Protective Behavior

by L A Witt

  “I’m investigating the officers involved in the shooting.”

  She studied me. “Trying to clear their names?”

  “Trying to determine the truth about what happened.”

  “Do you think they were right to shoot him?” The question came out with frost on every word, but no unsteadiness or tears welling up, so if I had to guess, this wasn’t Martin’s mother.

  “At this stage, I’m still gathering evidence. And there may be a witness who knows more about what happened. I’m hoping Mrs. Fredericks can help me locate that witness.”

  Her guard was still up. Couldn’t say I blamed her. Maybe I’d just been in IAB too long, but as far as I was concerned, people in this city had a lot of reasons to distrust cops, especially black people with white cops.

  “You ain’t here to blame Martin for getting shot?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. I just need help to locate the other witness. He may be a key in determining what happened.”

  She scowled, but then opened the storm door. As I stepped inside, she said, “Jasmine’s had a terrible few days. You go defending these men who murdered her son, I will throw your butt out. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She showed me through a small kitchen into the living room where half a dozen people sat around a coffee table. Immediately, the conversation vanished and every head in the room turned toward me, their expressions echoing the suspicion of the woman who’d let me in.

  A tall black man in his late twenties or early thirties stood, raising his chin and glaring at me. “You a cop?”

  “I investigate cops.” Not my usual professional introduction, but reading the room, it was the wisest approach.

  It seemed to work, too—some of the hostility faded.

  The man tilted his head. “Yeah? You arrest those fools yet? Because they murdered my cousin and—”

  “Caleb.” A tired, middle-aged woman on the sofa sighed. “Go get this gentleman some coffee.”

  “Coffee?” He whipped around to face her, and gestured wildly at me. “He’s a cop! Just like those assholes who shot—”

  “Caleb.” The sound of his name made him snap to attention. Hell, it made me snap to attention. Despite the fatigue in her reddened eyes, she looked up at him with a do not fuck with me expression. “Get my guest some coffee.”

  Caleb hesitated, then huffed and brushed by me, clipping my shoulder despite ample room to pass. While he clattered around and muttered in the kitchen, the woman turned her still-rigid gaze on me.

  “All right.” She nodded at the seat Caleb had vacated. “Sit down, Officer.”

  I fought the urge to send a wary glance around the room at the understandably hostile and suspicious people currently watching me. They’d lost a young family member in violent fashion at the hands of a cop. They had every right to be wary of me.

  I sat on the edge of the seat and showed her my badge. “My name is Detective Mark Thibedeau. I’m with Internal Affairs.”

  “I don’t care who you are.” Her expression and her tone remained flat. “My son died at the hands of a white cop just like more black boys before him than I can count, and I don’t want cops in my house. Tell me what you want so you can leave.”

  I swallowed as I pocketed my badge. “First of all, I’m sorry for your loss, and I don’t mean to intrude when a family is grieving. However, I have reason to believe there was another individual with Martin at the time of his death.”

  “His murder,” another woman snapped. “He was murdered.”

  “At the time he was shot,” I corrected. “That individual may have information that could lead to a better understanding of what happened. Of why the officers shot your son.”

  Martin’s mother winced. She started to speak, but Caleb stomped into the room just then with a cup of coffee. He handed it to me without asking if I wanted anything in it. I thanked him for it and cradled it between my hands to let it cool.

  Martin’s mother met my gaze. “Let me guess—you’re looking for JJ.”

  I straightened. “I… yes. I am.”

  “Mmhmm.” Her lips tightened. “Someone came to the funeral and asked about him too. Said he was Martin’s doctor when he died, and…” She shook her head. “Anyhow, I didn’t catch his name.”

  Oh, I was pretty sure I knew his name, but I didn’t mention that.

  Keeping my tone as gentle as possible, I said, “Do you know who JJ is or where he might be?”

  “Not talking to the cops,” Caleb muttered.

