The clean-cut black officer of the pair approached first, his short sleeves revealing bulging biceps. His partner, more male stripper than cop, hovered over them, proud as a peacock. With his muscular frame, artificial spray-on tan, and closely cropped and gelled hair frozen unnaturally in that crunchy state of suspended hair animation, he was a walking billboard for the perks of becoming a Philly cop. While he wasn’t out busting dangerous criminals, playing hero, and looking like a Playgirl centerfold doing it, he was pumping iron and pampering himself, presumably at one of the many taxpayer-funded spas.
Yet if the Roundhouse was any indication, beefcake cop’s existence was not all mani-pedis and Brazilian waxes. The concrete, double-towered fortress, which straddled Chinatown and Old City, an eclectic blend of chic meets Betsy Ross historical, was visually underwhelming. Its interior, although cavernous, was purely functional and out-of-date. Every utilitarian metal desk and even the bare concrete walls were downright grimy, as if decades of body odor, pungent prostitute perfume, blood, and cigarette smoke had formed a permanent and greasy layer of depravity.
Disheveled and completely out of his element, Hunter arrived at the Roundhouse close to twenty minutes later. He was escorted into the building’s rear entrance, which backed up to a parking lot full of unmarked Crown Vics, battered cop cars, police vans, and an array of off-duty vehicles, including about a dozen or so Harleys, lined up like those belonging to a notorious street gang at a biker bar. The image, which in Hunter’s mind was a blatant contradiction, lawlessness and lawfulness side by side, felt like an omen to him. The typical symbol, a crow, had been replaced by the hog. A short driveway with a steep decline led to a subterranean section of the building, the area containing the dank holding cells. An unsanitary communal grill had been positioned on a level section of the path, presumably for the officers and other staffers resigned to call the headquarters their home away from home. News vans belonging to the three major local networks formed their usual queue along the cracked sidewalk on the entrance side, always on the ready to break the latest in a dizzying array of crime stories.
Hunter was less than thrilled to be ambushed by the handful of field reporters who somehow had already gotten word of his being picked up. Like a deer in the headlights, Hunter ignored the coercive microphones and barrage of questions about being named a person of interest in the investigation into Russo’s murder and now Sheila Primeau’s abduction. Hunter’s accompanying officers, both sporting newsworthy expressions, managed to elude the equivalent of the media Bermuda Triangle and tactfully push him past.
Once inside, Hunter was swept up in the under-budgeted frenzy of Philadelphia crime fighting, almost immediately regaining his anonymity, despite a few obligatory sideways glances. He was also struck by the oppressive heat levels in the building, which could only be the result of a defective air-conditioning system. Humidity levels and the heat index outside were hovering at record-setting levels for the month of March. And despite increasingly threatening skies, the storm of the century had yet to officially begin.
Although he’d had friends from law school who’d chosen the criminal path, or rather had been chosen, as they might prefer to believe, nobly heading off to the district attorney’s office or the public defender’s, Hunter’s criminal experience was limited to late-night reruns of Law and Order, 12 Angry Men, A Man for All Seasons, and the occasional glimpses offered by Sheila. Pre-disappearance, naturally. He couldn’t ignore the obvious irony, though, that he was entering this monument to criminality and municipal thriftiness for the very first time, not as a purveyor of the truth and justice but as a suspect in not just one but quite possibly two murders. And to make matters worse, he failed to heed his very own advice. As the questioning continued in a drab, two-way-mirrored interrogation room upstairs, the harsh fluorescent lighting flooding the room with trepidation, Hunter endured the twists and turns courtesy of Risotto’s baby-faced colleague without the benefit of competent criminal counsel. For the moment Hunter played along, navigating the predictable snake pits and quietly extracting information from his less-than-formidable interviewer.
