Dominic

by Mark Pryor

  “We are; I’ll be there at six.”

  I’d planned a surprise birthday party for Bobby, not exactly a sweet sixteen, but somewhere in that general vicinity. I wondered if he’d find it as amusing as I did, a man without an altruistic bone in his body planning a surprise for a kid who couldn’t care less, about his age, surprises, or nice gestures.

  But one of my roles was to show him how to live with his condition. Our condition. And I planned to explain to him that making pointless gestures and going out of your way to make people feel good was a part of other people’s lives, and needed to be a part of his. Accepting altruistic offerings with gratitude, albeit faked, was also a part of life.

  I managed to stay out of Brian’s way the rest of the afternoon, mostly by plugging in my earphones and pretending not to notice his attempts at conversation. By the time five o’clock rolled around, he packed up to go home, and so I ignored his cheery little exit wave, too.

  I got to my lady’s house just before six, still in my suit, only to find the surprise aspect of the party was ruined. Bobby was nowhere in sight, but I could hear the shower going in the one bathroom.

  “I couldn’t get him to leave the house,” she said matter-of-factly. “Also, two of his friends flaked and one got picked up on a warrant.”

  “He really needs to get new friends.”

  She threw me a No shit look.

  I said, “Just us, then?”

  “Happily families,” she said with a smile. “I’ll go out and get pizza. You can try lecturing him on how to behave for the next couple of weeks.”

  “Maybe I’ll teach him the word fortnight while I’m at it.”

  “Seriously, talk to him.” She handed me a beer, and I sat on the couch.

  “Oh, I will.” I looked at the beer can. “I have to open this myself?”

  “Use your razor-sharp wit.” She picked up her bag, held her hand out for my car keys, and then went out of the front door. I sat and waited for Bobby to appear. A couple of minutes after the water cut off, he opened the door and walked into the small living room, wearing a towel around his waist. He didn’t say anything, just looked at the beer in my hand and went into the kitchen.

  When I first saw him about a year ago, he’d looked like a kid, and I was taken aback by how much he’d changed in just twelve months. He had that teenage body now, pale skin over taut, thin, muscles, hairless and a little awkward in himself physically. Unlike a lot of his cohorts, he had no tattoos, which I put down to his sister’s influence combined with his lack of allegiance to any other person, place, group, or dumb symbol. He started to leave the kitchen with a beer.

  “Dude, put that away.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Seriously, your PO can show up anytime and test you. If you want to get locked up, drink away, but I told your sister I’d try and stop that happening.”

  “Then where the fuck were you this morning?”

  “Five minutes late.”

  “Yeah, and look what happened. Thanks a lot.”

  “Oh, really?” I raised an eyebrow. The left one, I can’t do my right. “The kid who steals things is going to lecture someone for being five minutes late?”

  “I’m not lecturing,” Bobby said. “I’m saying that you being late is the reason I’m looking at being locked up.”

  “Yeah, so I think I’d be more inclined to put that down to you stealing the car.”

  He gave me a sneer. “I was gonna give it back.”

  I nodded at the beer in his hand and he swore under his breath and put it back in the fridge.

  “Just two weeks. Keep your shit together and that monitor charged for two weeks, and I’ll do my best to have you serve your probation at home.”

  “Two weeks, shit.” He pointed to his ankle monitor. “This fucking thing is gonna give me away.”

  “Behave yourself, and it doesn’t matter what that thing says.”

  “There must be a way to get it off without anyone knowing.”

  I smiled. Two weeks was a long time in his world, a reality I had to acknowledge. “Funny you should mention that. Got any olive oil?”

  “No clue. You serious?”

  “Very. The PO who put that on happens to be addicted to pain pills, and was very grateful when I gave him a handful. I’m guessing it’s not on too tight, and with a little oil you can slip it right off.”