  Mrs. Fredericks cut her eyes toward him, but didn’t comment. “Mr. Thibedeau, my son is not the first young black man to be shot by a white police officer in this city. They all still have their badges.” She glared at me. “And their guns. Now you tell me why in the hell I should point you in the direction of another young black man, especially when he might have information that could make those white officers look guilty?”

  “I understand your reluctance, ma’am. I do.” I thought fast, then pulled my jacket open so they could see the pocket I was reaching into, and I pulled out some business cards. “These have my cell and office phone. Direct lines straight to me, not through a switchboard.” I put the cards down on the table. “If you know who and where JJ is, all I ask is that you give him my card and tell him I’d like to speak to him. Let him reach out to me, and I can make sure any communication is confidential and happens on turf where he feels safe.”

  Mrs. Fredericks looked at my cards.

  I sat back showing my palm—I was still holding the coffee cup in my other hand. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. I just want to find out the truth, and if someone committed a crime here, then it’s up to me to hold them accountable.”

  “Someone.” A woman sniffed indignantly. “You mean JJ.”

  “I told you—I investigate cops. If one of them acted outside the law, then—”

  “Do you believe they did, Detective?” Mrs. Fredericks asked coldly.

  I held her gaze.

  She held mine.

  Long seconds ticked by.

  No one in the room moved. No one spoke. It was a rare moment when I wanted to say out loud that, yes, I believed—I knew—that wrongdoing had been committed, and that I was on her son’s side because so was the evidence. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t be sure that even my colleagues in IAB would investigate this objectively, and even if they would, they didn’t have access to Martin’s phone like I did. If I gave them access or even said out loud that I had access, I’d be suspended so fast my head would spin, pending my own disciplinary investigation.

  I had to play my cards close, and right now, that meant looking into the eyes of a grieving mother and hoping she saw in my face what I couldn’t say out loud.

  I know your son was murdered. I need your help to prove it. I will bring his killers to justice.

  Finally, Mrs. Fredericks reached across the table and picked up two of my cards. Then she met my gaze again. “Is there anything else, Detective?”

  “No, ma’am. I just need—”

  “Then see yourself out of my house.”

  I nodded, set my untouched coffee beside the cards, and rose. “Thank you for your time.” I took a step toward the kitchen. “I apologize for the interruption.”

  And every face in the room said loud and clear that I needed to get the fuck out of there.

  So I did.

  As the storm door clanked shut behind me, I exhaled. All I could do now was hope that Mrs. Fredericks passed my number on to JJ. If she didn’t, then I’d have to find other ways to connect with the kid. Maybe get some detectives to float his name past some of their confidential informants.

  On the way down the walk, I thought about what she’d said about Ryan. He’d gone to the funeral? He’d talked to her? Tried to get in touch with JJ?

  I probably should’ve been irritated that he was playing amateur sleuth with a case this delicate, but I suspected that wasn’t what was going on. He’d taken Martin�
�s death hard. Hard enough, apparently, to go to the kid’s funeral.

  I got into my car and started the engine, but didn’t pull away from the curb yet. Was Ryan okay? I hadn’t talked to him since I’d dropped him at his place after he’d brought me Martin’s phone.

  I took out my cell and pulled up his contact, but hesitated. We were supposed to be shelving this thing. We had to, whether we liked it or not.

  Still, I liked the guy, even if we weren’t screwing, and now I was worried about him.

  So, I sent the call.

  “Hey,” he said. “Uh, how’s it going?”

  “I was calling to ask you the same thing.”

  “Oh. Um. What do you mean?”

  “I just had a chat with Martin Fredericks’s mom. She said you came to the funeral.”

  “Oh.” Ryan sighed. “Yeah, I… I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t have, but I just… I…”

  “Are you doing okay?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Not really, to be honest.”

  “You at home or at work?”

  “Home.” He laughed dryly. “Figures now I have some time off where I’m not on call.”

  “Yeah. Figures.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “You, um, want me to come by?”