“Color me stupid,” said Detective Rossi, with a harsh South Philadelphia accent, his gold chain making an occasional tacky appearance, “but I’m still trying to make sense of this whole Russo thing. Know what I’m sayin’?” Rossi was in his mid-twenties and an obvious Dunkin’ Donuts aficionado. His shiny polyester short-sleeved dress shirt was unbuttoned casually, bringing detective sexy back, and too tight to conceal the spare tire bulging around his waist. His cragged nose was too big for his puffy face, which was pasty and dried far beyond his years. Clearly he hadn’t hit the genetic lottery. Greasy, prematurely receding hair was slicked back, and a small rhinestone earring sparkled in the awkwardly shaped lobe of his left ear. It was clear that he fancied himself a rock star of sorts, a phenom in the world of the Philadelphia police force.
“Like I said, I barely knew the guy.”
“But I’m hearin’ you weren’t a fan.”
“Not sure—” Hate is more like it.
Interrupting and obviously playing to the detectives on the other side of the glass, Baby-Face stood abruptly and leaned over the metal table, getting up in Hunter’s face. “Don’t play me for a fool, Mr. Gray. We know all about the sanctions thing.” Rossi paused, poised to get under Hunter’s skin. “The old coot really lit your ass up, didn’t he?”
Hunter didn’t dignify the detective’s line of questioning with a response. He was grasping at straws as he tried to develop a theory of motive. Plus, if the detective had the evidence to support it, Hunter would’ve already been booked and arraigned.
“And I’m not talkin’ about losing that case with…” he went on, momentarily blanking on the name of the party, snapping his fingers like a crooner, the dirty fingernails taking center stage. “That rip-off cable company. Media. Whatchamacallit.”
“Mediacast?” said Hunter, forced to play along with Rossi’s counterfeit forgetfulness.
“Thank you,” he replied disingenuously with a theatrical snap of the wrist and point of the index finger.
“You’re welcome.” Hunter faked a smile and mimicked the false enthusiasm.
“There’s no excuse for me forgettin’ that name. I pay them a friggin’ arm and a leg every month. I like a little adult entertainment every now and again, if you know what I’m sayin’.” Sleaziness oozed from his mouth like one-dollar bills flowing from the hands of married businessmen at a strip joint, full nudity.
“Sure do,” lied Hunter.
“Come on, man,” replied Rossi disapprovingly. “Now don’t tell me you’ve got time to watch with a hot little number like Judge Primeau in the house.”
Rossi’s tactics had officially crossed the line. It took Hunter all the patience and restraint he had left, not a whole heck of a lot, either, to resist the urge to level this little wiseass.
“Whatever you say.”
“Unless you’re watchin’ together. Then I give you mad props.”
“Can we just get on with this?” asserted Hunter, biting his tongue while taking a jab, training him with a jolt and letting him know he was overstepping.
“In a rush?”
“I have a big trial first thing in the morning.” Not that he had nearly enough time to prepare.
“Big-time trial, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” rebutted Baby-Face, all smartass. Rossi was the type who had a chip on his shoulder, knowing he never had the chops or drive to become a lawyer.
Hunter nodded and grinned, deriving a bit of pleasure, knowing he was starting to rattle Rossi’s cage.
“What kind of trial is it? You defendin’ someone for murder or something?”
“Bravo. Very clever.” Hunter paused and leaned into Rossi, making a point. “I think you know the one. The one involving Vito Armani. I’m sure your boss has told you all about it. There’s a lot more there than what’s on the sur
face. Stuff you,” he said as he gestured toward the glass, “and your buddies out there should be investigating instead of harassing me. You’re wasting your time here, and you know it. Just buying time for whoever offed Russo and can tell us what happened to Sheila.”
“You’re not trying to finger my boy Vito for all this, are ya? That dude’s the mack daddy. And if ya ask me, those liberal hippies oughta let the poor guy be. It’s a free country, and the dude can say whatever he wants, especially to those freeloading illegals. They get treated better than me. It frankly disgusts me.”
“No one asked you, Detective. And you might want to check your emotions a bit before they start to cloud your professional judgment.”
“Listen to me, you stuck-up little prick,” snapped Rossi. “You’re sittin’ there for a reason. Whatever you did or didn’t do had nothin’ ta do with me. It’s your own fuckup. And trust me, you do not want to get on my bad side.”
