I look around, thinking some of the officers will be running my way, but they’re too busy both inside and outside the house. I grab Playboy by the hand, drag him to the rear of my vehicle, and roll him onto his stomach. I look back up and toward the house, but there are still no cops approaching me. I’m sure it’s a clusterfuck back in there.
I look at Playboy. He’s starting to groan. I look around, trying to see if anyone is looking out windows. No one that I can see, but then again it really wouldn’t matter, because they’ll just think I’m a cop.
I open the rear door of my car and grab zip ties out of my pack. I use them on Playboy’s hands and feet, so he’s hogtied like we used to do to fighting prisoners. I grab him from under his armpits and hoist him up. He’s limp as shit, but starting to come to. I half drag him to the back of the car and drop him face-first on the backseat. I have to bend up his legs to shut the door.
I hop in the driver’s side, grab my pack from the backseat near Playboy’s feet, and place it on the front seat.
I sit and wait for Playboy to wake up and Luna to call. Last thing I’m gonna do is walk him over there now.
Seventy-five
The unmarked cruisers are blocking the entrance to the alley from University Place, so the ambulance has to park in the middle of the street. The EMTs squeeze by the parked cars, carrying a portable stretcher. They run to the rear of the house. A couple of firemen run to the scene shortly thereafter. One of them is carrying a Halligan bar and the other one has bolt cutters.
I look back at Playboy. I had to duct-tape his mouth so he’d shut up. He’s conscious and obviously scared. He’s positioned so he’s sideways and his back is against the backseat. He’s got a nice knot where I punched him, and the soles of his feet were cut up from the run, but it shouldn’t be much of a cleanup.
“Shouldn’t be that much longer, Playboy.”
He mumbles something unintelligible.
“And shut the fuck up.”
It looks like they had to snip a lock that secured the gate to the backyard.
They carry out a body secured to the stretcher with straps. I can’t make out if it’s a cop. They run him back to the ambulance, and seconds later they pull out with lights and sirens.
It’s been almost two hours, and I’m wondering when Luna will call. I’m actually thinking I should call him and tell him I got his runaway in the backseat of my car. More than that, I need to know if he has Miriam.
I call him.
He answers on the fourth ring with “It’s really fucked up in here, Frank. Gotta call you back.”
“Just tell me if you have the girl.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“I’m sorry, partner. She’s not here.”
“Fuck!”
“I’ll call you back. I promise. Just stand by.”
I disconnect.
“Fuck,” I say again. “Why’d I get involved with this fuckin’ shit? Fuckin’…”
I wanna hit something—the dashboard, or bust out my window with my fist.
“Fuck.”
I look back at Playboy.
“It looks like you might be Miriam’s last hope, and for your sake, she’d better be alive.”
He’s blinking tears out of his eyes and mumbling something I could care less about.
Seventy-six
I know the spot, and it’s not far from here.
It’s still early, with only a little traffic.
That’s what I love about DC. You can find a pocket spot like this when you need one. It’s an alley with a dead end that stretches one block. It’s nice and secluded. There’s an old working car garage along the north side and a large abandoned warehouse on the south. The warehouse is boarded up, so I don’t have to worry about waking up whoever might be calling it home. And it’s too early for the crackhead prostitutes, junkies, and all the other filth to be hanging there doing their shit.
I drive to the far end of the street and park alongside the warehouse.
I exit, open the rear door, pull sobbing Playboy out of the car, and drop him on his bare back on the dirty, broken pavement. His feet are bound together tightly with the zips, maybe a bit too tightly, ’cause there are thin areas of dried-up blood around the edges of the zip ties.
Empty dime-size ziplocks, used needles, and condoms are scattered around. Playboy didn’t cry out through the duct tape when I dropped him, so I’m sure he didn’t get a needle through his back.
It’s then that he starts rolling back and forth on his back, trying to break free. I slap his face.
“Stay.”
I lean into the back of the car and grab the stun gun, but then decide to put it back because I want him conscious. I grab my tactical folding knife instead. I take my gloves off, toss them on the front seat, pull out two latex surgical gloves from the pack, and put them on.
I step out, pull Miriam’s photo out of my jacket, and then take the jacket off so he can see my holstered .38 and the throwaway semiauto wedged in the back of my pants, where I keep the cuffs. I reach in the back of the car, drop the jacket onto the passenger seat, and then return to him.
“Stop fucking mumbling. I don’t understand a word you’re saying. All you gotta do is listen up, and then I’ll give you a chance. All right?”
He gives several quick nods.
“Okay, then. Here’s the bottom line. I ain’t the police anymore, so I don’t have to follow those rules. That’s why you need to be afraid. I’m prepared to do whatever I gotta do to you to get the answers I need. We clear on that part?”
Several more nods.
“I’m going to show you a photograph and then I’ll take part of the tape off so you can answer my questions.”
I squat down, but before I peel part of the tape off I say, “You fucking scream out or some shit like that, it goes back on and I’ll fuck you sideways.”
I peel it halfway off. I show him the photograph of Miriam.
