“She used to hang out with Edgar Soto?” Caine asks.
“That’s what I said.”
“She never told me that.”
“Like you said, you got rules of engagement, and I don’t walk on eggshells when it comes to juvies.”
“So you’re saying you beat it out of her?” He smirks.
“The only bruises you’ll find on that girl are inside, and she got those long before she met me.”
“Is she connected to Amanda Meyer?” Davidson asks.
“No, they weren’t friends.”
“What about the defendants who abducted Amanda? Does she know them?” Davidson asks.
“Yeah, she does. I might have to talk to her again on behalf of my clients, so like I said, keep my name out of it. I don’t want her to clam up on me.”
“I got you on that,” Caine says.
“Don’t worry,” Davidson adds.
“I have a feeling if you tell her Edgar Soto was murdered, she’ll give you everything she knows.”
“Is she your source?” Davidson asks.
“Give me a break, Scott,” I say. “And if you have a detail on Amanda, you might want to get one on Justine, too.”
“You think she’s that involved that she’s in danger?” Caine asks.
“I don’t think it’s that she’s that involved, just that she hangs with the wrong people, and that might be enough to get her hurt.”
“I’ll get one of our marked units to sit on her house until you all get everything worked out,” Caine says to Hawkins.
“Appreciate that.”
“So you don’t think we look at her as another suspect in the Amanda Meyer case?” Davidson asks.
“My opinion, no, she wasn’t involved in all that. She’s just a girl who wants to have fun.”
Fifty
I feel better since they agreed to provide Justine with a protection detail, so I hold off on giving them Playboy, at least for now. I got an idea for an okeydoke I want to play on him, and these guys’ll just get in the way. I need to get with Luna first. I can trust him to keep things to himself, especially if there’s something in it for him down the road, like a good bust.
“Have to admit, you know a lot more than we do about some of the players in this investigation,” Hawkins says.
“Players? I told you that girl isn’t a player.”
“You said you have a source. Sounds like a good one, too. You gave us a possible good lead with Columbia Village. Does your source know the decedent?”
“I’ve got a hundred good sources. All you guys need to do is talk to Justine Durrell on this one, and take it from there.”
“So tell us about your conversation with Edgar Soto,” Hernandez says out of the blue, and suddenly I’m falling out of love.
“I never said I had a conversation with Edgar Soto. And like I told Davidson, even if I did have a conversation with him, and I’m not saying I did, it’d be privileged information.”
“Enough with this privileged information shit,” Whatshisname says. “This is a fucking murder case.”
“And I’m not trying to hinder that case. If I did talk to him, the only thing we’d talk about is Miriam Gregory, and if he knew where she was.”
“And what makes you think there’s no connection between the two?” Hernandez asks.
“Very well could be, but unless I find Miriam Gregory, I’ll never know. What the fuck’s this about, Davidson?” I ask, because it’s starting to feel like an interrogation.
Davidson doesn’t say anything, like he’s deferring to the big boys or, rather, boy and the woman beside him. They all got their position now, except for Caine. He’s just a guest.
“What if we told you there’s a witness who observed a man in a suit who fits your description. He was with the decedent yesterday,” Hawkins says.
“I’d say there’s a lot of men in a suit who fit my description.”
“I don’t know. You don’t look like the average bear,” Hernandez says.
“This is bullshit, Scott. You know I wanted to talk to him. He was the only lead I had. For that matter, he was the only lead Caine had, and now he’s dead. Does wanting to interview the kid make me a suspect in his murder? This is ridiculous.”
“I’ll give you more of the ridiculous, then,” Hawkins says. “We have a witness who saw you fight with the decedent and then force him into his own car and drive off. Does that ring a bell?”
I belt out my best laugh. It sounds genuine, because I’m genuinely taken by surprise. They won’t know the difference.
“What, another witness? You said the last one saw a man who fits my description. Now you got one who puts me fighting with the kid? You guys are outta your fucking minds if you think I was involved in something like that.”
I look at Davidson again, but he won’t look at me directly. I’m starting to worry about whether I’m going to walk outta here. Fact is, it would look like I was having a little scuffle with the kid, and maybe a concerned mother called 911, maybe even got Soto’s tag number before we drove off. If a unit did respond, then they’d find it easy enough during the course of the preliminary investigation. Someone could’ve provided a good description of me, even put me with my car. Another witness possibility is his weed-dealing partner, Greg. He could’ve seen it go down from the wooded area. Either one of these options would suck.
“Davidson, what’re you thinking, pulling me down for some shit like this? You’re seriously reaching. If you had me for something like that, then all this would’ve played out differently and you know it. I’d have had my door kicked in instead of a former old buddy politely asking me to stop by.”
“We have your old police photo, and you haven’t changed that much. A photo array is being shown to the witness as we speak.”
Now I know these guys are amateurs. They shoulda let Davidson run with the interview. He might’ve had a better chance. They’re full of shit, and this is all a fishing expedition. They would’ve shown that photo array first thing, not waited until I got here. There probably is a witness, and that witness probably did provide a good enough description that led to all this, but the witness couldn’t identify me in a photo array, so now they’re reaching, trying to okeydoke my ass, like I’m some fucking rookie. Whatever it is they have is circumstantial at best, but I’ve seen good cases made with less, so I’m still more than a little concerned.
