Fuck me. James Roach put those words in her mouth, he’s the only eyewitness who was there, except Maureen, of course, who would never tell her anything like that, and would have called me if this cop, or anyone, had spoken to her. That bastard Roach.
“That was bluster, and everyone there knew it,” I try to explain. “Going for him was a spontaneous thing, he goaded me into it. If there had been any more physical violence, it would have been the reverse. Him toward me.”
“But you did strike him, as well as make that threat, didn’t you?” She wants facts, not my self-serving opinion.
“Yes. I admit I hit him in anger and that I said those words.” My body is flushing, I can feel it. “You’re not thinking I had anything to do with his killing, are you?” I ask slowly.
She regards me coolly. “Where were you this morning?”
“At home.”
“And last night?”
“The same.”
I know what the next question will be before she asks it. “Was anyone with you? Can anyone verify you were where you say you were?”
I shake my head. “I was alone.”
“Did you speak with anyone on the phone?”
I think for a moment. “What time frame?” I ask.
“Let’s say from midnight until eleven this morning.” She’s sitting up ramrod-straight now. She must have been in the service before she took up law enforcement—she carries herself like a Marine.
“I didn’t talk to anyone during those hours, or see anyone. I live by myself in a remote area, by choice. Not being with people or having to deal with them, unless it’s on my terms, is how I like it.”
She taps on the file. “That’s not much help in this situation,” she tells me frankly.
“I understand. But that’s the way it is.”
I didn’t kill Wallace. If they think I did, let them try to prove it. But I’m still scared—I’ve never been in this position before, not remotely. I thought I was coming home to peace and quiet, to recuperate from my Texas meltdown. Instead, I’ve witnessed a murder, and have known someone who was also murdered. And I’m right in the middle of all of it.
I can’t let this hang in the air. “Am I a suspect?”
“Should you be?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“Because of the questions you’ve been asking me.”
“Okay. To answer your question—not at the moment,” she says flatly.
Not at the moment?
“So let me get this straight, one more time,” she bores in. “You don’t own a firearm. No rifle, shotgun, handgun, not a .22 for shooting targets, nothing.”
“That is correct,” I say stiffly. I’m in the shit now, I have to keep paddling as hard and as fast as I can and hope I reach land before I sink in it.
“Good,” she says. “I needed to get that out of the way, for the record. If we check up on you there won’t be any gun registered to you, that’s your truthful statement?”
“Yes. I mean, no. There’s no gun registered to me. But I’m thinking of getting one,” I add. I need cover, in case she checks up on me later.
“Do you think you need one?” she asks.
“I hope not. It’s my business, if I decide to buy one.”
“Yes,” she says. “It certainly is.”
Abruptly, her body language changes. She’s more relaxed. “You’re not a suspect at present, Mr. Tullis. If you were, I would have Mirandized you already.”
“That’s good news,” I say sarcastically. “Then what did you haul me up here for?” I ask.
“We’re talking to everyone who knew or saw Wade Wallace recently, and might have had a grudge against him,” she explains. “There are no witnesses to his murder, so we have to start somewhere. It’s easier and more efficient for me if I don’t have to run all over hither and yon interviewing people.”
“That’s going to be a long list,” I tell her. “Have you talked to James Roach yet?” I ask, knowing the answer.
Ricketts stiffens. “That’s being handled through other channels. For your information, Mr. Roach has an alibi. Ironclad. So we know it wasn’t him. Not that he would have any reason to kill his own security chief,” she adds.
Her reaction tells me she’s out of the loop as far as Roach is concerned. Roach is a power, he’ll be handled with kid gloves, and he’ll never be treated as I’m being now—if he was questioned, and it sounds like he was, it was where he determined it should be, and when. And any tough questions thrown his way will be about his speculations regarding motive, and whether or not he, Roach, is also in danger. The way I thought, when all this first started with the Russian diplomat’s murder.
