The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2019 by David Swinson
Cover design by Allison J. Warner; photograph by Tim Robinson/Arcangel
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ISBN 978-0-316-26424-2
E3-20181213-DA-NF-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Acknowledgments
Discover More David Swinson
About the Author
Also by David Swinson
For my mother and father
To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.
—G. K. Chesterton
Fear is a man’s best friend.
—John Cale
One
I never count the days. Why would I want to know how long it’s been since I quit? It’s only a reminder of what it is I’m trying to let go of. I loved the fucking lifestyle. I loved cocaine. Didn’t want to let it go. I still have cravings. Pops in my head like it’s a good thing, visit from an old friend, but all I got to do is remind myself of why it is I quit—because of all the people I hurt, even got killed. And yes, it is something I did for me, too, but not for the reasons you might think.
Sometimes what gets me through the day is doing what I’m best at.
It still gives me a rush, even more so without the cocaine high. You realize how reckless it is. Just how dangerous.
I slip on my tactical gloves, grab my suit jacket from the front seat, step out of the car. I put the suit jacket on, reach back in to take my backpack. I shoulder it and lock the car door.
The house I’m going to is up the street, second from the corner, an unattached, paint-peeled, light-blue two-story with a large patio.
I ring the doorbell. Wait. Ring again. Open the storm door and knock on the door a few times.
When enough time passes so I feel comfortable, I take the tactical pry bar out of my backpack, wedge it in between the door and the frame, about half an inch below the dead bolt. I smack the heavy flattop of the handle hard with the palm of my hand, and with one solid push inward, I pry the door open, bending the dead bolt out with the door.
I scan the area, slip the pry bar back in my pack, and enter. Once inside I stand and listen, then secure the backpack over my shoulders and quietly shut the door. There’s a fold-up chair leaning against the wall beside a filthy sofa. I take the chair and prop it against the door to keep it closed.
My stun gun is clipped to my belt at the small of my back. My Glock 19 is in a holster on my right side, but I don’t want to have to use it unless I find myself facing another gun. I’d figure out a good story after. That’s why the stun gun is preferable. Saves me having to think up a good story.
I’ve known about the occupants of this house since I was a detective working narcotics. It’s low-level. Detective Al Luna, my former partner at Narcotics Branch, and I hit it a couple of times. Sent a CI in to make a buy, then drafted an affidavit in support of a search warrant and rammed the door in the next day. A good quick hit, and we always got enough to make us look good when other work was slow. Luna’s still on the job. Me? Well, that’s another story.
Nothing has changed with how the boys in this house operate, except a couple of new faces that replaced the two who are doing a bit of time. They’re working the same park area a couple blocks north of here, where some of the local drunks and junkies still hang, but not near as many as back in the day. Gentrification has seen to that, pretty much cleaned everything up. Lot of the dealers had to change up their game. These guys didn’t have enough sense to. From what I’ve been able to learn, they haven’t been hit by the police in a while. That can be good for me.
What has changed is who the boys cater to and all the homes in this neighborhood, once vacant shells, now worth a million bucks. They’re dealing mostly to young clean-cut men and women who drive nice cars with Virginia tags and consider themselves social users, pulling up and making their deals without stepping out of the cars. Times change. Old street junkies die or go to jail for getting caught up in something bad. The boys gotta move up if they wanna
make a living.
My cell phone vibrates inside my blazer’s inner pocket. Nearly sends me through the roof. I don’t pull it out. Instead I just let it go to voice mail.
This house is messy and still has that bad-breath-after-a-night-of-hard-drinking smell. A few of those empty Moet bottles on the floor and empty beer cans stuffed with cigarette butts have probably been there since Luna and I were here last. Gets me to wondering if they still keep their stash and money in the same spot.
I walk up the stairs to the room and that old spot.
