“You got anything on the Soto murder yet?”
“We’re working a few things.”
“Don’t worry. I get it. I’m not a part of the club anymore.”
She gives me a half smile, like she agrees.
I do feel like getting under her skin. Maybe it’ll take my mind off the crash I’m facing.
“I bet you’re real good in the box,” I say.
She furrows her brow.
“I mean the interview room.”
“You remember why you’re here, right? An officer was shot.”
“Yeah, I remember. Not gonna forget it either.”
“Maybe you should show some respect.”
“He got my respect on the scene when I was holding him.”
She turns like she’s about to walk away.
“You had me going when we first met. I didn’t have a clue what you guys were really up to. You played me well.”
“We weren’t up to anything.”
“If I had anything to confess to, you’d be my first choice.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. There’s an interview room right there if you want to step in,” she says.
“It’s not cozy enough. And I think you know I had nothing to do with that kid’s death.”
Before she can answer, Davidson, Millhoff, and their partners walk back over. Millhoff is carrying a folder.
Millhoff and Davidson roll up a couple of chairs and sit.
“McGuire and Luna put together a couple of photo arrays,” Millhoff tells me. “Do I have to go through the whole spiel, or can you just look at the photos?”
“I’ve given the ‘spiel’ enough times to still have it. Just lemme see what you got.”
He hands me an eight-by-ten printout from Live Scan. It has three rows of nine PDID photos. It doesn’t take more than a second before I point to the fourth photo on the second row.
“That’s Little Monster. He’s the shooter,” I say with certainty.
He hands me another sheet with photos that are possibilities for Playboy. I look it over, but don’t see him.
“No,” I say. “He’s young. Maybe there’s a juvie photo on file.”
“We’ll look into that,” Davidson says.
“Or maybe he’s a lucky one and hasn’t been arrested yet,” I add. “You find his Lexus and have some good tac officers sit on it, he’ll show. That car’s his baby.”
“We’ll look into everything,” Millhoff says. “We get something, then we might have some more to show you.”
“I’ll be around.”
I hate to say it, but I’m glad they don’t know who he is. I want that little fuck Playboy to myself. He doesn’t know that I know about his prized shiny Lexus. Seventeenth and Euclid is hot now, so he’ll go to another spot they have. And yet again, I’m in a race with my former colleagues.
Sixty-four
Millhoff and his partner are back in the sergeant’s office, writing up an affidavit in support of an arrest warrant for Rodney Biggs, aka Little Monster. Millhoff’s doing a write-up on the computer. Hernandez and Davidson’s partner went to pick up pizza. The only reason I’m still here is I’m waiting to hear about the officer and the result of the canvass being done for Miriam Gregory.
My phone battery’s burned out.
“What time you got?” I ask Davidson, sitting in the cubicle beside me.
“Almost fifteen thirty,” Davidson advises. “How you doing over there?”
“I’m good.”
Millhoff and his partner walk in.
“They found the shooter’s car,” Caine says. “In an alley off Wiltberger, behind the old Howard Theatre. It was still burning when fireboard got there.”
“Damn,” is all Davidson says.
“Well, you knew that was going to happen, right?” I say.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Millhoff says. “Needless to say, we probably won’t find shit out of that vehicle.”
“You gotta ask why there, though?” Millhoff’s partner asks. “They have a bad history with the crew at Seventh and T.”
“That’s probably why they chose that spot, then,” I say.
The rear door opens, and in comes the chief himself, along with his sidekick Wightman. I’m starting to wonder why I didn’t get the hell out of here while I still had the chance.
Davidson stands.
Wightman motions with his head for the three of them to come over. They obey and walk behind the last row of cubicles and toward the television that’s secured to the corner wall.
The only parts of them I can make out are their heads.
A few minutes later, they all break up. Wightman and the chief both exit the way they came in, not giving me a passing glance.
Millhoff, his partner, and Davidson walk back.
“The officer didn’t make it,” Millhoff says.
“Damn, I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“What’s up with you and Wightman? He wants us to charge your ass for the concealed weapon,” Millhoff says.
“We got some bad history. Not even worth saying more than that. And what the fuck does he think you can charge me with, anyway? I’m authorized to carry my weapon under HR218. The permits are all up to date. I even got an extra license to carry as a PI, through Security Officer Management. Or maybe you got destruction of property for me having to smash out the windowpane at the Ritz?”
The only thing Wightman might try to screw me on is my right to carry, but I’ll worry about that when and if it happens.
“Marr, even though you’re working for a defense attorney, I still consider you one of us. But what the fuck’s with that? Do some consulting work or something. Why a defense attorney?”
“There’s history there, too, but it’s good history. My pension’s worth shit, so I have to work. And you know I’m not the only retired cop doing that kind of work.”
“All I’m saying is Wightman’s got it out for you, so you need to tread lightly.”
“I’m used to walking that way, brother. And I’m really sorry about Tommy.”
“You knew his name?” Davidson asks.