Given all that, Ricketts still wouldn’t like being cut out—a woman, black, who’s worked her way up through the ranks. It’s an unfair world. I’m sure she knows that better than I do.
I wonder about the kid. Joe. Wallace almost killed him, too. Maybe there was bad blood between them that I don’t know about. I hope not—he’s a good kid, and Wallace was a stone-cold prick.
She stands up. “You’re free to go, Mr. Tullis. If you’re going anywhere, though, let us know where and when.”
I get up also. “Tell me the truth, Lieutenant Ricketts. Am I under suspicion?”
She looks at me squarely. “Not at the moment. But I can’t rule anything out in the future.”
• • •
The gun is out and loaded, with hollow points. If I fire it tonight—an unimaginable thought a week ago—it won’t be at an empty can or bottle. It sits on the kitchen table, within easy reach, next to the bottle of Wild Turkey. I’ve only had a few belts. I can’t be dull tonight.
Eleven o’clock. I turn the news on. The shooting is the fifth item, after a school board story and some other junk. Even the jackknifed truck gets bigger airplay. The cops are getting away with downplaying this for the moment, but I imagine that as soon as Wallace’s background comes out, as well as his association with Roach, shit will fly.
Detective Ricketts is interviewed briefly on camera. A neighbor found the body. She speaks calmly, dispassionately. The neighbor’s name is being withheld for privacy reasons. The deceased’s wallet, watch, and jewelry are missing, as well as some electronic equipment—personal computer, etc.—which indicates the shooting happened in the course of a burglary. The police think the victim came home while the burglary was in progress and was shot by the perpetrator.
The station cuts to a commercial, which will be followed by the weather. I turn the set off.
I need to talk to someone about this. The logical person is my lawyer. I pick up the phone and dial Buster’s home number. He won’t be back from his retreat yet, but I’ll leave a message that I need to see him, that it’s urgent. He’ll figure out what I mean, there’s nothing else urgent between us.
To my surprise, he picks up on the second ring. “Hello?” He sounds distracted. Maybe he’s jet-lagged. I wonder if he saw the story on the news.
I’m about to “Hello” him back—then I hesitate.
“Hello?” he says again, this time with agitation in his voice.
I hang up.
Calling Buster, then and now, was a careless move—I was reacting instead of thinking things through. Buster is connected to Roach through that founding partner of his, Clements, Roach’s close friend. Clements was Roach’s mentor—I remember that was how Buster described their relationship. That makes their bond very personal, a surrogate father-and-son kind of thing. Forget that Buster thinks Roach is a shithead—business is like blood, it’s thicker than water. He’ll do what he can to protect my ass, but he’s going to cover his own first.
Damn it! I should have thought of that before I called his office the other day. I need to be super-careful about how I handle this.
This is too heavy a load to carry by myself, though. I have to talk to someone I’m comfortable confiding in. There is one other person besides Buster I think I can talk to—at
this juncture, I’ve run out of options. I look up his phone number in the telephone book and dial it.
“Whoever you are, it’s damn late to be calling,” a gruff voice answers on the second ring.
“It’s Fritz Tullis, Fred.”
There’s a pause while he orients himself. “Fritz? What’s up, man? You know what time it is?”
I glance at my kitchen clock—eleven-twenty. Not so late, unless you’re a farmer. “I thought you were a night owl. Don’t you watch Leno?”
“Not unless the battery’s dead on my remote. I’m a news, weather, and sports guy. Sometimes the Discovery Channel.” He knows I’m not calling to talk about his viewing preferences. “So what’s the deal, Fritz?”
“You see the news tonight? The story about the man who was killed in Bowie during a robbery of his house?”
“Yes, I saw that.”
“The Prince Georges police brought me in for questioning this afternoon about it.”
A harsh exhalation of breath. “Say what?”
“I was questioned by the police. A few hours ago.”
