by Robert Greer
Their only other real conversation during their meal had come when Connie Eastland had called his cell phone. His responses to her questions, responses he now regretted, had been terse. A mere “Yep,” “Nope,” and “We've already discussed that” were all he'd said before hanging up. As he'd slipped his cell phone back onto his belt, he'd eyed Damion and said with a shake of his head, “Women. Can't live without ’em; can't live with ’em. What kinda choice is that?”
Damion's response had been a noncommittal half-nod. Moments later, they'd each packed up generous slices of sweet-potato pie, Mae's signature dessert, scooted from behind the table, and, tapping clenched fists together as had been their custom since their early teens, headed for the exit.
When Damion had indicated that he was heading across town to his girlfriend, Niki Estaban's, apartment to spend the night, Shandell had sighed and said, “Like I said. With ’em or without ’em,” before adding with a hesitant shrug, “Guess I should go over to Connie's and patch things up.”
They'd said their good-byes with Damion convinced that the reason for Shandell's meal-time despondency and earlier lack of effort on the court had been initiated by Connie Eastland and Shandell trying his best to remember the last time he'd flat-out lied to his best friend.
Twilight was fading when a jittery Shandell slipped out of his Range Rover and punched the door-lock button on the keyless remote. The remote's chirp seemed to further unsettle him. The forlorn-looking courts, still wet from the earlier rain, were empty, and there was no one in sight. Taking that as a good sign, Shandell walked east on Kentucky Avenue toward the courts with a renewed sense of calm, feeling that he had nothing to fear—that it was the man he was meeting who should be afraid. After all, it was that person who had started the cascade that had led them to the current showdown.
As he pulled back the sleeve of his Windbreaker to check his watch, he realized that it was already ten minutes past seven. He thought about making a phone call to see if the other man had backed out, but before he could reach for his cell phone, he saw someone step out from behind the court's north-facing backboard support.
“SOB showed,” he muttered.
The person awaiting him was a small wisp of a white man with thinning hair, bulging eyes, and the vaguest hint of a mustache. He was dressed in a rumpled light-beige summer-weight suit with an unmistakable mustard stain just above the buttonhole of the right lapel. The most remarkable thing about the man, at least in Shandell's eyes, was the fact that he was wearing, as was his custom, not dress shoes but black high-top “old-school” Chuck Taylor Converse All Star sneakers.
“Shandell, my man,” the man called out, moving away from the backboard support and walking toward center court, “always good to see you.”
Shandell slipped his right hand into the back pocket of his warm-ups as the man approached. His response, continued silence and a nod, was the only acknowledgment Shandell offered as, now standing less than ten feet away, he adjusted the snub-nosed .38 in his right hand until the barrel was aimed directly at the man's belly.
The person watching Shandell and the man in the Converse All Stars converge at center court stood eighty yards away, peering down on them from behind a three-foot-high concrete wall rimming the third level of the garage in which Murray Motor Imports, Denver's oldest Mercedes-Benz and BMW dealer, housed its new cars. A .30-06 rested on the concrete floor inches from the wall. The north-and east-facing third-floor level of the garage, which stood catty-corner from the Glendale Post Office and across the street from the Glen-dale police station, had unobstructed views of the basketball courts.
It hadn't been difficult for the rifle-toter to gain access to the garage. An easily scaled rickety wooden fence had been the only impediment. It had been simpler still to walk up the garage's northeast stairwell from ground level to the third floor. The only remaining problem had been the gathering darkness, which would have interfered with the assignment if the rain hadn't stopped, leaving a picture-perfect twilight.
The spectator watched Shandell and the other man move closer to one another before extracting a pair of form-fitting athletic gloves from a back pocket, dusting them off, slipping them on, kneeling, and reaching for the rifle. The words like ducks in a pond wove their way through the shooter's head as the barrel of the .30-06 peeked over the wall.
“I'd put that toy away if I were you,” the small man demanded, looking more annoyed than intimidated by the gun in Shandell's right hand. “Unless of course you intend to use it. And you know what? I don't think you have the guts.” The man stared at the gun, unfazed.
