The upper and lower lots across from the shelter were half-block slabs of broken concrete where businesses had once thrived but then struggled and given up after Haven House took over the building next door and the area had become the nexus for so many desperate, homeless people. It had become a regular stop for the beat officers, a checkpoint for keeping up with the street. So Salt wasn’t surprised when a patrol car pulled into the lower lot just in front of her Taurus and stopped across from the wall that divided the upper lot from the lower. The wall would have brought a kind of liveliness to the grimy spot, with its psychedelic kaleidoscope of bright-colored graffiti, except that taggers had marred the mural with amateur single-line scribblings. Pieces of the wall were coming loose, exposing the red clay and the roots of junk trees that were causing the concrete to buckle.
From the other side of the lot a white female sergeant about Salt’s age got out of the patrol car and stood leaning against the car door, checking the area, glancing at Salt. Then the sergeant raised her hand in recognition of Salt’s unmarked. She walked down the wall, stopping to make notes on a pocket notepad, and then came over. “Salt, right?” She stepped back so Salt could open the door. “I’ve seen you a few times in court, but we’ve not really met. I’m Laurel Fellows.” She put out her hand.
“You just made sergeant. I saw your name on the list. Good for you.” Salt shook her hand. “I heard some of the guys saying you deserved the promotion.”
“And you, congrats as well.”
“So why are two nice girls hanging around this urban art installation?” Salt swept her arm toward the wall.
Fellows grinned. “I don’t know. Why are we?” The creases were still sharp along the front of her newly striped uniform slacks. She shifted and adjusted the gear belt with its new brass-studded belt keepers. The shiny finish on the sergeant’s badge caught the light.
“Last year I came to the shelter looking for a guy from my beat,” Salt said.
“The Homes, right? People say you worked it. Props. Not many girls get that kind of respect.”
“I know you worked this zone before your promotion. They obviously think you’re good since they kept you after you made sergeant.”
“I worked FIT, kept my head low.” Fellows was referring to the Field Investigative Team, a small, plainclothes, as-needed unit that responded to crime patterns: thefts, burglaries, car break-ins, muggings. “Can I help you with something here?” She nodded toward Haven House.
“I don’t know. It keeps coming up in this old case I’m working.” Salt was wary of any possible connections to Sandy Madison.
As if reading her mind, Fellows said, “Stay away from True Grit Madison then. He controls the EJs here and at the church, not to mention how many other places. He’s gotten in our way so many times, especially on the drug stuff. I don’t understand how he stays off Internal Affairs’ radar.”
Two men crossed the street from the shelter. One carried a white five-gallon bucket, the other carried long- and short-handled paint rollers.
“Whadda ya know,” said Fellows as the men opened the bucket and began painting over the wall graffiti with a pea-green color. “I’ve never seen that before.”
The two men got right to work on some large black letters, “D.V. SUCKS,” quickly reducing them to “UCKS” as the slight breeze brought whiffs of the paint.
“I’d guess Haven House doesn’t usually take much interest in its effect on the quality of life in the neighborhood?” Salt asked.
“They didn’t want the addicts arrested when we caught them in buys. They say they just want the dealers arrested. They don’t seem to understand that when police witness a transaction that both parties are culpable. We can’t pick and choose who gets arrested when we witness crimes. I don’t personally think the war on drugs is effective, but I’ve sworn to uphold the law.
“The neighborhood is swarming with addicts and dealers, but the shelter doesn’t have in-patient treatment or wraparound services. We arrest dealers, but because of the huge market—the shelter has five hundred beds, well, mattresses—before the ink is dry on the arrest tickets, other dealers have moved in. It’s just too lucrative, too big a demand.”
A white limousine pulled alongside the curb on the street above, and the young man Salt had encountered at the church with Midas Prince got out from the passenger compartment. He glanced at Salt and Fellows and at the men painting the wall, lifted his chin, shook out his cuffs like Salt had seen Midas do, and crossed the street to the shelter entrance as the limo pulled away.
“That was the little man himself,” said Fellows.
“Who?”
“That slender young guy runs Haven House now. He’s Reverend Prince’s right-hand man, Brother Twiggs.”
