Which happens to be at Carter’s place.
“What the fuck?”
Pete drives past Carter’s to park under the El tracks where huge puddles of water still stand in pockets of gravel after yesterday’s downpour.
“What the fuck,” he says again, because he pulls in right next to Mizz Redbone.
“I always said that was a dumbass nickname,” Elexus says from the back. “Mizz Redbone. LaFonda thinks she’s all that.”
In the rearview, Pete can see Elexus combing out her wig: she’s got the crown over one fist and she’s running her long plastic fingernails through the locks as though they belong to a childhood doll. He thought she would spend the ride up here trying to talk her way out of being held against her will; instead, she’s kind of warmed up to the role. All things considered, she hasn’t had much else to warm up to, but—
“I need you to cooperate with me now, Elexus.” Pete turns to look at her directly to make sure she’s tuned in. “I want to make this as easy as possible, and so I’m going to need you to pretend you’re my partner.”
“What, like I’m undercover—dressed for a hooker sting or something?” She puts on the wig and pulls her thigh-high boots up over her bare knees. “You know I’m gonna need a gun or something, make me legit—”
“More like you’re going to need to stay undercover. I can’t have anybody knowing you’re back there. But, if you be good, I promise there will be a reward.”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind? I ain’t no dog. I want to come with you. I want to see Elgin.”
“You’ll see him soon enough. Right now I need you to be my ace in the hole.”
“I’m in the hole all right,” she says, picking at a strand of fake hair that has stuck to her glossed lips.
Pete opens the back window, just enough to let some fresh air in but not enough so that anyone could see inside. He could leave the squad running, let Butch’s heat alarm kick in if Elexus gets too steamed, but he figures a quiet car with a cracked window is better than an engine-powered cage. Anyway, she could use the air.
“Now stay,” he says.
When he gets out he hears her tell him to fuck off, but she doesn’t sound like she means it.
As he crosses the lot, a train skids the rails on the curve up above, grating and near deafening; Pete imagines that’s how his nerves must sound, so close to coming off track, at this point. He adjusts his badge on its lanyard and does a visual sweep of the peripheral spectators; he doesn’t recognize any threats, and no Elgin Poole, but he makes firm eye contact with anybody who wants a look. He’s got to keep it together.
“Who’s the lead here?” he asks the first uniform within earshot, a baby face stationed against the back bumper of the first in the corral of squads. The outright disdain on the kid’s face means he hasn’t seen much inner-city action yet—not by a long shot.
“Step Lyons,” the kid says, like he could spit.
“Fantastic,” Pete says, because no matter what kind of flop he is with victims and witnesses, Step is excellent with suspects—being insensitive and focused on facts and therefore a big asshole is exactly how a cop should be when he’s got someone in the crosshairs.
On his way up Carter’s steps, Pete’s heart bucks: this could be it. This could be where he finds his son. And Butch.
He feels the last of his logic blot out as he pushes open the door.
“You want a statement? I’ll give you a statement. Take this down. I’ll spell it for you. F-U-C-K Y-O—”
“I get it, Carter,” Step says to the young man in the tight fro who hasn’t bothered to get up from the couch or to take his feet off the coffee table, either. Step looks down at Carter from the other side of the table, Finch and another uniform backing him. “I have to say I’m impressed you got all the letters in order there. But you know what’s funny? I don’t actually need you to say a thing. You want to know why? I’ll tell you—hell, I’ll spell it for you: I’ve got your D-motherfucking-N-motherfucking-A. You know what that spells?” He checks with his boys: “Either of you know what that spells?”
The backup closest to Pete says, “I think that also spells fuck.”
Finch says, “Actually I believe it spells Carter, you’re fucked.”
“Smart, Finch. Hey, I’ll bet you can read pretty well too. Read him his rights.” Step motions to the other backup for the cuffs.
“You have the right to remain silent…”
“Ow, ow!” Carter says when the other cop pulls him up off the couch; Carter’s favoring his right leg.
