It floats and gurgles as it begins to fill with water. The current will carry it out. This part of the river is deep. The suitcase will eventually sink. But I won’t lose sleep if it takes its time. It’s just another foul thing that found its way into the river to get swallowed up by the muck.
When I get back onto 295, I give Davidson a call.
After two rings he answers. “’Bout time you called, Frank,” he says, obviously having recognized my number or saved my name to it.
“A demanding client,” is what I come up with.
“Well, my boss is pretty demanding, too. Needless to say, they’re all over this. Your boys at Narcotics Branch are giving us a hand, too.”
“They’re good people,” I say, referring to McGuire and Luna.
“They got a surveillance vehicle sitting on the block now. No sign of these boys, but the car’s there.”
“That means they’re around.”
“According to one of the surveillance officers, it looks like someone broke into the house. You know anything about that?”
“You know I do, Davidson. How do you think I got the girl outta there?”
“Frank, you’re turning my write-up into a damn novel.”
“Exigent circumstances, brother.” Before he can reply I ask, “Where you at now?”
“Sitting in my cruiser at a staging area a couple blocks away. Probably going to have to call it soon and go in.”
“When do you want to meet?”
“I can’t say right now. For all I know I’ll be working through the night. I will need to get a statement from you at the latest by tomorrow. But keep your phone on for me, okay? Things might change. And by the way, is there anything else you might want to fill me in on, like maybe about your client?”
“You’ll get everything I have when I see you. I’m not gonna leave you in the dark.”
“You do that, Frank. Otherwise I’ll have to go through the hassle of a grand jury, subpoenas, and all that crap.”
“Well, we don’t want that happening.”
I hear radio chatter from his end.
“Copy,” he says off to the side, then, “I gotta go. Keep your phone on.” He disconnects.
I set the phone in a cup holder in the center console.
“Damn, I’m gonna need a good story,” I say to myself, and then light a cigarette.
Twelve
All I want to do right now is go home, tuck myself away for the rest of the day and through the night, but I gotta smooth things over with Leslie. I know how angry she must be. It’s not the first time, but even with all the baggage I carry, which I know can affect any friendship or business relationship, I’ve never done something this stupid. I don’t really know what I can do to fix it except to say I’m sorry and it won’t happen again. I certainly can’t tell her the truth. Hell, I’m so good at keeping that part of my life a secret even I believe what I say half the time.
Maybe I’ll give her a part truth and tell her I’m an alcoholic. But no, we both enjoy drinking too much, and I don’t want to give up that part of our relationship.
I shoot Leah a smile when I enter.
“Is she in?” I ask.
“Yes,” Leah answers.
When I walk into her office, the first thing she says is, “You look like a bum in a suit,” and I feel forgiven already ’cause that’s how she normally talks to me.
She’s sitting behind her desk. She returns to a case file she’s reviewing; she’s writing notes on a yellow memo pad that already has several pages turned over and tucked under it.
“I just want to say—” I begin.
Without looking up at me, she says, “I don’t want to hear anything, Frankie. I especially don’t want to know anything about whatever it is you’re working.” She sets her pen down and looks up at me. “But please tell me you’re cooperating with Detective Davidson and Fairfax County.”
“Davidson’s the only one I’ve spoken to, and yes, I am cooperating.”
“Well, that’s a relief. And seriously, you need to get that suit pressed, definitely shower and shave. I can smell the cigarettes and sweat from here.”
“I’ll be fresh by tomorrow. And I’m sorry about this shit. This case has got me all worked up.”
“I told you I don’t want to know about the case. Last thing I need right now is getting summoned to a grand jury, which, by the way, still might happen.”
“No it won’t.”
I sit on the chair in front of her desk.
“I’m assuming that’s the Claypole file you’re working on?” I ask.
“Yes. He won’t take a plea, so we’ll be going to trial.”
“What did the government offer?”
“Aggravated assault.”
“It sounds better than assault with intent to kill, but still not much of a plea offer. It could still get him the max, with a record like his.”
“No judge will give him ten years for agg assault, especially the way this one went down. He should have taken the offer. He’d be out in three, less with time served.”
“Shouldn’t be that hard for someone like you to find mitigating circumstances.”
“Quit kissing my ass. And you know I already tried to establish that. We go to trial on this, I’m going to lose. And I hate to lose.”
“But this time you’ll be presenting it to a DC jury.”
“Trust me when I say that won’t matter with this one.”
“When’s the trial?”
“We have a status hearing on Monday. Since he won’t accept the plea, the judge will probably set a date for jury selection.”
“You need me to do anything?”
“No. You’ve already done everything you can do.”
“I can have a sit-down with Claypole if you want, maybe convince him you know best.”
She looks at me like she’s considering it.
“No. I did my best on that one; he’s the client and the client wants to go to trial.”
“It’s been a while since I talked to him. Maybe I could get the story again, see if there’s anything else to work with—for the trial, I mean. The time’s on me. Least I can do for all the shit I just put you through.”