Fuck. Sure enough they do. In the inner pockets of a couple of winter jackets hanging in the bedroom closet. I pull out baggies containing a good amount of zips with heroin, crack, and what looks like meth. All dimes and quarters, and a few larger. Fortunately, no cocaine. That’d be too much of a temptation. But that’s why I targeted this spot. I was pretty sure they weren’t selling that shit. I go through a couple more jacket pockets, and then, oh fuck, a baggie with about an ounce of powder. The wrong side of my brain starts to work me, and I say to myself, Take it. Recreational purposes only. I can control it.
Who am I kidding? I put it with the rest of the drugs. My cell vibrates again. I let it go to voice mail again. I’m not going to jinx this shit by pulling it out.
I find a wad of money in another coat pocket. Doesn’t look like more than a couple thousand. Small bills, rolled up and secured with one rubber band. I stuff it into my empty left pants pocket. Nice bulk there.
I search the rest of the room and find a little more cash, a couple boxes of 9mm ammo, cheap rounds, only good for the range. I leave them and open the nightstand drawer. There’s an older-model 9mm Taurus sitting on top of some other loose rounds.
I pick it up, drop the mag, let it land on the floor, then lock the slide back. A chambered round flips out, but I catch it, put it on the nightstand. I pull out the barrel and take the spring out. Pocket it, grab the mag, and put the gun back together. I leave the live round on the table and slip the gun in my pack.
I do a quick search of the rest of the house, but don’t find shit.
I take the narcotics to the upstairs bathroom, break the baggies open, and drop the contents into the toilet, along with all the little zips. I flush, wait for the reserve tank to fill. Flush again. Wait a bit longer to make sure nothing pops up, then flush one more time. I grab the baggie of coke and quickly pour the lovely white powder into the toilet, too. Damn, that’s hard, but I passed the test. Again. How many more tests before I don’t have to worry about failing?
This is what I do.
Two
Clouds are high, moving over the city slow. Smells like snow.
On the way to the car, I toss the Taurus spring into a gutter drain, try to be discreet when I pull the gun out of my pack, drop it at my feet, and kick it into the drain.
After I start the car, I check the phone, see who called.
Leslie.
Damn.
Haven’t talked to her in more than a year. Don’t wanna think about that morning we last talked. I was so fucked up. I fucked up. I can’t even remember most of what was said. She kicked me out of her house after, so it must have been bad. One of the worst days of my life. Losing her was. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through, even tougher than giving up blow. That shit was the reason I lost her to begin with. After I got myself four months clean, I called her and confessed and asked for forgiveness. Didn’t matter. I think it made it worse ’cause I lied for all those years, even about why I had to retire from the police department—pissing dirty. According to her, I’d even jeopardized her law practice. So that was that.
What does she want now, after all this time?
She left a message on the second call. I hesitate to listen, but tap the screen, put the phone to my ear.
“I’m calling on behalf of Al Luna. It’s important, so please call me back.”
That’s it.
On behalf of Al?
What kinda message is that, unless he’s in trouble or sick? Al’s still one of my closest friends, but I haven’t talked to him in a few weeks. I was caught up in this bullshit domestic-violence, cheating-husband case that was resolved just yesterday. In fact, Al’s busier than me, working that same Narcotics Branch assignment from when we were partnered and I went down, forced into early retirement.
Best thing to do is drive home, catch my damn breath, and call her from there.
Three
Once inside, I lock the door behind me, hang up my jacket, and go to the kitchen to pour myself a Jameson on ice. It’s still early, but for me it’s never too early.
In the laundry room I slide open the secret wall panel on the side of the washer and place the wad of money from the house I hit on a shelf beside several stacks of ones, fives, tens, and twenties that’re bound tight with red rubber bands. I always pocket the hundreds that I find. I’ll count this wad later. Need to call Leslie back first.
Back in my armchair I consider lighting a cigarette but decide against it. Too much of a trigger. Always makes me want. I’m stronger, but weakness is always trying to find a way in.
I swear I stare at the cell phone for more than ten minutes before I decide to return Leslie’s call. Then—
“Leslie Costello’s office,” a receptionist answers. Not the voice I remember for the woman who used to work for Leslie. And damn, Leslie didn’t even call from her direct line. I go straight to the receptionist.
