Dominic

by Mark Pryor

  “He’s dangerous,” Ledarius said, matter-of-factly.

  “In what way?”

  “In any way he wants to be. You know that already. There’s something off about him, something most people have but he doesn’t.” Yeah, like a soul. Ledarius shrugged. “But he don’t bother me none, we be cool.”

  “Do you know where he is?” I asked.

  “Haven’t seen him for a while. Like I told the cops.”

  “Since Sunday?”

  That smile again. “Anton tell you that?”

  “He did.”

  “Yeah, since Sunday.”

  “Cops say why they were looking for him?”

  “Nope.” He licked his lips and, I assumed, stared at me. “Pretty fucking obvious, though.”

  “It is?”

  “That cop that got shot.”

  “Right. You know anything about that?”

  “Shit, no.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t smoke weed, boost cars, none of that. I ain’t got no reason to kill a cop, shiiit.” He dragged out that last word for a second or two.

  “How about Bobby?”

  “What about him?”

  “Ledarius, dude, I’m trying to help him, not turn him in.” Slight lie, that second part. “He said some stuff to me last week that made me . . . concerned.”

  “He said you guys got into it.”

  “Oh, he did?”

  “Yeah.” He dropped his backpack on the floor. “Look, man, you can’t be telling him what he can and can’t do. Don’t you know that?”

  “I’m not sure . . .” I’m not sure how much he told you, and it better not be much.

  He lowered his voice. “Look, thing about Bobby. He likes to make his own decisions. No one can tell him shit, and if they try he either gets mad or acts like it was his idea in the first place. You tell him he’s not capable or allowed to do something, that ain’t good. All I know is, you got in his face about something to do with that cop and . . .” He looked around, but we were still just two people talking.

  “You think he did it?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. He’s capable. But I didn’t think he was that dumb—not by a long shot. He knows what would happen.”

  “And yet here we are.”

  “Yeah,” Ledarius conceded. “And Bobby ain’t. I know what you’re saying.”

  “Where would Bobby get a gun?”

  “Honestly, that kid could get one anywhere he wanted. Talk it out of a cop’s hand.”

  True enough. I suddenly wondered if he might just have gotten it from his sister. She’d never mentioned owning a gun, but then I’d never asked. And there she was, a beautiful woman in a small house on a rundown street, living alone with a teenage boy of questionable judgment. Having a gun would be a pretty smart move, which is to say not having one might not be. Maybe that was why she’d been cagey with me, defensive. Maybe her gun was missing.

  “Look, I think you and I are on the same page,” I said. “Help me find Bobby.”

  “I’m starting to think he’s not a good influence.” Again with the flat tone, I couldn’t read this kid at all.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, if he did this, he’s not someone I need to be hanging out with.”

  “You don’t have to. Just tell me where to find him.”

  “If he ain’t with me or Anton, he be bouncing.”

  “Bouncing?”

  “Yeah. He likes to mess with a couple of the gangs. Act like he’s interested, then disappear on them.”

  “If he was trying to lay low, you think he might do that? Find some gangbangers to hang out with?”

  He smiled again, and shook his head. “Mister, you sound like . . . just don’t go asking for him talking like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Gangbangers? Hanging out? You’ll get your ass whooped.”

  “Which gangs?”

  “Depends on the moment. One day crabs, one day slobs.”

  “I have no idea what you’re saying,” I said, my patience wearing thin.

  “Crabs are Crips, slobs are Bloods. The Pirus, that’s Bloods to you, pimp in red. Crabs in blue.” He nodded to the door. “Take a drive around and look. Just don’t talk too much.”

  “So you have no idea where he is?”

  “Nah, none.”

  “Can I give you my number in case he shows up?”

  He shook his head. “I seen him do some stuff, man, but he never involved me. Ever. This one’s a little too strong, ya know? Blowback from icing a cop’s not something I need to be around to see, to feel. I work real hard to stay out of trouble, and it’s washing up on my beach a little too close, you feel me?”

  “Yeah, Ledarius, I feel you.”

  He picked up his backpack and started for the main door. “Peace out, man.”

  “I’m trying to,” I said to his retreating back, then repeated it to myself. “I’m really trying to.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the time Wednesday rolled around, Bobby was still missing and my special lady was disappearing from me. Most sisters, I presumed, would be frantic, calling the cops and running around town trying to find their missing brother, find out who was sheltering him. I knew he’d done this a few times before, just taken off to bed down with a friend. He did it to fuck with her, a show of power, something I’d done myself in the past. Her response wasn’t what he expected, or wanted, and basically amounted to a shrug of the shoulders.

  I wasn’t sure if that was what she was doing this time, whether she was really worried about him but keeping it to herself, or whether she figured he was just being a dick and would come back. I suspected the former because she was more closed off than normal, short on the phone and not interested in coming over to my place, or watching me play my gigs.

  For me, I was still anxious to find or hear from Bobby, although I was also relieved that the police didn’t seem to be hot on his trail. I knew that they would be sooner or later—if nothing else, his PO would eventually notice a dead monitor battery or too many trips away from home. I wanted him back in the fold where I could take control of the situation, manage it the way I needed to.

