The Flats

by Kate Birdsall

  “Okay, yeah.” As I start to turn away, she adds, “When he’s not here, he hangs out across the way.”

  “Winky’s?”

  She nods.

  I try to hide my surprise. Jen Kline didn’t say he was a regular, but then I remember that it wasn’t her usual shift. On my way out the door, I tell the bouncer to have a wonderful evening. I go back to the car and give Goran the download.

  “He might be in there now,” I say, tipping my head at the Emerald. “The bartender wasn’t sure. I’m going to Winky’s for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  He nods. “Hell yeah. We’ll cover this shithole.”

  Winky’s isn’t very busy, either. A few youngish guys sit in a booth across from the bar, which is in the center of the space. A group of what looks like out-of-town businessmen is rooted in a corner booth, and a couple of stragglers perch at the bar.

  I take a seat at the bar, across from a man who looks as if his dog just died. His head is in his hands, and a half-empty pitcher of pissy-looking beer sits to his right. He has a white line on his finger where a wedding ring once might have been, and I briefly wonder what his story is as I scan the space for Ricky Harris.

  After about five minutes, the bartender comes over. She looks me up and down a couple of times as she asks me if I’d like to see a menu. I guess women in here alone are kind of an anomaly, but at least we’re allowed in here without a guy. She’s in her midtwenties with longish dark hair—dyed, based on her skin tone—pulled into a sloppy bun. Her little tank top allows her to show off a three-quarter sleeve of tattoos on her left arm.

  “No menu,” I reply. “Just a coffee, please.”

  She grins. “You probably don’t want the coffee. I think it’s been on since this morning. How about a beer? Or a bloody Mary? I make a great margarita, too. Just ask those guys over there.” She gestures with her eyes to the booth of young guys.

  “Water, thanks.”

  When she sets the water down in front of me, I catch a Day-of-the-Dead skull on her forearm.

  “Straw?” She reaches for a glass that contains individually wrapped ones but maintains eye contact.

  “No, thanks,” I reply. When she doesn’t walk away, I figure that I might as well ask my questions. “Slow night?”

  “Yeah, everybody got scared away after they found that little boy.” She looks down at the bar with a sad expression. “Did you hear about that? It’s terrible. I can’t believe that happens.”

  “Yeah, it’s awful,” I reply. “How long have you worked here?”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Why?”

  “Detective Boyle, CDP.” I lean back far enough to reveal the shield on my belt. “Is Jen Kline here?”

  “No, she usually works lunch.” She starts wiping down the bar with a white towel that’s seen better days. “I don’t know. I’ve been here about a year now, I guess. Are you investigating what happened to him?”

  I take a sip of water and nod.

  “It’s terrible,” she repeats. “I can’t believe someone would do something like that. I can’t even imagine what would make someone do that.”

  It happens all the time, more times than you want to know. “Were you working that night?”

  “Who, me? No, I had the night off.”

  “Do you know most of the other servers?” I try to picture the schedule Jen had given us. There were no full names, just first and last initials.

  “I know a few, I guess.”

  “I was talking to Jen last time I was here.”

  “Yeah, Jen’s nice. She just had a baby about six months ago. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna quit. The little boy getting murdered really fucked with her.”

  “Did Jen tell you anything about what she saw that night?” It wouldn’t help in court, but it’s good to get a read on what they tell each other.

  Her brow furrows. She’s wearing a lot of mascara. “Not really. Just that everything got crazy that night, once the little boy was found.” She looks around but doesn’t continue.

  I take another drink of my water. “Did she tell you anything else?”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head. “Look, I really need to get back to work.” She gestures at the guys in the booth, who are all pointing at their empty margarita pitcher.

  “Do you know a tall guy, dresses kind of flashy? Comes in here a couple times a week to hang out? Have you seen a guy like that today?”

  Something shifts behind her eyes, but I can’t get a solid read on it. She’s good at the poker face.

  “There are a lot of guys like that in the world. I don’t really get involved with the customers.”

