Someone speaks from inside the car, but it’s inaudible to me.
Officers are handling this like a routine traffic stop, but I’m not in their shoes and don’t see what they see. Personally, I’d stay behind the open door and have the occupants slowly step out of the vehicle, with hands where I can see them. They might be able to see inside, through the heavy tint. I certainly can’t from where I’m sitting.
The secondary officer stays back, light still shining through the rear window. The primary steps closer, shines his stream light directly in the driver’s window—
“Gun!” the officer yells.
He backs away, running, drawing his weapon at the same time. Fast as shit! Pop! Pop! Pop! Muzzle flash with each round. Primary officer looks like he is thrown backwards.
I jump out of my car, weapon out, and run toward them, my legs pumping before I even realize I’m out on the street. I can see the secondary officer with his weapon out, but before he can get a round off, more shooting, this time from the passenger side. Secondary officer drops. Primary officer manages a couple of shots but seems off-balance.
SUV lights turn on. I hear the engine roar.
Primary officer gets a couple of shots off and then suddenly goes limp and falls where he is. I stop, steady my weapon, and get off several rounds. Pretty sure I smash the driver’s-side rear window out. The SUV lunges forward, hitting the parked car in front. Secondary officer is standing again. He fires, but the SUV skids backwards, hitting a rear parked car so hard it slides up onto the curb. “Watch out!” I yell out to the secondary officer. But the parked car hits him solid, knocking him to the hood of another parked car and to the ground.
I run for a better angle on the car, can barely make out the driver when I do. I fire. I can see muzzle flashes from the driver’s side but hear only a whizzing sound by my ear. Fuck! I fire again. Don’t know how many times. SUV turns out, knocking the parked front vehicle so hard it jumps the curb. The SUV speeds north on 12th.
Seconds. Ten, maybe twenty seconds at most.
Sirens.
I holster my weapon so I don’t get shot and run to the primary officer first.
Unconscious, but making deep-throated gurgling sounds. He has what looks like a single gunshot wound to the right cheek. Thick dark blood. Can’t see an exit.
Sirens are closer but no lights.
I look back to the secondary officer. He’s trying to move. Grunts.
“Talk to me!” I call out to him.
“I think my leg’s broken,” he struggles.
“Help is almost here. I’m gonna stay with your partner.”
“He okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
I can see lights coming north on 12th, and two more cars turning onto 12th from Florida Ave.
The primary officer doesn’t sound good. I open his mouth to check for obstructions. Fuck. It’s a bloody mess. He’s gonna drown in his own blood.
“Police! Back away from the officer!” I hear behind me.
I immediately put my hands in the air.
“Frank Marr, retired police,” I advise. “I’m the one who called Kendall.”
“Back away. Now!”
Hands still raised as I stand and back away. “You need to call for two ambulances.”
I slowly turn. Two officers have their weapons pointed at me.
I’m surprised as I’m grabbed from behind with force and put to the pavement, face-first. Pretty sure I belt out a grunt when they cuff me. Fucking left hand feels like the nerves are being pinched with tweezers.
I know they have to do this, so I go with it. Shut the fuck up. Let them do their job, explain everything later.
“I got a gun,” an officer with his knee on my back says.
“I’m a retired cop. Get my wallet,” I wheeze out. I don’t think he heard me, or he just doesn’t care. I’m dragged on the ground, the face of the fallen officer a couple of feet from me, blood bubbling through his closed lips. Two other officers kneeling beside him. His face seems to shine brighter the farther away I’m pulled.
Thirty-One
The block is flooded with light: patrol car’s emergency lights, two Crime Scene Search spots, media camera lights behind the yellow tape that prevents access from Florida Ave and south at W. I see Chief Wightman. He’s talking to several reporters at the corner of 12th and W. Yet another crime scene on this block that I’m involved in.
Both ambulances sped out to MedStar about an hour ago. Crime Scene is collecting spent casings, searching areas where bullets may have hit, including the driver’s door of my car. Two bullet holes. Other detectives interview neighbors. Detectives Rattan and Millhoff, along with Sergeant Kendall, are with me. The cuffs are off now. I rub the scar tissue on my left hand. Doesn’t help the nerve pain. We’re next to my Volvo, away from the cameras. Damn. I should call Leslie, not as a personal attorney. I have no worries there, because I didn’t do anything wrong. If it was the same SUV that followed me from Al’s place, then she should know. Hell, the police should know.
“Marr,” Millhoff says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. What was it you asked?”
“I noticed you had binos in your car, on the passenger seat. Did you get a look at any of the suspects?”
“No. Tint on their vehicle was too heavy. Don’t even know how many were in there. At least two shooters. I know that. Listen, I should tell you—don’t know if it’s related, don’t see how it could be.”
“Okay,” Millhoff says.
“When I left Al Luna’s house the other day, a black SUV was parked across from his house and followed me for a while. I managed to lose it.”
“You get a tag?”
“No. They didn’t get close enough for that. Pretty sure it was a Ford Explorer, though.”
