“Sir, he’s just a friend of mine. He smokes sometimes and hangs with me there, but that’s all.”
“Fuck, are you a moron?” And I raise the back of my hand again.
“Greg,” he blurts, before I can smack him. “His name is Greg.”
“Greg what? Give me a last name.”
“Greg Thomas.”
“Okay, then.”
It doesn’t take me more than twenty minutes to get to the Wilson Bridge. I take the exit for I-295 to DC. After a couple of miles, I pass the police academy on the right. Haven’t seen that building in a bit. There are some good memories there for sure.
I follow the same route as I did the first time I went to the Anacostia River.
Aside from the occasional whimper, Edgar is surprisingly quiet. But when I make that turn to enter the deserted park area, I can hear his labored breathing.
I stop at the spot where I kicked Jordan Super Fly into the river.
I put the car in park and turn off the ignition.
“If this has to do with what I’m doing, I’ll stop. I swear I’ll stop,” he snivels.
I raise my hand to smack him again. He tucks his chin into his chest, expecting it, but I don’t follow through.
“Tell me why you think you’re here.”
He has an expression like he has to consider what I asked, like he just realized I might be fishing for information I don’t have.
“You tell me,” he says bravely.
This time I do smack him, but harder, and he didn’t have time to prepare. Blood trickles from his left nostril.
I grab him by the back of his neck and have to lean over the console to push him against the passenger door.
“You think you’re a fucking tough boy?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “I ask. You answer. It’s that simple. And that’s the last time I’ll say that. Tell me why do you think you’re here?”
“The weed, sir, because of the weed.”
“No, little man, that’s not it. I don’t give a shit about you and your cute boyfriend dealing weed in the woods. If that were the case, he’d be here with you.”
I let go of him, grab the key out of the ignition, then my backpack, and step out of the car. I walk around, open his door, and drag his crying ass out.
He pleads with me.
“Get on your knees,” I order him.
“Please, please. Whatever you want, just please.”
“Get on your fucking knees,” I say, helping him to his knees so he’s at the edge of the steep bank and facing the river.
I stay behind him so he can’t fully see me.
I unzip the pack, find a photograph of Miriam, and reach over his shoulder so it’s in front of his face.
“Remember, I’ll only ask once, so be very careful about lying.”
I put the photo back in the pack, pull my Glock outta the holster, and put the barrel to his head with enough pressure so he knows what it is.
“Oh God…”
“Tell me her name,” I say, pushing the barrel hard enough so his head tips with it.
“Miriam! Miriam!”
I take the gun away from his head.
“I’m her uncle,” I say, in a way that even convinces me, and since I’m on a roll, I go with the story in my head. “Now I’ll tell you something. I know all about the shit you do. I’ve followed you to the house in DC where your buddies live. Because of what I do, things like this come easy to me. You know what I mean?”
He cries again. I don’t expect an answer.
“Where is Miriam?”
“I don’t know. I swear to you I don’t know.”
“Then you’re no use to me.”
I press the barrel against his head again.
“No! No! Wait a minute. Wait. I took her there a couple of times. She wanted to go with me. I swear I just took her there.”
“You took her there and then what?”
“Nothing. We—”
“What do you mean nothing, you little fuck? There ain’t no ‘nothing’ about this.”
“I mean I bought my weed from them. She came with me a couple of times. Don’t get mad, sir, please. You told me to tell you the truth. She liked to get high, and she went there with me because they had other stuff.”
“What other stuff, drugs?”
“She liked crack.”
“Crack? You telling me she went and did that on her own, you lying fuck? You forced it on her.”
“No, no, really, I swear I’m not lying to you. She was into drugs before we met. She bought her weed from me. She wanted other stuff, like blow, but I told her I didn’t deal that shit. We hung out together, so I started taking her with me when I had to buy my weed. They had an interest in her, so they turned her on to that other shit, not me. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”
“What do you mean they had an interest in her?”
“She’s pretty. They liked her.”
“You were her boyfriend and that was okay with you?”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that.”
“You’re nothin’ but a piece of shit.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry.”
“You’re sorry for what, specifically?”
“For taking her there.”
“Tell me where she is now.”
“I left her at their house. She wanted to stay. It wasn’t anything she didn’t want to do. I shouldn’t have let her.”
This kid’s nothing but a little sociopath. I almost wanna believe him, but he’s lying through his bloody teeth. I know he had a bigger role, because he brought Amanda there, too. I wanna keep him talking, so I let him go with it.
“She’s only sixteen years old.”
“I don’t want to die. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Is she alive?”
“She was when I saw her.”
“When did you last see her?”
“It was in the summer. It was a long time ago. I don’t know exactly. I really don’t. I think it was July.”
“Where did you see her?”
“I told you. At the house in DC.”
I slap him on the right ear with the butt of the gun. I know that’s gotta hurt.
He cries out, tries to tuck his ear to his shoulder, and then he starts crying again.
