Cold City Streets

by L.H. Thomson

  “David, this isn’t the time…” Jessie scolded.

  “Oh? Then when, Jess? You won’t see me, you won’t take my calls…” He was becoming visibly upset, his face red. “It makes me… Ah shit.” Then he leaned forward and whispered to Grant. “Asshole, please give me a reason to shoot you right now.”

  “I ain’t doing shit, man. You got me, okay?” Grant bent slightly at the knees to drop his pistol onto the ground.

  “We can talk about it, David,” Jessie said, hoping diplomacy might defuse things. “But for now, we really need you to phone in for backup and restrain Mr. Grant, here.”

  “I don’t understand,” David said, ignoring her . “I mean, didn’t I treat you nice?”

  “You cheated on me. Repeatedly.”

  Oh shit no, Cobi thought. Don’t go there. Brother is un-hinged.

  “I already apologized for that.”

  “David,” she said. “Please… the suspect…”

  He frowned for a moment, then reached into his left-hand pocket with his free hand and took out his phone, quick-dialing dispatch. “Yeah, dispatch, reg. number 9332 requesting backup for an arrest. Yeah. Yeah… look we’re at Commonwealth Stadium. Upper deck, southwest corner. Yeah, suspect is disarmed and in custody but with potential to be difficult.”

  After he’d disconnected, he put the phone back in the same pocket and withdrew a wrist-restraint, a thick plastic tie reinforced with aluminum. “Now I’m just going to deal with this guy here, and you all are going to explain what you’re doing up here in the first place. You: put your hands behind your back, wrists together. Do it!”

  Grant straightened up and did as instructed. David began to slip the loop over his hands. As he crouched slightly to deal with the shorter man, Grant flung his head backwards, his skull smashing into David’s forehead, the impact staggering the detective, who grabbed out as he lost his footing and snagged Grant’s collar, dragging the crook down with him, both men crashing to the concourse. David’s gun flew under the seats beside them as they struggled with each other, David wrapping an arm around Grant’s throat, trying to choke him out, even as the bulky criminal threw his elbows backwards, trying to jab David in the ribs.

  Cobi saw an opportunity and went for Grant’s pistol, lying just beyond their flailing feet; Grant’s sneaker shot out, catching the gun flush and sending it skittering across the wet cement. Cobi turned in pursuit. Jessie paused for just a moment, but realized David’s gun was just a few feet away. She ran down the first two steps to the lower row of orange plastic chairs, the snow melted off of them by the mid-day sun.

  It has to be here somewhere. Jess looked under each of the last four seats.

  Nothing. The next row down?

  Along the concourse, Cobi reached Grant’s pistol. He picked it up and turned, even as the two men stumbled to their feet. Abby Elland stood stiff as a statue four feet away, her mouth open as she froze in place, unable to act. “Abby, get out of the way!” Cobi pleaded.

  Both men had hold of the other’s shirt, and David tried to bring up a knee, but Grant backed his body away slightly, flinching out of range. David pulled him to one side, hoping to get him down to the ground. Instead, Grant tripped, one foot caught up in the other as he tumbled sideways, over the handrail, a massive drop to the concrete below a sure nasty end. He held David’s shirt firmly, Grant’s weight carrying the policeman over the edge with him.

  “DAVID!!!” Jessie screamed.

  42

  Cobi ran to the rail. David had caught the wall with his left hand and was hanging, holding onto Grant by one hand.

  “Can’t… hold… on,” David grunted.

  Grant must have been close to two hundred pounds, Cobi thought. He grabbed David’s arm by the wrist. “Jessie, Abby, hold onto me!” he yelled. Abby just stood there, frozen, paralyzed with fear and adrenaline. Jessie ran over and grabbed the back of Cobi’s jacket, then leaned her full weight in the other direction.

  Cobi braced his feet against the bottom of the wall, every muscle straining. His shoulder felt like it was going to tear under the weight. Below him, David wasn’t saying anything, cool under fire even when hanging for his life.

