“I’m a single mother—was a mother.”
Is she all out of tears?
And who the fuck paid for this expensive shit in her home? A sixteen-year-old boy?
“Arthur went to Cardoza?” I ask.
She hesitates to say.
“He dropped out at tenth grade.”
“Unfortunately, a lot of kids have to do that nowadays to help keep food on the table.”
“Yeah.”
“So, where did he work?”
“I don’t know where he worked,” she says firmly.
She looks like she’s getting agitated with this line of questioning. I’m not going to take it further. Don’t want to judge or anything, but I’m pretty sure I know what he did to make money.
“No worries. I know this is hard, but when was the last time you saw Arthur?”
“The day before he got killed by that cop.”
“He lived here, though?”
“Yes, but he sixteen and he got friends he stay with sometimes.”
“It’s important I talk to his friends. Can you give me names?”
“My son got shot. Plain and simple. He didn’t have a gun. That officer murdered him. You tell me why all this other stuff is important to the court?”
“If there is a possible witness who saw the officer kill your son, then there’s nothing more we need. Case closed. You know how the police can be sometimes. Protect their own. Like I said, I don’t work for the police.”
“The police said he was alone.”
“Maybe his friends ran. I know I would if I saw a cop shoot down my unarmed friend. I’d also be too afraid to go to the police. That’s for sure.”
“He got a couple of friends he be with all the time.”
“The names would be really helpful.”
“Ty is one of them. They call him Little T. Another one is Marlon. That’s all I know.”
“Are they the same age as your son?”
“I think a little older.”
“And you don’t know where they live?”
“Just that it’s one of those buildings on the fourteen hundred block of Fairmont is all.”
“Have you talked to any of his friends since the shooting?”
“Not those boys. Just neighbors and friends that bring flowers and show their condolences is all.”
I don’t want to push this any further.
“I appreciate your time, Ms. Taylor, and I’m sorry for your loss.”
“When they gonna lock that man up?”
“That’s a matter for the police, not me. Is there anything else you would like to add for the court?”
I’m so full of bullshit.
“My son, Arthur, was a good boy,” she begins, and so do the tears. “That cop need to be punished for what he did.”
“All right, ma’am,” I say while standing.
I fold my notebook and slip it into my back pants pocket and the pen into my shirt pocket. I hand her a card.
“My number is on the card if you need to talk to me about anything else. Thank you for your time.”
She looks at the card. The number goes to one of my burners.
“I can show myself out.”
“You make sure that officer pays for what he did.”
I open the door, walk out, and shut it behind me. Nothing to say about that.
Ty and his boy Marlon shouldn’t be hard to track down. That is, if they do hang at the 1400 block of Fairmont. I’ll work on that tomorrow and, if anything good comes from it, give Leslie a call. I don’t know, but I do have a feeling.
Twenty-Nine
Al is an experienced detective, a good cop. He’s got a lot of time on and has never been under investigation by Internal Affairs. Based on what I know now, though, maybe he should’ve been. But fucking his CI is not like shooting an unarmed kid. I believe him. That the kid was armed. That there was a gun. It was taken from the scene by one of Arthur’s boys. And I need to keep the police in the loop. It’s not like before. This time it’s one of our own. But how the hell do you prove something like that unless we get a confession or a good witness? Obtaining a confession is highly unlikely.
“Detective Rattan,” she answers.
“Frank Marr here, Detective. How’s it going?”
“Doing some write-ups. What can I do for you?”
“I want to run a couple of names by you, see if they came up on your radar.”
“Okay.”
“All I have is first names. First one is Ty, late teens, early twenties. Second one, Marlon, also late teens, early twenties. Known to hang in the area of the fourteen hundred block of Fairmont.”
“No. I don’t know them. How’d their names come up?”
“Looking into Arthur Taylor’s associates.”
“Who gave them up as associates?”
Last thing I want to do is tell her I lied my way into the decedent’s house to interview the mother.