“Frank Marr returning Leslie’s call,” I advise her.
“One moment please.”
I take a breath.
“Hello, Frank.” She answers evenly—professionally.
Aside from the tone, she sounds like the same person, but lacking a certain once-shared familiarity. May as well have answered with “Hello, Mr. Marr.”
“Hi, Leslie. Sorry it took so long. I was working something.”
No response.
“I didn’t want to call you,” she begins matter-of-factly. “It was Al’s decision.”
“What’s going on? Is he okay?”
“He’s in some trouble—”
“What kind of trouble?”
“He was involved in a shooting. Doesn’t look good.”
“What the—did he get hurt?”
“No. He’s on administrative leave, though. Just listen for a second. You know the police shooting—a sixteen-year-old kid in Northwest, near Howard?”
“No. I don’t watch the news anymore. But damn…” Because I know what’s going to come next.
“He was the cop who shot the kid.”
“Fuck.”
“The department determined that it was a bad shooting. No gun on the kid, but Luna swears there was. He said the kid pointed it right at him. That’s why he wants you.”
“Of course. Anything. So you’re representing him, then?”
“Yes, and you’re not my first choice for investigator.”
“You sorta made that clear, Leslie. I got it a long time ago. So why didn’t Luna call me himself?”
“That’s something you’ll have to ask him.”
“Is he home?”
“I believe so. There’s a lot of media attention on this, but the department has managed to keep his name out of it for now. But that won’t last. We both know how it goes.”
“I’m going over there now.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“What, I need a babysitter?”
“Yes,” she says a little too firmly.
Four
Luna lives in Northeast DC, near Catholic University, an older home on a small one-way street off Michigan Ave. It has a large front porch. We used to sit there on rickety old rattan chairs after a hard day’s work, smoking cigars and drinking good scotch. Luna liked the good stuff. Still does.
Lot of families living in his neighborhood now. Not like when he bought it in the early nineties. There were a couple of good families then, long since passed, though. It used to be a rough area, but that’
s why he could afford it on a cop’s salary. Hell, that’s why I could afford my house on 12th Street, in Northwest. We still got our problems in both neighborhoods. That’s the price you gotta pay if you want to live in DC.
The shades in his front window are pulled down. The patio light is on, even though it’s daytime. Can’t tell if he has any lights on inside, and I don’t see his car, but then he’s had a take-home vehicle for as long as I can remember. I’m sure the department took that back along with his badge and gun.
When I’m about to hit the steps that lead to his front door, I notice a cab pull to the curb.
Leslie steps out, carrying an expensive-looking teal-colored briefcase and sporting a gray three-button overcoat.
Damn, she looks nice.
I wait for her by the steps. “Hello, Leslie. You look good.”
“Fuck you.”
I shoot her an uncomfortable smile. Was that necessary?
“Is this how it’s going to be? ’Cause it’s getting awkward, and I’m here for Al. So, can you try to forget what I can’t even remember?”
“That’s what the problem is. But yes, because I’m here for Al, too. And I got it out of my system with the ‘Fuck you,’ so that’s that.”
“Okay, then.”
I allow her up the steps first, then follow.
She rings the doorbell. After a few seconds, she rings again.
“You sure he’s home?” I ask.
“No, but like I said, I know he’s been keeping a low profile. I don’t know where else he could be.”
I open the glass security door, knock a few times on the front door.
“Al, it’s Frank and Leslie! Open up!”
A moment later I hear footsteps on a creaking wooden floor approach the front door. Then we hear the dead bolt unlock.
Door opens.
Al’s wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt it looks like he’s been sleeping in for a few days. His face is a week’s worth of scruff.
“Come in,” he says, his voice throaty. He backs away from the door to give us room. “Good to see you, Frank.”
He manages a slight smile. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Something peaty, probably his go-to, Laphroaig.
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