  But Grant was losing it. “Jesus, oh Lord Jesus, don’t drop me!” he screamed. “Please…”

  There wouldn’t be much time before Cobi’s arm gave out. “Gonna… pull…” he managed to say. He yanked backwards with all of his strength and weight, pulling David to enough height to get his arm over the rail… just as the detective’s other grip gave way, fingers slowly slipping, one before the other, Grant’s grip sliding loose, a look of horrified realization on his face as Cobi watched him fall back, his arms and legs kicking as he plunged to the cement below.

  Cobi flinched at the sight, even as David pulled himself back over the rail and collapsed onto the concourse, exhausted.

  Det. Peter Carver paced the small interview room, his hands jammed into his suit pant pockets. He wanted a smoke; he hadn’t had a chance to get out of police headquarters for nearly three hours, and his nicotine fit was in full flight.

  Assholes, he thought. Two amateurs and a nut job who’s a serving member. I should just retire. I’ve got my twenty-five in. I don’t need to be doing this.

  At the interview table, Jessie sat between Cobi and David. All three were exhausted, slumping slightly.

  “Like I said, Ms. Harper, this is an informal talk, a courtesy I’ve agreed to out of respect for Det. Nygaard’s exemplary record and at the permission of the investigators with respect to Mr. Grant’s death, Detectives Brown and Mariner. But don’t let me dissuade you of the notion that if Det. Nygaard weren’t here to vouch for you, you’d be talking to my association rep right now. In case you don’t recall, we have to face off in court in a few months. And what you’re basically telling me is the lady we have in the next room is the real reason Brian Featherstone is dead.”

  “Correct,” Jess confirmed.

  “Further, you think Ritchie Grant actually shot Featherstone, but he claimed he didn’t.” He didn’t wait for her before continuing. “And you, Det. Nygaard, heard them discussing all of this, basically confirming Grant argued with Featherstone. But you also heard Grant deny he killed him.”

  “That’s correct,” David said.

  “I read your statement about the fall.”

  “I tried to save him.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Carver said. “And how did you come to be at the stadium, detective? I checked with your unit and you’re supposed to be on stress leave.”

  “I was passing in my private vehicle when I observed the late Mr. Grant entering the premises; being familiar with his notoriety in the downtown core as a known dealer of narcotics, I decided to follow Mr. Grant. I waited for him to exit with his female associate but after a thirty-minute period it became clear he was at the stadium on some sort of business. I then observed Mr. Tate and Ms. Harper parking nearby and entering the stadium and decided that I should follow them, to see if their presence was somehow connected to Mr. Grant being upon the premises.”

  Carver stopped pacing and pulled out the chair on his side of the desk. “Uh huh,” he said dryly. “Quite the coincidence, detective; it just happened to be your ex-girlfriend who appeared on scene while you were pursuing a known drug-dealer. Ms. Harper, have you ever represented Mr. Grant? Or had any prior connection to him?”

  “No,” Jess said. “No, I haven’t. Why were you there, again, David?” She crossed her arms,, the look speaking volumes.

  “As I said…”

  Carver interrupted, “… you were passing by. Right. Ms. Harper, is his version of the accident correct? Mr. Tate?”

  “Yeah, he’s telling the truth,” Cobi verified. “The stuff about what happened after he got there, anyhow.”

  “Uh huh.” Carver took out a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth, a hedge against the nicotine problem. “And you figure Abby Elland was there when Grant shot Featherstone?”

  “The guys wo
rking his neighborhood say the three of them went into the alley together after an argument,” Cobi said. “My source, Tommy Orton, says he heard a pair of shots and then he took off. And Featherstone’s receipts put him at that intersection on the evening he was killed.”

  Carver considered it all. The material was damning; if the woman confirmed it, the case against Paul Sidney was out the window. “Basically you’re telling me I have to go to the Crown with this stuff, see if he’ll withdraw the charges.”

  “I think you already knew that,” Jessie said. “I think you knew this case was going south before today even went down. All you need to do is to go next door and confirm she saw Ritchie Grant shoot Brian Featherstone.”

