by Mark Pryor
She took Eighth Street to Congress Avenue, then turned left. Traffic was light; it was too early for the weekend revelers to be out yet, and she made quick progress on her way south over the Congress Avenue Bridge and up to Oltorf Avenue, where she turned left and drove over the always-busy I-35. As every Austin cop knew, or quickly learned, I-35 was where the city changed.
Whether you lived north or south, that long band of asphalt was a border. To the west of it lay downtown, and further west the safe and expensive communities of Tarrytown and Westlake. To the east lived Austin’s working class and poor, communities like Dove Springs, a place that Ledsome knew had seen neither doves nor springs in forever. That side of the city families of six, seven, or eight piled into two- and three-bedroom houses, such that the kids’ toys and bikes lived mostly in the front yards, scattered around the old cars that blocked driveways while they waited to be fixed.
Detective Ledsome took Oltorf toward Wickersham Lane, slowing as a light changed from green to red. The cars around her all stopped, no one trying to beat the light. In her experience, the light-running was done mostly by the scofflaws on the west side of town, the people in their Audis and Land Rovers whose time was too precious to be spent dawdling at an intersection. There was another reason, too, she knew. Out here, a higher proportion of folks on the road either had outstanding warrants or weren’t in the country legally, both good reasons to observe and abide by traffic laws, all of them.
She checked her phone, pleased that there was nothing new from work, and put it away. She looked up to check the light, still red, and worried that Greg might actually be annoyed at her detour. She should’ve told him. She reached for her phone again to text him but stopped when she saw movement in her rearview mirror.
Someone crossing the street? But the crosswalk was in front of her.
She turned to look out of the window behind her, surprised to see a figure walking between her car and the one on her left. She couldn’t see his face, just his body, a slender figure in what she guessed was a hoodie.
She pressed the button to wind her window down, planning to give this idiot a lecture about not getting run over, and she made sure her police ID badge was visible on her chest.
“Hey, buddy,” she said, and the figure stopped beside her. “If you’re crossing the road, use the crosswalk. If you’re not, get out of the street. My colleagues don’t appreciate having to scrape people like you off the—”
She saw the gun and fell silent, her eyes widening as it pointed at her face through the open window. Her mind spun like tires in the snow, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Finally she found words, her voice cracking as she said, “Put that away. I’m a cop.”
“I know,” the voice said gently, unconcerned.
Then the figure stooped down, and Ledsome was able to drag her eyes away from the gun. She’d been right, he was wearing a hoodie, and it framed his face perfectly. A face she recognized immediately, particularly those eyes, cold and knowing eyes that managed to look amused at her terror.
“No one tells us what to do,” he said, and before she could reply, Detective Megan Ledsome saw the trigger give way, felt for just a split second her ears exploding and a searing pain that ripped through her chest before feeling, all of a sudden, nothing at all.
She slumped to her right just as the light changed from red to green, a change that made no difference to anything because the other six cars at the intersection had already gone, peeling away left and right the moment the first shot rang out. Drivers in this part of town didn’t linger to take photos or video, to give witness statements or try to help. No, East Austin was where you looked out for yourself and your family; and if someone else had a beef that required a person get shot, you looked the other way or, if you could, you drove the other way.
The figure in the hoodie finished crossing the road, not looking behind him, the gun going back into his waistband, the barrel warm against his skin. Should I pick up the shell casings? he wondered for a moment, then he smiled to himself. Fuck it, the cops can have them. I already got away with it.
As he turned down a quiet lane, he pushed his shoulders back and walked with the confidence of someone who carries a gun and knows he’s not afraid to use it. The sound of sirens drifted over him, but by the time the cops realized they were dealing with murder, he was a mile away. And by the time someone spotted a badge through the blood and called for the police helicopter, he was just another guy in a hoodie waiting at a bus stop and minding his own business, playing with his phone and wondering where he might grab a bite to eat.
CHAPTER SIX
DOMINIC
On Saturday morning, I rolled out of bed at eight, thinking about hitting the gym. I was playing at the Continental Club that night but otherwise had nothing much to do and felt an energy in my body that I didn’t like, a pull toward some undefined mischief. An hour at the gym would calm me down, right my mood, and leave me the rest of the day to practice or maybe write more music.
And then I fired up my computer and started looking at the news.
The lead story on the Austin Statesman, and on every TV station, was the shooting of a cop in cold blood. As I took in the details, my jaw clenched. Apparently Detective Megan Ledsome had pulled up to a stoplight on East Oltorf. According to the newspaper report, which cited an unnamed eyewitness, a car containing two or three juveniles had pulled up next to her, and one of them had gotten out and walked up to the stationary Ledsome, shooting her numerous times. The reports all noted that police gathered nine empty casings from the scene, and that she’d been hit five times. Dead before the light changed color. I skimmed each article and felt a tinge of relief that no suspects were in custody. But only a tinge.
I picked up my cell phone and dialed a small house on the other side of town.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said when she picked up. “Is Bobby there?”