“Yeah, we talked a bit after he got shot.”
“Anything I need to know?” Millhoff asks.
“Only that he was a good officer.”
I know I should be pissed at the officer. He’s the reason I lost Miriam. But I still can’t give him up, because I don’t know the full story. It might be a good story, too. So I’ll allow him some honor in death and all the ceremony that’ll soon come with it.
I don’t think I’ll be staying for that pizza, though.
Sixty-five
My car’s a bullet-riddled mess. Both the passenger’s and the driver’s side windows are blown out. I stopped counting how many bullet holes the body and the front windshield sustained. And then there’s the interior. I notified my insurance company and had it towed to the dealership I bought it from. I’m carless, but that’s going to have to change, ’cause I need a car to work this case through.
I hoof it back home. It’s a straight shot to my house from the Third District, maybe a fifteen-, twenty-minute walk.
First thing I do when I get there is plug my phone in to get a charge. After that, I grab some gauze, antibiotic cream, medical tape, and alcohol out of a medical kit I keep in the kitchen. I return to the living room and turn on the television for the four o’clock news. The shooting is the top item. Every fucking local channel. They got another Amber Alert out for Miriam, something that was already done months ago, but because of the shooting, her photo is all over the place. I’m hoping the cops find her. It’ll make it easier on me. I never wanted to work this shit in the first place.
The bite wound bled through my shirt, but fortunately not all the way through the sleeve of my jacket.
I roll up the sleeve. Her teeth cut dents into my skin like red dashes that make an oval shape. Not bad enough for stitches, but it’ll still sting like hell. It’s not the first time I’ve been bit, but I still worry about wh
at disease might have creeped into my bloodstream.
I wince after I douse the wound with alcohol. Then I dab it with gauze until it’s clean, rub the cream on, and place fresh gauze over the wound and secure it with tape.
I’m seriously craving some blow about now, but I fight it. No amount of coke will keep my body from breaking down real soon.
When my phone has enough juice, I turn it on.
I got messages. Two of them are from Miriam’s father, and one is from Leslie.
I listen to her message first.
“It’s me. I saw the news and Miriam Gregory’s photo, so I’m sure you were involved in that terrible shooting. Just want to make sure you’re okay. Call me when you can. Bye.”
Damn, it feels good to hear her voice. I’m not ready to call her, though. As hard as it is right now, the way I’m feeling, I need to call Ian Gregory.
He answers the phone immediately. He sounds distraught, tired.
“Frank Marr here, Mr. Gregory.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner.”
“I spoke with the police. They filled me in as much as they could. I was hoping you might have something more.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That you and a police officer had my daughter, but there was a…a shooting and she ran away.”
“I’m afraid that’s about it. I want you to know that I didn’t find any sign that she might have been injured.”
“You mean like…blood?”
“Yes. Has anyone else contacted you?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry I let her go,” I tell him, realizing too late that you never apologize. It’s something I learned as a cop. Use any other words, but never apologize like it’s your fault. But then again, I’m not a cop anymore. “I’m going to find her.”
“Mr. Marr, maybe at this point I should leave it to the police. I mean, they seem to be really on top of it now.”
“Yes, they are. I can assure you of that, but I’m going to stay on it all the same. It’s on my time now, not yours.”
“I don’t expect you to do that.”
“I know, but it was made personal. The police will do what they do, and I’m going to do what I have to do.”
No response.
“Mr. Gregory?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I’m going to find your girl.”
I hear him begin to sob.
“We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Yes, okay,” he says, a bit broken.
I disconnect, lean back on the sofa, and light a smoke.
What the fuck did I just do, making a promise like that?
Sixty-six
After twenty-four hours missing, especially under these circumstances, the chances of finding Miriam again are slim to none. So I gotta get up and move.
Despite the fear of crashing, I get a little support from the white powdery substance.
I’m going to need a car. And I hate to say it, but I know just where to go.
I put on my new suit, go to my stash, and count out ten grand. I straighten the bills out as best as I can and fold them into thousand-dollar wads. I also grab one of my throwaway guns, a .45-caliber Taurus pistol. It’s not my style. I don’t like the shine on the steel. It’s too fucking flashy, but maybe I need a little dazzle for what I might have to do. I also take my .38, another gun I have licensed, and then I make sure I got enough powder this time just in case I have to pull another all-nighter.
I cab it all the way out to the Ethiopian dealership in Maryland, where I took care of Lenny’s truck.
I give the cabbie a hefty tip, and he blesses me.
I find the same Ethiopian in the lot’s trailer office. He recognizes me and pops from his chair like a Whac-A-Mole.
“I’m here as a customer,” I assure him.
“Oh, I see,” he replies, with some hesitation.
“I can show myself around.”
“Feel free. Feel free. I’ll be right here when you need me.”
I exit and check the few rows of cars he has on the lot. First one that catches my eye is an older-model silver Toyota Camry. It’s got some good tint, but not enough to make it stand out. It’s nice enough that it’d look natural sitting in someone’s suburban Virginia driveway. That’s what I need right there.