  “On fleek, bro, I’m gonna try now.” He went into the kitchen and rummaged through several cupboards before finding a bottle of olive oil. “Extra virgin,” he snickered. He sat at the round table that separated the kitchen and living area, and smeared oil over his ankle and the monitor. With a little grunting and not much effort the device was off and in his hand, triumph in his eyes. Then they clouded—people like him, and me, rarely do favors for people without an agenda, and he knew that better than anyone.

  “So why would you do that?” he asked.

  “Because I’m trying to help you. I figured you wouldn’t stay home, so this way you don’t have to.”

  “But now the PO knows, has something on you.”

  “No, he doesn’t. When would it ever be in his interest to say anything? Even if he did, I can deny the conversation happened and, when it comes down to it, he’s the one who put it on too loosely, not me.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Do me a favor, though. POs make unannounced visits, so stay home as much as you can, and while you’re here keep that thing on your leg. That way you won’t lose it or get caught out. Seriously, if you have to leave the house, then for fuck’s sake don’t forget to break out the olive oil, but otherwise don’t.”

  Bobby nodded. “Makes sense.”

  We looked at each other for a moment, trying to figure out where we were. Normally we read other people like this, a look in the eyes, a facial expression. But Bobby and I doing this to each other, well, it’s like facing a couple of mirrors together. A whole lot of blank.

  Eventually, he spoke. “Look, so I don’t owe you any favors, I got some info you might want.”

  “Oh yeah? Terrorist plot? Winner of the next Kentucky Derby?”

  “Better. You remember that cop called Ledsome?”

  Oh, yes. She’d investigated a robbery and murder about a year ago, one my roommate masterminded and tried to blame on me. She was a smart cookie for sure; and, without actually figuring it out, she’d indicated that she knew I wasn’t quite all there. I’d tried, in several subtle ways, to seduce her, but she’d never given me an inch.

  “What about her?” I asked.

  “She came to see me. While I was locked up.”

  A coldness settled around my chest. “Why?”

  “Asking about you. That murder.”

  “Bullshit. Why would she ask you about me?”

  “She was asking several kids. Maybe she knows you’re banging my sister.”

  “No one knows the three of us are connected,” I said. I could play it down all I liked, but we’d worked very hard indeed to make sure our friendship remained a secret. We didn’t talk when she came to court, we didn’t meet up in the parking lot, and we even avoided eye contact. “What did Ledsome ask you?”

  “Not much. Once she started asking about my sister, I told her to fuck off.”

  “Those should’ve been your first words to her,” I said.

  “I wanted to know if she was trying to implicate me in anything.”

  “It’s a closed case; the perp’s in prison.”

  “Shit, Dom, you really say ‘perp’?”

  “Bobby. This could be serious. If she thinks I’m involved—”

  “Or me,” he said. “She could fuck both of us if she wanted.”

  “There’s nothing she can do. Just don’t talk to her, I’m surprised your attorney let her do that.”

  “She told him it wasn’t about my current case, and that it could only help me.”

  “And here you are, looking at being locked up. Real helpful.”

  “No shit.” H
e chewed his lip for a moment. “You know what I could do.”

  “Yes. You could not talk to her, or any other cop.”

  “No, man. Take her out.”

  “For dinner?”

  “Stop being a prick.”

  I lost my cool then. I wasn’t helping this kid out of the goodness of my heart; I was doing it for his sister and so he wouldn’t get me in trouble. But this kind of talk, if it turned into anything, was going to land both of us in prison. I sat forward on the couch.

  “Listen to me. Sooner or later you’re going to turn seventeen and realize that you can’t game the system anymore. You’re smart, but the adult system doesn’t give a shit. Either that, or you’re going to do something so fucking stupid that I can’t help you. That no one can help you. Stealing cars and smoking weed is chickenshit, Bobby, but when you start saying stuff like that, it makes me very, very nervous.”

  “You’re not my fucking dad.”

  “And even if I was, so what? I never listened to mine, and neither would you.” He didn’t say anything, so I carried on. “Look, I don’t mean to lecture you, I really don’t. But you have to understand that as smart and ruthless as you think you are, sometimes it’s not enough. You so much as look at a cop the wrong way, all hell breaks loose.”