“I heard Reverend Gray quit. He helped me last year. Do you know where he went?” Salt asked.
“He was a good guy, but I’m sure he must have burned out. He tried to work with us, but he was limited by lack of funds for treatment and programs, and by whoever controlled the money. I don’t know where he’s working now, but if anyone would know where the bodies are buried, he would.” Fellows leaned her ear toward the mic on her shoulder, tapped the hood of the car, and said, “Gotta run. I hear the call of the wild.” She started for her car. “Nice talking to you,” she said over her shoulder as she strode to the patrol car.
Salt remembered that Jackson Thornton from the HOPE Team had told her about Gray leaving Haven House. He answered on the first ring, but all she heard was what sounded like breathing. “Hello?” Salt said.
“Hey. Salt. Sorry. Give me a second,” said Thornton. More breathing and moving around. “Whew. I was coming from the tracks, up a bank. What’s up?”
STAGING
At the front of the strategic planning room, a blueprint of the Toy Dolls Club was projected onto the pull-down screen. Officers and commanders were arriving, gathering in groups mostly according to assignment: SWAT in their green fatigues, narcs, patrol units from the precincts, homicide detectives, and the white-shirt commanders. Detectives and officers filled in the seats behind their respective supervisors in the front row. One of the admin officers from the Public Affairs Unit went back and forth from the lectern to a computer console, where he changed the contrast on the screen and adjusted the feedback from the overhead speakers. An officer from tech support kept tapping the intermittently working microphone on the lectern.
Most of Salt’s shift from Homicide was already there. Wills and Gardner came in and sat down beside her, and some of the day shift, Hamm and her partner, had stayed over to attend the meeting. Hamm tapped Salt’s shoulder as they ambled by. In all, there were now about thirty people who’d come to coordinate the execution of the warrant on Toy Dolls. A photo of DeWare alternated with the image of the Toy Dolls’ floor plan on the screen, and the flyers with his picture and description were being distributed throughout the room. His dark face loomed—no scars, marks, or tattoos, clean-shaven, but he had a hardened scowl and feral stare.
Pepper came in with one of the other narcotics guys and sat to her left, elbowing her as he settled into the chair. “Another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Ollie.”
“Oh, God, Pepper, this fuckin’ scares me. I’d rather go in alone than have all this drama.” She pushed back on the chair, widening her eyes, trying to find an even breath.
“Hey, relax, girl. We’re in the big time now, not just hanging our raggedy asses out in patrol cars.” He put his arm over her shoulder and punched Wills on her other side. Wills flipped his tie, Oliver Hardy–style, back at Pepper.
“Let’s get going, people.” The Special Operations commander called them to order. “I’m not gong to waste your time and neither are the rest of the white shirts.”
The room erupted in loud applause and approving whistles.
“That means he’s got a lunch date,” whispered Wills.
; “All right, all right.” The commander held his hands up to silence the room. “Sergeant Huff will review the cases that got us here. Lieutenant Shepherd will give us the available intelligence on the location, the Toy Dolls Club, and SWAT will detail the tactical plan.” The commander moved away from the podium, started to his seat, then came back. “Just one more thing from me. Any of you fuc . . . fellows with EJ ties to this club or any other property owned by the same company should know that as of recently they are under surveillance, and phone records will be subpoenaed if there is even a whiff of a tip-off. You all better pray we find drugs and our suspect.”
Wills leaned his head close to her, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “I hear they sent Madison to a week’s training on the coast. He thinks he’s being groomed to be our poster boy for the film people. He’s out there playing golf, schmoozing with honchos on the links.”
“I’d be very happy if they hired him,” Salt said.
The plan included details about where they’d coordinate—not far from the club at a small commercial area abandoned by its box-store anchor—and the day and time—midnight, a few hours before the club closed, in two days’ time. SWAT would make first entry, securing employees and patrons, and search for the suspect. Then Narcotics would search the premises for drugs. Homicide would assist in interviewing employees and any customers that might have information relevant to their investigations. They had two days until execution.
