“I’m Frank Marr, retired DC police.”
Driver nods, like, So what?
“Glad to see you guys here,” I tell them. “Thank Sergeant Kendall for me.”
The driver nods again, says, “Sure.” I know they don’t fucking want to be here. Look like a couple of young gung-ho types who’d probably rather be doing jump-outs or some shit like that. Instead, they’re stuck watching Al’s house for the remainder.
“All right. I just wanted to make myself known,” I say, and cross the street toward Al’s house.
Leslie answers the door when I knock.
“Frank,” she says like a hello.
I enter.
“I left a message with your receptionist,” I tell her.
“And I was going to call. I’m in trial through the rest of the week. Sorry.”
“No worries.”
Al is sitting in his armchair with a drink in his hand. Chinese carryout is spread out on the coffee table. Looks like they’ve managed to get through most of it. Al still looks better, like he’s slowed down a bit. Nothing like when I first saw him. He’s strong that way. Won’t ever let the shit get the best of him. Unlike me.
“What’s up, Al?”
“Feel like a prisoner. House arrest.”
Leslie sits on an old wooden chair that looks like it’s been brought in from the dining room.
“Couple of news people have been knocking on my door,” he says.
“You knew that was going to happen, some fuck leaking your name,” I tell him. “You didn’t talk to them, right?”
“No.”
I sit on the sofa.
“Damn people in front of 300 are like a lynch mob.”
“Let them have their time,” I say.
“Saw on the news about those officers getting shot near your house. Little close to home for you, Frank.”
He doesn’t know I was involved?
“Too close to home,” is all I say.
Why didn’t the detectives talk to him? I told them about the SUV that followed me from here. Maybe they’ve got other leads to run down first. I want to ask why Leslie didn’t call me, knowing that something like that happened so close to my house. But then that’d be like I’m looking for attention.
I’ll give Rattan a call tomorrow, ask if they have any leads, see if I can find out why they didn’t talk to Al.
“I heard that one of them didn’t make it,” Al says.
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Where are the protesters for him?” he asks.
Leslie is quiet. I should be, too.
“You wanna drink?”
I look toward Leslie, like I need her approval, but then notice she’s nursing a bit of whiskey.
“Yeah. Sure.”
He gets up, grabs a glass from the dining area.
“Ice?”
“No. Neat is good.”
Pours and hands me the glass, sits back down.
“In your investigations, the names Little T or Ty or Marlon ever come up?” I ask Al.
Thinks for a moment. “No. Why?”
“Couple of names that came up associated with Arthur Taylor.”
“What are you thinking?” Leslie asks.
“I don’t know. Just following through is all.”
“Someone had to take the gun from the scene,” Al says. “Right?”
“Only explanation, Al,” I try to say with confidence. “Probably best that you play hermit for a while. I know it’s hard, but you need to stay low.”
“And stop watching the news,” Leslie advises.
“Hard not to,” he says.
“You still have a personal weapon here, right?”
“Of course. Couple of them. Why? I should be more concerned?”
“No. Always prepared. Like they drilled into our heads in the academy.”
“Right, Frankie. I noticed an unmarked vehicle parked across the street. Why do I get that treatment?”
“I’ll ask when I leave,” I say, but I don’t mean it, because I already know why.
“They wouldn’t be out there unless I’m under surveillance—which they ain’t doing a good job of—or there’s a known threat. So don’t bullshit me, Frank.”
“Okay, okay. A sergeant I know did me a courtesy is all. Nothing known, just a precaution. All the protesting and cop hating going on, and you live in the District, after all. If you were in Maryland or Virginia, it’d be different.”
“Damn, Frank. I don’t want them outside my house, babysitting me.”
“What’s the big deal, Al?” And I want to add, It’s keeping Darling away from your door.
By the slight smile I shoot him after and the slight turned-up lips he hits me back with, I know he knows what I mean. We’ve been partners and friends for too many years not to be able to read each other well.
Leslie finishes off her drink. “I’m going to call a cab. I have to be in court first thing in the morning.”
“I should go home, too. I’ll give you a ride.”
“No, thank you. It’s out of your way, and I’d rather cab it.”
“Let me give you a ride home, Leslie. I just had one drink. I’m fine.”
“That’s all right.”
“Fucking knock it off, you two. Driving me batty. Let him give you a damn ride, Les.”
“Couple things we should talk about anyway,” I add.
She picks up her satchel bag. “Okay. We should go. I’ll call you tomorrow, Al. On my lunch break.”
He nods, shakes his head after.
Thirty-Seven
I fill her in on what I’m doing but leave out Calvin. She agrees that it’s a good idea to find those two kids and talk to them, at least rule them out if it proves to be nothing.
It’s clear to me that Leslie is preparing a defense strategy for Al, nothing more. Everything I’m trying to do is like grasping for something that can’t be seen. In Leslie’s mind, keeping him from going to jail is about the best thing she can hope for. We drive in silence for the remainder. I put on the radio, her favorite station.