  “You’ve done it.” It.

  “I’m going to assume you were kidding about taking out a cop, Bobby, I mean it. You do that and the FBI, the Texas Rangers, and every patrol officer, desk sergeant, and prison guard in the state will be gunning for you.”

  “I know that,” Bobby snapped. “But what if she does connect you to that heist? Or thinks she can? What if she thinks I have something to do with it? I’m just supposed to sit here and catch a case? A fucking murder case?”

  “She’s got nothing on us, because we didn’t do anything. Maybe she’s just making sure; I don’t know. But one thing I can promise is that the best way to catch a murder case is by killing a cop. You know who gets away with that?”

  “Who?” he said, almost sulkily.

  “No one. No one gets away with killing a cop. Ever.”

  “First time for everything.”

  Smart arse. “Yeah, OK. So, how’re you going to do it? Arsenic in her martini? Missile from a drone? Or will you shoot her with a gun that the cops can trace back to you, using bullets that’ll be linked to you, in a public place that probably has cameras and eyewitnesses?” “You think I’m too stupid to do it?” His face flushed with anger.

  “You don’t tell me what to do. No one does, not even my sister.”

  Like me at that age, he was impulsive, hated being lectured, and was convinced he was always right. He’d need to learn from his own mistakes. They were the best lessons, but if one of those mistakes was murder . . . well, there’s not much coming back from that if you’re busted. And this wasn’t just about saving his arse, but mine as well. If he did something as nuts as killing Detective Ledsome, someone would either know or figure out that she was asking questions about me—and those questions would start being asked by FBI agents, and a lot more pointedly. I had to make him understand that.

  I softened my tone, backed away from the confrontation. “You’re definitely not too stupid, Bobby. I’m sure you could do it and get away with it for a while. But that’s my point. It’s a matter of pride for them—they don’t care if you shoot some drug dealer or gangbanger on East Seventh. Sure, they’ll look into it, make a show of it, but if it goes unsolved for a couple of months, then hey-ho and they’re on to the next one. But when a cop gets shot, there’s no brake applied, ever. You don’t need that kind of heat no matter how smart you are. Even if you get away with it, you’ll always be looking over your shoulder.”

  “Kinda like we are now.” He was sulky again, but at least not hostile.

  I smiled. “Nothing like we are now. Right now a cop has a bug up her arse and is chasing ghosts. She’ll either hit a brick wall or get bored or busy and find something else to do. We just need to sit tight until she buggers off.”

  “Buggers off,” he mimicked. “She fucking better.” He got up and pulled the towel from his waist, walking naked in front of me to his bedroom. It was the kind of power move I’ve made a dozen times, going for shock value, sexual intimidation. He should’ve known it wouldn’t work on me, of all people.

  Just like I should’ve known that he, of all people, wouldn’t listen to my advice.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BRIAN

  I felt self-conscious in my ride-out gear, to be honest. The polo shirt was a little tight and I thought it kinda made me look like I had boobs. But Dominic said it made me look official, like when we encountered members of the public, they’d think I was in charge. And the cop I rode with was cool, too. Fernando Chipelo. His family was from Portugal, but he’d grown up here, so he spoke like an American.

  He explained how it worked, said he’d had riders before. I was supposed to stay in the car until he said it was OK to step out, which made sense. Dominic had ridden out quite a few times, just because he liked to; and he said he always got out with the cop, unless it was a traffic stop, so I guess either he violated protocol or was lying. Knowing him, I’d guess the former.

  The coolest thing was when he showed me the button that released his semiautomatic rifle, an AR-15. He said it with a smile, like there’s no way I’d have to use it, but it got me wondering. And he showed me the little red button that would have every cop in Austin racing to help us. Those were good things to know. I mean, if things went badly, I’d be able to help one way or another, which is important.