“That’s what I thought you said. Shit, man. What for? Was he a friend of yours?”
“Hardly a friend, but I knew him.”
There’s a pause. “What was their reason?”
“They think maybe I know who did it, or that I could have,” I explain. After a moment, I add, “I think I’m a suspect.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Not officially—they told me I’m not—but I think I am, in their minds. He and I have bad blood between us and they found out about it. So they invited me to discuss it with them. It wasn’t a fun hour.”
“No shit,” he commiserates. “This is heavy, Fritz.” He goes into cop mode. “Where’s this really coming from? I mean, what do you think? If you do have ideas about it.”
“Yeah, I do. Do you remember the last time I saw you? At dinner with your cousin, the cop from Baltimore?”
“Yeah?”
“You remember what we talked about?”
“His case? The murdered Russian diplomat?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“It might tie into this. I’m almost positive it does.”
There’s a silence, then a sharp intake of breath. “You for real?”
“Too damn real.”
“Shit, man.”
“I hear you. Listen, can we get together tomorrow?”
Without hesitation, he answers, “We can get together right now, if you want to.”
I can’t handle anything more tonight. “Tomorrow will do. Can you come down here, to my place?”
“That’s on your mama’s property?”
“Yeah.”
“What time?”
“As early as you can make it.”
“I can make it at seven. Earlier, if you want.”
“No, seven’s fine.”
I give him directions. “Don’t talk to anyone about this yet, okay? Especially your cousin.”
“Okay,” he promises. “See you tomorrow.”
I’m about to hang up, when he speaks again. “You safe down there?”
I glance at my new Sig Sauer. It’s lethal just to look at it. “Safe as I can be.”
“Okay, then. You be careful.”
The line clicks off. I reach over and pour two small fingers of whiskey into my glass for courage, run my hand along the side of the automatic. It isn’t comforting. I shouldn’t have bought the damn thing. I shouldn’t have met with Simmons. I shouldn’t have taken the pictures of Roach and Wallace. I shouldn’t have taken the pictures of the murder. I shouldn’t have been down there at all. I should have driven by the Jaguar when it was stuck in the ditch, back in Texas.
But if I hadn’t done those things, at least the Jaguar-in-the-ditch part, I wouldn’t have met Maureen.
The ringing of the phone almost makes me jump out of my chair. Who would be calling at this hour? “Hello?” I say cautiously.
“What’d you call me for?” Buster asks abruptly.
“I didn’t call you,” I respond defensively.
“Don’t bullshit me, Fritz. I have caller ID. Modern technology, fella. Can’t hide anymore.”
Think, boy. Fast. “Fuck, that’s right. I did dial your number, by mistake. When I heard it was you, I realized and hung up. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You’re lying.”
“What do you mean?” I don’t like the bullying tone in his voice.
“You’re holding something back from me, Fritz. What is it? You left a message with my secretary that you needed to talk to me as soon as I got back from Santa Fe. Well, I’m back, so talk.”
I will not talk about the new developments over the phone. It will have to wait until I see him. “I’m not holding anything from you. You’re my lawyer, and my friend.”
He doesn’t bite. “You see the news?”
I can’t play dumb, not on this. “You mean Roach’s security guy? Yeah, I saw it. I’m not shedding any tears, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Had you seen him lately?”
“Wallace?”
“No, asshole, Louis Farrakhan. Yes, Wallace. I heard you threatened him a few days ago. Took a piece out of the bastard’s hide. That took balls.” He chuckles.
“Where’d you hear that?” I groan.
“Roach told my partner, who told me.”
Damn! That Roach is spreading that stuff, especially to someone who he knows would pass it on to Buster, my friend, gives me a powerful pain in my gut. And it heightens my suspicions about how much I can trust Buster, when push comes to shove. Like off the side of a mountain.