“Was the suspect’s vehicle here an Explorer?”
“Couldn’t make out the model because it was parked too close to the car behind. Could have been. They both had heavy tint. Did the officer that was conscious say anything?”
“They ran the tag before getting out. We’re looking into it,” Millhoff says.
“Was it an Explorer?”
“Yes. Why do you think the shooting Al was involved in would be related to this?” Rattan asks.
“I said I didn’t think so, really. I’m not sure. Maybe check if IA or some reporter was sitting on Al’s house and decided to follow me. If it was, then the similarity is just coincidental.”
“Doesn’t sound coincidental to me,” Kendall says.
“I can check with our department, but I’m not sure I can find out about the media.”
“Seems to me you just chanced into a situation where cops were being targeted,” Kendall says. “Maybe they were targeting Luna, too, because of the shooting.”
“There’s a lot of black SUVs out there,” Rattan says.
“I’ll have an unmarked unit sit on the block. Just to be safe. I’ll notify 5D and have them do the same for Al,” Kendall says.
“Yeah. That’d be good,” I say.
“Cops are being ambushed,” Millhoff says.
“Did the officers have their bodycams on?” I ask Millhoff.
“We’ll know that soon.”
“Crime Scene is going to have to search your car, try to locate the bullets that hit the driver’s door,” Rattan says.
“I got an open bottle of Jameson in the back seat.”
“Are you offering?” Kendall asks.
“That would be nice about now, but just thought you should know. Open container, you know.”
“I think we can let that slide, Frank,” Kendall says.
“Are you drunk?” Rattan asks.
I shoot her a glare. “Fuck no. I had a couple drinks earlier at Rebellion. That bottle was meant for Al.” The former is true at least. What nerve, though.
“Any other weapons in the car?” she asks.
“No. You all took the only weapon I had on me. And I expect to get it back soon.”
<
br /> “Standard shit. You know that, Frank,” Millhoff says.
“Yeah, I know.”
I have a couple other registered weapons in the house, so I can live without the 19 for a while.
“Lori, you want to get Stein to work Marr’s vehicle?” Millhoff asks her. “And tell him to leave the bottle in the car.” He smiles.
“Yeah, sure.”
She walks to the other side of the street, where a Crime Scene tech is taking pictures.
An image of the fallen officer pops into my head. Pool of blood in his open mouth. The sound he was making. Something new and unwelcome that’ll stay with me now. That would have been me if I’d decided to take care of it myself. Two shooters, possibly more. I wouldn’t have had a chance. There was a time, not so long ago, that I would have tried. Fucking stupid back then. Wightman will have all hands on deck for this one. That’s for sure.
“You keep me posted about those officers, okay?” I ask Kendall.
“I will,” he says.
“You should stay away from the news, Frank.”
“I don’t have a problem with that. They don’t know who I am, right?”
“We don’t give out victim information,” Rattan says.
I want to tell her I fucking know that. I just forgot I’m a victim in this, too.
Victim. Shit.
Thirty-Two
The snow passed over, leaving us a couple of inches. That was usually enough to immobilize the city, but they had crews ready, obviously expecting more. The main roads are cleared.
The 1400 block of Fairmont has a nice family park on the northwest side. Neighborhood kids are playing in the snow now. A couple of them are trying to build a snowman with what little they have. I don’t remember when the park was built, but it’s fairly new. It stretches north to Girard Street, where Cookie lives, a onetime snitch who helped me out with the missing girl case that coincidentally led to a house on University Place, where Fairmont ends on the west side.
All these fucking coincidences. I’m starting to think that life is bitch-slapping me. You think you can stay clean? You think you can simply stop paying for your sins? Just watch.
This block has always been busy, but mostly in the area of 14th and Fairmont, near the once-infamous five-story apartment buildings that take up the north and south corners of Fairmont. I’ve been out of it for a while, but I do know it’s not like it was years ago. Shit still breaks on occasion, but nothing like back then.
I’m parked on University Place, where it ends on Fairmont and faces the park. Fairmont is one way going east. Good spot to hang. Don’t want to make it an all-day event, though. Gotta make something happen. Time is creeping up on Al. Protesters still in front of 300 doing their thing, making noise. Like Freudiger said, it won’t pressure the US attorney’s office much, but it will bring some heat down on the mayor’s office and the sparks are sure to hit the chief. And like they say, shit rolls down from there. Always has. Always will.
My cell rings. It’s a DC government prefix.
I answer, “Marr.”
“Kendall here, Frank.”
“What’s up, Sarge?”
“Don’t know if they’re keeping you in the loop at Homicide, but thought you’d want to know that they located the suspect’s vehicle late last night.”
“That’s good news. Where?”
“Not such good news. It was recovered off 295 while it was still on fire. By the time the firemen got the flames out, the car was nothing but a torched-out shell. I don’t know what, if anything, they’ll be able to recover out of that.”
“Damn. Well, I appreciate you keeping me informed. They sure as hell won’t tell me anything.”
“I’m here for you if you need anything.”
