do anything to piss off your boss.”
Latwan glared at Troy for a couple of seconds until the light changed then said, “You’d better not,” and hit the gas. Block by block his speed inched up and when he got to Western he blew through the yellow doing almost fifty.
“Get out of my way, motherfucker!” he shouted at a woman in a minivan who had slowed to make a right turn. Latwan screeched around her then stole a glance at Troy. “You got something to say?”
“Nope.”
“Better not, motherfucker, because I don’t take shit from some punk I’m doing a favor for.”
Troy wondered how much dope Latwan had snorted and smoked between last night and this afternoon. Latwan slammed on the brakes and squealed a sudden left onto Hillside then glanced in the mirror and shouted “Fuck!” Troy twisted around and saw a cruiser’s red and blue lights flashing behind them.
“What are you doing?” Troy asked when Latwan made no effort to stop.
Latwan glanced nervously in the mirror then said, “Take my gun,” and pulled a .357 revolver from under his coat.
“I’m not getting caught with that thing. Put it under your seat.”
“Don’t fuck with me. Take it!”
Before Troy could answer he heard the WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP of the cruiser’s siren.
“Fuck this!” Latwan said and a wild look lit up his eyes.
“Jesus, pull over. He only wants to give you a ticket.”
“How the fuck do you know what he wants? Is he your pal?”
“You probably just made an illegal turn or something.”
Latwan flicked another glance at the mirror then pressed harder on the gas.
“Where’d he come from? That’s what I want to know. One minute, nothing and the next he’s on my tail, and you’re telling me to pull over.” Driving one-handed, Latwan lazily waved his gun in Troy’s face. “Are you working with the cops?”
Latwan’s skin was beaded with sweat and snot had begun to drip from his nose. He sniffled and let go of the wheel to wipe it with the back of his hand.
I’m going to get killed by this fucking paranoid doper! Troy thought.
“I asked if you snitched me out, motherfucker?”
Troy knew that a denial would only make things worse, and that his only hope was going the other way.
“Yeah, sure. I’m a two-time loser who just got out of the joint so the first thing I did when I got up this morning was buddy up to the cops and then get in this car with you when you’re all doped out and waving a gun in my face. Jesus, what the fuck do you think they’re going to do to me if they catch us? I just fucking got out! You think I want anything to do with the cops? Jesus!”
/> Latwan was still thinking about that when a tiny Asian woman in a massive Toyota SUV pulled out in front of them. He jerked the wheel and slammed on the brakes and the Beemer went into a slide. Half a second later its back end smacked into the Sequoia’s front wheel well and the Beemer slid into a three-sixty spin. Behind them Troy heard the cruiser’s tires screaming and caught a glimpse of the Dodge’s front grill an instant before the patrol car crushed the Beemer’s rear passenger door. For a couple of seconds nothing moved and the only sound was the tinkle of falling glass.
Latwan’s air bag had gone off but he shook his head and angrily punched it out of the way. Dazed he tuned sideways, and for an instant Troy thought he was a deadman. After a heartbeat’s hesitation Latwan turned away and began banging his shoulder against the driver’s door. He and the cop escaped their cars at almost the same instant and instinctively turned toward each other. Amazingly, Latwan was still holding his gun.
The cop’s eyes opened wide. He yanked out his Glock and shouted, “Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon!”
Stunned, Latwan gaped as if he had just awoken from a peculiar dream then shook his head and took half a step forward. The cop fired four shots as fast as he could pull the trigger and Latwan collapsed like a deflated balloon.
“Passenger!” the patrolman shouted in a frightened voice, “Come out of the vehicle with your hands up!”
Shit! Troy thought as a host of sirens screamed toward them.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kudlacik looked across the squad room and frowned. Quinn was slumped in his chair, skin pale, sweat beading his forehead, his eyes puffy and half closed. Every few minutes little coughs shuddered his chest.
“Go home,” Stan ordered a moment later, looming over Virgil’s desk.
“We need to get a lead on these guys before they find out we got Monroe.”
Stan pushed a stack of paper out the way and parked his butt on the corner of the desk.
“We both know it’s going to take at least a day to get Monroe’s phone and credit card records, and–”
“The stuff we found in his car could get us the break we need. I can–”
Stan angrily waved Virgil’s words away. “You can’t do anything if you’re dead on your feet. Look at yourself. You keep going this way and by tomorrow morning you’re going to be back in the hospital. Go home and get some rest.”
“I–” Virgil began then slumped forward as another cough racked his chest.
“Jesus,” Stan muttered and reached down to pull Virgil to his feet. “I’m driving you home.” Virgil shook his head and weakly pulled away.
“All right, I’ll go home, but you’re not driving me.” Kudlacik gave him a suspicious stare. “I’m perfectly fine. I’ll be careful, I promise.” Stan paused then reluctantly took a step back. “I’ll be in at eight. If you get a lead on Monroe’s neighborhood from that trash in his car have the uniforms run a canvas with his picture.”
“I know how to do my job. Go home.”
For a moment it seemed as if Quinn had something more to say then another cough shook him and he slowly made his way out of the room.
* * *
Virgil found himself driving like an old man, slowing as he neared each light, scanning the driveways and parked cars for unexpected threats. The open parking space in front of Vito’s Pizza & Subs seemed like an omen and he pulled in almost without conscious thought. The night air was damp and tinged with the smells of gasoline and smoke, but when he passed through Vito’s front door he was overwhelmed with the fragrance of garlic and oregano and baking bread.