“We know you’re a tough guy,” Step tells him. “Don’t worry: we’ll treat you accordingly.”
“You have the right to an attorney…”
Step gets out of the way to use his phone, probably calling McHugh; while he’s punching the numbers he notices that the front door is open, and then he notices Pete. “What the fuck now?” he asks, and ends the call before it starts. Step looks like shit, so Pete can only imagine what he must look like.
“Can I get a minute?” Pete asks.
“I think you ran out of minutes back at the hospital, Pony.”
“A half a minute,” Pete says, walking toward him. “Not even that. I only need as long as it takes me to tell you—” and he’s close enough now to bend Step’s ear, “DeWilliam Carter is also under investigation in the case I’m working. Conspiracy to kidnap a child.”
“What? I didn’t hear about that. Since when?”
“Since he took my son.”
Step eyes the room, finds a bathroom door. “My office,” he says, leading the way.
“Your son,” Step repeats once the door is closed, pinched shut in its uneven frame. “I thought your daughter was the wild card.”
“McHugh told you.” Pete looks down, scuffs the toe of his boot on the dirty tile. “How’d you get to Carter?”
“Aaron Northcutt got pretty talkative after you left. His father said it was most likely because you scared the shit out of him but I think his mom’s the one who put him up to it.”
“Well, Aaron is right: Carter was there. That car parked outside? The custom-painted job—Mizz Redbone? I know for a fact they went to Zack Fowler’s in that car. But I don’t know if Carter is the one who shot Aaron Northcutt.”
“That’s the case I’m working,” Step says. “Anyway, what does your son have to do with it?”
“That’s Elgin Poole’s car. I think Carter is in on this with him. I think they abducted Joel—”
“Wai-wai-wai-wait,” Step says. “Elgin Poole? Don’t tell me this is some weird conspiracy against you.”
“What I’m telling you is my son was there, at Fowler’s. And Elgin Poole was there. And now my son is gone.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Ask Carter about his leg.”
“What do you mean his leg?”
“He was bit by a dog.”
Step’s eyebrows go uneven: he knows which dog. “Where’s Butch?”
“Missing. Same as Joel.”
“Why haven’t you told anybody about this? Why didn’t you tell McHugh?”
“My reputation precedes me.”
“This is different.”
“It is? You’re the one calling me Pony.”
Step’s phone buzzes. “It’s McHugh,” he says. “He’s waiting for me. What the hell am I supposed to do here?”
Pete takes off his badge, puts it in his shirt pocket. “Let me talk to Carter. Here. Now. If you take him in, I’m that much farther away from finding my son. He knows what happened. Please, Step.”
Step presses his lips together. His phone buzzes again.
“That’s Elgin’s car out there,” Pete says. “He might be responsible for all of this and I’ve been in every hood from here to Gary looking for him. Carter has to know something, and if it turns out he’s another fall guy, don’t you want to know? Before you talk him into a plea deal, too?”
Step looks up at the doorframe where the door doesn
’t fit. He sighs. Then he silences his phone, reaches past Pete, and yanks open the door. “Officers,” he says, “I’d like a word with Mr. Carter. Give us the room.” He tucks his phone into his pocket and looks back at Pete, says, “Let’s just see.”
The front screen door hits the latch and bounces, closing slowly behind Step’s backups. DeWilliam Carter has taken a seat on the coffee table now, hands cuffed in front of him.
“What happened to your leg?” Step asks.
“I want my lawyer.”
“You’ve got a lawyer already?” Step asks, taking a seat next to him. On his right. “That’s good. Is he representing you for your dog-bite lawsuit?”
“I don’t have no lawsuit.”
“But you do have a dog bite,” Step says, patting Carter’s thigh.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Carter says, turning from his knees, but not before Step grabs his thigh and squeezes, buckling Carter’s entire body.