“The old-fashioned way. Working the street. Taylor would stay with them on occasion, and they were good buddies.”
“Yeah, he had friends. So?”
“Maybe one or both of them were on the scene the day of the shooting. Maybe they saw what happened. Maybe they heard something. Or maybe one of them took the gun from the scene. I just can’t believe Arthur Taylor was there alone, and why was he there? It’s starting not to make sense.”
“Lot of reasons why he could have been there.”
“Yes. Are you looking into those reasons?”
“Mr. Marr”—Mister?—“I know Luna is a good cop, but it’s really not looking like a good shooting. We’re getting to the point where everything has been exhausted.”
“I just gave you two names to look into. Shouldn’t be too hard to find them hanging around the fourteen hundred block of Fairmont. Have you even looked into his known associates?”
“We have. We’ve interviewed several people.”
“You sound a little different from when we last spoke.”
“Not at all. My squad caught two more cases last night. Listen, last thing I want is to see one of our own go down for something like this. The department doesn’t need it. We don’t need it. I’ll look into the names. I do appreciate you keeping me in the loop.”
“I’ve been known to go rogue, so yes, you should be thankful.”
No response.
“That was a joke, Rattan,” I lie.
“Okay, then.”
“Just so you are aware, I’ll be looking into it, too, and will keep you posted.”
“Thank you. Don’t hurt anyone.”
Okay?
“That was a joke, Marr. I know you wouldn’t do that.”
Okay.
“I’ll try not to. Thanks for your time. Be safe.”
“Thanks.”
It’s still early enough that Rebellion shouldn’t be crowded, and I might find a good spot at the bar. I park a couple of blocks away.
Few chairs at the bar when I enter, and a bartender I know is working. I notice a man wearing a suit, looks familiar from the side. An open chair is next to him. The tender shoots me a wave, and I hit him with a broad smile. When I get to the bar I recognize the guy as Detective Gary Lustig, from the Third District, which is only a few blocks from here. Before he was a detective he worked Vice, but that was years ago.
“Look at the bums this place caters to now,” I say.
He turns, immediately recognizes me.
“Frank Marr.”
Gary has worked his way through half a hamburger and a pile of seasoned fries. Nearly empty pint of stout next to his plate and his handheld radio, volume turned low. Dispatcher calls out for a patrol unit, but I can’t make out the assignment. My ears aren’t tuned in to that frequency anymore. Used to dream hearing the dispatcher’s voice at night. Not anymore. Gary will no doubt hear his call sign over the radio, if it comes up, even at that volume. It’s something you become accustomed to. He’s a couple of years younger than me, early to midforties, but
the puffy bags under his eyes make him look older. Also losing some of that black curly hair, balding toward the middle. Typical overworked district detective.
“Chair taken?” I say.
“No. Sit down, bro.”
“Don’t want to interrupt your meal.”
“Welcome company, buddy. Good to see you.”
After we shake hands, I sit. The bartender approaches, offers his hand across the bar. He has a firm grip.
“What can I get ya, Frank?”
“Zacapa, one cube, thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
“So, you on evenings?” I ask Gary.
“Hell no. I’m permanent daywork, but they got us on twelve-hour shifts, thinking that’s going to curtail the violence. I’m going to head in after this, but my luck I’ll get a call.”
“I feel for you, man. Can’t say I miss that part of the job.”
“The Third District detectives’ office is rookie central. Lot of new investigators. Lot of the old-timers retired, had enough of this shit. I’m not far behind.” He takes a sip of stout.
Bartender sets my drink on the bar. Nice pour.
“Gonna have something to eat?” the bartender asks.
“I’m good for now.”
He slaps the bar with the palm of his hand, moves to the other end of the counter to watch the preshow for the Caps game on the wall-mounted television.
Good aged rum is like coffee. The sugars pick me up instead of the caffeine, and the alcohol warms my belly. Was a time when only one thing could pick me up, but my body and mind have rebooted, almost back to what I think is considered normal, except the fatigue. But the drink helps.
