“You too, my friend.”
We enter. He closes the door. Dead-bolts it.
I notice a blanket and pillow on the sofa. Been sleeping there. Probably his comfort spot, trick the mind into thinking it’s a nap and you fall asleep faster. I also spot the nearly empty bottle of Laphroaig on the end table at the pillow side of the sofa, an empty tumbler beside the bottle as well.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, tries to straighten up the sofa.
“Don’t worry about that, Al,” Leslie says.
He scoots the blanket in a pile by the pillow and sits beside it. I take the recliner, and Leslie sits on the cleared-off side of the sofa, next to him.
Like I said, it’s an older house. It smells like an old house. Not a terrible smell. Old wood. Your grandmother’s place maybe.
He starts to get up again, says, “Oh, can I get you anything? I can make coffee.”
“No. Sit down,” Leslie tells him, like a polite order.
He obeys.
Damn, he’s looking frail. Probably hasn’t been eating, just drinking. I wanna say something, but I don’t.
“Well, Frank,” he says, turning to me. “You want I should tell you the story?”
Five
Al lifts the bottle of Laphroaig toward us like an offering.
“No thank you, Al,” Leslie says.
It’s early. Still, I wouldn’t mind. But doesn’t look like there’s enough in that bottle to go around so—
“Me either, but thanks.”
He looks at the bottle, then at me, and says, “I got another bottle,” as if reading my mind.
I consider it, but don’t want to piss Leslie off. This is a job.
“No thanks, bro.”
He pours what remains in the bottle into the tumbler, nearly fills it to the edge.
Takes a careful sip.
“The kid had a fucking gun, Frank.” He tells me direct.
“Talk to me.”
A hefty sip this time, and a pause after, because he’s either savoring it as it goes down or trying to figure where to start.
“You fill Frank in about any of this?” he asks Leslie.
“No. Just that it was a kid and it happened near Howard.”
“I’m telling ya, I don’t know what the hell happened to the gun.”
“Tell Frank what happened.”
“I was at that spot off Sherman Ave. You know, the place you and I used to meet our CIs at?”
“Yeah.”
“Won’t be able to use it much longer with all that construction going on. Shit.” Sips his scotch. “So, when we’re done talking, my CI steps out of the car. I watch the CI walk off. It was a little after sixteen hundred hours. Traffic was already heavy, and I was working evening. No rush. Right? I step out to smoke a cigar. That’s when I hear someone walking on the gravel behind me. I turn, see this young kid standing at the back end of a trailer, just looking at me. He was wearing a puffy jacket. When he saw that I saw him, he stepped up like a challenge, pointing what looked like a gun at me. I thought I was about to get robbed. My take-home doesn’t look like anything a cop would drive, so I figure that’s what this dope is gonna attempt. I step around the car toward the rear to get a better view. That’s when I see he’s closer and holding a gun in his right hand, stretched out and pointed at me. I draw my weapon, quickly move to a position behind my vehicle where I have better concealment, but I can still see him. He starts walking toward me. I don’t think he saw me take my gun out. I yell out, ‘I’m the police!’ And for him to drop his weapon. I have mine with sights on him at this point. He has to see the gun. He’s like twenty-five yards away. I keep repeating for him to stop and drop the weapon. He says something, but I don’t understand. He just stands there, fucking aiming at me. I shoot. Don’t remember how many times. It was fast, but slow, you know what I mean?”
I nod, ’cause I do.
“He drops to the ground. My slide is locked back. Didn’t realize I had fired so many rounds. Empty magazine, so I get down behind the tire, drop and reload, scoot around the rear of the vehicle, and get a bead on him. He’s still on the ground. I scan the area. Don’t see anybody else. I slowly make my way toward him, still calling out commands for him not to move. I notice that his right hand is under his lower torso. Fell on it. Can’t see his gun anywhere. ‘Must’ve been under him,’ I thought to myself. I had my weapon right on him.”
