“I will tell you it’s a burglary investigation—well, and a murder investigation, too.” All I say. I’ll let Hurley or Millhoff fill him in on the rest.
“You mean the one that occurred at your home?”
“I don’t know where you’re going with this, Sergeant, but I got a man who was a decent man and a good source of information who had his throat cut. I think that’s what’s important. If his murder has anything to do with what I’m investigating, then I’ll give it direct to Detectives Joe Hurley and Tim Millhoff.”
“This is why we don’t like you people working our city, pretending you’re still the police. You best watch your step from here on.” And with that he turns to walk back to the lanky commander.
Fuck you. A good man just died.
I look back at the crime scene, pissed to hell.
“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch who did this, Diamond,” I mutter.
Sixty-Eight
The only blessing in that whole shit storm was that Deputy Chief Wightman didn’t show to the scene. I still feel the same way about him—I despise him—but I don’t blame him for what he did. It was in the department’s interest to force me into early retirement. If word ever got out that a top narcotics detective who put some major players away was, and still is, snorting up cocaine, not only the media but also all the defense attorneys would have a field day. Best do it quietly, let me have my measly 40 percent, and send me on my way. I deserved worse, so like I said, I don’t blame him. I just don’t like the man.
Diamond’s murder was picked up by another homicide detective, but he told me Millhoff and Hurley will be kept in the loop, just in case everything is connected.
It’s late, but I try to call Biddy again when I’m sitting in the air-conditioned car. Still goes straight to voice mail.
I make my way back to the motel.
No traffic, but it still feels like it took too long to get there. I pull into the parking lot, find the first space available.
Light’s on in his room, dim through the closed curtain. I knock on the door, lightly at first, then harder when I don’t get an answer.
“Biddy, it’s Frank. Open up.”
Nothing.
“Biddy, open the door.”
I knock harder.
I hear a door open, then close, down the walkway to the side of me.
Fucking night manager. Different man from before. Younger, but still looks like he might be part of the family that owns this place. It’s a certain look. Old Virginia.
He’s clutching a cell phone in his right hand, probably ready to make that 911 call.
I take out my wallet and flash my badge.
“You have a man named Givens staying in there. I don’t have time to explain, but I need to make sure he’s safe.”
“I can’t just open the door,” he says quietly.
“Yes, you can, and you will. Call Alexandria PD if you have to, but you’re opening this door. Better now, though, in case he’s hurt.”
He thinks about it.
“I can’t let you in.”
“Don’t need to go in. You just check, see if he’s in there.”
“Let me see your badge again?”
“Showed it already. He could be in danger, so either open the door or call the police here. Now.”
He digs through his right pants pocket, pulls out a key ring with a lot of keys attached to it, searches for the right one.
He unlocks the door.
“Just open it and stand back.”
“I said you can’t go in.”
“You want to go in, then go ahead, but it might not be safe.”
He steps to the side.
I push the door open, look inside. His suitcase is still there. He isn’t.
I walk in slowly, hand on the grip of my gun. I scan the small room, walk to the bathroom.
It’s clean, no sign of a struggle. Everything as it was.
I exit.
“You can lock the door,” I tell him.
“Is there something I need to worry about here?” he says while locking it.
“No, not you, but if you see him return, you tell him to call Frank. He’s got my number. You see anybody else going up to this door, you call nine one one.”
“You got a card or something?”
“No.”
I quickly walk to my car, leaving him standing there wondering, What the hell just happened?
Sixty-Nine
When I park near my house, I check out my surroundings before I exit, see if I can spot any moving heads in parked vehicles. I tuck the right side of my T-shirt behind my holstered weapon so I have quicker access.
I cross W Street and walk the block to my house. I lock the door behind me when I enter, drop my pack near the sofa. The tabletop lamp in the living room is on. I always keep it on, even when I’m in bed. I walk back to the hall to go to the laundry room and my stash.
Before I enter, I’m surprised by “Put your hands up!” It’s coming from behind me, near the hallway entry to the kitchen. I immediately recognize it as Biddy’s voice. Unsubstantial, but trying hard to sound tough. I resist the natural temptation to dive behind the wall of the laundry room and go for my gun. I slowly raise my hands.
“Can I turn?” I ask.
“Slowly. I swear you make a move and I’ll shoot you.”
Those threats hardly sound like threats coming from him.
“Don’t worry, Robby, that’d be the last thing we both want.”
I turn around, arms still in the air.
He’s wearing the same clothes he had on at the motel, but he has dried blood on the front of his shirt and his forearms. Beads of sweat are dripping now, not seeping, down his forehead. His hands are shaking, and his finger’s on the trigger of a semiauto, looks like a Beretta. His eyes are wide as hell, too, but not like fear. He’s flying high on crack. Maybe a bit too high.
“Are you injured?” I ask.
Looks confused, then remembers the blood on him.
“No. No, that’s not my blood.”
“Did you hurt somebody?”