  He also showed me the computer that sat between us. Touchscreen, and it had all kinds of capabilities. Mostly he used it to show what calls were active, but it also had a map of Austin and could give directions to the incident we were going to.

  Things were quiet to begin with and we cruised around his favorite parts of the sector, the suburban southwest of the city. At around six we were dispatched to our first call, a car crash, no injuries. Someone had run a stop sign on Convict Hill Road, and the caller said he was trying to blame the old lady he hit, or so the caller claimed.

  We pulled up behind both cars, and I thought I recognized one of them, but I couldn’t place it. I looked through the windshield as Chipelo approached the driver’s side of that car, the male’s, the one at fault. He took the guy’s driver’s license, but instead of coming back to the patrol car, he kept looking at me, nodding and then smiling.

  Then the door opened and Dominic stepped out.

  He gave me a wave and started filling out paperwork for the accident while Chipelo spoke to the older woman. I got out and wandered over to Dom.

  “What happened, man?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t paying attention, drifted through the intersection and clipped her.”

  “You’re not hurt or anything?”

  “No, and I think she’s OK, too. I checked, but she was pretty steamed.”

  “Yeah, well, can’t really blame her.” I inspected the front of his car. “Can you drive it?”

  “Should think so. I just need to finish this paperwork and see if your cop’s giving me a ticket.”

  “He’s supposed to if it was your fault.”

  Dominic winked. “Ah, but I didn’t tell him what I told you.”

  “You lied?”

  “No, of course not. I just withheld incriminating information, as is my constitutional right. You’ve heard of the fifth amendment, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Exactly. And you’re not gonna say anything, are you?”

  He cleared his throat and gave me one of those looks. I answered back, “Me? No. I didn’t see anything—wasn’t here when the accident happened.”

  “Good man.” He glanced up as Chipelo approached.

  “Both cars are drivable, everyone’s OK, and I can’t assess fault,” the officer said. “If there’s nothing else I can do for you, we’ll head out.”

  Dominic reached fo
r his phone. “I’m good. Just make sure you take care of my office-mate here. If there’s one person liable to get himself shot, it’s Brian.”

  Back in the car, we looked at the computer. A new call had come in, and Chipelo was reading the text. I couldn’t decipher most of it, the dispatcher used a lot of shorthand terms. He saw I was having trouble and translated.

  “Suspected burglary of a residence. Not clear who the complainant is, but the homeowner is supposed to be on vacation. Probably a neighbor who called it in.” He put a hand to his earpiece. “Hang on. We have to go, upgraded to hotshot, the bad guy is still in the house and we’re closer than anyone else. Strap in.”

  He reached up and pressed the buttons for the overhead lights and siren, and pulled a screeching U-turn, the Crown Vic rattling and roaring as we sped toward the Legend Oaks neighborhood. I glanced at the map and saw how close we were, Chipelo slowing only when we got to the lights at Escarpment and Convict Hill, traffic stopping for him as the siren screamed. He hit eighty along the wide Escarpment Boulevard, then turned right up a hill, I didn’t see the street name.

  He killed the siren but kept the lights going. “If there’s someone in the house,” he explained, “we don’t want to let them know we’re coming.”

  Adrenaline surged through me at the thought of us coming up on one or more people sneaking through someone else’s home. I hoped Chipelo didn’t see how pale I’d gone—I get carsick at the best of times, and this was making me more than queasy. Luckily for me, we were close to the cul-de-sac. Chipelo parked across the entrance, a couple of houses away from the target address, and killed the overhead lights.

  “Looks like the front door is open,” he said. He poked at the screen, bringing up the map. “De Jong is about a minute out; he has a rookie with him. We’ll go in when they get here.”

  “You want me to stay in the car?”

  “Definitely.” He glanced in the mirror and touched a button on his body camera. “I’ll get in trouble if this isn’t on. It connects straight to the Arbitrator video recording system, so you can watch live on my computer what we’re doing.”

  “OK, cool. I won’t move until you say it’s clear.”