“Ow!” he cries, going fetal, but Step follows him to the floor, grabs the waistband of Carter’s low-slung pants and pulls them down to his thigh. There’s a bandage; Step rips that right off to the sound of Carter going no no no no—which makes sense, when he exposes what’s underneath: the wound is a dog bite all right, deep slashes where Butch’s canines went clean through. The problem is, the repair was not so clean: blood is thick and tacky against the skin that has swollen pink over the stitching, and an abscess seeps pus where the suture didn’t hold. Butch’s incisors left punctures that were left unstitched and are still trying to scab, and bruising has flowered from the wound to the inside of his thigh, dark purple.
“You ought to have that looked at,” Step says, a thumb pressed on the bruise as he inspects the bite. “Your boys use the last of the Crown Royal as antiseptic?”
“Oh my god,” Carter wails, writhing on the dirty carpet.
He looks up at Pete, a nod. “What would you recommend, Murphy? Should we let the wound breathe for a few minutes?”
“A few minutes, yeah,” Pete says.
Step gets up and goes to the door. “Maybe you explain to him about infections.” He pulls the screen shut after him.
“Carter,” Pete says, standing over him. “Where is Elgin Poole?”
“How the fuck do I know where’s Elgin Poole?”
“That’s his car outside.”
“So? I got nothing to say.”
“But you know we know, right?” Pete tries to sound conversational, in case Step or one of the other guys is outside, an ear to the door. “We know you were with him on Friday night. At Zack Fowler’s. And what we want to know is if you’re the one who shot Aaron Northcutt. Did Elgin give you the gun? Did he tell you to shoot somebody? Because what we think is, maybe Fowler was telling the truth—when he said it was an accident?—but we think maybe you fired, and you missed your mark.”
“I don’t know what you talking about.” Carter reaches for the used bandage and tries to secure it over the bite, but the adhesive won’t stay.
Pete takes the bandage from him, the absorbent pad soaked through, heavy with pus. “You have another one of these?”
“Oh yeah,” Carter says. “I know this though. You gonna be all nice now. You the good cop and that other motherfucker is the bad cop, is that the game?”
“No,” Pete says, “this is no game. Because I’m the good cop and you’re the bad guy, and that other motherfucker is going to stay out of the way while I do whatever it takes to make you tell me what happened to my son.”
“How you going to make me?”
“I’m just going to ask, first,” Pete says, down on his knees in front of Carter, the soiled bandage in his hands. “Where is my son?”
“Who your son?”
“The boy with the dog. I know you know my dog.”
“Oh yeah, right,” Carter says, a smile on one side of his mouth. “Hey, I know: fuck your dog. And your son.”
“Where is my son?” Pete asks, instant and obvious rage tempered by the very logical thought that he could very simply kill this man. He could use the bandage: hold it against Carter’s mouth and nose, let him try to breathe through his own blood, his own filth. He would watch his eyes go from fight to fear to flicker. And then he would be gone. Gone.
“I know you—you the cop who’s aggin’ on Ja’Kobe White.”
“Is my son alive?” Pete asks, and he thinks he sounds very reasonable though he is pushing Carter down on the floor, climbing on top of him, pinning his shoulders.
“My son,” he says, and Carter starts to yell, so Pete brings the bandage to his mouth, but then Step is there again, and so is Finch, and they wrestle Pete away.
“My son,” Pete pleads as both cops struggle to hold him back.
“Answer him, Carter,” Step hooks his arm around Pete’s torso, body weight set against him; Finch steps back to cover Carter.
Carter says, “I told him: I plead five.”
“Fuck you!” Pete breaks from Step’s grip and barrels into Finch. “Tell me where he is!” Finch pushes him back into the corner, a forearm against his neck, the young cop quick and capable.
“He a crazy motherfucker—” Carter says.
“Give it up, man,” Finch says, his breath hot in Pete’s face. Pete quits resisting, nose running, the muscles in his arms hot-wired, like they’ve been plugged in.
“Yeah, yeah,” Step says to Carter, pulling him up on his feet. “Who’s the good cop now, eh?”