“She’s not there anymore, so where would they take her?”
“You’re gonna kill me. You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?”
“Where?”
“I don’t want to die, but really, sir, I don’t know.”
“Do they work prostitution? Is that what it was?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You lyin’ shit. Answer up.”
“They’ve had girls in the house before, but then they go. They never stay. I don’t know where.”
I want to ask him how many girls he recruited for them, but I don’t wanna give up Amanda. It’s best to stick with the lone crazy uncle story, the uncle whose sole interest is his niece.
“Who was their supplier?”
“You mean the drugs?”
“Yes, dopey, the drugs.”
“I wasn’t in like that. I just bought a couple ounces of weed from them.”
“How long would you hang out there?”
“Sometimes it was quick, but sometimes we’d hang out and play cards.”
“An hour, two hours, three?”
“I’ve hung out there for almost half a day before.”
“So you got to know them pretty good?”
He’s afraid to answer.
“You wanna live, right?”
He nods several times.
“This is how you live: Give me the names of everyone you know from that house or from the street. I want all of them.”
“Okay, okay,” he says quickly, then bows his head like he’s gotta think. “I don’t know last names, though.”
I know that’s probably true. Most of the players, this punk not included, don’t offer that kinda i
nformation. Asking one of them something like that might get you into trouble.
“Give me what you got.”
“There’s Angelo. He was in charge of the house. Then there’s his brother José, and Andrés and Viktor, who I believe are their cousins. There’s also Salvador and this little kid, maybe thirteen years old, that ran errands for them. His name was Manuel, but we called him Little Manny. And then, umm…”
“You hung out playing cards, probably drinking and smoking. People had to come and visit. Tell me about that,” I offer, trying to jog his memory.
“Sometimes a lot of people came by, but I didn’t get names. It’s not like I was there every day.”
“I’m gonna hit you hard, boy.”
“Don’t, just don’t. Gimme a sec. I can’t think straight.”
I allow him a couple of seconds, and he says, “There was this older guy who came by to play cards once. He wasn’t Latino. I don’t know his name, but they called him Pequeño Diablo when they talked about him in Spanish and Little Monster when they talked to him.”
“What’d you call him?”
“Sir, I didn’t call him fucking shit. I didn’t mess around talking to him.”
“But you think his nickname was Little Monster.”
“That’s what they called him to his face.”
“Describe him.”
“He was short, much shorter than me, but built. I mean, he looked seriously dangerous. He was African-American and had cornrows.”
Sounds like someone I knew when I was working narcotics. He was one of Cordell Holm’s boys. Called him Little Monster ’cause that’s exactly what he was when he had to act as an enforcer for Cordell. If he’s still working for him, then that’s likely one of the main reasons Cordell has been able to hold on to his position longer than most.
Looks like something good mighta come out of beating this kid down.
Forty-two
I can’t spend any more time here with this kid. At this point, I’m confident he’d let me cut off his dick in order to survive. That’s a thought. I don’t like it messy, though. So what the hell do I do with him?
“You see that river, well, if you wanna call it a river. River makes it sound like it should be something tranquil. It’s nothin’ but filth. For me, far from tranquil, ’cause I like to fish, but I’d never fish this river. You look at it, boy, ’cause I put one in the back of your head you’ll be a part of that river. Part of what makes it filthy. I’m not finished with what I have to do, because I have to find my girl. So you better believe me when I say if you fuck that up and do something stupid like call the police, or, even dumber, any of the boys out there who you’re working with”—I wait a moment, think, watch the muddy surface of that river barely move. Then: “I’ll kill you, Edgar.”
I snatch him by the hoodie and push him face-first on the ground. I press my knee with good weight on the small of his back until he grunts. I search his coat pockets again, pull out a nice little wad of cash. I search his pants pockets and take his iPhone and eight small zips, each containing a dime’s worth of weed.
I sit him up and then help him stand. I shove him against the car and squeeze his balls until he squeals like a little girl.
“Naw, nothin’ there,” I say, but still hold on. “You need to understand that this is real.”
“Please. Please, I understand. I won’t say—” He starts to cry.
“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear all this crying, just a simple yes.”
“Yes.”
I pull him back up and open the door. I help him to sit and then buckle him in. I toss the cash and his little knife on the floor at his feet, but keep the weed and his wallet.
I walk around and get in the driver’s side and start the car, but before I drive, I search the contents of his wallet and find his driver’s license. I grab my notebook and write down all his information.
“I’m not going to even ask you if this is a good address. It doesn’t matter. I got your date of birth, your Social, everything I need to find you. And I can find you.”
I search the wallet again, but this time for some folded papers I saw, along with a couple of cards. One of the cards is an ID for access to a community pool. The other one is his student ID. The addresses match. I find two torn pieces of paper. I unfold them.
The first one has “Justine” and a phone number written on it. I recognize the number and obviously the name.
The second paper just has a phone number with a Virginia area code.