“Don't fool yourself,” Shandell said with a sneer. “You've chipped away at me long enough. I'm done with your threats and your shakedowns. More important, I don't give a shit about any more muckraking you got planned. So go fuck yourself!”
“I see.” The man smiled. “Well, it is what it is, Mr. Blackbird. You're the one who made your bed—time to lie in it. But just for the record, I think you're making a real bad choice.”
Shandell raised the barrel of the .38 and took point-blank aim at the man's chest.
The man continued to smile. “You ain't got the balls.”
Shandell flashed a broad grin. “Watch me.”
A split second later, a loud crack echoed in the background and Shandell's grin turned into a contorted look of pain as the bullet from the .30-06 penetrated his left temporal bone.
The man in the high-tops barely had time to open his mouth and scream, “What the …” before a second bullet pierced his left eye socket.
Shandell dropped to one knee as the .38 he'd been holding skated across the court. He reached for his head in agony as the man in the high-tops urinated on himself before sprawling dead on the playing surface. As Shandell slumped forward onto the court, gasping for air, gurgling his final breath through a mouth that was filled with blood, the last thing he saw was the center-court stripe. The strip appeared to him to suddenly float above the playing surface on a sea of moist late-summer air before disappearing, just like his killer, into the Mile High City twilight.
Chapter 4
The coroner's wagon carrying the bodies of Shandell Bird and the other Glendale court murder victim drove off into the foggy darkness two and a half hours to the minute after the double homicide had occurred. Aretha Bird had arrived on the murder scene hysterical and disheveled less than forty-five minutes after two seventh graders, eager to hone their basketball skills on the same courts a future NBA superstar played on, had found the two dead men. Aretha had been watching TV when a news reporter on scene had broken the story before the Glendale police could notify her that her son had been murdered. In the hour since she'd arrived, she'd calmed down to the point that she could carry on a conversation without shaking violently, but she was clearly on the brink of collapse. Her eyes, swollen almost shut from crying, were dark, puffy, silver-dollar-sized circles, and her nose wouldn't stop running.
Moments after the coroner's wagon had pulled away, a Glen-dale detective escorted Aretha into one of the police station's interrogation rooms, along with Damion and Connie Eastland, who'd arrived fifteen minutes after Aretha's frantic call to them. The displeased-looking Detective Sergeant Will Townsend, a bony man with curly brown hair and angular features, sat across from Aretha in the room that had the ground-in-sweat smell of a gymnasium. Townsend sucked a stream of air between the gap in his front teeth, sat back in his chair, and looked directly at Damion, who seemed to him to be in as much pain as the victim's mother and girlfriend.
Damion and Townsend had crossed swords earlier, just as Connie Eastland was arriving. When Damion had pleaded for a look at Shan-dell's lifeless body, having been told what had happened by a boyish-looking cop guarding the crime scene, Townsend had shunted Damion away, saying simply, “Nope, can't okay that.” Damion had watched two crime-scene technicians from the Denver County coroner's office struggle to load Shandell's body into the back of their vehicle, telling himself, This has to be a d
ream. But he knew it wasn't. Connie had cried until she couldn't cry any longer, but she hadn't reached the near catatonic state that Aretha Bird was in. Now, after temporarily swallowing his emotions in an attempt to remain at least outwardly calm in the face of his overwhelming grief, Damion was utterly numb.
Glancing from Damion to Connie and finally Aretha, Townsend, a twenty-two-year veteran of the Glendale force, sucked another stream of air between his teeth. “So all of you are in agreement? Shan-dell had no real enemies?”
Only Damion looked up at him.
“You got a different take, Madrid?” Townsend asked.
“No enemies to speak of, but I do know of one person who was, how can I put this, well … upset with him.”
Damion's answer caused Connie to raise her head and look at him, but Aretha remained silent and motionless with her head bowed.
“And who was that?”