She nods like she agrees and says, “You’ve already worked this one to the ground, but then it can’t hurt, right?”
I agree with a nod and a bit of a smile.
“But I want you on the clock. I don’t take freebies, even from you.”
She’s forgiven me.
“It’s your dime,” I tell her.
“I’ll set it up with DC jail so you can meet him tomorrow.”
“Make it in the afternoon. I’ll probably have to get with Davidson sometime in the morning.”
“All right,” she agrees.
I push myself out of the chair.
“Can you clean yourself up, please?” she asks sincerely.
“I suppose so,” I say, but then realize how difficult that would really be.
Thirteen
I wake up to a sweaty pillow. I turn it over and lie still for a while. I try to make sense of the dreams that fired up all that sweat, but by the time I’m focused enough, they slip away. When I go out, I go out hard.
The first thing I do after I get my brain straightened out is check my cell, but not for the time. I want to make sure I didn’t sleep through Davidson trying to call me. It’s a few minutes after 7 a.m. I slept maybe three hours. Wouldn’t have slept at all if I hadn’t downed a couple of Klonopins with a glass of Jameson. Most of the night was spent trying to figure out a good story for Davidson. One of the benefits of blow, especially good blow, is it gives you the fortitude to do shit like that.
I think I got a good story out of it.
I remember I have to shower and shave. It takes me a few minutes, but I manage to push myself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
Daylight’s trying to make an entrance through the curtains. It’s still semidark in the bedroom, so the curtain
s are doing their job. I turn the end table light on ’cause I’m not ready for the light of day. I can’t remember the last time I pulled the curtains open, actually.
I down four ibuprofen with the remaining glass of water I keep on the nightstand. When I’m able to, I stand up, pull my T-shirt off, drop my boxers, and stumble my way to the bathroom.
The bathroom light is brutal. I sit on the toilet and try to take a shit, use some of the toilet paper to blow my nose.
There’s a glob of mucus mixed with blood on the toilet paper; then blood trickles out of my left nostril. I wad up a bit of toilet paper and stuff it up my bleeding nostril, replacing it with a bit more until the bleeding stops.
No luck with taking a shit so I move to the sink, find the saline solution, and squirt it up my nostrils a couple of times until it drips out of my nose and into the sink.
I shave, then take a long, hot shower. When I return to my bedroom I check my cell again and notice a call that just came in from Davidson. I pull out some clean boxers from the top dresser drawer, sit on the edge of the bed, and give him a call.
“Was afraid you weren’t going to return my call,” he answers.
“I was in the shower. What’s up?”
“I’m at the Nickel. Can you get over here at about noon?”
“That won’t be a problem. You already got an Assistant U.S. Attorney assigned to this?”
“Yes. It’s going to district court, so I’m here waiting to paper it.”
“I’m assuming you got some arrests, then?”
“You assume correctly, my friend. We’ll talk when you get here. I’ve got a desk on the third floor now.”
I let myself chuckle. “How’d you wrangle that?”
“Me and a couple other guys from Youth Division got detailed to an FBI task force for crimes against children. The AUSA that’s assigned to work with us wanted us close so she secured some space for us in an empty office.”
“Sounds like a good gig for you. At least it gets you out of Youth Division.”
“We’ll see how long it lasts. It’s good work, though. So listen, I’ll see you when you get here. Hit me on the cell when you’re downstairs.”
“Will do. And start figuring out how you’re gonna keep me out of everything. I’m too busy to deal with witness conferences and grand juries and shit like that.”
He’s silent.
“All right?”
“Just get down here by noon, bro.” And before I can respond he says, “Later,” and disconnects.
Damn, that son of a bitch didn’t give me an answer.
Fourteen
Cops sometimes refer to the U.S. Attorney’s Office as the Nickel or Triple Nickel, ’cause the address is 555. It’s located on 4th Street, between E and F, about three blocks from Costello’s office, and I have to deal with the parking situation again.
I circle the blocks in the area until a spot opens up, maybe twenty minutes. It’s frustrating as shit because my time belongs to me now, not the department. Back when I was on the job, I wasted so much of my life in this car circling blocks. Most of the time, I’d simply give up and park somewhere illegal, put an “Official Police Business” placard on the dash, and hope for the best. It’s the damn DPW you have to worry about getting a ticket from, not cops. Having a placard rarely helped. It was always a roll of the dice.
I give up and park illegally, just like old times. I throw the placard on the dash, step out of the car, and put on my suit jacket. I’m wearing my navy blue Britches suit that I bought in Georgetown back in the day, when they were still open. It’s still a good suit, but I’m thinking with all the money I recovered I should buy myself some newer suits. I grab my overcoat from the front seat ’cause it looks like rain.
Davidson meets me in the lobby.
We shake hands and he says, “You’ve lost some weight.”
“Been eating right,” I tell him.
I show my retirement badge and ID to security and I’m given a visitor’s sticker. After I stick it on my suit jacket I place everything from my pockets, including my keys, on a metal stand and then walk through the metal detector. I’m not carrying, so it stays quiet.