“I didn’t threaten him,” I say heatedly. “I told Roach to keep him out of my sight, nothing more. And I barely touched the prick, it was a reflex action to him getting in my face. Which Roach knows, he cooled the situation down, and admitted it was all Wallace’s doing. Hell, you know me, Buster,” I assert, trying to defuse this time bomb. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
He isn’t buying any joking around tonight. “You’re out of your league, Fritz, fucking around with this shit. For some reason, you’re trying to get something on Roach. I don’t know what, or why. But whatever it is, don’t do it. I’ve already warned you about meddling in this man’s business, it’s not a game. Witness this evening. ’Cause I’m going to let you in on a secret, ol’ buddy. Wallace wasn’t a robbery victim. He was hit.”
I play dumb. “Hit?”
“Offed. Concrete-overcoated. Rubbed out.”
“You mean murdered?”
“That’s the word I was looking for. Yes, Fritz, my fucked-up friend. Wallace was murdered.”
“How do you know? The police said it was a robbery.”
“Because,” Buster replies knowingly, “men like Wallace don’t get killed in robberies. If Wallace had walked in on somebody in his house, the robber would be the dead one, not Wallace. Somebody wanted to kill him. Whoever did this was no break-in artist. That’s how I know.”
“Well, you’d know about stuff like that better than me,” I say. “You deal with the criminal element. I’m only a defrocked history professor.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, shit-for-brains. You’re stuffed full of book learning, but you don’t have much street smarts. And you need them to fuck with the Roachs. So one more time, Fritz, the last time: don’t. You hear me?”
I don’t like this. Buster isn’t calling me at midnight with half a bag on from all the free booze he drank on the plane because he’s concerned for my well-being. He has some other agenda. I wish to hell I knew what it is. It can’t be good, not with his connections.
“Yes, Buster.” I tell him what he wants to hear. “I hear you.”
“So you’re going to steer clear of Roach from now on.”
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”
“For real this time?” He’s pressing me, hard.
“For real,” I say firm
ly.
“So . . .” He calms down. “You want to come in and see me, that was the message. In person, not on the phone or through e-mail. How urgent is it this time? It has to be about Roach, right?”
“I’ve learned some new things you should know, since you’re advising me,” I say cautiously.
“Umm. Can it wait for a couple of days? I’m swamped right now, I’m playing catch-up.”
“Sure. You tell me when.” I’m okay with delaying our next meeting—it’ll give me time to figure out how to deal with him.
“Two or three days. I’ll call you tomorrow, when I’ve gotten to the office and can look at my calendar.”
“Fine,” I tell him.
“Ixnay on fucking with Roach,” he advises me, one more time. “Until we talk, at least.”
“I hear you,” I tell him, annoyed at being talked down to, like he’s doing. “Loud and clear.”
Enough with the telephone calls. I turn off my phone. If some catastrophe happens that I should know about, too bad. I want some peace and quiet.
Quiet I’ll get. The loudest sounds are the hum of my refrigerator, the chirping of the grasshoppers, and the calls from the bullfrogs.
Peace I can forget about tonight. I lie in bed, eyes wide open, the gun on the table next to me. It’s almost dawn before I fall into a fitful slumber of no more than an hour. By the time my alarm goes off at six, I’m more tired than I was before I went to sleep.
• • •
I’ve showered, dressed, and have drunk two cups of industrial-strength coffee by the time Fred arrives. We sit at my kitchen table. I pour him a cup. He stirs in three teaspoons of sugar, along with a generous dollop of milk.
“Sounds like you’re riding a tiger,” Fred comments, sipping his brew. “How’d this happen, Fritz?” he asks, genuinely puzzled. “You’re an intellectual. You’re supposed to have your head in the clouds, not your ass in the gutter.”
“Because of where I’m living, that’s how.” I wave a hand toward the water outside my windows. “Right place at the wrong time.”
Fred looks out the window, then nods knowingly. “To a smuggler this would be valuable property. Access and privacy.”
Bird's-Eye View Page 23