“Where is she?”
“Aw, fuck, fuck, I…”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know who that is. Please, man…”
“You fucking know who it is. I had her in my hand at Seventeenth and Euclid when you and Little Monster called up your cop friend. Remember, the one you shot?”
“I didn’t do that shit, man. Shit. C’mon, now…”
“One more time and then I’m gonna cut your dick off.”
“Aww, c’mon, now.”
“Where is she?”
He pulls in his lips over his teeth like he needs to bite down to prevent himself from talking.
“I don’t have time for this shit. Don’t think I won’t follow through, little man. She’s my niece. I love her.”
One thing I’ve always been good at is knowing people. And I know if you have a man hogtied in an alley in nothin’ but his drawers, he’ll be feeling so vulnerable he’ll more than likely do just about anything to get out of that position.
I press the tape back over his mouth and flick the knife open with my thumb.
He’s shaking his head back and forth on the ground, whimpering, so the tape puffs out and then sucks in.
I pull the front of his shorts down. He flails like a fish on dry land.
His knees are pressed together, so I press my left knee over them and give him all my weight.
I look at his crotch.
“I can see why they call you Playboy. This might take more than one cut.”
I grab his dick with my left hand and stretch it out, then I hold the knife up so he can see it.
“You’re gonna make this worse if you keep jumping around like that.”
I pull the knife back. Look in his eyes hard.
“You want one more chance?”
Frantic nods.
“This is your last chance,” I tell him, and pull the tape back.
“Fuck! Fuck!” he yells.
“I’m not playing. I will cut your dick off, then dump your ass in the river, so you talk.�
��
“Apartment on Fuller, man! Sixteenth and Fuller.”
“Is she alive?”
“Last I saw she was alive, but I got nothing to do with what they do. You gotta believe.”
“Give me the address and the unit number.”
Seventy-seven
Damn, the things I gotta fucking do.
I put Playboy’s shorts back on, put fresh duct tape on his mouth, and dropped him in the trunk.
Now I’m heading to 16th and Fuller. It’s the complex I was looking at yesterday. She’s probably been there all this time. I don’t know how long after the shooting she got there. I’m sure Little Monster didn’t stop to drop her off. They had to get her back there somehow, but I don’t know how, with all the cops that were rolling through that day.
I park right at the corner and run to the front door. It’s still too early for most of the boys to be hanging, but then it’s also still hot ’cause of all the recent action.
The glass front door is locked. I try to jimmy the lock with the tip of my knife, but it’s got a solid bolt.
Not again, I think, after remembering having to smash the glass door out at the Ritz.
I’m surprised by someone approaching me from behind. I turn to see an old Latina lady carrying two grocery bags. She obviously wants to enter, but seems hesitant to approach.
“Policía,” I advise her calmly.
I pull out my wallet and show her my badge. She smiles kindly and hands me one of her grocery bags, then unlocks the door for me.
I hold it open for her to enter and once inside I hand her grocery bag back.
“Gracias,” I say.
She smiles kindly and walks toward the elevators.
I decide on the stairs, taking two steps at a time to the second floor.
When I get to the apartment door, I unholster my .38 and pound on it with a closed fist. When no one answers, I pound harder.
I’m about to kick the door in when I hear, “¡Espera un momento! ¡Un momento!” from a lady on the other side of it.
The door opens. She’s old and wearing an apron. I smell something good from the kitchen. It’s a small unit—open door to the kitchen, a living room area that opens up to a little dining area, and a small hall with two doors that I can see.
She’s startled at the sight of the gun and backs up, murmuring something that sounds like a prayer. I start to think that Playboy either gave me the wrong unit number or just made up some shit. A young Latina girl wearing men’s boxer shorts and a white T-shirt enters from another room. It takes a second, but then I recognize her as the girl who was walking with Miriam and had her hand in her purse like she was threatening me with something.
“¡No, Abuela! No!” she screams, and runs over to try to shut the door on me, but I shove it open, throwing the girl back and almost on her ass.
I aim the gun at her.
Grandma shrieks.
“Anyone else here I should worry about?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
“I’m not playing, girl. Do something stupid and I’ll shoot.” And then I say, a little louder, “And anyone else who’s in the apartment.”
“There’s no one else here,” the girl says.
Grandma’s hands are across her chest.
“Have your grandma take a seat before she keels over.”
“Sentarse, Abuela,” she says softly, and helps her to sit on the couch, then puts her arm around her shoulder to comfort her. “No te preocupes, Abuela.”
“Where’s Miriam?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Fucking don’t move,” I say, and then go to search the apartment.
“I told you, she’s not here.”
I tuck my gun and sidestep so I can see in the kitchen. It’s clear.
“Please go. Please, mister,” she pleads.
“Get up,” I tell her.
“Please.”
“Get the fuck up,” I demand.
She stands. I grab her by the left arm and tug her toward me. Grandma stands like she’s going to defend her.
“Tell her to sit the fuck down before she gets hurt.”
“Siéntase. Siéntase, Abuela. Está bien.”