“Anything on the officer that was killed?”
“Which one?”
“The one that was shot.”
“They’re still working it. Powers that be afraid to call it what it is.”
“And what is that?”
“Terrorism.”
“That what detectives are saying?”
“Fuck, man. Doesn’t take some motherfucker from a sensitive Middle Eastern country screaming Allahu Akbar before killing someone for it to be terrorism. Could be some corner boy for all I know. But walking up to a parked patrol unit and opening up on the officer inside is terrorism. Shit, even that hit-and-run. That wasn’t an accident.”
“They thinking that’s related?”
“Not that I know. I’m not working it, but I do know that officer was targeted just like Wiebe was, except with a car. Fucked-up times. You still friends with Al Luna?” He changes the subject. Topic might be churning that juicy hamburger in his stomach into bad gas.
“Yeah. In fact, I’m helping him out best I can.”
“No gun. No evidence of a gun. Doesn’t look good. Damn. I even hate to say that. He’s a good detective. A good guy. Give him my best, okay?”
“I will. Arthur Taylor, the kid he shot, lived in 3D. He ever come up on your radar for anything?”
“No, and he would’ve been too young when I worked Vice.”
“They’re never too young.”
“True that. Some crazy baby gangstas out there nowadays. Getting younger all the time.”
“Do me a favor or, rather, Al a favor. Ask some of the guys working narcotics at 3D if they’ve heard of Arthur Taylor and two other young ones—Ty, or Little T, and Marlon. Both known associates of Taylor’s.”
“Hold on,” he says, grabbing his pocket notebook. “Ty? T-Y?”
“Yeah. Known as Little T, and the other is Marlon.”
He writes the names down.
“They live or hang at the fourteen hundred block of Fairmont.”
Writes that down, too, says, “I’ll see what I can do. You still have the same cell number?”
“Yes.”
“I have it saved in mine. I’ll hit you if I find anything.”
“Appreciate it, brother.”
I down the rest of my drink, signal the bartender for another. I’m gonna need a couple more to get moving.
Thirty
I drive with the window down, north on 18th to Florida, and take a right. Instead of continuing on Florida Ave, I keep straight through the light where it becomes U Street. I want to see the Third on the way home, for no reason other than I want to look at it. I never worked out of that building, but a lot of my friends did. Cars pulling out of the upper and lower garages as other cars make their way in. Shift change.
When I get to 12th, I make a left. My house is a couple of blocks up.
While looking for a place to park, I notice a black SUV, driver’s window partially open and thick smoke folding up out the window, like a tongue. I accelerate, taking a look through the corner of my eye as I pass the car. Windows have heavy tint, and the engine seems to be off. No exhaust being pushed out of the rear. I get to the end of the block and make a left on Florida, then a quick left at the narrow alley that is behind my house. I stop a quarter way up the alley, see if they’re following.
Doesn’t look like it.
I continue to the end of the alley. Thirteenth Street is to the right and 12th to the left. I turn my headlights off and make that left, stop before I hit 12th and slowly creep out enough to get an eyeball on the SUV, still parked on the east side of the street. I get my binos out of the center console and peek. Heavy smoke still being blown out, like a cigar or a large blunt. It sure as hell looks like the SUV that was following me. I’m not about to jump out on them. I’ve got a good amount of alcohol in my system and’ll probably blow high. If they’re cops smoking cigars and I surprise them like that, I might get myself shot. If they’re fucking thugs, the chances are even higher. Best to sit tight, see what they’re up to, if anything. I don’t have a good enough angle to make out the tag at the rear of the vehicle. I know the car doesn’t belong to any of the homes here, but that doesn’t mean they’re not visiting a neighbor and are out smoking up the interior of the car instead of their home.