DeWare’s photo had been left on the screen. His eyes were deep-set. He had a pronounced U-shaped chin and lacked fat and muscle, so his skin adhered closely to the bone. The overall effect was skull-like—probably the last image two little girls and their mother had seen the night they were murdered.
MANUEL’S
Manuel’s Tavern was one of the last holdouts for smokers in the city. Long a bastion for an unusual mix of cops, liberal politicians, and newspeople, it was a couple of blocks north of the Jimmy Carter Presidential Library and Museum. But you could still smoke at the bar, and Salt guessed that might be one of the reasons Reverend Gray chose to meet her there. Manuel’s was also the PD’s bar, every Thursday full of cops, every other Thursday, paydays, full of cops drinking a lot.
The big rooms of the half-block establishment were covered with photos of Manuel, his family, and the staff, with heroes from sports and politics; the Braves and Jimmy Carter were prominently featured. Then there was the table over which hung a sign identifying it as “The Seventh Precinct.” Alongside hung an iconic photo of former members of the old Homicide Hat Squad, guns pointing at the camera in a shooting stance, sixties-style cool. Elections at any level of government were followed on overhead TVs, as were significant sports events. Late hours found old print men, newswomen, sportscasters, and local city and state politicians, as well as the occasional congressman, arguing past their cutoff, barely able to mumble at one another.
Manuel, pronounced “Manyule” by locals, had recently died, and the third generation of his Lebanese family was continuing the tradition of banning anyone who carried public tales of what went on in the smoky tavern. The rule was firm. Careers had ended when Manuel’s severed connections.
It was after noon and Salt hadn’t had breakfast, was just starting what was going to be a long day—the warrant execution was scheduled to convene at eleven p.m. Gray was already there, an empty shot glass beside a smoking cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray at his wrist. When she came up to the bar, he squinted through the smoke from his cigarette. “Ah, it’s the Good Detective,” he said, smiling and stubbing out the butt. Like the last time she’d seen him, he wore jeans, and ashes littered the top of his T-shirt-covered beer belly like dandruff.
“You make me sound like a character in a parable.” She leaned an elbow on the long bar. “I need to eat. Can we go to a booth? Bring the ashtray. I’m okay with smoking. I occasionally light up myself.”
“I knew I liked you.” He threw back the nonexistent dregs in the shot glass, took two steps, and fell heavily into one of the booths along the bar wall.
Salt slid in across from him. “I heard that you left Haven House. I appreciated the help you gave me with Lil D last year.” She looked up as one of the managers tapped her on his way by and congratulated her on the promotion. She nodded thanks.
“You were promoted? What happened to the kid? Both his parents died, right?”
“Yeah, promoted to detective. Lil D’s still in the street, but I keep hoping he’ll move away from the thug life. Right now I’m working a case that keeps me coming back to Haven House. You want something to eat? My dime.”
Reverend Gray said he wanted to taper off with a beer, and Salt ordered a loaded bagel.
“I’d bet you good money that there are few to no degrees of separation between Haven House and many crimes committed in our beloved city,” said Gray after the waitress left. “My faith wore out.” He shook out another cigarette.
“What about—” Salt nodded at Gray’s shirt, on which was printed a large faded Christian cross from neck to navel and across his chest. “You know, the God thing?”
“Oh, that.” Gray gave her an ironic grimace. “The Jesus, Son of God, died-for-your-sins thing? You wouldn’t know it from looking at me.” He brushed some ashes off the crossbeam. “I actually am ordained. Went to a good school, master’s from Candler seminary. But somewhere between the thousands and thousands of stinking, lice-ridden, rotting-flesh, crazy-as-a-shithouse-rat men that came through Haven House and Reverend Midas Prince, I lost my religion.”
Salt leaned back so the waitress could put down her bagel and Gray’s beer. “I can imagine you might.”
“Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass. “You probably can imagine—the cop thing and all.”
“Did you have any dealings with Sandy Madison?”
“I know Madison takes care of security at the shelter and the church, but I was never part of that aspect of the place. I got along with whoever Madison hired. We never had more than one off-duty cop, and that was only part-time.”