“Would you mind? I’m not in the mood for music right now. Sorry.”
“No problem.” I turn it off.
The Capitol building is all lit up. It always looks its best during the winter season. The dark-gray, overcast clouds above serve as a backdrop to the lights, makes the dome pop. I turn to Leslie, but only for a split second.
“I was beyond stupid back then,” I say. “I’m not like that anymore.”
I want to believe that. I hope she does, too.
“The past is the past. Time to move on.”
I want to say, You’re not over it, though.
“I know it’ll never be the same with us—”
Time to shut up.
“Frank, leave it alone. Give it time.”
It’s been almost three years. How much time does she need? I’m not talking getting back together, just friendship, a working relationship. Occasional drink. Something.
“I’ve got time.” I smile so she can see. She smiles back, but it’s an ambiguous sort of smile.
I drop her off in front of her Capitol Hill row house, watch her walk up the steps, open the door, and then wave before she shuts it behind her.
I cannot find parking when I get home. I can’t see the unmarked vehicle, either, the one that was supposed to be posted on the block. Is that all the time they’re going to give me? Kendall probably got shot down by his commander for having a unit at my house. No manpower, something like that. I can take care of myself. No worries there. I park a couple of blocks from my house, walk with caution. No hand-on-the-grip-of-my-gun paranoia, just being aware of my surroundings.
I make it home safely, lock the door. Double-check it and then check the back door, too.
I scrape up some leftover food, what remains of a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs. I want to watch television while eating, but change my mind. It’ll only suck me in, and the next thing I
know it’ll be morning and I’ll be staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. So I eat in silence, have a couple of drinks after, with a Klonopin.
I wake up later than normal. After my morning coffee and the remainder of the leftover spaghetti for breakfast, I put on my favorite suit, the one that makes me look and feel like a detective. I stuff my pack with snacks, a couple of full flasks containing whiskey, and a large bottled water. Flex cuffs, stun gun, and an ASP are also in there, but they are always in there. Haven’t had the need to use any of them for a while now. Maybe the stun gun, if Calvin pisses me off again with his thug-life thinking.
When I exit, I’m surprised by a reporter, holding a mic and standing just outside my property. A news van is double-parked on the other side of the street, a cameraman now walking toward me with the camera on his shoulder.
“Mr. Marr,” the reporter says.
He looks familiar, but he’s not anyone I know. I think about going back inside, but what good would that do? So I lock my door and walk by him.
“Just a minute of your time, Mr. Marr.”
“I don’t know you,” I say while walking.
“Just a couple of questions, please.”
I’m curious, so I stop.
“Thank you. Why would Detective Al Luna hire a private investigator?” He jumps right into it.
Fuck. How’d he find out about me?
I give him my best confused look. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Detective Luna hired you, Mr. Marr. Why would he need a private investigator for a shooting of an unarmed man when the department has already made that determination?”
“Again, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about and how my name came up in all this. You should check your source.”
“The officer-related shooting that occurred here the other night, what do you know about that? Were you involved?”
I walk away. He keeps up with me. I wanna punch him. He gets ahead of me, gives his cameraman the “cut” signal with his index finger. I notice the cameraman take the camera off his shoulder.
“Off the record, then, Mr. Marr.”
“There is no off the record. There’s never anything off the record.”
“We’re not the enemy. I know you were here on the night of the shooting. That was a tragedy. With everything that’s going on, I can understand why you wouldn’t want your face on the news. Talk to me about Detective Luna. Off the record. Is there something more than what the department is saying?”
“I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your source is confused.”
I walk away.
He doesn’t seem to be following. I pass my car because I don’t want this guy seeing it, but then he probably already knows the car I drive.
Fucking sources. Leaks. When I find out who it is, they’ll get a lot more than a piece of my mind.
I walk south on 12th, to U Street.
I have a bit of time before I have to pick up Calvin. The last thing I want or need is for this reporter to find Calvin. He’s still a long way off from earning my trust.
Thirty-Eight
Feels good to walk. Sidewalks are salted. What little snow wasn’t shoveled away has frozen. Colder today. Patchy clouds. Doesn’t look like a possibility of snow, though.
I walk to 14th, take a right and take my time walking up to W, where I go left toward 12th. A nice walk. Not that long, but I hope long enough that the reporter got bored and moved on to something else. When I get to the corner of 12th and W, I peek around. No news van, just a couple of neighborhood people walking a mop dog. Looks clear. I cross the street and walk the couple of blocks to where my car is parked.
Calvin is sitting on the porch when I arrive. Apparently he doesn’t want me in the house. I get it. I feel the same way about him being in my house or even knowing where I live. I double-park and wait for him. Looks like he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday. His puffy winter coat is unzipped, revealing a plain black T-shirt, and it’s made puffier as he hops down the stairs and it’s caught by the breeze. He gets in the passenger seat, but this time he hits his head on his way in.