“Who is this for?” I ask.
He looks at it briefly and says, “Just a dude that buys an ounce of weed from me once a week.”
“What’s his name?”
“Robbie. I don’t know his last name.”
“You’re quite the businessman, huh?”
He doesn’t answer.
I keep the pieces of paper, return the IDs to his wallet, and toss it on the floor at his feet.
I check the contacts in his iPhone, but it doesn’t power up.
“What’s with this?” I ask. “A businessman whose cell phone doesn’t work?”
“That’s why I was going to the car, to charge it.”
I see the charger cable hanging out of the center console. I plug in the phone, but it still doesn’t have enough juice to power on. I leave it plugged in and set it in a cup holder.
I drive.
Rush hour fires me up. I can’t imagine being one of those commuters. Poor saps. This is their life, twice a day, five days a week. I’m not even halfway to South Run and I’ve been driving for an hour and a half. I’m about ready to jump outta my skin.
It’s dark by the time I pull into the parking lot. Sign in front says it closes at dusk. There are still a few cars in the lot and lights on in the rec center. Staff is probably closing up shop, or maybe the rec center is still open and it’s the park that closes. I don’t know, but just in case it’s all closed up I wanna make this quick; some bored cop could decide to check it out.
I pull into the space he parked in before.
I pick up his iPhone again. It powers on. I find his contacts.
“I see your boy Angelo in here.”
“Please, sir, don’t call him.”
“You wanna go back to the fucking river?”
He shakes his head.
“Shut up, then.”
I get my notebook and copy down the number, then continue scrolling and find numbers for Andrés, Edgar’s smoking buddy Greg Thomas, and then José. I don’t find a number for Amanda or Miriam. Maybe he had enough sense to delete them, or maybe he just keeps them on torn pieces of paper, like Justine. Was she going to be next on the list?
He’s got so many names in here I’m tempted to keep the iPhone. I don’t want to fuck up Davidson’s case, ’cause I know he’ll take it, and that’s what’ll connect Edgar to Angelo and company.
“You got Little Monster’s number in here?”
“No, sir. I told you I won’t mess with that guy.”
Cell phones are gold, and as much as I don’t want to stick around this parking lot with this handcuffed mutt in the front seat, I take a little time and go through it. I copy down all the numbers with a 202 area code, and a few others that look interesting.
When I’m done, I set the iPhone in the cup holder in the center console.
“Lean down,” I order him.
He obeys. I release him from the handcuffs. There’s blood around his wrists.
“Don’t even get outta the car, just slide over when I exit. You roll out right away and go home. I have nothing better to do tonight, so I might set up at your house to make sure you’re still there.”
I open the door and step out. I watch him as he slides over. He doesn’t look at me, just skids in reverse and heads out. I wait until I see him make a left turn on the parkway and then walk back to my car.
I wait in the car for about an hour, passing the time listening to the radio and snorting a few lines. In that time, a couple of people
have walked from the rec center to their cars and left. When I’m comfortable, I leave. Once I get to the light at the parkway, I ease out to look in both directions. No vehicles are parked off the road. A few cars roll by in both directions, but nothing that appears sketchy. I know he won’t be around. He’s too scared and probably at home locked in his bedroom, wearing a clean pair of shorts and sneaking a peek out the window every so often to see if any strange cars are parked in front of his house.
Forty-three
I need to pace myself, or I’ll crash. I’ve crashed into that wall of hysterics before and it ain’t fun.
I take it easy when I get home and snort only about a quarter. When I start to come down, I take a couple of 10mg Klonopins with a double shot of vodka, go to bed, and wait.
My mind is racing and keeps me up most of the night. Can’t stop thinking about Leslie, and then of course there’s the case and all that has to be done. Most of the cases I pick up are simple. You hit the street, knock on doors and try to find good witnesses, maybe take a few photos or reinterview key witnesses. It’s not like what I used to do during a narcotics investigation. That’s what this case is like. I don’t miss having to search cell phones in an effort to locate certain players and then figuring out how to okeydoke them after. Luna was good at that shit. I was good at interview and interrogation, fieldwork, and kicking in doors. Role-playing or having to okeydoke someone plays a smaller part in what I do now. Most of the time I have to do it out of necessity or to save my ass.
When I wake up, I don’t remember falling asleep.
My cell phone’s ringing.
I unplug it from the charger on my nightstand, clear my throat, and answer, “Frank Marr.”
“Mr. Marr, this is Detective Shawn Caine, with the Fairfax County Police Department.”
I check my clock for the time.
Not even eight thirty yet.
“Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“No. What can I do for you?” I ask, even though I already know why he’s calling.
“Mr. Gregory gave me your phone number. I’m the detective assigned to their daughter’s case. I was also working the Amanda Meyer investigation. That was very good what you did there, getting her home safely. I wanted to reach out to you, see what it is you’re up to with respect to Miriam Gregory.”
The Second Girl Page 14