We take the elevator to the third floor and then walk to a secured door off the glassed-in reception area.
We walk along a short hallway to an open area with six old wooden desks that look like they’ve recently been moved out of storage. Every desk is cluttered with files and has a desktop computer with a large screen. Only one of the desks is occupied, by a young guy, heavyset, dressed in an expensive suit. He looks up at me.
“This is my partner, Detective Curtis Hicks.”
We shake hands, then he nods and sits back in his chair.
“That’s my desk,” Davidson says, pointing to a corner spot.
He takes off his suit jacket and slides it over the back of his chair, sits, and then scoots his chair on wheels back against the wall.
“Have a seat,” he says, directing me to a chair against the wall near the corner of his desk.
He grabs a fresh memo pad off a stack of pads on his desk, pulls a nice silver pen out of his shirt pocket, and writes the date and time on the top line.
“So you’re looking…” he begins, and then pauses, with a thoughtful expression. “You’re looking a bit tired and overworked.”
“You got some nice bags under your eyes too, bub.”
“Yeah, but I’m not retired. Your days should be spent fishing, drinking good scotch, and loafing around. Instead you’re off chasing bad guys.”
“You’re forgetting—I went out at seventeen years and I was lucky to get forty percent. I gotta work.”
“I always wondered why you left so early. Your boy Luna said you got burned out.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“I was telling my partner here that you’re sort of a legend.”
“Sort of? Is that like the minor league of legends?” I smile.
“No, I didn’t mean it that way.” He looks at his partner. “But he is, Hicks. Dude made more district court drug cases than his whole unit put together. In fact, all the overtime he was making put him into six figures.”
“I did all right,” I add.
He turns back to me and says, “No surprise you burned out, Frank. You worked too damn hard. Your seventeen years was like thirty. So are you and Costello like ‘together’ or something?”
“Fuck no,” I say, as if I’d never consider it, which is a lie because we do have something going, I just don’t know what the hell it is.
“I always liked her, even if she did turn and go to the other side.”
“She’s good people. Work she gives me keeps me going, so I’m thankful.” He’s grinning.
“Yeah, fuck that. You work to get the dopes we lock up out. What’s with that?” his partner interjects.
“Give it a break, Hicks,” Davidson tells him.
“It’s all right. I get that a lot, but mostly from rookies.”
Hicks puffs out a grunt.
“I get the occasional mope,” I continue, like I don’t take offense. “Mostly it’s white-collar shit, though, and nothing having to do with hurting children, so you don’t have to worry about me getting one of your fucking peds out. Wouldn’t work that kinda crap even if I was offered.” I turn back to Davidson. “Certainly don’t know how you can work it either.”
“It can be tough,” Davidson says. “We pick up a variety of cases, but mostly those that deal with pedophiles on the Internet. Our commander at Youth Division called the supervising agent at the FBI who’s in charge of this unit; because of the interstate aspect and since it involved abducting a minor for prostitution, he took it. So now it’s on my desk.”
“They got you partnered with the FBI?”
“They’re good people to work with. I’m hoping I get a take-home vehicle out of the deal.”
“Feds do have the best cars. What about Fairfax County PD? The little girl told me she lives there. They i
n on this?”
“FBI all the way. They took it over, but we’ll keep them in the loop.”
“Well, I know you’ll follow it through at least.”
“You want a soda or something?” Davidson asks.
“I’m good.”
“I know you have to roll, so let’s get started.”
“Tell me first how it went the other day. You get those pieces of shit?”
“Yes. In fact, I want to show you some pictures. Tell me if you recognize any of them.”
He opens a thin case file beside the computer keyboard on his desk, pulls out two Police Department Identification Number photos, and hands me one of them.
“What about this guy?”
I take the photo and immediately recognize it as Shiny.
“Yeah, he’s one of them. I think that’s the one they call Angelo. I just call him Shiny ’cause of his hair.”
I hand the photo back. Davidson examines it again.
“Does look like he goes for the hair product.”
“Yeah, Brylcreem or some shit like that, and he probably nets it every night,” Hicks says.
Davidson chuckles, slips the photo back into a manila envelope, and hands me another photo.
“I recognize him, too.”
“No nickname for this guy?” Davidson asks.
“No. He stays at the house, though.”
“And how do you know all this shit?” Hicks asks.
His tone is a little hard, but I still don’t let it get to me. I am surprised Davidson doesn’t put him in his place.
“’Cause I sat on the place for a bit,” is all I tell him.
I hand the photo back to Davidson, and it goes in the manila with the other one.
“That’s all you got?” I ask.
“Those were the only two that showed up.”
“Well, there’s two more,” I say, knowing there’s three, but I keep Jordan Super Fly stuffed in the suitcase to myself, for obvious reasons. “They were probably still working Sixteenth and Park while these two went back to the house to re-up.”
“Yeah, probably. That’s why we had a lot of the boys in that area stopped and identified. Most of them didn’t have any identification, and the ones that did were probably fake.”
The Second Girl Page 5