  “Does the name Ricky Harris mean anything?” I ask.

  Her eyes widen, but then she says, “No, I don’t think so.” She yanks a tequila bottle off the shelf on the wall. “Is that all? I really need to get back to work.”

  “Thank you for your time.” I toss a dollar on the bar, along with my business card. “Will you give me a call if you think of anything else?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” She turns to walk away, leaving the card and the dollar on the bar.

  “What’s your name again?” I ask as I stand up.

  “It’s Elizabeth. Have a good night,” she calls over her shoulder with a smile and a little wave.

  At least it’ll be easy to remember her name.

  When I get back to the car, I open the driver’s-side door. “Move. I’m driving tonight. You scare me.”

  Goran grunts and climbs out. While he walks around, I plop down behind the wheel and readjust the mirrors. I edge the car back about a block, not directly in front of the club but so that the front entrance is visible.

  “What’d we get on that Lexus?” I ask once he’s settled in the passenger seat.

  “It’s registered to Johnny Lamont. He runs the Emerald. Roberts is having Dom check into it.”

  Neither one of us discusses how difficult it is to do surveillance down here, in this network of alleys and side streets. The Emerald is even more problematic because it’s on the corner, with intersecting alleys behind it. We’d need a whole lot more police to cover every possible escape route down here.

  Goran and I chat about his kids and other stuff while we wait. Stakeouts can be pretty boring, so I consider it a bonus that I actually enjoy talking to my partner.

  About three hours later, just before midnight, Roberts calls my cell. “White van approaching from the east.” After a pause, he adds, “Van is stopping behind the Emerald.” Another pause. “Suspect matching the description just exited van. He’s carrying a black bag.”

  “Ten-four,” I reply. “You cover the back, and we’ll move closer to the entrance before we go inside to talk to him.”

  “Wait—he’s going back to the van. Looking at his phone. Maybe he forgot something. Let’s block him in. You take the east end of the alley, and I’ll cover this side.”

  I drive around to the back of the building and park across the mouth of the alley. The man looks in our direction then whips his head around and sees Roberts’s car. He drops the bag and breaks into a run, heading toward us. Roberts throws open his door.

  “Shit, Tom,” I say. “That’s him. Let’s go.”

  Goran jumps out of the car. The man is faster than he looks, and he cuts to the right down a narrow alley perpendicular to the one we’re on before Goran or Roberts can get to him. I slam the Charger into reverse, spin around, and cut through the parking lot behind a self-storage place. The guy sprints out between two buildings. I pick up speed and hope I don’t run my partner over as I fishtail back out onto the main road. Swinging around, I cut the man off. A few seconds later, Goran tackles him into the side of the car.

  “Fuck you!” the guy screams as Goran pushes his face down on the hood. “I didn’t do anything! What the fuck?”

  Goran pulls the
suspect upright. “Why run, then?” He flips the guy around and cuffs him in one motion. “Try running now, asshole.” He spits his gum onto the ground.

  I unclip my seat belt. None of the coffee spilled. I should have been a stunt driver. Roberts appears from the alley, and I see that he’s holding the guy’s bag.

  I hop out of the car. I step between Goran and the guy. This is definitely our guy, with that big nose and weird hairline. He’s wearing clothes that are both too big and too small, probably because he’s tall and doesn’t have a tailor. “Hi, Brian. Or should I call you Ricky?” I ask, holding my partner back with an outstretched hand. It’s a fake gesture meant to scare the guy. Goran doesn’t hit people.

  Surprise crosses his face, then he mumbles, “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yeah, we heard that.”

  “Fuck you,” Ricky replies.

  “No, thanks,” I reply as I start to frisk him. “Oh, what’s this?” I ask, pulling a .22 out of his waistband. “Is this legal? Probably not. It looks like you’re under arrest.” I find a buck knife in his sock. “Hmmm… this looks a little bigger than legal, too.” I flip it open. Legal is a four-inch blade, but this is six, easy.