“Fair enough,” replied Hunter, diffusing the situation. Hunter hated to admit it, but there was wisdom in Rossi’s gruff words. Ultimately, setup or no setup, it was his own poor judgment that landed Hunter there in the first place.
Rossi retreated a bit, winning that round. “Good. Now let’s go back to Judge Primeau. You were sayin’ she and your boss used to be hot and heavy.”
Hunter was growing increasingly frustrated with Rossi’s incompetence and circuitous lines of questioning. “Correct. Her and Al Mancini, the chairman of my firm.”
“She gets around, this one,” he observed chauvinistically, twisting the knife again. The comment actually reminded him of something Dillon would’ve said.
“Whatever you say, detective.”
“Hey,” chided Rossi. “Just callin’ a spade a spade.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Hunter remained dispassionate.
“Yeah.” He was cavalier as hell.
“Because you sound like a misogynist to me. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Massa-ga-who? How ’bout a little English? A dumb guy like me can’t keep up with all this legal mumbo jumbo.”
“It’s not a legal term.” Hunter paused, considering whether to go for the jugular this time. At this point, he knew he had nothing to lose. Why prolong the agony with a self-righteous and borderline incompetent rookie? All he needed to do was light the fuse and pray for self-destruction. The sooner the detonation, the sooner he’d have a chance to present his side of the story to another one of his colleagues, and hopefully an impartial one next time around. “It means a woman hater.”
“A woman hater, huh? That what you think?”
“Just an observation.”
“Is that all it is?” he asked rhetorically, chewing on Hunter’s words, the ire rising. “So basically you’re callin’ me a faggot?”
Clearly the concept of diversity training had yet to find its way into the Philadelphia Police Department. Hunter couldn’t help but ponder the absurdity of his circumstances. His fate, at least for the moment, was in the hands of an intolerant bigot, the antagonist in the city’s crusade, the one he’d been facilitating. It was an ill-fated and delusional moment of nobility, one that had eclipsed the truth—he would’ve done anything to make partner, and he desperately wished he could take it all back.
Hunter was pleasantly surprised by such a juvenile reaction, knowing that Rossi was about to dig his own grave. He marveled at the utility of simply playing to emotion, something he almost always did when a witness had his back against the wall. “Is that what you heard, detective? Because I wasn’t referring to your sexual preference—just noting your seemingly constant need to objectify women.” Hunter paused, feigning a revelation. “But now that you mention it.”
“I’m no fuckin’ queer!” he declared, moving like a klutzy yet raging bull. Hunter had struck a raw nerve.
“All right, all right,” said Hunter, pretending to let it go. “I believe you. Forget I ever said anything. Anyway, you know you’ve got nothing on me. Holding me for this long is bullshit. You’re grasping at straws, Detective.” Under his breath, he added, “Not that anything I’ve told you hasn’t fallen on deaf ears anyway.”
“Get up!”
“What?” Hunter asked as if the detective had ordered him to strip down at gunpoint.
“You heard me! Stand the fuck up!”
Apprehensively, Hunter got to his feet, playing the part of the victim to the hilt. He threw a subtle glance in the direction of the mirror, his eyes and expression warning the observing colleagues about the civil rights suit in the making. Hunter raised his hands meekly, as if he was a negotiator submitting to the irrational demands of a raving lunatic. “Now take it easy buddy. Just calm down.”
“Shut up!” At this point, Rossi was nearly foaming at the mouth, like a rabid, mangy stray. “Now look me in the eye. And answer me one question.”
Hunter did as he was told, letting the episode unfold like a documentary on police brutality. Rossi was self-destructing right before his very eyes. And he was brazen, acting with reckless disregard for protocol. Hunter had trained his eye on him during the hour-long interrogation. Rossi didn’t so much as glance at either of the two compact surveillance cameras. Hunter started to think they weren’t even operable and just there for decoration, to create the illusion of due process. “What’s that?”