“Damn, this car short.”
“It’s not short. The seat’s high. Push down the third button on the panel to lower it.”
He shuts the door, pushes the button, and the seat drops low. He reclines the back just as low.
“How the fuck can you see anything sitting like that?” I ask.
“What I got to see?”
“Part of your job is having eyes on, being aware.”
“You really are having a hard time not being the police, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer that.
I take 14th to Euclid, make the left to University and a right to Fairmont.
Kids playing in the park this morning. Supervising adults/parents sitting around paying more attention to their smartphones. Makes me happy not to have a kid, knowing all that I know.
Bigger kids hanging at the corner of Fairmont and 14th. Damn cold to be out just to lean against cars, sit on cold steps, and shoot the shit. A couple of them on smartphones as well, but also interacting with one another.
“Can I get those binos?” Calvin asks.
I find them in my backpack, hand them over to him. My cell rings. Calvin jumps off his seat a little. I huff.
“Frank Marr,” I answer.
“Lustig, Frank. What’s up?”
“Hey, Gary. What’s up with you?”
“Got some info on one of those boys you were asking about. Little T or Tyrone Biggs.”
“That’s some kinda contrast.”
Takes him a second. Then, “Oh, the name. Yeah. Funny. Here it is, though. He’s sixteen years of age, lives at 1401 Fairmont. I don’t have his juvie record, but one of the plainclothes guys here that gave me this info locked him up for PWID about two months ago.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“Heroin. He was known to hang with Arthur Taylor and the other boy, Marlon Owen, who is known to carry a gun.”
“Marlon ever arrested for CPWL?”
“Yes, more than once. Proverbial revolving door, though.”
“No shit. Juvenile paradise.”
“Oh, they also like to run and will fight the police, even though they’re short, wiry little fucks and always lose.”
“Appreciate the info, Gary.”
“You’re not the police anymore, so don’t get into any shit.”
“Always careful, bro. Thanks again.”
“Yeah.” Disconnects.
“I know what CPWL and PWID is, you know,” Calvin says.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Sounds like these young ’uns ain’t to be trifled with.”
“But I thought you already knew that?”
“Yeah, I did. That why I told you I won’t be the one talking to them.”
“Ha! I get it.”
“Don’t know what you expect to find out, either, ’cause they ain’t gonna tell you shit.”
“Names are Marlon Owen and Tyrone Biggs.”
“Biggs? Shit, he’s a Biggs? That family is definitely not to be trifled with. Even Cordell Holm stayed clear of those boys. They run everything up here.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“What that matter for?”
“Because I like to know as much as I can.”
“Mostly hairon, crack, even powder and chronic. That was back when I knew what was going on, but things don’t change much here.”
“Do they smoke that chronic, too?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Gives even the little men bigger balls.”
“Well, right now all I care about is Little T and Marlon. Don’t want to get wrapped up with his family shit.”
I grab the binos and hand them to him. He’s happy to take them, like some kid playing spy. I give him a second.
“Anyone you know?”
“Naw. Familiar, but don’t think they be there.�
�
A car is coming up University. See it in my rearview. I recline.
“Drop down a bit,” I tell him. “Let this car pass.”
He tucks down. The vehicle passes, an older two-door red Toyota with Maryland dealer tags. Occupied a couple times at least. Young boys. Calvin peeks out the front windshield as the car makes the right turn onto Fairmont almost directly in front of us.
“Shit. Driver looks like Marlon,” Calvin says.
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Those are Maryland dealer tags.”
“Man, you can buy those for a couple bills at just about any corner dealership ’round here.”
The car pulls to the curb on the north side of the street. Couple of boys from the steps walk to it, lean down to talk to the driver. Calvin raises the binos.
“Looks like they gettin’ re-upped or some shit like that,” Calvin says. “Rear window too tinted out to see through.”
“Engine still running?”
“Think so.”
“Well, if they pull out, we’ll follow. It’ll be your first lesson.”
“Huh?” he asks, breaking away from the binos.
“Tailing a vehicle.”
Back on the binos. “Look like they just shootin’ the shit,” he says. “One of the boys is walkin’ back to the steps, carrying somethin’.”
“You don’t have to give me a play-by-play. This ain’t a drug bust.”
He looks at me, confused, maybe even thinking twice about this.
“Car’s pulling away,” I say. “Looks like it’s gonna head north on 14th.” I pull out, make the turn. “Keep down,” I tell him. “Until we pass the buildings.”
“Man, I feel like a fucking snitch.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Thirty-Nine
We follow the car for almost forty-five minutes. It makes a few stops along the way, re-upping some of their other boys. It takes side streets to the 1200 block of Queen Street NE and parks. Four boys hop out of the small Toyota.
“That be Little T,” Calvin says.
Trigger Page 12