  Outside of the interview room, Det. Jon Mariner listened to the interview from the monitoring station. He waited in the hallway with a coffee in each hand. “You think they’re being straight up?”

  “You should come in, talk to them,” Carver urged.

  “No… Tate doesn’t know me yet. I’d like to keep it that way for now.”

  Carver took one of the cups and peered at him. “Suit yourself. The stuff about Nygaard just happening to be driving by was all bullshit, no doubt. Not sure what that’s about. But from the look on Jessica Harper’s face whenever he was talking, she’d like to kick his ass. Dunno… maybe he was stalking her?”

  Mariner frowned. “Doesn’t he already have an assault beef on his sheet?”

  “The disciplinary panel cited him for being untruthful and docked him some overtime. But the original complaint wasn’t upheld. The bigger worry is that IA’s going to get involved if they think there’s a pattern of coercion or intimidation. He’s supposed to be on stress leave already.”

  “So we send him home, tell him to make sure he sees a doctor for a note?”

  “That’s my guess, yeah. I’ll talk to the lawyer and make sure she doesn’t want to press charges or anything.”

  “What about the woman who was there? Ms. Elland?”

  “She’s been waiting ninety minutes already in the next room. You sure you don’t want to talk to Nygaard or the other two before I finish up with them?”

  “Nah. Keep my face out of things for now.”

  “Eh?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Fine. Let’s go see what our junkie nurse has to say for herself.”

  The room was identical to the one next door, unadorned except for a table and chairs. A video camera with a mounted microphone rested up on a tripod to one side of the table, its cabling neatly tied off, running along the floor, under the table and into a small junction box in the wall.

  Abby Elland looked exhausted and sick, her pale skin greasy and her eyes sallow. Her frizzy blonde hair was limp, a mass of split ends and defeated hair product, and she slumped in her seat like a pneumonia patient trying to handle a day at work. Carver thought she looked like a lot of junkies when they’re on the downslide, needing a taste.

  “Mrs. Elland,” he said as they sat down across from her. “My name is Det. Peter Carver, and this is Det. Jon Mariner. You may remember seeing us on the day Mr. Featherstone was found dead.”

  She said nothing.

  “It’s come to our attention that you may have information about that night. Is that correct, Abby?”

  She seemed lost in thought, staring past them with vacant, tired eyes.

  “We’re not trying to arrest you, Abby,” Carver reassured. “We just need your help to clear some things up.”

  Her head barely moved as she shifted her gaze his way. “I’m not saying a word without my lawyer.”

  “We can do that,” Mariner said. “We can go that route. You can lawyer up, and we can charge you with obstruction, possession of a controlled substance, and accessory to murder.”

  Carver jumped back in. “But why get into that when we can just talk, politely, without any of that legal stuff in the mix? A quick, quiet little conversation.”

  She considered it and stared at them both, bone tired, her nerves shot and her body fatigued from a night shift at the hospital followed by being kidnapped and slapped around by Ritchie Grant. “So what do you want? Ask me already…”

  “Did you see Ritchie Grant shoot Brian Featherstone?”

  Abby shook her head. “No.”

  The detectives looked at each other quickly. “You sure that’s true, Mrs. Elland?” Carver asked.

  “It’s ‘mizz’, not missus. And yeah, I’m sure. Now can I go?”

  “Just… bear with us for a few more minutes, okay?” Mariner said.

  “Ms. Elland,” Carver continued, “did you see Mr. Grant and Mr. Featherstone get into an argument in an alley behind Thrifty Mike’s, a bar just off One-eighteenth and One Hundred and Twenty-fourth?”

  “Sure. But that was all it was. Ritchie got up in Brian’s face, and Brian told him he’d get me the money I owed him. He just needed a few hours.”

  “And then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happened after that?”

  “He got Ritchie the money. At least, he said he did, and I thought I was square with him. Brian dropped me off at my folks’ place, where I’d been staying for a while until my apartment situation got cleared up. Then he went back to pay him.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know… ten-thirty? I went to bed right after that, and then everything went nuts right after midnight, when you people showed up. I didn’t even know it was Brian until the next day.”

