“Yes, you know how they say geniuses don’t care about their appearances,” she explained. “Well, that’s how Mr. Williamson is. His hair is all wild and his clothes are bummy, but his apartment is meticulously clean.”
“You’ve been in his apartment?”
The elevator reached the second floor and the doors opened. A blind old man stood there with his dog.
“Hello, Mr. Jacobs,” Lauren said to the blind man.
“Hey, Lau…” he started, but before he could complete his greeting Lauren began waving her hands at the dog.
“Oh, no, no, no,” she said quickly. “It’s full Mr. Jacobs. It’s a family with some small kids and, um …it’s full,” she was hitting the button to close the door. “You can’t come on here now. Not with that dog and these children.”
“Oh, okay,” the old man said and he pulled his dog back. “Sorry kids.”
Aiden looked at her. The door closed and Lauren exhaled.
As the car ascended Aiden said, “I don’t believe you just did that.”
“I’m sorry,” she tilted her head and genuinely looked remorseful. “I just don’t like dogs.”
“I thought you had something against blind people.”
She tilted her head and faked a frown.
“Do you know what Mr. Williamson does for a living?”
“I assume he’s an artist,” she said.
“Yeah, a con artist.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
The elevator reached the fourth floor, Aiden motioned, and she exited first. He followed her left until they stopped at Apartment 306. She used another key to open the door, entered, and strolled down a short, wooden hallway. “Hey, wait,” he said.
Aiden followed, but when she dropped all of her things on a couch, he realized this wasn’t Mr. Williamson’s “meticulously clean” apartment.
She kicked off her heels and sat down to lace up a pair of New Balance running shoes.
“I’m sorry. Which apartment is Mr. Williamson’s?” Aiden asked.
“Oh, I’ma show ya,” she said.
“No, thank you. Which apartment is it?”
“Is he in trouble?” she asked.
“Miss…”
“Three hundred. Sorry. And my name is Lauren.”
“Thank you, Lauren,” Aiden said as he turned to leave. “Stay in your apartment, please.”
Aiden walked three doors down and found Apartment #300. He knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again. And again. No answer.
Aiden turned and headed back down the hall. Lauren was in her doorway watching. He passed and went for the elevator.
“You gotta ring the doorbell,” she said.
“What?”
“He plays his piano a lot. He’s got a really nice piano that he can plug his headphones into and play without disturbing the neighbors,” she said. “When you ring the doorbell, a light flashes on and off inside his apartment.”
Aiden turned and walked back toward Apartment number #300. “Go back inside your apartment, please,” he said again.
Aiden tried the doorbell and a few moments later the homeless man from H Street opened the door. When he saw Aiden he grimaced. Aiden showed his badge. Williamson stepped to the side allowing Aiden to enter. Before he closed the door behind him he peered down the hall and noticed the White girl’s cracked front door.
Chapter 11: Who’s the mack
Saturday, 4pm
I nside Walt Williamson’s apartment, Aiden was offered a seat in a brown leather Bentley chair and the not-homeless man sat on a vintage striped sofa. There were enough books in this one room to fill two public libraries. There was, indeed, a piano-- a black baby grand.
And there was art. Everywhere. More easels than anything else, but each had several drawings and paintings clipped to them.
“No warrant,” he said.
“I’ll leave if you don’t want me here,” Aiden said.
“What do you want?”
“I want to know who killed that boy in the barbershop.”
The not-homeless man shrugged.
“Did you see it?”
“Can’t help you.”
“This is a nice place you got here,” Aiden said. Aiden stretched his neck to scan the entire room.
“You’re no longer welcome here.”
“You pay for all of this by panhandling? They should do a newspaper article on you.”
Williamson smiled.
“I know a reporter I can call at the Post. Get some pictures of you …”
“Get out,” he sneered through his teeth.
“Oh, what? You don’t pay taxes?”
“I asked you to leave.”
Aiden rose and walked around admiring the work. Williamson stayed seated and angered. Aiden looked at some pencil drawings of Bill Cosby and the Cosby kids. It was unique how Cosby was drawn with meticulous detail while Fat Albert and the Gang looked like quick strokes of a cartoonist. Cosby’s color was natural while the gang was colorful. On the frame of the picture Williamson had drawn nobs and numbers to make the entire work look like a television set.
“You’re excellent. What’s your name?”
“Walt Williamson. They call me Billy.”
On another easel were charcoal drawings. Billy was currently working on a piece that featured several portraits of a Muhammad Ali at different ages.
“Billy, you see what happened?”
“Of course.”
Aiden froze. He looked at the back of Billy’s head.
“I saw him the night before. The lights were on again and they were in there braiding and burning hair all night,” Billy laughed. “That dumb ass Moochie has no idea those girls are in there making cash behind his back hand-over-fist. Every night at closing, the girls tell him they’ll lock up after their last customer. Then they do hair for another five or six hours.” Billy shook his head and smirked. “I’d love to see the look on that dumb Moochie’s face when he opens his electric bill every month.”
“That’s when I noticed the boy.