The price on the windshield is $8,999. I know that’s high for this year and model. We’ll see how much I can talk that fool down.
I go to check it out. Looks clean, but I gotta hear the engine. I turn and notice the Ethiopian staring at me through the window. I wave him over.
He responds quickly.
“That’s a very excellent car.”
“Let’s say we dispense with the sales pitch. You got a key so I can hear the engine?”
“Yes, sir, most certainly. Let me start it for you now.”
He opens the driver’s door, sits, and starts the engine.
“Pop the hood for me,” I tell him.
He does. I unlatch it and open it up. Looks clean enough, but a lot of that is probably just superficial. Might be leaking like a sieve, for all I know. I close the hood.
“I can arrange for you to test-drive it if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary. Let’s go in your office and talk.”
I brush off the seat in front of his desk, then sit.
After he sits I say, “I’m not going to test-drive it, ’cause if it breaks down on me I’m going to come back and have your license taken away. We clear?”
“The car will not break down, sir. Rest assured.”
“Cash for the title, then, but it ain’t gonna be anything close to your asking price. The car’s got a hundred thousand miles on it.”
“You can make an offer. We’ll talk.”
“I’ll give you four thousand cash right now.”
“No, sir. I lose money on that. Lowest I will go is eight thousand dollars.”
“That’s not even close to a deal. Take six-five, or I walk outta here.”
He shakes his head, but more like he’s thinking hard.
I stand up.
“I’ll just go somewhere that wants cash, then.”
“Most of my business is cash, sir. Seven thousand and it’s yours.”
I don’t have time for this shit.
“Yeah, okay.”
He stretches out his arm to shake hands. I do it, but in disgust. He won.
Sixty-seven
The car drives okay, but it’ll never replace my Volvo. I’m sure the insurance company will consider the Volvo totaled. Despite that, I’m not about to hang on to this car for long. I don’t like where it came from. It’s like a dirty gun you get off a hit, just another throwaway.
I call Davidson on the cell.
“Hello, Frank.”
“Scott. Anything new?”
“Just hitting the street like we do, knocking on doors. Chief’s got almost every unit working this one. It’s really hard to talk right now. Can I get back to you?”
“It’ll just be a second. And I need you to stop with all this clandestine bullshit, Scott. You know me. I’m not about all that. You get anywhere with the possible university lead?”
“We’re working everything. Just take it easy. I’ll let you know.”
“Listen, Scott, the girl might already be dead. We both know Cordell Holm can’t risk the connection she has to him if she’s found. If she’s alive, she probably won’t be for long.”
“I know that, and so does everyone here. We’re working it through. That source you have on the street who’s giving you all this information, I’d really like to talk to whoever it is.”
“That’ll be the day, Scott. The source talks to me. I talk to you. It won’t happen any other way, so don’t ask again.”
“Damn, Frankie, for an ex-cop, you’re really starting to make a lot of enemies.”
“You be safe, Scott,” I say, then disconnect.
I make my way toward 16th and Fuller, a couple blocks from where the shooting occurred. I know it’s been canvassed and the area’s burning hot right now, but I have to see for myself and make sure they didn’t miss the Lexus, or maybe even a familiar face.
I gave Playboy’s number to the police so that rules out an okeydoke; they’ll be working that number, maybe even trying one themselves, so hitting the street is a safer bet for me.
I turn off 16th and onto Fuller and park along the curb just before Mozart. Euclid would be to the left, and 17th is a long block straight ahead. I last saw the hooptie going north on Mozart, so it more than likely hit Columbia Road, which is to the right.
I’m not close enough to the corner to see Euclid. I’m sure marked cruisers are blocking it off. I notice one parked farther up Fuller, at 17th Street. A couple of uniformed officers are standing on the southeast corner.
Aside from a couple of old Latina ladies walking down Fuller from Columbia carrying grocery bags, this area’s clear for now. Usually you’ll find a couple of boys hanging in front of the apartment building on the corner across Mozart, and even to my left.
I decide to roll out. I hang a right on Mozart and then another right on Columbia Road, see what’s going on at 16th and Park.
Sixty-eight
There’s a bus stop on 16th, across from the sitting man, a statue of some religious figure near the corner at Park Road. I take a seat on the bench next to an old black homeless man. He doesn’t give me a glance, just stares at the ground at his feet, as if he’s studying the cracks in the sidewalk. I already smoked up my cigarette, so I pull out another. It’s a little weird because I’m wearing my tactical gloves and still have my pack slung over my shoulder.
I offer a cigarette to the old man, holding it out to him even though he isn’t looking at me.
“Wanna smoke?”
He lifts his head. It’s an old face, probably looks older than it is because of alcohol and the elements. He looks at the cigarette, but not me. He gently takes the cig, puts it in his mouth, and finally acknowledges me with a nod. I flick my lighter and offer him a light. He accepts, then looks back down toward the cracks in the ground.
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