“No!”
“Could I ask you to take your finger off the trigger? ’Cause you’re shaking so hard you might accidentally pull it.”
“I plan on pulling it.”
Sounds like he means it, but he’s got to work himself up to it.
“All the same, you take your finger off the trigger, you can still pull it just as fast as you can with it on, but there’ll be no accidents.”
“No. Just get on your knees!”
“What the fuck’s this about, Robby?”
It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve had guns pointed at me, but they weren’t pointed by men like Biddy, who looks like he smoked up the rest of his shit. He wouldn’t have this kind of courage otherwise. I don’t consider myself the tough-guy type, but I’ve managed to either talk or fight my way out of these kinds of situations. I do feel fear but try not to sound like I do.
“Get on your knees, I said!”
“If you’re gonna kill me, I’d rather be standing.”
What the fuck did I just say?
“I know you have a gun on your belt, so take off your belt and let it drop, then kick it to me.”
“Okay.”
I unlatch my belt without lifting my T-shirt up, slide the belt out of the leather loops that secure my in-the-pants holster, then pull it all the way out. My gun won’t drop because it’s in a concealment holster and tucked in my pants. My cuffs drop first, then my magazine pouch, which holds two mags.
“Where’s your gun?”
“I keep it in my backpack when I’m driving. Easier to get to that way.”
“Where’s your backpack?”
“In the living room.”
“Kick that stuff carefully to me.”
I obey. First the mags, then the cuffs slide toward his feet. Still hoping he doesn’t ask me to lift my T-shirt.
“Your belt, too.”
“Tell me what this is about. I was just at the motel looking for you. Wanted to make sure you were safe.”
“Safe?” Like a joke.
“Yes, of course. I’m on your side, Robby.”
He chuckles nervously. “I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to kill Officer Jasper.”
“You’re so high right now, Robby. Please.”
“My uncle’s dead!”
“I know. I’m the one who called the police and an ambulance to the scene. So why are you at my house with a gun to my chest?”
“My uncle’s dead. You said that everything would be okay.”
I only remember advising them both to lay low, stay away from all this shit. I’ve had enough. I won’t tell him that, though, because he’s too emotional.
“Why did your uncle leave the motel?”
“We both left. He said he was going to pack up a few things at his house, then we’d return.”
“Where were you when your uncle was attacked?”
“Waiting in the cab. He was supposed to just go in and pack a suitcase.”
“So you saw who killed him?”
“It was dark. That’s why the guy didn’t see me. I was going to jump out when the man grabbed Uncle, but it was too fast, so I just ducked down, waited for the man to leave.”
“You didn’t see his face?”
“No.”
“What was he wearing?”
“I don’t know!” he yelps. “I was fucking scared.”
“It’s okay, Robby, but I still don’t understand why you broke into my house again, and now with a gun pointed at me.”
Tears build up, slide down the side of his nose.
“I’m not the one you want to kill. We both know where this is coming from, but for the life of me I don’t know why I’m involved. He sent you to burglarize my home, remember? That’s how I got caught up in this.”
“Get on your fucking knees.”
“Did you smoke all your crack up?” I ask.
“Don’t try to screw with me.”
His hands are shaking so hard that he really might accidentally pull the trigger. He’s too high to try to talk out of this. It wouldn’t be hard to take that gun away from him if he were closer. Too dangerous at this distance. Even with his hands shaking like they are, it’d be pretty hard to miss me. If I go to my knees I won’t have a chance.
“Everything is messed up,” he says, like he already forgot he wanted me to go on my knees.
“Put the gun down, and let’s figure it out. It’s messed up for both of us. Neither of us is safe.”
He’s clearly confused at this point, and being as tweaked out as he is doesn’t help.
“Give me the gun, Robby.”
“I can’t trust you. You’re a liar. I can’t trust anyone.”
“You have to. I have to trust you, too.”
Shaking his head.
“Or just put the safety on, and let’s go in the living room, where it’s more comfortable, and think this through.”
He looks at the gun.
“It’s above your thumb. Carefully flip it up.”
“No. I said I can’t trust you.”
“Then let’s try this. You can keep the gun pointed at me, but take your finger off the trigger. Follow me into the living room.”
I don’t give him a chance to think about it. I start to slowly put my hands down.
“I swear—”
I turn around and walk down the hall toward the living room. Big fucking chance, but I have to break the stalemate.
Near the front door he says, “Stay right there.”
I turn to look at him. His finger is off the trigger. He gets closer so he can see me walk into the living room. I’d have a good chance of disarming him, but I can’t risk it. Last thing I want is to get shot or to shoot him.
“Okay, go. Sit away from your dang backpack at the end of the couch.”
“No problem.”
I sit down.
He sits on the armchair to the left of me, near the end table, an arm’s length from my backpack. Let’s hope he doesn’t ask to search it.