Grandma hesitates, but sits.
“Por favor, señor,” Grandma begs.
“Cálmarse, Abuela,” I say.
I push the girl in front of me and walk toward the hall.
“Miriam,” I call.
No answer.
I pass one open door. It’s a bathroom. There’s another door to the right of that. It’s partially open, so I kick it softly with my foot to open it all the way. I look in. It looks like Grandma’s room. The sliding door for the closet is open and the bed is neatly made, but the covers hang all the way to the floor.
“You go in there and lift the covers so I can see under the bed.”
She obeys. I look down, but there are just a bunch of shoe boxes.
“Get the fuck back here.”
I grab her arm again and start moving toward the bedroom.
“You’re going to get us killed,” she says. “Please, mister.”
I walk to the other room. It has two single beds. On one of them is a girl on her side, tucked under the covers.
Seventy-eight
I have the Latina girl sit on the other bed, and then I walk over to the side of the bed where the other girl is facing.
I know it’s Miriam, but her face is pale and sickly. There’s caked vomit on the pillow by her mouth and on the sheet.
I gently nudge her by the shoulder.
“Miriam. Wake up, girl.”
She doesn’t move.
“What’d they do to her?” I ask, pulling the covers back. She’s in a nightgown. I gently pull the gown up to expose her upper right thigh. She has a birthmark that looks like Australia.
“They gave her some heroin, said that it would calm her down, but she’s doesn’t do that stuff. I think she’s OD’ing.”
“No fucking shit.”
I keep a hand on my gun just in case, but I lean down, and with my free hand I brush her hair from her face and lift her eyelid. After that, I check for a pulse. She still has one, but barely.
“Why didn’t you call a fucking ambulance?”
“I can’t. They said I can’t. She just needs to sleep it off.”
Man, drugs make people stupid as shit. I should know because I’m tempted to search her apartment to find her stash and take it for myself.
“You don’t let someone OD’ing sleep it off, you dumb twat.”
She’s not gurgling, but I still open her mouth to make sure she’s not drowning in her own vomit. It’s clear.
I don’t know if the girl put her on her side or she just fell that way, but it’s the best position for her to be in. I’ve seen this more times than I care to remember. Most of those ODs were already dead by the time I got to the scene.
I get my cell out to call an ambulance. I can’t just throw her in the backseat and drive. I can get her to MedStar in less than ten minutes if I take her, but still, I can’t have her in the backseat alone and I can’t trust this girl enough to help. If she dies back there, it’s on me.
I call 911 and advise the dispatcher that I have the teenage girl, Miriam Gregory, who has the recent Amber Alert out on her.
“She’s unconscious. Possible OD,” I say.
The dispatcher tries to keep me on the phone, but after I give the address, I say the girl needs attention and disconnect.
I put my hand on Miriam’s shoulder and nudge her again a few times.
“Help’s on the way,” I whisper. “You’ll be okay, Miriam. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”
Seventy-nine
The police got here before I can follow the ambulance.
I walk up the ramp to the hospital, I find another two officers standing by the lobby entrance.
After the officers take my information, I have them notify Davidson to respond. I also give them Miriam�
�s parents’ info, because she’s in their hands now. They should be the ones to call the parents. Fact is, I’m not feeling up to making the call myself.
I enter and talk to the receptionist at the counter. He advises me that the doctors are with her now and they’ll have information soon.
I go and find a seat near the window, next to a fake plant.
It doesn’t take long for Davidson to show up. He’s with Hawkins and Hernandez. When he’s done talking to one of the officers, they walk over. He shakes my hand and takes a seat beside me.
“How the hell did you find her?”
“Pounding the pavement, knocking on doors; one lead led to another.”
“What’s with the girl she was staying with?” Davidson asks.
“All I know is that’s where Miriam was staying, nothing else.”
“Good job,” Hawkins says.
“Goes without saying, Frankie,” Davidson adds.
I even get a smile from Hernandez.
Hawkins returns to the officers. I’m assuming to get more information from them.
“We need to head back, see how she’s doing, and talk to the doctors,” Davidson says.
“Let me know as soon as you can,” I say.
“Of course,” he says, and they walk back and through the double doors.
Detective Caine walks in about an hour later with Miriam’s mom and dad. Caine sees me and stops, but the mom and the dad are led back to the ICU by one of the other officers.
Caine approaches me.
“Davidson called me to let me know. I picked up the parents.”
“Hopefully she’ll be all right,” I say.
“I’m hopin’ that too. Mind if I sit and wait with you?”
“I’m tired, so don’t expect much.”
“I’d like to say that I read you wrong, and I apologize.”
“Cops should never apologize.”
“It’s okay if it’s to another cop.” He smiles.
That’s a nice compliment, but I don’t tell him. We sit quietly and wait together.
Officials start showing up, one after another. Even the chief and then, a few minutes after him, Wightman. Caine and I are sitting off to the side beside a few other people who are waiting around for their loved ones, so they don’t notice me. I’m thankful for that.
The Second Girl Page 25