“A man named Theo Wilhite. But he's an old man who's spent most of his life complaining.”
“There ain't any age restrictions when it comes to murder, son. What was Wilhite's beef with Shandell?”
Damion hesitated before answering, uncertain whether Aretha and Connie were aware of Wilhite's complaint.
“Spit it out, son. We're dealing with a double homicide here.”
Choosing his words carefully, Damion said, “Wilhite claims to have lost ten thousand dollars wagering on the NCAA championship game last spring, and he thinks Blackbird and I had something to do with him losing that money, Shandell in particular. He thinks Shan-dell may have missed what would have been the game-winning shot on purpose.”
“So he thinks you or Bird were shaving points?”
“Something like that.”
“Either you were or you weren't.”
“We weren't!”
Townsend began entering the name Theo Wilhite into a BlackBerry that sat in front of him on the conference table. “Wilhite with one L?”
When Damion nodded, Townsend asked, “Do you know where Wilhite lives?”
“Somewhere in Five Points. I don't know his address.”
Entering “pull address” into his BlackBerry, Townsend asked, “Anybody else you think might have had a grudge against your friend?”
When Damion shrugged and said, “No,” Townsend eyed Connie and then Aretha.
Too grief-stricken to answer, Aretha continued to stare at the floor. Connie simply shook her head.
Deciding to change the direction of his questioning, Townsend asked, “Did your boyfriend generally carry large amounts of money on him, Ms. Eastland?”
“No.”
“That's strange. My crime-scene boys found a little over three thousand dollars in a pocket of his sweatpants.” Failing to mention that they'd also found a snub-nosed .38 inches from Shandell's right hand, Townsend stroked his chin thoughtfully and entered the words “three grand” into the BlackBerry before asking, “Any of you know the other victim, Paul Grimes?”
Damion and Connie shook their heads.
“Mrs. Bird?”
When Aretha Bird failed to answer, Townsend, his tone suddenly insistent, asked, “Mrs. Bird, did you know the other victim?”
Aretha Bird's response was a barely audible, confused-sounding “No.”
“Who was he?” asked Damion, attempting to run interference for Aretha.
Townsend paused briefly before answering, as if trying to determine whether or not Damion deserved an answer. Deciding that revealing a little about the second murder victim might help his investigation in the long run, he said, “His name was Paul Grimes. He was an investigative reporter for the Rocky Mountain News. Had a real bulldog hell-bound-for-glory kind of rep. Could be he wanted to talk to Shandell about the same thing your Mr. Wilhite was interested in.” Townsend eyed Damion and Connie, looking for any hint that one or both of them might have known Grimes. But all he got were looks of surprise. “And Grimes never had occasion to talk to any of the three of you?” Townsend asked, hoping to get a response out of Aretha. As Connie and Damion shook their heads in unison and Aretha remained silent, Townsend said to Damion, “So Grimes never hit you up with accusations of point-shaving similar to Wilhite's?”
Having been raised by a mother who was a criminal defense attorney and schooled by her and CJ Floyd in the ways of inquisitive cops, Damion recognized that Townsend had just asked him the same question in three slightly different ways. Deciding it was time to bring that line of questioning to an end, he said, “We've told you, Sergeant, none of us knew Grimes. Want to move on?”
Townsend smiled, aware that he was being challenged by someone who understood the game he was playing. Telling himself he needed to check out Damion's background more carefully, he said, “A little touchy, aren't you, Madrid?”
With his competitive nature suddenly on the rise and ignoring the question, Damion asked, “Do you plan to keep us here much longer, Sergeant? We've told you everything we know. The two ladies and I would like to leave.”
“I see,” Townsend said, taken aback. “And by any chance are you their lawyer?”
“No, but if any of us ever needs an attorney, we have access to the very best.” Damion flashed the startled detective a wry smile.