From where he’s sitting he can’t see the right side of my body. I act like I’m positioning myself on the sofa but manage to remove my gun from the holster and tuck it under my thigh. Just in case.
“I’m far enough away; you don’t have to point the gun at me. If you rest it on your lap you’ll be able to cap my ass before I get a chance to stand. I need to feel safe, okay? If we’re going to talk?”
He rests the gun on his lap, but he still has a grip on it.
“Thank you. I feel like I can breathe now,” I say. “Can you toss my pack of cigarettes and the lighter this way? I really need a smoke.”
He looks at them on the end table, tosses the cigarettes first, then the lighter. They land on the sofa, but I have to stretch a bit to get the lighter.
“Thanks.”
I light a smoke. There’s a tumbler on the end table at my side that used to have whiskey in it. I use it for an ashtray.
“Damn, that feels good. I got a little something that’ll help you out if you want,” I tell him.
“What do you mean?”
“I have a little weed.”
“What? You’re kidding me, right?”
“No. I’m retired. It helps me sleep at night.”
“No. I’d have to say no.”
“You’re pretty wired, Robby. Might help you think straight.”
“You gonna smoke some, too?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t tell me you need your backpack.”
“No. It’s inside the end-table drawer right next to you.”
He uses his left hand to open it.
“I use a pipe, but there’s some rolling papers in there, too.”
“Looks like some good bud,” he says, like we’re having a regular conversation now.
“It is.”
“What kind of ex-cop are you?”
“Weed’s legal in the District. You know that.”
“I guess, but still.”
He pulls out the baggie, tosses it to me, then the pipe.
“You don’t mind sharing a pipe with a crackhead, do you?” he asks me.
Shake my head. “Doesn’t look like you got blisters, you know, on your lips. I’m good.”
He almost smiles but pulls it back.
I grab the pipe, open the baggie, pick a nice bit off one of the buds, and pack it in the chamber. I snuff out my smoke in the tumbler and light the pipe. It’s a nice hit. I hold it in while I lean toward Biddy, stretching my arm to hand it to him. His right hand is still gripping the gun, but at least his finger is off the trigger.
He takes a good hit.
I exhale. Comes on quick. I let him finish it up.
He straightens up in the armchair. The weed working to cut the edge off the crack high. Only a little.
“Good weed,” I say again.
Such an odd moment.
“Is it my fault?” he asks softly.
Of course it’s his fault.
“It’s not your fault.”
Seventy
You mind if I check the time on my phone?” I ask.
He lifts the gun.
“Finger off the trigger, please.”
He does.
I pull my phone out of my pants pocket.
“What time is it?” Biddy asks.
I notice on the screen that there’s a message from Aunt Linda. Why didn’t I hear the phone ring?
“Four twenty in the morning,” I tell him.
I set the phone on the coffee table. I need a little something to level out this loopy high, straighten my head out again. Can’t reveal that side of me, though.
He lowers the gun back to his lap.
I can tell he’s starting to fade, maybe feeling double what I feel right now because his drug of choice is more powerful than mine. He’s not asking to
smoke, so I’m thinking he’s out.
“Did you smoke up all your shit?”
“Yes.”
“That’s hell of a lot in just a few hours.”
“I had a purpose.”
“Well, it brought you here. Can’t say I like how you went about it, though. I didn’t see any sign of forced entry. How’d you get in?”
“Scaled the drainpipe to the second-floor window, busted it out.”
“Damn. You must be light as a feather and have strong arms.”
“I can get into most places if I want to.”
“Well, I forgive you for the window, and even for wanting to kill me, so let’s end this. You’re not going to shoot.”
“I don’t know what to do. I came at you with a gun. That’s a serious charge. I can’t go to fucking prison.”
“You didn’t come at me with a gun. You didn’t even break into my house. This time, I mean.”
Looks up at me, confused.
“You’re scared. Your uncle’s been murdered. We both know Jasper’s probably behind it. You can’t trust going to the police because of that. You found out I’m a PI and an ex-cop through your uncle, who I was working with. So you turn yourself in to me for the burglary of my residence, and you need protection. That’s a good story to go with.”
“You kidding? I told you I can’t catch a charge.”
“Just listen. I know it’s difficult, but I have a way out of this for you—and for me, ’cause it’ll get Jasper out of both of our lives. I think that’s why you came here anyway. If you weren’t so high, I believe you would have done it differently. You weren’t thinking straight. Do what I say, but don’t mention anything about the motel. If you do, I’ll make sure you get fucked.”
“I’m still not thinking straight.”
I can say the same.
“Hear me out. Detective Joe Hurley is a good friend of mine.”
“No.”
“He’ll tell you the same thing I’m going to. Cops can never make promises, but you can believe this: I’ve been through this kinda talk, and so has Hurley, more times than I can remember. I can tell you based on all those experiences that it has worked out for everyone else we’ve talked to, but that’s only if they don’t fuck up during the process.”
“What are you talking about?”
Crime Song Page 21