“I could tell by the walk the boy had done time. Too young to have done a long bid, but he was obvious. He was trying to play it off but he was looking for something. He wasn’t looking for pussy. He wasn’t looking for crack. He wasn’t looking for wine, religion or chicken. He passed by the hoes, the bros, the liquor store, the church and the carryout. I knew right then this boy was up to no good.
“I was distracted by two young Mormons riding their bikes down H Street. White people love danger,” he said. “They wrestle bears, they jump out of planes for no reason and they ride bikes through the ghetto trying to convert sinners.
“You know the kids I’m talking about, right? They be in the worst sections of the city. White short-sleeve shirts, black khakis, riding cheap 10-speed bikes. They didn't waste time on the old folks. They rode up on the corners and started conversations with the dope boys and the killers. I watched two of them ride by the church and saw Reverend Jackson come out of the side door. Rev. Jackson’s Cadillac lit up and started before he stepped off of the curb. The good rev’rend got in his car and got in the wind faster than you could say “holy shit”.
“Then I saw the boy again. He was walkin back past the barbershop. He ain’t bought nothin, ain't talked to nobody or stole nothing. I thought, ‘What the fuck is this nigger doing?’”
“And then I saw the whole thing this morning.”
As Aiden walked around Billy’s apartment, Billy sat staring at a blank television. Aiden admired the pieces Billy had on the wall, the ones he had on the easels and even the sketches he had just started. He walked slowly and paid attention to each sheet. Ten silent minutes passed before he found it.
It was on the desk. An ink pen drawing on a brown paper bag of a guy in a hoodie frowning. Aiden looked up at the back of Billy’s head again. He was still and silent. Waiting.
On another brown bag was a sketch of a long shot of the shooter inside
the barbershop. It was Billy’s perspective from across the street. In Billy’s drawing the flash of the muzzle lit up the barbershop, but the shooter’s face was a blur. Another drawing showed where the pistol had burned the cloth of the sweatshirt when the shooter stuffed the smoking gun in his pocket leaving the barbershop. The next showed a detailed portrait of the shooter up close. His eyes were bugged and he was in rage. The department’s sketch artist would be jealous.
“I need you to come to the precinct and--” Aiden said.
“I work on a schedule,” Billy said. “I cannot just up and run to the police station at this hour.”
“This is important,” Aiden started.
“Nonetheless, I would prefer to see to my personal affairs this evening and I will meet you at your police station in the morning.”
Aiden stared. When he started to speak again, the con man interrupted.
“I’ll be there early in the morning, detective.”
Aiden threw his hands up. “Ok. I trust you.”
He took out a few business cards and handed one to Walt Williamson. “Call me if you need anything Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Indeed.” The con man locked the door behind him.
Aiden quickly scribbled “Call me ASAP” on the back of one of the business cards. He stopped in front of the Lauren’s apartment and slid the card under her door. Williamson watched the move through his peephole.
Aiden was crossing the street to his car when his cell phone rang.
“Detective Christopher Aiden.”
“The note said “ASAP” so…what’s up?”
“I may need to get back in the building tomorrow morning. Is it ok if I ring your apartment?”
“Sure, that’s fine. What time? I leave pretty early.”
“How early do you leave?”
“I usually go swimming or running every morning at 6,” she lied.
“Do you know about what time Mr. Williamson goes to …work?”
“No. No I don’t.”
“Ok, Lauren, is this your cell phone number?”
“Yes, that’s the only number I have. The area code is from Ohio. I’m from Massillon..”
“Ok.”
When he got in his car, he looked up to see if she was watching him from her window. She was. He saw her silhouette in the light. Williamson’s light was off and he couldn’t see anything inside the corner apartment. But the con man was there at the window. Watching him.
Aiden’s phone rang. It was the deputy chief. He answered on speaker phone. “Aiden”
“Why is the mayor chewing my ass off over your case?”
“The case I got this morning?” A woman in yoga pants walked by walking her dog, carrying a Starbucks iced drink. Aiden imagined the dog doing yoga.
“Mayor Brown called, very upset, and said Brooks harassed his friend Fats Harrington.”
Aiden didn’t bother reminding him how he tried to prevent Brooks from doing that before Gillespie insisted. Instead, he said, “That maniac probably smacked him around.”
“Brooks is a good kid. A little hot under the collar--”
“Too much cologne under the collar.”
“He’s a little high strung. He wants to prove himself, maybe you should let him sometimes.”
“He’s hard to work with because he thinks he knows everything.”
“Aiden, I remember someone saying the same about you when you were a young detective.”
Aiden shivered. “I can’t argue against that. Where are you? I need to show you something, an ID on my shooter.”
“I’m on my way to the office. I’ll be there for five minutes and then I’m going home for the day.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“You know how chain-of-command works. Call Brooks and tell him, the mayor now knows his name.”
“Yes sir.”
“He’s pissed. Tell Brooks to stay away from Fats Harrington.”
“Got it.”
Aiden ended the call and started his engine. He called Brooks, put the car in gear and coasted away from the curve. The call started ringing through his car’s stereo system.
Brooks was at home, sitting at the head of an empty table. A teenage girl tried to speed walk by him. “Tasha, where are you going?”