Townsend's eyes narrowed until they were a determined squint. “Let me clue you in on something, hotshot. I've got a double homicide here, and my victims happen to be the NBA's number-two draft choice and a well-known investigative reporter. Two high-profile types who just happened to buy it on a basketball court at twilight a mere stone's throw from a damn police station. So here's a news bulletin for you, sonny.” Townsend's voice rose to a crescendo that caused Aretha Bird to momentarily glance up. “Somebody with the ’nads to kill two people less than fifty yards from a police station probably wouldn't hesitate to settle up with you too, my friend. So if you're lying to me about knowing Grimes or holding something back that I should know about, especially as it relates to what your Mr. Wilhite seems bent on proving, I'd recommend you ’fess up now.”
“I've got nothing to ’fess up about, Sergeant. And neither do they.” Damion locked arms with Connie and Aretha and drew them to their feet. “Now, if you're done with us, we'd like to leave.”
Townsend slipped his BlackBerry into his shirt pocket. Satisfied that he had everyone's contact information and at least one significant lead in his latest murder investigation, the determined sergeant decided to try to get inside Damion Madrid's head one last time. “So what do you do, Madrid? For a living, I mean, now that you're out of college and on the streets?” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
“I'm a medical student. At least, I'll be one in a couple of weeks.”
“So there was no pro basketball in your future like your friend Shandell's?”
“No.”
Townsend stroked his chin. “Strange. Missing out on the pros while your best friend hits it big could make a person real jealous, don't you think?”
“It could if they were small-minded enough to think like a cop,” Damion said, unfazed.
Thinking, Touché, Townsend smiled and sucked a new stream of air through the gap between his front teeth. “Get out of here, Madrid.” Looking at Connie and then Aretha, he said, “You're free to leave, but I'll be in touch—count on it.” As he watched Damion drape his arms over Connie's and Aretha Bird's shoulders and walk them toward the door, the seasoned detective found himself wondering not only if he'd asked all the right questions but, more importantly, whether the Madrid kid was half as tough or half as caring as he appeared. Forty minutes later Townsend stood next to his lead crime-scene technician on the third floor of the Murray Motor Imports garage, a step away from a $140,000 Mercedes-Benz. Staring down through the moonlit darkness toward the Glendale basketball courts, the technician, who'd been pretty much silent up to that moment, said, “No question, Sarge, I'd say the shooter was positioned somewhere in this garage. I would've chosen this floor myself, but the second floor would've probably worked just as well. Same stem-wall
opportunity, same duck-blind setup, same easy access and quick escape route. There's no other building around here that would have worked as well. I've checked them out.”
“What about the post office roof?” asked Townsend.
“I'll check,” the technician said with a shrug. “And I'll recheck the apartment building next door. But come daylight you're gonna see it my way.”
“Same wager as always?” asked Townsend, who favored the post office rooftop.
“Same one.” The technician smiled. “I can smell the aroma of those Cubans you're gonna have to fork over right now.”
“Don't count your chickens too fast, Willis,” Townsend said with a smirk as he stepped away from the Mercedes and over to the stem wall. “Any evidence that someone fired shots over this wall?” he asked, glancing around a forty-by-forty-square-foot area that had been cordoned off with crime-scene tape.
“Nope, nothing. Clean as a whistle.”
“A pro?” asked Townsend.
“No question,” said the technician. “At least, not in my mind. Two shots from a high-powered rifle and bang, bang, just like JFK in Dallas, you're dead.”
“Smart-ass kid,” muttered Townsend, running a latex-gloved finger along the top of the wall.
“What's that?”
“Nothing. Just thinking about that kid I interviewed, Damion Madrid, Blackbird's best friend. A real cocky sort, but in a strange, self-assured, un-pampered-jock kinda way.”
“Yeah, I heard from Barney that you came away from talking to him shaking your head. Did you know he was the small forward on that CSU team that went to the NCAA championship game last March? The one they lost to UCLA in the final seconds?”
“Didn't know you followed college basketball that close, Willis. And yeah, I knew.”
“I don't, but my kid does. He was a freshman up at CSU last year.”
“Did he happen to know Bird or Madrid?”