“Next time you want to play my ass, at least do it in the comfort of my own home. That’s where I’ll be if your so-called witness pops me in the array. I’m fucking out of here.”
I start walking toward the door.
Davidson is the only one to follow me, but he doesn’t try to stop me. That’s when I know I’m safe.
“Are you sure you want to walk out like this?” he asks.
I stop when I turn to walk down the hall and we’re out of the others’ line of sight.
I face him and ask, “What the fuck are you thinking, Scott? How could you think I’d have anything to do with that kid’s murder?”
“Listen, man, I know you can be heavy-handed at times, but I also know you had nothing to do with the murder. You wouldn’t be walking out of here if I thought otherwise. But we both know you talked to Soto. You might’ve been the last person to talk to him. I just don’t understand why you won’t share whatever it is you talked about.”
“You want something from me, Scott, try asking.”
“Okay, then. Was it you who the witness saw with the decedent?”
“No.”
I hear a door open behind us. I look over my shoulder, and out walks Deputy Chief Garrett Wightman, the last person I’d want to see right now.
“Now I’m beginning to understand,” I tell Davidson.
Fifty-one
Wightman has always had this walk as if he’s approaching a microphone on a stage before a large audience. He’s wearing a uniform. White shirt and tailored pants, cut just right. The gold badge on the left side of his chest sh
immers under the bright fluorescent lights. The right side of his chest is stacked with award bars and special tour bars. And, of course, he’s got the hat on his head. That’s his pet peeve when it comes to patrol. He had an officer written up once for not wearing his hat after a long foot chase with a robbery suspect.
He sees me right away, and doesn’t acknowledge me. It looks like he might even try to walk right through me, but he veers to the right a bit so he’s closer to Davidson.
“I’ll let him out, Detective. I’d like to have a chat with him first. And I’ll need a write-up from you before you leave, so I can brief the chief in the morning.”
“Copy that, Chief,” Davidson says, looks at me briefly, as if he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, then turns and walks back to the main room.
Wightman turns and looks at me with an empty stare.
“You have a special monitoring room in there, Chief?”
He steps closer, like he’s ready to slap my face and challenge me to a duel.
“So you’re a private investigator,” he says, enunciating “private” and “investigator” so it sounds patronizing.
The hall is narrow; the only way to the door is through him, and I’m not about to try that. He’d have me on assault with intent to nudge or some shit like that. So I mentally prepare, because he’s a man who loves to hear himself talk.
“I know you’re crooked, Marr. You always were. They should have let me fire you when I had the chance. You shouldn’t have been allowed to retire like a regular officer.”
“You got a fucking point, Garrett?”
“I’m getting to it. I know the chief did the right thing by letting you go that way. Reality is, a lot of good cases you and your partners made would’ve gone south if it got out you had a… drug problem,” he says, with that same extra emphasis on “drug problem,” “and I’m sure you still have one. Men like you don’t change. So I need to make sure you understand that if you somehow manage to muck this case up for my boys out there, I’ll find a way to take away what little retirement we allowed you to have and more.” He lets that hang. Not blinking. Calm.
“Don’t worry, Marr. No one here knows about your sordid history. In fact, Detective Davidson thinks you’re a ‘hero,’ having rescued that little girl. Some of us know better, though, and that’s why you’re here. Unlike before, I hate to let you go now and walk out that door. Those agents in there will get to the bottom of it. I only wish I could go to that poor family who you somehow suckered into hiring you and tell them to fire your ass. But we both know I can’t do that. You remember the saying, what we all at one time or another told the bad guys that got away—‘Time is on our side because this is all we do, twenty-four/seven.’ You just make sure you never sleep, Marr. Ever.”
“Don’t you worry, Chief.”
“I’ll show you out now.”
He turns and does an about-face and I expect a march, but he only walks with short steps to the door and opens it to let me out. I muster my best smile and walk out the door and toward the elevators.
I have a sneaking suspicion that if I were still wearing the suit I wore when I picked up Edgar, this might have played out differently.
The first thing I’ll have to do when I get home is toss that suit and dress casually for a while, especially when I’m in Virginia. I’ll miss that suit. It means a lot to me.
I push the down button on the elevator.
Fifty-two
I gotta be more careful.
Davidson let me down. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t think I had anything to do with the murder; he misled me.
Hell, who am I kidding? I’m guilty as sin, but not for the murder of Edgar Soto. But Davidson doesn’t know that, and the least he could’ve done is give me a heads-up instead of leading me into the lion’s den and treating me like a common suspect.
I don’t know why they were playing me like that if all they were after was whether I talked to the kid on the day of his murder. I’m fairly certain a lot of it had to do with Wightman putting a bug in Agent Hawkins’s ear. Whatever the motivation, it’s fucked me up. I feel like I’m being watched, like Wightman had my house bugged. I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t stop scanning the living room, checking the light fixtures, the walls, and then my landline. After all, I have experience with this sort of thing.