  “Fuck you,” Ricky repeats. “You planted those on me.”

  “Nice vocabulary.” I yank his wallet out of his back pocket then spin him around and into the side of the car. “Question is, what’s in the bag? Are we arresting you for weapons or something else? Detective Roberts is going to open it and see.” I gesture at Roberts, who slides on a pair of latex gloves.

  “I didn’t do anything. Fuck you.”

  “Hey, I already turned you down. Didn’t anyone teach you that when a girl says no, she means no? Consent matters, Ricky.”

  “Bag’s empty,” Roberts says, but “empty” doesn’t mean the bag didn’t once contain Kevin Whittle.

  “Search the van,” Goran responds, taking the empty bag. Roberts nods and trots back down the alley.

  The first license in the guy’s wallet belongs to Richard Harris. A second one in a concealed slot has the name Brian Little. They both say he’s six foot six, two hundred ten pounds with a date of birth of August 2, the day after mine. Richard Harris’s address is in Ohio City. The wallet also holds three hundred dollars and several credit cards with different names on them, including a Chase Visa for Brian Little.

  “Put him in the car,” I tell Goran. “We have enough.”

  “Fuck you,” Ricky repeats.

  “You should shut the fuck up, since you’re already under arrest,” I reply as Goran pops open the rear door. He puts the suspect in the car none too gently, but he does do the hand-on-the-head thing to avoid marking the guy up.

  Ricky finally decides to keep his mouth shut after I read him his rights, and he doesn’t say a word on the way back to the station. That’s a relief, since the broken-record act was getting old. After locking him in the interview room, Goran and I give each other a high five in spite of ourselves. We go to the kitchen. Someone’s made a fresh pot of coffee, so I pour us a couple of cups.

  “How long are we going to let him sit there?” Goran asks.

  “At least another fifteen minutes. What an asshole.”

  He grins. “Think he’s our guy?”

  “Are you kidding? I mean, why run like that? Van, bag, Emerald Club connection, Winky’s connection. The list goes on. Did you talk to the LT?” I dump the rest of the container of cream into my mug.

  “Yeah, I sent her a text while you were in the bathroom. We’re good. She sounded like she was out on the town or something.”

  Leaning back against the counter, I laugh at the image of Fishner out on the town, maybe at the club. “Think she’s having a good time? Partying down somewhere?”

  He chuckles. “She said to go ahead and talk to him without her.”

  “Really? Even with her big ‘babysit Boyle’ initiative?”

  He ignores my question. “I think Harris is good for it,” Goran says. “Everything you just said, plus the surveillance video. Maybe Roberts will get something in the van, the kid’s DNA or something.”

  I toss back the rest of my coffee. “Let’s go talk to him. Let’s make him nice and uncomfortable.”

  We go to the observation room and watch him for about five minutes. Right when he starts to jiggle his left leg under the table, I give Goran the signal, and we go out into the hall.

  Goran slams open the door to the interview room. “What were you doing down there with that bag?”

  “I didn’t do shit,” Ricky says.

  I sit down across from him. “We’ll find out about the bag in a bit. Even better, what were you doing down there on Thursday night?”

  “Thursday night? I don’t know. Did something happen on Thursday night?”

  “You know what happened, Ricky. You were there. Question is, why’d you disappear when we got there? Doesn’t that seem strange? I mean, if it were me? I would have stuck around to answer questions, you know, clear my good name. Unless I did something real bad.”

  “Bitch, I work down there. I went outside to smoke. I talked to those cops. What do you want from me? I didn’t do shit.”

  “People who didn’t do shit don’t usually run, twice, from the police, asshole,” Goran growls.

  Ricky stands as if he’s going to leave, but Goran shoves him back down into the chair.

  Ricky hunches over. “You can’t do that, man. This is harassment. I told you I didn’t do anything. Am I under arrest?”