“No, he went out last night and didn’t come home.”
“Fuck. You let him go out?”
She sighed, sounded tired. “How exactly am I supposed to stop him?”
“Does he have a phone with him?”
“Why do you need him?”
“A surprise. Can you text me his cell number?”
“Sure.”
A thought struck me. “Does his phone have that tracking device on it? Find iPhone or whatever?”
“Dom. We can’t afford iPhones, it’s a crappy one from like the 1990s.”
“Yeah, sorry. If you hear from him, though, have him call me straightaway, will you? It’s important.”
I’d tried to keep my tone light, but she caught something. “What’s wrong? Is he in trouble?”
Understatement of the year, I thought. “Not that I can prove,” I said jokingly. “I gotta run; I’ll check in with you. Oh, wait. Is his monitor there?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I assume he’s wearing it.”
“If he is, and his PO asks why he went out, tell him you were with him.”
“I know that, Dom, I was in the courtroom. Anyway, can’t you just track him?”
“We don’t have access to that, no. Only his PO does. See if it’s in his room, a lot of kids wriggle out of them if they’re not fitted right.”
I waited, listening to the sounds of her moving through the house and into his room. She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I don’t see it anywhere; he must be wearing it. That’s good, right? He can get in trouble for taking it off.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He sure can.” But he can get in a damn sight more trouble if he wears it to the scene of a murder. I rang off and dropped my phone onto the table.
“That fucking kid,” I said to the wall. “What the hell do we do now?”
My phone buzzed, and Bobby’s name and number appeared in a text. I started to dial it, then realized that would be a mistake. If he had done this, and if he was found with his phone on him, then the police would be talking to every name on his call list. If they did that, saw my
number, and then found out about Ledsome’s unofficial investigation, I’d be a much larger dot on the radar than I wanted to be. Not to mention my boss connecting me with a kid I was prosecuting, although at this point that seemed like a minor concern. My new policy of talking to the kids in detention had broken that formerly impenetrable barrier between prosecutors and kids, but even so I had no real desire to test how far that rule might bend.
I needed to talk to Bobby, though, so I drove from my apartment on South Congress to a gas station in East Austin where I paid cash for a prepaid phone. Useful things, prepaids. I sat in my car and dialed Bobby’s number, but it went straight to voicemail.
I was just about to drive home when my cell phone rang. It was a 974 prefix, the Austin Police Department. Figured I better answer.
“This is Dominic.”
“Dominic, hello. My name’s Sergeant Jeremy Brannon from the Austin Police Homicide Division, I hope you don’t mind, but I got your cell number from your division manager.”
“That’s fine, how can I help?”
“I’m sure you heard about my colleague Megan Ledsome’s shooting.”
“Yes, I did. I’m shocked—I’m sure you all are as well.”
“Yeah, thanks. So, the thing is, we’re moving on it as fast as we can. We have a few leads but need to tie things off where we can. Oh, I forgot, you OK with me recording this conversation?”
“Absolutely, no problem at all.”
“Great. So like I said, it’s easier for us to focus on the real leads if we can get rid of the ones we’re pretty sure are duds.”
“Of course, how can I help?”
“You had lunch with Megan on Friday. Yesterday.”
“That’s right.” My mind started spinning. Did they already know about her unofficial investigation? If not, should I tell them? If they did know and I didn’t say anything . . .
“You guys are friends?”
“No, I wouldn’t go that far. We got to know each other a little during a trial I had. And then with that robbery-murder business. . . . She basically saved my life, so I was grateful.”
“And yet she paid for her own lunch yesterday.”
You’ve done your homework. “Yeah.” I laughed. “I offered but she insisted, didn’t think it proper.”
“Was there a reason for the meeting?” Brannon asked.
“Kind of, yes. She wanted to let me know that she’d been receiving letters from the guy convicted in that case—”
“Tristan Bell.”
Again, impressed. “That’s right.”
“Why was she receiving letters from him?”
“You’d have to ask him,” I said. “Do you know about that case?”
“Of course, yes.”
“Then you’ll know he tried to frame me back then. From what Megan said, he’s still trying to.”
“He still says you’re involved?”
“Apparently. And not just involved, but the mastermind.”
“Huh.”
I hated doing this over the phone. After a life spent reading people’s faces, I felt like I was being handicapped here. This Brannon guy gave nothing away in his tone, which stayed pleasant but to the point. “Did you feel like she was reinvestigating the case? Reinvestigating you?”
“No, not at all. I mean, I don’t know if she actually was or not, but I can’t see why. And the way she was talking, it was just letting me know that Bell was still at it, still trying to put it all on me.”
“Did you arrange to see her again?”
“No.”
“And, forgive me for asking, but was there anything romantic between the two of you?”
“No, not at all.” Not for the want of me trying, though.
“Had to ask.”
“No problem, I know how it is.”
“One other thing,” he said. “We understand she was visiting some juveniles while they were in detention. Any idea why?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Did you know that she was?”