Suddenly, the detective’s boyish voice went nearly silent, to a barely audible whisper. Clearly, he wanted the next threat to be completely off the record. “And if you don’t answer, you can bet I’m gonna charge your sorry ass. And don’t think I won’t do it.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
“Look. If this is about an apology—”
“An apology means nothing coming from scumbags like you.” Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.
“All right then.”
Rossi was nearly chest-to-chest now. “I just want to know whether that slutty judge girlfriend of yours ever screamed your boss’s name when she was bangin’ you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Hunter smiled fiendishly, triumphantly. “That’s the best you can do, detective. That’s all you can do to feel like a man?”
“Yes or no, you piece of shit.” Rossi was seething.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Hunter savored the moment. And then his world went black.
FIFTY-THREE
Bracing, civilly disobedient, proved futile once Detective Rossi landed a surprisingly first-rate jab. The shot struck Hunter squarely in the nose, sending him reeling and causing a mini blackout. He nearly dropped but somehow managed to catch his balance. Astounded that Rossi had actually done it, Hunter rebounded with both fists clenched, preparing to respond in kind. The laws regarding self-defense were very much on his side, and he intended to do something he’d wanted to do since the interrogation began—beat the shit out of this hack.
He tasted blood, which must’ve permeated his naval cavity. Then he heard a forcible click near the doorway. He instinctually scanned the entrance out of the corner of his eye. A torrent of activity flooded the room, and Hunter immediately knew the other detectives were rushing to quell the clash. Hunter continued to wind up. But he barely connected. Risotto had already inserted himself between the pair. A Prada cushion. Another detective struggled to separate Rossi, who flailed his body in an insincere display of resistance. He knew the jig was up. Taking it any further would’ve virtually guaranteed an internal affairs investigation. One punch, like one unprovoked and non-life-threatening gunshot, was still marginally justifiable. With any luck, Rossi just might avoid a reprimand and suspension.
Hunter sat back down on the hard metal chair and tried to absorb the surrealism of the situation. He observed Rossi exiting stage left, dragged away like a rebellious adolescent by an incensed parent. By the time he hit the doorway, his swagger had been reduced to a nervous gait. With Rossi’s back to him, Hunter couldn’t see the young detective’s countenance. He was pretty sure, tho
ugh, that the expression was a combination of bewilderment and repentance. After shoving Rossi disapprovingly, the other detective, slight build, nondescript, weathered, and appearing ten years older than his probable mid-fifty self, presented Hunter with a well-creased handkerchief. It was a gentlemanly gesture. The cop’s piercing blue eyes, reminiscent of acting god Paul Newman’s, offered a sincere apology for the erratic behavior of the greenhorn. The look was a cool blend of paternity and skepticism.
“Thanks,” said Hunter as he accepted and placed the polyester square over his wounded nose, carefully surveying the extent of the damage for the first time. The pain of the blow had spiked, and he was left with a tingling numbness and a building pressure on his sinuses. Fresh and dried blood stained the transparent white material, confirming what he’d already suspected. Detective Rossi had broken the goddamn thing. Shit.
The injury conjured up images from Hunter’s high school soccer days. The scene played out in his mind’s eye as if it were yesterday. The frigid winter Chicago air. An impenetrable gunmetal gray sky, just like the one he had seen when this whole thing started. A premonition. The rock-hard dirt bearing an occasional mutilated patch of grass, the remnants of Adidas cleats. His beloved father, unwavering in his support, cheering him on from the sidelines, inspiring him to greatness. The love was pure and unadulterated.
It was the championship game, and Hunter’s team enjoyed home-field advantage. They were the ordinary working-class kids. The enemy was Bellevue Prep, the most exclusive private day school within a fifty-mile radius and their greatest archrival, at least in their own mind. The teams had been battling for well over an hour already, and Hunter’s team was down by one. The rickety, underfunded public school’s scoreboard showed 2–3 with just under two minutes to play. Hunter had earned the distinct honor of leading his team in points that season, with assists accounting for more than half of the tally.
Justice Hunter Page 30