  “Yeah, we told you that already,” Goran replies. “Remember back there in the car when my partner read you your rights? You know you’re under arrest. So you want to come clean on the murder or just talk about those weapons and that credit card?”

  “Where do you work?” I ask.

  He sneers. “I’m self-employed.”

  “Yeah, what do you do?”

  “None of your business. And I want a lawyer before I listen to any more of your stupid questions.”

  I lean forward. “You know, Ricky, it can feel good to tell the truth. Get it off your chest,” I say in a mock-empathetic tone.

  His leg bounces faster under the table. “I didn’t kill anyone, and that gun, you fucking planted it on me. This is bullshit. I’m not saying anything else until my lawyer gets here.”

  “Just tell me why you killed him, Ricky,” I say.

  He blinks fast a few times but doesn’t say anything.

  “He was a little boy, Ricky. I’m trying to figure out why you’d do that to him. You don’t really seem to me like you have the balls to kill anyone.” I’m reaching here, but I’ve got to shake him up a bit. We don’t have any hard evidence. If he did kill Kevin, our only chance is to break him down until he slips.

  “I’m no fucking pervert, and I didn’t do shit to no kid. Lawyer.”

  “Okay, then tell me about the Emerald Club.”

  He eyes my ID and laughs. “Boyle. I know a guy with that same name.”

  “Let’s go call your lawyer, asshole,” Goran says.

  After he makes the call, we put him back in the interview room, hands cuffed behind him, to let him stew. Without any physical evidence, there’s no way in hell we can book him for the murder.

  Goran and I doze at our desks for the couple of hours it takes his sleazy lawyer to get here. Goran sees him before I do and rolls his eyes. “Marty McPherson,” he mutters.

  “I wonder if he’s wearing a suit that fits today.”

  “Nope.”

  McPherson comes over to our desks, wearing his trademark annoying grin. We exchange fake pleasantries for about two minutes, then I get up and start down the hall. I let the defense attorney into the interrogation room, where Ricky makes a big show of demanding that I uncuff him.

  “Detective, it’s unconscionable for you to keep this man handcuffed like t
his,” McPherson says, faking his best concerned look.

  “As a favor to you, Marty.” I remove the cuff from Ricky’s right wrist and fasten it to the metal loop built into the table. I stare at the attorney to see if he’ll argue. When he doesn’t say anything, I wave and go back to my desk.

  After an hour or so, just before six a.m., McPherson emerges from the hallway. “Mr. Harris is ready to answer some questions.”

  Goran and I go back in to continue the questioning. Ricky admits that the gun is illegal but then claims it’s not his. We can keep him on that, but bail will be negligible, and now that he knows we’re on to him, he’ll probably run.

  Sitting in a chair with one arm shackled to a table is no fun, I guess. Ricky starts running his mouth, ignoring McPherson’s frequent interruptions to remind him to stick to the facts. More than once, Ricky includes suggestions that we go fuck ourselves. Goran and I exchange glances. Whatever. This guy is in jail for at least twenty-four hours, so we can take our time with him.

  “Where were you on Thursday night?” I ask again.

  He narrows his eyes. “From seven on, I was at the club, hosting a party.”

  “How late did your party run?”

  He shrugs.

  “What’d you do after the party?”

  McPherson holds up a finger. “You don’t have to answer that.”

  “I have nothing to hide. I stopped in at Winky’s for some food.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “Ten? I don’t know. I don’t keep a logbook.”

  “So you were at the Emerald until ten o’clock?”

  Time of death was estimated between seven and eight. It’s close. I wonder if we have those security tapes from earlier that evening, because I’d like to see if he really was there at seven, and what time he left. That kid was being held somewhere for six and a half days, and it doesn’t sound as though Ricky had time to leave and do the deed. But if the kid was there that night, tied up in the back of his car or bound and gagged in some back room in the Emerald, killing him would have taken only minutes. My stomach churns. I wonder why Ricky would dump the body so close to where he hangs out. It would make more sense to dump it in the river, but maybe he was pressed for time.