Waitresses in burgundy blouses and black skirts scurried between a dozen tables. At the front counter a large-breasted woman with a mound of brown hair wrapped in a bun pounded on the keys of a twenty-year-old cash register, then handed an enormous pizza box to a young man in a frayed woolen coat.
“Take out or eat in?” she asked Virgil once the boy had shouldered his way through the front door.
“Take out.”
“You know what you want?”
“Give me a minute,” Virgil said and grabbed a menu from the counter. He settled into one of the wooden chairs backed up against the front window and squinted at the specials in the dim light. Pizza? Calzone? Eggplant Parm?
He twisted in his seat, trying to catch more of the glow leaking in from the street lamp, then he noticed her sitting in the chair closest to the door. She looked to be around ten or eleven with straight-cut brown hair, her hands folded primly in her lap. Something about her seemed strangely familiar – the shape of her nose, the tilt of her chin, an odd, out of phase echo of his daughter’s face as he had last seen it nine years ago.
If he could, Virgil would have displayed Nicole’s photo on his phone and compared her likeness, point-by-point, with the child sitting a few feet away, but Helen’s treachery prevented that. The only image he had of Nicole now was a police artist’s rendering and his own failing memory.
As if sensing his attention the little girl turned then smiled. For half a second Virgil stared back then he asked, “Does your mother work here?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just waiting.”
Virgil glanced at the dining room and the corridor leading to the bathrooms beyond but didn’t spot anyone who looked like the child’s absent mother.
“I’m waiting too,” Virgil told her, then held up his menu. “I guess I should order.” He spotted the hostess shooing a busboy toward a table piled with dirty plates, and he waved at her when she turned around.
“I’ll have the eggplant parm with a side of meatballs to go,” he told her. She scratched a few lines on an order pad and handed it to a black-haired, white-skinned waitress who looked like a Madonna suddenly come to life.
Virgil resumed his seat and smiled when the little girl turned back toward him.
“My name is Virgil,” he said.
“My name’s a secret,” she answered in a whisper.
“That’s very exciting. Sometimes my name’s a secret too.”
“Because you’re a policeman?”
“How did you know I’m a policeman?” Virgil asked.
“You can call me Jane,” she said, leaning close across one of the chairs. “Are you looking for a bad man?” Her gaze darted around the restaurant from face to face.
“Yes, but he’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Not yet.”
“If I was looking for a bad man,” she said in her best grown-up voice, “I’d look for him someplace like this. I’d ask if they ever brought food to his house. That’s what I’d do.”
Virgil thought about that for a moment then smiled. If Latwan Monroe was as lazy as he was vicious he might well have had meals delivered to his place. If they could narrow down their search to the right neighborhood, a canvas of restaurants that delivered might get them a home address.
“Thank you, Jane,” Virgil said. “That’s a very good idea.” Just then he caught a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye and turned to see the hostess approaching with a large plastic bag.
“Eggplant parmigiana with a side of meatballs,” she said. Virgil handed her his VISA card.
“You want extra cheese or red pepper flakes?”
“Sure, one of each.”
She dropped a couple of foil envelopes into the bag then a moment later handed back his card.
“Thanks.” Virgil began to turn away, then stopped. “Where’d she go?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The little girl.” Virgil pointed at the empty chair.
The hostess looked toward the door then back at him.
“What little girl?”
“The one who was sitting there while I was waiting for my order.”
She looked briefly at the empty chairs then her lips turned down.
“For the last fifteen minutes you were the only person who’s been in those chairs,” she said and took half a step back. Virgi
l’s head swivelled around and he made a quick scan of the room. No little girls. No Jane. Now the hostess was looking toward the kitchen, checking on who might be available to protect her if her nut-job customer suddenly lost control.
“Sorry,” Virgil said. “My mistake.”
Clutching his dinner he turned and hurried outside. He laid the food on the Dodge’s passenger-side floor then circled the front bumper and opened the driver’s door. Just before getting in he glanced back at Vito’s and saw Jane standing beneath the flickering red and yellow pizza-pie neon sign.
She looked up at him and gave him a happy wave. Virgil stood there frozen for a couple of seconds, suppressed a cough, then, knowing it was madness, waved back. Now I know your secret name, he thought. It’s Nicole.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The next morning Kyle Neddick reversed then ran the video again, this time in slow motion. The patrolman stood frozen, his gun aimed at a large, black man about twenty feet away. The degraded quality of the cell-phone footage showed a dark, gun-shaped object in the motorist’s right hand. The black man remained still for a long second then turned and jiggled slightly forward. There was another brief pause then several things happened at once: a puff of smoke boiled from the patrolman’s gun and the barrel jerked up. The driver shuddered and leaned back. The cop’s gun jerked up three more times and the black man toppled backward, his arms moving in slow motion toward his chest. The cop changed his aim to follow the falling body then everything was still again.
Neddick hit the “play” button and the image jerked back into normal speed. Kyle watched a large white man slowly climb out of the stopped car then lay face down on the pavement, arms outstretched.
Kyle played the clip through to the end then turned off the screen. The driver was almost certainly Latwan and he assumed that the passenger was the new candidate Latwan was bringing to the meet. The news said that it had been a routine traffic stop that had turned into a chase and then a crash.