  Tension in the office was high, too. Terri Williams had been hauled over the coals for not preventing Ledsome from interviewing Bobby and other juveniles alone, without their lawyers. She hadn’t known, of course; it wasn’t her fault at all. But a murder investigation shines a bright light on everything it touches, and if a corner of your house is dirty then people notice. And when those people aren’t getting anywhere with catching their killer, pointing fingers at other people’s faults is a handy distraction.

  Also, McNulty had been in and out all week. Apparently he’d been shitting so much from Curra’s that he’d become dehydrated. He’d tried coming to work a couple of times, more worried about his judge application than his job, I’m sure, but pretty soon turned pale and staggered back to his car.

  Which I didn’t appreciate, because it meant I had to cover his cases for him.

  I was looking over his docket when my office phone rang.

  “Dominic, this is Judge Portnoy. Do you have a moment before court to stop by?”

  “Of course, Judge. Is this about a specific case? If so, I can grab a public defender so we’re not ex parte.”

  “No, no,” she said. “Nothing like that, more of a personal matter. I just wanted to get your opinion on something.”

  I hesitated, my mind in overdrive trying to figure out what she wanted. Music related? That judge position? “I’ll be right there, Your Honor,” I said. I rose and checked my tie in the mirror, grabbed my jacket, and walked out of the DA’s offices, through the main section of the Betts, and into the part of the building where court administration was housed, and where the judges had their offices.

  Portnoy’s was the largest, of course, being the only elected district judge. I knocked on her door and she opened it herself, standing to one side as she beckoned me in.

  “H
ave a seat,” she said.

  She was a tall woman in her early fifties, with long blond hair that was starting to gray and a face that was a little too narrow to be attractive. Maybe when she was young and with a good dose of makeup, but now she just looked the way she acted in court—a little harsh.

  “How can I help?” I asked as she rounded her desk and sat opposite me.

  “It’s somewhat sensitive, to be honest.” She rested her elbows on the desk and clenched her hands together, almost hiding behind her fists. “Like I said, a personal matter.”

  “Well, I should probably start by promising that whatever you tell me goes nowhere,” I said sincerely. “You have my word.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate that.” She gave a tight smile. “Here’s the situation. A friend of mine received an envelope with her name on it. Someone had slid it under her office door. In that envelope was a disk.”

  “A disk?”

  “With video on it. About fifteen seconds of video of her having . . . relations with someone other than her husband.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Was there a note or anything with the video?”

  “Like a blackmail note?” she asked.

  “Yes, asking for money.”

  “No, just the video.” Portnoy sat back in her chair. “As you might imagine, my friend doesn’t want to call the police.”

  “I can see why. Once they’re involved, there’s no way to keep that quiet. I mean, I’m sure they’d try, but if it went to trial your friend would have to testify, the tape would be played . . .”

  “And that would be the end of her marriage and her career,” Portnoy said.

  “Does your friend have any idea who it might be? Or what they might want?”

  “Maybe. That’s why she asked for my help, and I’m asking for yours.”

  “Of course. As long as it’s nothing illegal, which I’m sure you wouldn’t—”

  “No, no, of course not,” she said hurriedly. She cleared her throat. “So, the video relates to an incident in which the police were called to her house.”

  I was confused. “Sorry, Judge, I thought you said it was video of her and—”

  “It is. It’s complicated, some bad luck and bad timing. Anyway, she thinks that someone who was there is taking advantage of those circumstances.”

  “You said the police were there.” I frowned, thinking. “I could print you a copy of the incident report. Would that help?”

  “Precisely my thinking, Counselor. I think that’s the best place to start. And thank you.”

  “Sure, I’ll do it right now. Give me ten or fifteen minutes.” I stood. “Can you tell me the date and the address, so I can find the right report?”

  She opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of paper. She wrote on the top page and tore it off. “That’s the date, time, and address,” she said, then paused before continuing. “I imagine you’ll notice a few of the details, as any curious person might.”

  “I’ll try hard not to,” I said.

  “I think that’s a little unrealistic,” she said. “But please don’t share with anyone else, and throw that piece of paper away when you’re done. As you’ll see, the address is mine.”

  I walked to the door, opened it, and turned back to her. “Judge, I have no idea what’s on the tape or in the offense report. But of all people in this world, I know that people make mistakes, show lapses in judgment. And as I hope you’ve seen from the way I practice law here in the juvenile courts, I believe that everyone deserves a second chance, and that no one should have their life defined, or ruined, by one incident.”

  Her voice was a whisper. “Thank you, Dominic. I appreciate that.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes, Judge, and I’ll have that report for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I stood there for a second, a thought striking me. “I just realized something. Every time we log into Versadex, which is where we get the reports, it’s noted. Like, I can’t do it anonymously.” She looked at me, obviously not quite getting it, so I went on. “Well, Judge, I can only assume whoever sent that is going to blackmail you, or try, even if they haven’t done so yet.”