“To the movies. I’m late. Tell Keith to get your beer.”
“Who said you can go to the movies?”
“Ma.” She was halfway out of the front door.
“Unbelievable.” An adolescent boy walked in the opposite direction. “Sam, sit down, it’s time for dinner.”
The kid was wearing a headset and holding a controller. He said, “I already ate. I got a mission with my friends starting in two minutes.” He ran upstairs.
“Where are the other two?”
“The oldest one is in the basement recording rap and the youngest one is still passed out from
the swim meet.” Marie, his wife of 18 years, was draining noodles in the kitchen and talking to him through a nook.
“Oh yea, how did that go?”
“He won the 50m backstroke, but he doesn’t care about that. He wanted to win--”
Brooks’s phone rang. When he saw it was Aiden he answered without thought. He stood, hit a button, put the phone to his ear and walked out of the room. “Brooks,” he said.
When he returned two minutes later, he walked right into the kitchen where Marie was pouring alfredo sauce over noodles, crab meat, shrimp, and scallops. “I’m just doing my job,” he said.
“Stay away from Fats Harrington. Do you understand me, detective?” Marie looked up at Brooks.
“Yep.” Brooks said.
“Have a good evening.”
They both hung up.
“They’re all in this shit together!” Brooks swatted the day’s mail off of the counter.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“This motherfucker just told me the mayor called and said I was unprofessional and--”
Marie’s eyes bulged. “Wait. The mayor? How does the mayor know who you are?”
“Because one of his friends is involved in this and that chicken-shit Christopher Aiden is afraid to investigate him, so I did.”
“What?”
“I went to Big Boys nightclub and asked Fats Harrington’s skinny ass some questions about his former business partner’s murder. Now, the lead detective is telling me to stay away from Harrington.”
He grabbed one piece of mail, held it up. “Why in the hell are they still sending people these big ass phone books? I don’t even believe this many people still have landlines.”
Marie said, “Calm down.”
Brooks walked to the foyer. He opened the front door and screamed, “All of this shit is a fraud!” He threw the Yellow Pages book as far as he could. It landed in the middle of his yard. Brooks slammed the door. He told Marie, “I’m going down to that club--”
“No Branson.”
“I’m gonna show the mayor--”
“Branson.”
“I’m gonna show Gillespie. And I’m damn sure gonna show that old bum ass, house slave Christopher Aiden, I don’t let some fake snake oil-selling politician tell me who to investigate. I’m gonna go down to that club and slap my handcuffs on Fats Harrington. If the mayor gets in my way I’m gonna lock his ass up, too.”
“And you’re gonna get fired and end up being a security guard at a skating rink.”
Brooks started marching up the stairs. “Where are you going?”
“To take a shower.”
“You said you were going to lock people up. You don’t need to shower and change. You don’t need to get sharp to go to the club if all you’re doing is police work.”
“Nah, I still gotta be sharp.”
* * * * *
Deputy Chief Gillespie was sitting at his desk staring at a half-done crossword puzzle.Aiden was standing over him waiting for a response. “A con man... panhandling and living on Capitol Hill had
these drawings on top of his baby grand piano?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to take this to the DA and get laughed out of the building, right? You think this is how we make cases?”
“Well, no. Look, I know he may not be the most upstanding witness…”
“He’s a con man!” Gillespie yelled.
“We’ve put killers, drug dealers and prostitutes on the--”
“A professional con man!” Gillespie reiterated.
“I know, but if several witnesses agree that these drawings are of the guy who shot Six Hands Johnson, I don’t see how a jury would ignore that.”
“A Capitol Hill panhandling hustler drew sketches of a gunman on a beer bottle bag and you want to pursue that?”
“You can say whatever you want, but it’s better than telling the Washington Post that we don’t have a suspect,” Aiden snapped.
“It’s your job to find the suspects!” Gillespie said.
“I have a suspect – him,” Aiden said as he pointed to the drawings. “Now if we can get someone to identify who this guy is, then we can possibly make an arrest.”
“Imagine that.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at Aiden across the desk.
“There were eleven people in that barbershop,” Aiden continued. “We don’t need the con artist if we can put a bunch of people on the stand to say that this is our guy.”
“No,” Gillespie said.
“Chief--”
“No,” Gillespie said.
Gillespie rose and shooed Aiden out of his office as he put on his jacket and hat. Gillespie turned the lights off in his office and locked the door.
“Good night everyone,” he said to the bullpen of night shift detectives. “Figure it out,” he said to Aiden.
Aiden went back to his desk and started reviewing his notes.
Five minutes later, Councilman Tommy Chisholm entered the same door. He was sandwiched between two bodyguards with an aide in tow. Aiden was in the middle of the pen standing over his desk going through files. He saw the councilman as soon as he entered the room. Aiden stopped shuffling, peered over his reading glasses and watched the councilman find his way through the maze of cubicles until he, and his crew, reached his. Aiden didn’t bother hiding his dismay. He curled the corner of his mouth, took his glasses off, and stared into the man’s eyes.
Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries Page 12