  “Come… I thought we couldn’t see each other.”

  “We can’t sleep together.” I shifted in the driver’s seat, then pulled on my seat belt. “Nothing in the rules says I can’t come by to follow up with a witness in my active investigation.”

  Another quiet laugh. “Okay, I guess that’s true.” He sobered and pushed out a breath. “Actually, yeah. Come on over. I’m kind of a train wreck today, and I can’t talk to anyone else about why.”

  “All right.” I put the car in Drive. “I’m on the south side right now. Give me… I don’t know, half an hour?”

  “Sure. Great. You want me to order a pizza or something?”

  “We’ll figure it out when I get there. See you soon.”

  Chapter 10

  Ryan

  As soon as I got off the phone with Mark, I spent a frantic twenty minutes cleaning up the wreckage that was my living room and kitchen. I’d felt off since yesterday, since meeting Mrs. Fredericks and being confronted by Officer Russel. I couldn’t run my anxiety out, so I’d turned to blatant sloth in an effort to take my mind off things.

  Empty wine bottle number one, empty wine bottle number two—Jesus, I was sad—box of tissues that were going back up on the side table instead of conveniently within reach of me lying here on the couch, which… I should probably empty the garbage while I was at it, because one look at the pile of used Kleenex in my waste basket and Mark would know exactly what I’d been doing with my time. Fuck him for being exactly what I wanted, anyway. And fuck him even more for being just out of reach.

  Except he wouldn’t be out of reach for long. He was coming over here. I’d see him, hear his voice in person, maybe even feel the warmth of his hand or his—

  Nope. No, I wasn’t going to hit on him. He’d already decided that was a bad idea and I’d agreed. For the sake of the case, he needed to maintain his objectivity, and that meant we were keeping things hands-off for now.

  You don’t need to use your hands to blow him.

  Shut the hell up, brain, I snarled at my pushy subconscious as I shoved yesterday’s takeout container from the Mexican restaurant down the street into the trash bag. Getting it all into the bin outside did wonders for the smell. Now as long as I could get my dirty underwear and socks back into the bedroom before he arrived…

  Ding-dong.

  What an appropriate ringtone. I felt like a complete fucking ding-dong, running around my own house like a college kid trying to pretend like he hadn’t thrown a party or two when his parents came home. Only I hadn’t been partying, unless you counted pity parties, so it was even worse.

  I threw yesterday’s sweatpants into my bedroom and resolutely shut the door, then headed toward the front hall. It wasn’t like Mark was going to be getting into my bedroom anyway, so it didn’t matter if the dirty clothes sat on the floor for a while. I glanced down at myself real quick—black V-neck shirt, jeans, socks. It was nothing special, but I looked presentable. That was all I needed to be.

  I took a deep breath, then opened the door. Mark was there, in a nice enough suit that he must have just come from work, with a pizza box in one hand from a place I didn’t recognize and a bottle of red in the other. With his hair slicked back and his tie just a little loose—I imagined him sliding a finger under it while he was in the car and gently working it open, and God what was wrong with me—he looked good enough to eat. Screw it. I can’t help myself.

  “Wow.” I tucked my hands in my pockets and looked him up and down, just once in a belated effort to keep it classy. “You are definitely the best-looking pizza delivery guy I’ve ever had.”

  Was that a hint of a blush in his cheeks? “I know I said we’d work it out when I got here, but I was driving past Pasta Jay’s, and the owner is an acquaintance who always puts a rush on orders for me if I ask, so I thought I’d take advantage of it. It’s excellent pizza,” he added, like there was any chance in hell someone like Mark would bring over the kind of thing I kept in my freezer. “And the wine’s a good match for it.”

  “I am more than happy to eat your pizza and drink your wine.” I stepped aside so he could come in. I took the bottle out of his hands, then took his coat and hung it by the door. “Come on into the kitchen and I’ll get us some plates.” He paused to untie his shoes—no toeing them off for him—and left them by the door, then followed me back.