He pauses, reaches for the tumbler and takes another heavy swig.
Still holding the glass, he looks at me and continues. “I get up over him, nudge him on the shoulder with my shoe. Doesn’t move. I didn’t want to check his carotid. Too much blood. I move around him, his hand still tucked under his belly. I scan the area. ‘My fucking radio,’ I thought to myself. ‘I forgot my fucking radio in the car.’ I get my cell out with my free hand and dial nine one one. I ask for an ambulance, too. I get back behind my car, still keeping an eye on the kid, and wait for the backup.”
Couple more sips. He doesn’t continue. Goes blank for a moment.
“What next?” I ask him.
“Homicide arrived fast, and so did EMT. EMT called it on the scene. Dead. When they rolled him over, they didn’t find his gun. I knew it had to be somewhere, maybe tossed under the trailer or one of the construction trucks. Everyone was searching the perimeter. Never found it.”
“Did they identify the suspect?”
“No ID, but couple days later, the homicide detective that was on the scene, she came over to ask if I knew anyone by the name of Arthur Taylor. I said I did not, and then she showed me the death photo, see if he looked familiar. I said only when he was about to shoot me. Other than that, I never seen him before.”
I notebook the name and ask, “Any construction surveillance cameras found on or around the lot?”
“Nothing on that lot,” Leslie says, “and the ones they were able to locate didn’t reveal anything. It was blocked by the trailer.”
“Besides, Frank, you know that’s why I use that spot for my meets—no surveillance cameras on the lot. Last thing I wanted was to get one of my CIs caught on camera.”
“And you said you scanned the area after he was down, didn’t see anyone?”
“Didn’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean shit.”
“When you took cover to reload, how long do you think it was that you lost sight of the suspect?”
“I don’t know. Couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds. I was quick.”
“But still, you didn’t have eyes on him for a bit?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t hear anything?”
“No, Frank,” he tells me like he’s getting irritated. “Homicide and then IA asked all the same questions you asked. In fact, that’s what I figured—that he had his boys in the area and they scooped the gun up after he went down. Only thing I can think of. You remember when we first came on, Frank, and that happened to an officer in Southeast.”
“Yeah, in the middle of a street, and that kid shot back. The officer also saw the boys who ran out after, even shot at the one who picked up the gun and got away with it.”
“What are you saying?”
“Don’t mean it like that. They had good evidence that it went down the way the officer said it did, including gun residue on the shooter’s hand.”
“You don’t think it went down the way I said it did?”
“I’m not suggesting that. The other shooting shows that it has happened before, and it’s why I know you’re telling the truth. You could have made that part up—that you saw one of his boys take the gun from the scene. But you didn’t.”
“Hell no. I wouldn’t lie. I honestly thought about it, but then, what if the shooting was caught on some off-sight surveillance camera.”
“You did right,” I say.
“Yeah, but look where it got me.”
Six
It’s still a battle. Never meant to suggest that it was ever easy. Sometimes comes to me
just like that. No trigger that I can think of. Unless sitting here interviewing Al is a trigger. Regardless, I do think about how nice it’d be to go to the bathroom, have a couple of bumps. Be like waking up. Again. I do want that feeling back. But I look at Leslie, and I realize the collateral damage. And shit, she’s the least of it.
“I assume IA knows why you were there?”
“Of course. Why else would I be there?”
“You talk to your CI since the shooting?”
“No. ’Sides, it has my cell, and I would’ve gotten a call if sh—it had seen anything.”
We always refer to informants as it, even in the write-ups or affidavits. He’s been on a drinking binge for who knows how long and slipped, giving up the gender.
“Can I talk to her?” I ask.
He looks at me sorta hard. “Why? I’ve been working with this CI for years. If it had seen or heard anything, I’d get a call. That would be some good money.”
“But still, I think you need to call and make sure.”