“How much direct contact does Prince have with Haven House residents? Who organizes his participation?”
“Prince has had a series of coordinators that he claims to be mentoring. Most of them come and go, but D.V. is always at his side.”
“D.V.?” Salt had seen those letters recently, seen men painting over the tag on the parking lot wall. “D.V.” She remembered the roller passing over the V.
“Devarious Twiggs, slim, light skin?”
“I think I saw him at Big Calling, and then again just yesterday at the shelter,” Salt said.
“Deevarious.” Gray emphasized the first syllable, draining his beer glass. “You go to church, Detective?”
“I grew up in the church. Does that count?” she answered. “Actually my grandfather was an old hellfire preacher, a hard man, my dad used to say.”
“Oh, yeah. I know the type—some of those guys around here still. Then you’ve got the prosperity gospel types like Prince, Edith Cents, and Cameron Short. They fleece the sheep.”
“There are shepherds, like you, who treat the sheep for hoof rot,” she said. “What exactly were your responsibilities at the shelter?”
“My title was services coordinator. I was expected to liaison with whatever community services were available and to match the residents to services, according to their needs—addicts to treatment, veterans to VA, those with housing needs, et cetera. ‘Hoof rot’?”
“It’s a shepherd thing, a disease sheep get if their hooves aren’t treated properly.”
“Well, I had more than five hundred ‘sheep’ coming and going and only part-time volunteer staff that didn’t know lice from rice. I couldn’t even keep track of who was a resident and who was there just to flop or deal. Fights every fucking night, infestations of bedbugs and lice. Not enough showers, toilets, sanitary sleeping mats. We couldn’t meet even the most
basic hygiene needs. And don’t get me started about mental health issues—that was the worst, watching people self-medicate with street drugs.”
“Any treatment programs?” she asked.
“Very little. Midas sponsored some kind of select rehab program that D.V. coordinated. According to him, they were choosing only the very young because they were the most likely to be redeemable and the most at risk. After their initial intake I never saw them again—except maybe they’d be with D.V. and Midas occasionally.” Gray took a long drag off his cigarette. “I know how that sounds now. When I first started there ten years ago, I was so invested, so burning with the conviction I could save not only souls but lives.” He chuckled bitterly. “And the longer I stayed, the deeper my investment, and I was just not able to face facts about what a failure it all has been.”
“That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think? I’m sure there were salvations.”
“Little salvations.” He looked into his empty beer glass.
“They add up, don’t you think?” Salt asked him.
“Let us hope so.” Gray lowered his head.
Salt couldn’t tell if he was praying or passing out. “Rev?”
“What? Sorry.” He slid out of the booth. “I’m looking for a job, by the way. If you hear of anything, you have my number.” The minister trundled down the short hall to the back door of the tavern, backlit by light filtering through one of the faux stained-glass windows.
EXECUTION
On the south side of the city, a mile or so from the Toy Dolls Club, the last full moon of April shone directly over the weedy parking lot behind an abandoned big-box store. Salt leaned back against the sergeant’s car trying to loosen her shoulders. More and more of the participants arrived—SWAT, Narcotics and their raid van, uniform officers from the zone, detectives, commanders—everybody geared up. She could feel superfluous with SWAT guys on the scene, all turned out in full gear; enough to intimidate the baddest of the bad, they looked like morphing sci-fi characters, able to transform themselves as needed. SWAT, Special Weapons And Tactics. From head to toe they were prepared and protected: helmets, face shields, body armor, Tasers, gas canisters, batons, guns—sidearms and long guns—and black full-body ballistic shields, knee pads, and arm guards for crawling rough terrain. And it wasn’t just gear. They were in top shape, spending portions of most shifts in physical training. They were tested and trained, psychologically and tactically. So when they arrived, fifteen of them from having just completed another course with the Israelis, dismounting from their transport, it was impressive and sobering, if one needed more sobering, which Salt did not. She was feeling the pressure, being new, having been the one to initiate all this, putting officers at risk, including Pepper and Wills. She began the ubiquitous female cop’s career-long dance with her bladder—to pee or not to pee, hydrate or not.
Out of the Blues Page 24