After a few minutes the smoke through the window thins out, becomes less frequent, then stops altogether. No movement. I’m not going to fuck around here. This doesn’t feel right, and in my opinion that’s a suspicious vehicle. For all I know it’s associated with someone like Jasper, a dirty cop I got locked up a while back, or even Playboy, maybe in there with some of his boys, waiting to cap my ass.
I passed the car, though, and if it’s the same SUV, why didn’t they follow? They didn’t recognize my car? But maybe they did and are waiting for me to appear at the front of my house or for a light to turn on because I entered through the back door. Fuck this shit.
“Metropolitan Police Department, Third District, Sergeant Kendall.”
I know Kendall. Been on the department since forever. One of the few remaining working sergeants left.
“Sarge, this is Marr. They got you working the station now?”
“Hey there, Marr. Yeah, working the desk for a bit. Had minor surgery. How’s that early retirement going?”
“Everything’s good. And you?”
“All the parts still working, just a hernia is all. Another week and I’ll be out of this chair. Something I can do for you, Frank?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to call three one one. Thought I might get a better response calling 3D direct. I’m still living on the 2200 block of 12th Street, and I noticed a suspicious vehicle parked on the east side of the street across from my house. Was hoping you could have a unit respond to check it out. Probably nothing, but you never know. Lot of robberies going on around here.”
“Why do you think it’s suspicious?”
“It’s been parked there for a while now, window part down, engine off, thick smoke blowing out, like they’re smoking weed. Just doesn’t feel right.”
“I can get a patrol car there. Give it a few, though. They’re just getting out of roll call. You have a tag?”
“No. Can’t get an eye on it.”
“What do you have, then?”
“Older-model four-door, black Ford SU
V, heavy tint, parked on the east side of the 2200 block of Twelfth Street, NW, about halfway up the block, near Florida Ave. Don’t know how many times it’s occupied. Can you advise the responding officers that I’m parked in a silver Volvo at the cut on the west side of the 2200 block, near W, and who I am so they don’t think it’s another suspicious vehicle.”
“Okay. Got it. I’ll get a unit out there.”
“Appreciate it, Sarge. Hope you hit the street soon, back to your high-rollin’, hardworking self.”
“Ha! Me too. About to go crazy here.”
“Thanks again.”
“No worries.”
Nothing to do now but sit back, see what happens.
Thirty minutes later, and the SUV is still there. No one in or out. A marked unit is driving north on 12th, crosses W and slows. The driver notices me parked in the alley. I shoot him a wave out the window anyway, hoping he’ll notice, and point in the direction of the parked SUV. I can see him. Don’t recognize him. A young officer.
They slow to a stop a couple of cars behind the SUV. The SUV’s lights come on, like they finally decide now would be a good time to leave. Rear reverse lights come on. It’s going to pull out.
The officers put their emergency lights on, and the one behind the wheel hits the driver’s window of the SUV with the spotlight.
The officers step out of their vehicle, stream lights beaming through the rear window of the SUV. They use the doors as shields.
“Turn your vehicle off, please,” the officer who was driving says.
Nothing. Reverse lights are still on.
“Turn your vehicle off!” the officer repeats.
The secondary officer steps toward the sidewalk and the passenger side of the vehicle, shines his stream light into the vehicle. From my vantage, I can’t make out the interior. I do know if they were cops, they would have already identified themselves. I want to step out, but that would distract the officers. I can’t just sit here, especially when my Spidey sense is tingling.
“Roll down the driver’s window and turn the vehicle off!”
The SUV’s rear reverse lights go off, and then the rest of the lights. I can’t tell if the window was rolled down, but the engine appears to be off. Primary officer steps away from his open door and moves with caution toward the driver’s side of the parked vehicle. His right hand seems to be gripping his holstered weapon. The officer stays close to the vehicle so he’s not an easy target. He shines the light in the rear window. Patrol car’s spotlight is shining bright in the driver’s window. I’ve been on that side of the spotlight before. If done right, it can be blinding, especially if the light bounces off the rearview mirror.
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