“He’s right, Al. Could be a witness. Internal Affairs probably already has the subpoena ready to bring your CI in.”
“Johnny Freudiger at IA said he’s gonna have to do that, and I said do what you have to do. CI had walked off and was out of the area by the time it broke. Isn’t a witness.”
“Johnny’s on this?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“At least you know you’ll get a fair shake. He’s good people.”
“He’s Internal Affairs,” Al tells me. “Don’t fucking kid yourself.”
“He’s good people,” I repeat. “Listen, either you’re going to call your CI, or you’re going to let me or Leslie do it. Gotta rule her out as a potential witness. Also, you don’t want them to think you’re hiding anything.”
Al doesn’t call me out for suggesting the CI is female. Doesn’t strike me as anything unusual. He’s being by the book. Don’t know why he won’t call her in, though.
“I ain’t hiding shit. Just trying to protect the identity of my CI. Been involved in some big cases. Last thing I want to do is fuck my CI up with all this high-profile shit.”
“We know that,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to do that either.”
“Fuck it. I’ll call her,” Al says.
“All we need is a statement. I’ll talk to Johnny, get it arranged so we’re the only ones that know.”
“Fuck that. I talk to her, and maybe you. I ain’t gonna reveal a top source to Internal Affairs. That’s bullshit.”
Leslie looks frustrated now.
“Let’s do it your way, then,” I say, knowing this is gonna go nowhere. “You hungry, Al?”
“Naw.”
“Maybe you should eat something anyway,” Leslie advises.
“I’ll go to our spot, get you one of those Italian subs,” I say.
“No, man. I’m good. Don’t think my stomach can handle it.”
I’ve been there, but I still forced myself to eat. I don’t tell him that, though.
I’ll talk to Johnny. Need to see what they’ve got. Probably won’t tell me because Al hasn’t been charged yet, and they don’t have to give Leslie anything. With any luck, there won’t ever be a need to.
I’m worried about Al. I know Leslie is, too. I asked him if he wanted to stay with me. He refused. Knew he would.
“Why don’t you give your source a call now?” I ask him.
He nods, looks around like he forgot where he put his cell.
“Behind the bottle,” I tell him.
Seven
Tamie Darling. I sorta figured. Both Luna and I signed her up years back. I still work with her on occasion, mostly okeydokes over a burner cell ’cause she has a helluva sexy voice—doesn’t matter that she’s a crackhead and physically nothing more than skin and bone. Haven’t had a reason to use her for a while now, though.
I talked to her for a bit on Al’s cell phone. She told me after she met with Al, she walked down Sherman to head to the McDonald’s on Georgia Ave, when she heard what sounded like gunshots. By that time she was only a couple of blocks away, but thought the shots came from the area of Garfield Terrace.
She seemed genuinely concerned for Al. There’s nothing odd about that. She’s been his CI for a long time. You get to know them, even like them. Damn, I even like her, but it’s not like I want to hang with her.
Al’s right, though: She’s responsible for some major cases, including a couple of mine, both when I was on the job and then off. It wouldn’t be good getting her burned. I agree she has to be kept out of it. It might not be a bad thing to talk further, when I’m on my own, and see if she can get her ear to the track with respect to the shooting.
After I hand him his cell back, he returns it to the table and slowly pushes himself off the sofa. He walks to a corner cabinet on the other side of the living room, pulls out another bottle. A bourbon this time.
“You have to take it easy, Al,” Leslie says.
“I’m good. I’ll sleep it off.”
He will at that. Al can throw them down. His tolerance has to be high, maybe even higher than mine. But somehow I doubt that.
He twists the cork out of the bottle and pours a generous amount into the glass, then sets the bottle on the end table beside the empty Laphroaig.
“Can you share what case you were using Tamie for?”
“C’mon, now, Frankie. I love you like a brother and trust you with my life, but you know better than to ask that.”