I paused, then lied. “I didn’t, no. She wasn’t working on any juvenile cases?”
“Haven’t had a juvenile commit murder in Austin for over a year.”
“Thankful for small mercies, eh?”
His turn to pause, and I wondered if I’d done what I sometimes do when I don’t pick up on the emotional component of a situation. I can appear callous or flippant, both of which I am but neither of which I want to sound like.
“Yeah, I guess that’s about right,” he said. “Well, if I can think of any other questions, I’ll be in touch.”
“Please. Anything I can do to help, anything at all.”
“We appreciate it,” he said, and hung up.
I ran the conversation back in my mind, wondering if I’d slipped up, said anything to cause him to be suspicious. Bad enough if Bobby had done this, but if Ledsome’s murder caused APD to look into the heist and its associated murders all over again . . . Well, to put it mildly, my life could be uncomfortable for a while.
All of which paled into nothingness when I thought about Bobby, because they’d almost certainly catch him. He was a smart kid, but not as smart as he thought, and not nearly as smart as the combined resources of Austin’s Homicide Division and whatever other agencies they brought in to help.
And this left me with one question: if he’s guilty, and they get him, what will he say?
◯
On the drive home, I started thinking about the news reports. They’d mentioned two or three juveniles in the car. Bobby had a few friends, but they were such a rotating bunch of delinquents that at any one time half his group was locked up. I had no way of knowing whether one of that lot who was out in the free would be dumb enough to go along with a plan to kill a cop.
Maybe under the influence of drugs . . .? But other than the occasional joint, Bobby didn’t do drugs. Most of his friends dabbled, but he was like me in that life was exciting enough without resorting to illegal substances. As far as I knew, anyway.
I needed to see the official police report, see if it contained any more information from the crime scene, witness statements, anything I could use to find Bobby before the cops did.
And when I found him, my plan was simple: turn him in.
He’d have a lawyer by his side, for sure, one whom I’d pick and one who would advise him to keep his mouth shut at all times. The moment you’re captured and the police want to talk to you, that is the most dangerous time for any suspect, adult or juvenile. As soon as you ask for a lawyer, they’ll stop, but up until then you’re fair game; and I knew full well that in a murder investigation, and one involving a cop no less, they’d use every trick in the book to get a story from Bobby before he lawyered up.
I pulled up the office calendar on my phone to see who was staffing the DA’s office. One prosecutor was always on standby in the main office, and one from juvenile was always available, too. While they didn’t have to hang around the office, I knew that when Brian was on call he often did. Loser.
Sure enough, Brian was at his desk when I called.
“Hey, Dom. You calling to invite me to lunch?”
“Have I ever?”
“True. Maybe when I’m a judge, eh?”
“I don’t fraternize with men in robes.” I softened my tone, reminding myself that I was calling because I needed his help. “But you never know, we’ll see.”
“That’s good enough for me. What do you need?”
“You heard about that detective who got shot?”
“Yeah, I was just reading about it. Wasn’t she a friend of yours?”
“She was, which is why I’m calling. I don’t want to bug the detectives working the case, but I want to know more about it.”
“Oh, you want to see the offense report?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I know it’s far from complete, but it may have a few witness statements, that kind of thing.”
“Gonna solve it yourself?”
“I’ll log onto Versadex and download it. Want me to e-mail it to you?”
Versadex was the system APD used for logging all of their reports and videos. Prosecutors had been given access to the reports for some time, but only recently had we been able to download in-car and other videos, too.
“Yes, please, save me a trip down there.”
“You live, like, half a mile away.”
“I’m at my girlfriend’s this weekend.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s not like anything, or anyone.” I smiled. “She’s sexy and subversive, and likes to fuck with authority.”
“When do I meet her?” he asked. Like he was my fucking dad.
“When it becomes serious. Fair?”
“Sure. All right, dude, logging in now. Putting in her name . . .” I could hear his heavy fingers on the keyboard. “Oh, shit. It’s locked.”
“Locked?”
“Yeah, says it’s an ongoing investigation and it’s locked. Gives a Sergeant Jeremy Brannon’s name, if you want more information.”
“I have his contact info, but don’t want to bug him. Oh well, thanks for trying, Brian, much obliged.”
“Sure. See ya Monday.”
I’d used my burner and rang off without saying good-bye.
Dead end.
Yet Bobby had to be somewhere, and I needed to find him before the cops even started looking. The only thing I could think to do was ask the one person who knew him best. But that meant coming clean with her about what he’d done, and even though she was the coolest, most collected empath I knew, Bobby was her weakness, and I had no idea how she’d react.
One way to find out.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said. “Any word from Bobby?”
“No. What’s going on, Dominic?”
“That cop that got shot. You see that?”
“Yes. She’s the one who investigated the robbery.”
“She went to see Bobby in detention recently. Was asking questions about his and my involvement in that.”
“Wait, seriously? Why didn’t you tell me?”