Fuck, do I hate Wightman. He mistakes order for effectiveness, certainty for smarts. Despite that, I don’t hold anything against him having to do with what happened in the past. If I were in his shoes, I would’ve tried to screw my ass, too. Hell, I deserved much worse than I got back then. Like Wightman said, the private deal I got was about the cases we made, specifically the subjects I placed under arrest over the course of my career. I could not even count. It would be a field day at district court and superior court, though. All those defendants, with all their advocates. I shudder to think about it. Costello’s so pissed off at me now that if it ever got out she’d probably jump on the bandwagon.
I also know that I shouldn’t have been able to walk out of the U.S. Attorney’s Office an hour ago. I’m going to have to be more careful.
Starting now.
I walk up the stairs to my bedroom and find the suit I was wearing. I crumple it up and toss it on the bed. I search my closet and find one more suit of similar color and toss that on the bed, too. I head back downstairs to the living room, where I wad them up; I place the suit jacket I was wearing yesterday in the fireplace first. It’s a little chilly outside, so this is nothing unusual, unless I’m being watched. I’ve burned clothing before. It can take a while, and it stinks. I’m also sure it’s not that good for you to inhale, but then again, I put a lot of shit up my nose, so how much worse can this be?
I squirt the jacket with lighter fluid and set it on fire. It gives off a lot of smoke. Too much. I realize I didn’t open the fireplace flue, so I quickly pull it open and secure the chain. The smoke still isn’t getting pulled up the chimney. I run to the front door and open it to allow ventilation. I can feel a cool breeze being drawn in. After a minute I go back to the living room. The thick smoke is being carried up through the chimney now. I drop a log in there to help it along. It’s a bright flame.
After a couple of minutes I drop the pants in and push the log around with a poker.
I sit on the sofa and light a smoke to watch the first old work suit burn. I’m sorry to see it go like that, but I’m happier I didn’t wear the one I just bought. I like it better. It fits me well.
When the material burns down enough, I stir what’s left of it and drop in the other suit. I sit back on the sofa to watch it burn for a bit, then close and lock the front door, then go to the laundry room.
After I slide the wall open, I grab the bag of money out of the washer. I rearrange a few items on a bottom shelf and carefully stack the wads of money along the shelf. It takes me a while to finish. When I’m done it looks like a small wall of tiny paper tubes stacked one on top of the other.
I notice the pill container of Oxys I took from the house on Kenyon. I open it and take out two, then close up the wall again and head back up to the living room.
I down the Oxys with some bottled water and sit back on the sofa to enjoy the fire.
Fifty-three
I haven’t had a rough morning like this in a while.
I soak my head under a hot shower until the headache eases off enough that my frontal lobe doesn’t feel like it’s trying to force its way out of my forehead.
After my half pot of coffee and a couple of grapefruits, I replenish my supply from the secret wall and grab a couple more of the Oxys from the pill container and a few rolls of currency. I have a feeling it’s gonna be a long day.
I call Luna on my cell because I’m still paranoid about the landline. We talk briefly. He doesn’t have a clue about what I just went through. I’m sure both he and McGuire have been kept out of the loop because they’re close to me.
I set up a meet with him for lunch and ask
him if he can give me a couple of PDID photos, one of Angelo and the other one of Viktor. He agrees after I tell him I’ll buy.
We meet at a hole-in-the-wall sandwich spot on Florida Avenue NE, a few blocks from Narcotics Branch. It’s just Luna. McGuire’s papering a case at district court. We all used to frequent this place a lot. The sandwiches are stacked. We’d get them on the go, find a nice spot with a good view, eat them in the car, and feel like taking a nap afterward.
I leave my car parked in the lot and hop in Luna’s cruiser. It’s a black Ford Expedition. He keeps it clean. The police radio is concealed and built into the glove compartment. He has it dialed into the citywide channel, so unless there’s an emergency or some kinda detail, it’s relatively quiet.
Luna’s idea of a nice view is parking off New York Avenue, near one of those sleazy motels we used to hit all the time, and watching the prostitutes hanging out in the parking lot and on the balconies just outside their rooms after a hard night’s work. I could never figure out if it was the view of all the working girls hanging out on the balconies smoking cigarettes and joints, hair up, dressed somewhat normally and not looking so bad from a distance that Luna was after, or if his eye was on work and who they were talking to and meeting up with.
Back in the day, he’d watch through small binos, copy down descriptions of people and vehicles, tag numbers and room numbers, so I’m thinking work, but you never know. We all got our vices. I never asked and I never will.
Sitting watching those women now, I can’t help but hope that I might see Miriam. But I know how slim the chances of that happening are. Old-school pimps run most of the girls here. The ones the pimps control usually do the route from New York to New Jersey to here and back again. And most of these girls are older. Some of them try their best to sell themselves as teenagers, but once you get close enough, you realize how off they are. No amount of makeup can hide that shit.
The Second Girl Page 17