When someone like Kendall says they’re there for you, that means most anything, even running names. He could give a shit. Shit, Leslie. I forgot to call her, but I’m also wondering why I haven’t heard from her about last night. She has to have seen the news.
I give her a call. The receptionist answers.
“Frank Marr for Leslie Costello.”
“Ms. Costello is in court all day, Mr. Marr. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Just tell her I called.”
“What’s a number where she can reach you?”
“She has my number.” I disconnect, sort of pissed that she hasn’t called me.
I focus my attention back on the corner.
This is bullshit. It’s not like I’m going to jump out on them and get their names. They’ll just spit on the ground at my feet, sneer after. Waste of my time.
I drive toward 14th, pass the young boys and take a right. I make my way home, and when I get to 12th from Florida, I notice a Fox 5 News van parked at the corner, a reporter, looks like Paul Wagner, and a cameraman. Interviewing my neighbor. Fucking tenacious son of a gun. The last thing I’m gonna do is park and get caught walking to my house. I keep driving. Maybe I’ll go back to Al’s, see how he’s holding up.
Cell rings.
“Hello?” a familiar voice says.
“Frank Marr. How can I help you?”
“This is Calvin. You said I should give you a call.”
I hesitate. I know who it is, but I can’t believe he’s calling.
“Calvin,” he repeats. “You call me…Playboy.”
“I know who it is. What’s up, Calvin?”
“You said I should call before the end of the day about that offer of yours.”
It’s not even noon, far from the end of the day. With everything that happened, it literally slipped my mind, and it was only yesterday afternoon I met with him.
“Good to hear from you, Calvin.”
“Yeah, been doing some thinking about that opportunity of yours.”
I find an open spot to park on 10th, a couple blocks from my house. I take it, put the car in park.
“My uncle, he give me one of those ultimatums,” he continues. “So I really got no choice. I need work or I gotta get out.”
“So you’re saying my offer’s all you got and you’re desperate?”
“I ain’t desperate. I’m never desperate.”
“Well, you said you have no choice but to take me up on my offer.”
“That ain’t being desperate. That be responsible.”
I don’t know if I want to even entertain this, especially after last night. For all I know, he’s smarter than I give him credit for and he’s playing my ass. Hell, but you know what they say—
“When can we meet?” I ask.
…And your enemies closer.
“I’ll be at my uncle’s house all day. I’m taking a chance here that you ain’t gonna try to finish what you got started back then.”
“What makes you think I didn’t finish?”
“Don’t start playin’ me with words now.”
“I can be there at two o’clock.”
“I’ll be outside waitin’.”
“Okay, then.”
For all I know he’s setting me up. I’ll have to be careful with what I say, maybe even occasionally look over my shoulder.
Thirty-Three
I pick up a couple of subs from the Italian spot in Northeast that Al and I love and used to always hit. Thought it might be a good gesture to offer one to Calvin. Or maybe a nice test.
I see him sitting in a chair on the porch as I pull up near his uncle’s home. He looks my way but doesn’t stand. I find a parking space at the curb a couple houses up from his. It’s a tight squeeze between two cars, so I have to work my way in.
I step out. The air’s got a nice bite to it, so I grab my jacket and put it over my suit coat, lean back in the car to get the bag with the subs in it. I walk to his house.
He’s still sitting there. Do I expect him to wave?
The steps leading to the house have been shoveled and de-iced. I don’t have to worry about slipping and breaking my neck. Might be something he’d enjoy seeing.
“Your uncle ho
me?” I ask while walking up.
“Naw. He at work.”
“Too bad. Like to meet him.”
“Why?”
“Courtesy is all.”
I step up to the porch, set the bag on the small table between the chairs.
“I don’t know you good enough to show that kinda courtesy.”
“I can understand that. Those chairs look cold.”
“You get used to it.”
“Yeah, I like the cold,” I say as I sit.
He eyeballs the bag with the sandwiches. I grab the bag, open it, and pull one of the wrapped sandwiches out.
“I got these at one of the best Italian spots in DC, just off Florida Ave, in Northeast.” I offer it to him.
Reluctant, but he accepts. “I ain’t really hungry.”
“Then save it for later,” I tell him. “It’ll keep.”
I take mine out.
“You rather have this one?” I offer. “They’re the same, though.”
He unwraps his, lifts the bun up, closely examines the contents.
“I didn’t spit in it.”
“It ain’t spit I’m worried about.”
“Oh, you mean poison, some shit like that?”
“Yeah, shit like that.”
“Well, if there was, you wouldn’t be able to see it.”
I unwrap mine. He slips the bun back on top of his and wraps it up.
“It’s a good sandwich, Calvin. No poison.”
He sets it on the table. “I ain’t so hungry right now is all. Keep it for later.”
“Suit yourself.” I take a bite.
“What’s the shit on the driver’s side of your car? Look like bullet holes.”
I look toward my car. “How do you know I have bullet holes on the driver’s side?”
“I seen it when you were backing into that spot there.”
Trigger Page 10