  “Mr. Featherstone was your boyfriend?”

  “Uh huh, yeah. We had a good time. We usually went back to my place.”

  Carver went over his notes quickly. “Ms. Elland, you say you didn’t see Mr. Grant shoot anyone…”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yet we have another witness who claims he heard two shots right after the three of you went into the alley. How is that?”

  She almost laughed as she said it. “I don’t know what they heard, but it wasn’t Ritchie shooting nobody.”

  Carver gestured to his partner to lean back so he could whisper to him. “Go see if you can get a number from Tate for his witness.”

  Mariner got up and left the room.

  “How long had you been seeing Mr. Featherstone, Abby?”

  “Gail. Only my parents call me Abby. A few months. His wife was a drag, and he wanted some excitement, you know?”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “During the Saturday jam at the Commie.”

  “Blues on Whyte?”

  “Yeah. You know how it is; place gets a real different crowd, businessmen, students, bikers, moms. It’s cool.”

  “And he paid for your cocaine habit?”

  She flinched a little at that. “I – I thought you said you weren’t going to charge me…”

  “I’m not, I just need to know.”

  “I just use a little to get by…”

  “Sure, whatever. He pick up the tab for you?”

  “Yeah. He had a lot of money, and it’s not easy making ends meet.”

  “That’s why you’re at your parents’ place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You still owe Ritchie money after that night? Or did your boyfriend cover it?”

  “He covered it; at least, I thought he did.”

  “Det. Nygaard said Ritchie Grant mentioned at the stadium that you owed him…”

  “Yeah… I mean, I do now. But that’s different from three months ago, for chrissake.”

  It had been a few minutes and Carver wondered what was keeping his partner. “Give me a second, Gail,” he said as he got up. He went over to the door and peeked his head around the corner into the hallway, but saw no one. He looked through the small window set into the door to the next interview room.

  It was empty.

  A constable stood near the elevators, at the end of the hall. “You see Jon Mariner go by here?”

  The clipboard constable nodded. “Tore out of here abou
t ten minutes ago, right after the big guy and the woman left. Long gone.”

  43

  Fifteen minutes earlier, as the detectives interviewed Abby Elland, Jessie paced the room next door.

  “This is taking too long,” Jessie said. “If they were getting a straight-up confirmation they’d have come back to us by now.”

  “So what does that mean?” Cobi asked.

  David Nygaard sighed. “It means ‘Thug Life’ back on the stadium pavement there was telling the truth when he said he didn’t do it. She has no reason to lie for him.”

  Cobi sneered at that. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough already…?”

  “I think if I hadn’t shown up there, Ritchie Grant would’ve blown your head off.”

  “But you don’t think he killed Featherstone…sure,” Cobi said.

  Jessie shook her head. “He’s right. Grant was planning to kill us. He had no reason to lie, Mr. Tate.”

  “So who else…”

  “Who told us about him in the first place?” she asked.

  Cobi’s head sank slightly. “Tommy Orton.”

  “So you figure he…”

  Cobi raised his head and gave it a moment of thought. “Nah. Not this kid; too shaky. But he probably thought it was a good way to get rid of Ritchie.”

  “Or,” David interjected, “Tommy might figure it wouldn’t take the police long to connect Abby Elland to ‘Gail’ Grant’s frequent customerand Featherstone’s girlfriend. If it hadn’t been for Paul Sidney getting to the gun before the police, they’d have keyed right in on her. But he can’t move the body himself because he’s a little guy without a car. Probably couldn’t even pick the man up if he wanted to. So he gets help from Ritchie Grant.”

  “It fits,” Jessie said. “Then maybe he owes Ritchie money as part of the deal, which is where the loan from Buddy comes in.”

  Cobi just shook his head. “Ms. Harper, I’m telling you, once you meet him, you’ll see what I mean. He’s a little guy with a whole city’s worth of bad nerves. For true. I mean, he’s young, too. Like, eighteen or nineteen. I’ve seen guys like this; they get dragged into things and events just take over. I’ve been there myself…”