Pete puts his hands up, “Okay, okay,” and Finch lets him go.
“Lucky for you, kid,” Step says as he helps Carter with his pants, “I can’t interview a dead guy.” He starts to escort Carter out, stops, says, “I thought you were going to talk to him, Pony.”
Pete tosses the bandage on the coffee table and absently wipes his hands on his coat. He has nothing to say.
“You’re doing a fine job upholding your reputation,” Step says, and then he goes.
“Sorry,” Finch says, a little respect before he follows.
Pete wipes his nose on his sleeve. Realizes his pants are stained with Carter’s blood. And just now, notices the television is on. Some action movie; a car chase. His badge is lying on the floor in front of the TV.
Outside, he hears Carter arguing with Step—This a setup, you trying to sweat me, you got the wrong guy.
And Carter is right, because the guy they need is Elgin Poole.
Pete pins his badge to its lanyard and plans to go out there and say so. Except as soon as Carter sees him, he becomes the next target: “You crazy motherfucker, I’m going to sue your ass! Just like Ja’Kobe, I’ma get his law-yer!” Nobody’s put him in a squad yet; Step’s probably leaving him out there to give him the chance to slip up, prove himself guilty.
“I’m gonna get everything you got left!” he yells, a pack of neighbors his built-in audience as they mingle and whisper from a safe distance, helplessly watching one of their own, hunted and caught.
“I ain’t no fool like that crackhead Elgin Poole—”
A sound like an eagle screaming drowns out Carter from across the lot. Pete looks out past the gathering of uniforms where a couple bangers are hanging around the tail of his squad. Which is moving side to side. Elexus has been listening, and she heard that barb on her brother.
“Hey!” Pete says, passing by Step and company on his way to the squad. He says, “Get the hell away from there!” and he waves his arms, a show for the cops, since the boys are close enough to know that’s not a mad dog in the backseat.
As Pete nears, he realizes Elexus is screaming actual words—“Some respect!”—while she’s trying to take the vehicle off its tires: “How dare you talk about Elgin! He made you, Lil Cee, and you ruined him. You was always wanting to take over—”
The two boys move off and take up position on the other side of Mizz Redbone. Pete thinks he recognizes one of them—the tall, slender one with the nice afro, the pretty-boy face—but there’s no time to investigate. Not now, with his name
in lights.
He stops short of the cars’ back bumpers so he can still see both boys’ hands. They don’t appear to be up to anything, but around here, that’s the point of an appearance. “I said get out of here.”
“That’s not what you said.” The shorter boy has gold teeth. A fang grille.
“You want to ride in there with her?” Pete asks, a thumb toward Elexus. “Step back. Move away from that car.”
“Whatev,” the pretty boy says. “This our company car.”
“Company,” Pete says, “right. You running a business now? Solid hats, T-shirts? You going to franchise?”
“We going.” He starts in the other direction.
The smartass says, “See you round the way, Lex,” and backs off, still facing Pete, watching him, a show of hood bravado.
“Better hope you don’t see me.” Pete rounds the squad for the driver’s seat, gets in and closes the back window, Elexus bitching only to him now. He pulls through the parking spot to turn around under the tracks, and as he passes by the squads he can’t bring himself to look; he can’t see straight as it is.
He turns out of the Co-op’s lot and heads west on Maypole; since Step will transport Carter to Area Three, Pete can park here on one of the side streets and go unnoticed while he waits—it’ll probably be an hour or so before it’s safe to go back and let himself into Mizz Redbone.
Elexus sticks her hand through the divider and smacks Pete on the shoulder. She’s been going on about something, but he doesn’t know what.
“You were saying?” Pete asks as he backs into a parallel spot and cuts the engine.
“I said I want my reward.”
“There is no reward.”
“You promised I’d get a reward if I was good.”
“I don’t think what happened back there was good.”
“I thought you said we were going to find my brother.”
“I did.”
“Well?”
The Good Boy Page 32