“Yeah, I do, but still…At least tell me if it involves something that’s big enough to get a hit out on you.”
“You suggesting I’m stupid enough to get burned?”
“You know better than that,” I say. “You also know how people talk. Things get around.”
“Well, this case involves a low-level crew. I don’t know if it’ll go RICO or for that matter anything beyond Superior Court. But do I think they followed me to the lot, let Tamie go, and then tried to kill me? Fuck no. Bunch of clueless young corner dopes. Just kids. I think what went down was something like a gang initiation or a robbery. One or more of his boys had to be there somewhere, close enough to grab the gun when I went down to reload. That’s the only thing it can be. Fucking gun didn’t vanish into thin air.”
“What about your partner—Jimmy?”
“What about him?”
“Why wasn’t he there with you?”
“He’s been on sick leave. Fucked up his shoulder. He’ll probably try to stretch that shit out through Christmas. I’ve been working this one ten-ninety-nine.”
Leslie’s cell rings. She pulls it out of her briefcase, looks at the display, decides to answer.
“Yes.”
Her eyes close, and her head bows. I know that look. Can’t be good.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Michael. Okay. Yes. Bye.”
Michael?
She disconnects, slips the phone back in, and turns to me.
“That was an associate of mine. He said there’s at least a couple hundred protesters in front of police headquarters now. Media, too. Apparently, someone leaked it out that this might be a bad police shooting.”
She looks over to Al’s TV on an entertainment console across from where we’re sitting.
“Don’t even think about turning on the television,” Al says. “Last thing I want to see.”
“I understand,” Leslie says.
“Can’t keep anything wrapped up in this damn department. Always some fucking idiot…,” I say.
“Shit, now I’m gonna find media on my front lawn, banging on my door?”
I stand up, walk to the living room window, open the curtain to peer out.
Nothing.
“Trust me, they’d be out there by now if your name got leaked.”
“Just a matter of time,” Al says.
I know he’s right about that.
“Maybe you should come stay with me,” I suggest again as I sit back down.
“Fuck that. I’m comfor
table here.”
“It may not be safe. You know how it can get,” I tell him.
“They may have taken my service weapon, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my own personal weapons here.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t think that’s what Frank meant by ‘not safe.’” Leslie looks alarmed and then cuts a look at me sideways.
I return the glare, but not as hard.
“Thanks, brother, but I’m staying home.”
“I have to get back to the office. It’s going to be a shit storm,” Leslie says. “You don’t go anywhere, Al.”
“Does it look like I’m gonna go anywhere?”
“I’ll stick around, talk to Al a bit more.”
“Maybe you should come, too, meet me there,” she says. She doesn’t like the idea of leaving me alone with him.
“I’m going to stay.”
Her lips tighten just a bit. I know that look, too.
“Stay off that bottle, Al.” It’s a command.
“Sure thing, Mom.”
Al walks her to the door to let her out. Locks up after.
He returns, but before he can sit down, I say, “Maybe I’ll have a bit of what you’re having.”
He smiles.
Sometimes it’s best not to drink alone.
Eight
The department’s going to be pressured into acting fast. That’s why Leslie left. It’s out there now, and she has to get on damage control. Not good. The media will be all over this one. No witnesses. That we know of. Just Al’s word that the kid was armed. And no gun. A young black kid with no gun. That’s all they need.
I believe Al. I do.
The only story that makes sense is that one or more of the decedent’s boys were there, too, and one of them did snatch up the gun after. The kid was close to a trailer. One or more could have been in hiding but close enough to get to him fast. Like I said, it has been done before. More than once.
Just thinking about it gives me vertigo.
I down what remains of my glass. Al offers me more. I can’t refuse. He pours generously. The buzz I get with alcohol is much different these days. It’s a bit more of a downer now. I’ve always preferred the ups, not the downs. But what the fuck. I have to keep my mind from going off on its own. So this is better than nothing.
Trigger Page 2