  “And?”

  “If this does somehow blow up, if people do find out—”

  “No one’s going to find out,” she said emphatically.

  “You can’t promise me that any more than I can promise you the same thing,” I said, my voice firm. I’d seen firsthand the cleverest of schemes unravel. “Look, all I’m asking is that you send me an e-mail requesting that I pull this report. That way there’s a record that I was trying to help you, not do anything underhanded. It’s a matter of timing, me digging around before anything’s known, it could look bad. I’m trying to help you out here, Judge, I really am. But I can’t afford to put myself at risk.”

  She thought for a moment. “OK, I guess that’s fair.”

  When I got to my desk, I sat and waited. It didn’t take long for her e-mail to pop into my inbox.

  Dominic, I wonder if I might ask a quick favor. There was an incident at an address in Legend Oaks last Thursday. A friend was involved and may need legal counsel, but I can’t know that until I see the police report. If you could pull it for me, I’d be grateful. Specifics below . . .

  Short, sweet, and to the point.

  I typed the information, the date and the address, into Versadex. The screen that came up puzzled me, though, because there was no report. Just an incident number entered by the patrol officer, one Fernando Chipelo. Also uploaded was the dash-cam video and body-cam from all three officers. Which would include, I assumed, the revealing footage on Judge Portnoy’s disk that I planned to look at later.

  Although maybe not. If a record was kept, if it showed me downloading it . . . the impulsive me burned to do it, to download and watch it and later find an explanation, an excuse, for having done so. I took some deep breaths and tried to see the bigger picture, though, instead picking up the phone and dialing the APD/DA’s liaison officer.

  Chad Anders had been doing that job for three years, a bubbly, friendly guy who looked like a kid even though he was nearing fifty. There wasn’t a man alive who responded faster to e-mails or requests for information.

  “Chad, Dominic here.”

  “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  “I need to talk to one of your guys. Patrol officer named Fernando Chipelo. Asap.”

  “Sure, I’ll get hold of him now, have him call you. At the office?”

  “Or you could just give me his cell number.”

  “Man, you don’t quit, do you?” He chuckled. “Never have, never will, but feel free to keep asking.”

  “I will. And yes, I’ll be in my office.”

  It took ten minutes, but Chipelo called. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “I was looking into something that happened on your shift a week ago. Thursday evening, to be precise. I have an incident number, but there’s no report.”

  “Oh. What was the incident, sir? We don’t write reports for everything, but maybe I’ll remember.”

  “When do you not write a report?” I was wondering if someone had told him not to.

  “When the call turns out to be a dud, most often. We get a lot of calls that wind up being nothing, just a contact with a member of the public. We’ll make a note in our system but not write a report.”

  “So why an incident number?”

  “That’s generated on the front end, as soon as a call comes in—it’s automatic. That way we have a number to give to someone, that member of the public, in case they want to call back and make another statement or reference the incident somehow.”

  “I’m guessing you’ll remember this incident,” I said.

  “Oh yes?”

  “You went to a house, went inside, and found a respectable member of our community in a compromising position.”

  A pause on his end. “Yes, sir. I recall that.”

 
; “I’m seeing no report on it, but some video footage uploaded.”

  “We’re required to do that, sir.” He sounded a little defensive.

  “Did you watch the video?”

  “No, sir. I mean, I didn’t need to, I was there to see it in person.”

  “And the other two officers, they saw it all?”

  “Just Officer De Jong. He had a rookie with him who was at the back of the house.”

  I took out a pen and paper. “That rookie knew what you’d seen, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” He didn’t elaborate, but I was sure they all had a good chuckle.

  “Officer De Jong’s first name?”

  “Are we in trouble, sir?”

  “No, not in the slightest. It’s just a delicate situation; I’m trying to save someone from further embarrassment.”

  “The lady?”

  “Right. Did you happen to know who she was?”

  “No, sir. Once we realized what was going on, we excused ourselves pretty quickly. And she made it clear she didn’t want us sticking around, if you know what I mean.”

  I gave a gentle laugh. “Can’t blame her, eh?”

  “No, sir, not at all. And it’s Nick De Jong.”

  “Thanks. The rookie’s name?”

  “Ernesto Robles.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate the cooperation. The lady in question just wants to make sure this doesn’t get out; I don’t expect you’ll be bothered over this anymore.”

  “I felt really bad, sir. We only went in because we thought someone was in her house. Illegally. We didn’t mean to embarrass her.”

  “She knows that. She doesn’t blame you at all.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “Anything else I can help you with, sir?”

  “No, that’s all. Thanks.” I reached for the button to disconnect, but heard his voice again.

  “Sir? You still there?”

  “Yep, I’m here. What’s up?”

  “It totally slipped my mind, and I don’t know if it makes any difference to anything.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well,” he said. “I had a rider that night. Guy from your office, actually. He’d have seen everything on the computer. Our body cams feed directly to it; so if he was watching, he’d have seen what we saw.”