  “Nice place,” Mark commented, glancing into the various rooms branching off the hall before we got to the kitchen. “You were right about the traffic, though.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real bear.” I opened the cabinet next to the fridge. “How many cycles did you have to sit through at that light on Wallace?”

  “Three.”

  “Not bad for this late in the week.” I pulled out a pair of white china plates and set them down on the counter before snagging some clean wineglasses from beneath the liquor cabinet.

  Mark picked one of them up interestedly, fingering the green stem. “Is this Roemer?”

  I forced a chuckle. “Uh, I actually don’t know. Almost everything in this place, from the couch to the furnishings to those glasses, was chosen by a decorator. I never really got used to living in a house full of things that I had any say in, and by the time I was out of med school I wasn’t interested in much beyond having a place of my own to sleep at night.”

  I’d been desperate for my own home, actually, taking out a massive loan in addition to my already-insane school debt for it. I’d be paying on it for another twenty years, but I’d never regretted my decision. It was a home that I owned, and as long as I paid the bills, I could never be kicked out of it. “I lived with nothing but two cardboard boxes full of clothes and a secondhand futon for three years before I finally saved up enough to fill this place up, and by then I was so busy at work I couldn’t muster the energy to have opinions about anything in here. So I hired a decorator and said I was going for ‘comfortable but classy.’” I gestured toward the glasses. “She must have felt like those fit the bill.”

  Mark didn’t speak for a long moment, just looked from the glasses to me, and now it was my turn to blush. I’d basically just admitted to being so boring that I didn’t even care about my surroundings, what the hell was I—

  “These glasses are usually reserved for white wine,” he said, picking up the conversational ball like I’d never fumbled it, “but I think we can make do. I hope you like Cabernet Sauvignon.”

  That much I did know. “Love it.” I opened up the pizza box. Ooh, quattro stagioni, very fancy. “This looks great.”

  “They do good food.” He glanced around. “Hmm, bottle opener?”

  “Here.” I took it out of the sink and handed it to him. A little smirk played around his mouth as h
e opened the wine, like he knew exactly what I’d been doing before he got here. I didn’t even care if he did, as long as he kept looking like that. He poured while I plated, and we carried our meal to the living room and settled onto the couch by mutual agreement, him with a sigh.

  “Long day?” I asked before biting into a slice from the prosciutto quarter of the pizza. “Mmm.” Oh my lord, it was so good. I was going to have to ask for the name of the restaurant again, because if they delivered I’d be their best customer. I opened my eyes and looked over at Mark, ready to praise the food to his face. His… wide-eyed, bitten-lipped, too-warm face. I swallowed my bite down and smiled.

  “I’d tell you how much I like it, but I guess you already got that.”

  “Yeah.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Yes, I think I got that.”

  I could have gone on teasing him, but if I got any more in the mood I was going to combust before the night was over. “So.” I nudged his calf with my foot. “Really, how are you?”

  “Tired,” Mark said on a sigh. “I met with Mrs. Fredericks and her family today.”

  “Oh.” That couldn’t have been easy. “How did it go? Are you any closer to finding JJ?”

  “I have no idea.” He put his pizza on the coffee table and rubbed his hand over his jaw, which was slightly darkened from stubble. “I did my best with them, but under the circumstances I’m not sure that my best is going to be enough to earn any goodwill. I can’t blame them for that.” He reached for his wine and took a sip, then a longer one. “I also met with Officer Russel today.”

  “Oh.” I felt my insides congeal a little bit. “How, uh. How did that go?”

  “It was… interesting.” Mark stared into his wineglass for a moment before glancing over at me. “I can’t remember the last time I met such a well-disguised predator.”

  I had known Mark wouldn’t be fooled—the man had listened to Martin’s recording, after all—but it was still a bit of a relief to have him confirm that Officer Russel was indeed a criminal son of a bitch. “Did he pull his ‘Mister Nice Guy’ act with you?”