The Cut

by George Pelecanos

  “So the suspect fired and only one round took effect in Holley. Holley never returned fire like he said. Why would he make up that story when it could be easily checked?”

  Gibson shrugged. “To make it more dramatic. To say he had more guts than he did. Or maybe because he’s a professional fucking liar.”

  “Did they find the shooter?”

  “I’m getting to that. I volunteered the services of my squad. Even though Holley was an asshole, he was still police, and when you shoot a police officer it’s a hot case. We wanted it.”

  The waitress arrived, placed two beers on the table, and picked up the empties.

  “Thank you, darlin,” said Gibson. He showed her his white teeth. When he looked back at Lucas he had lost the smile. “Fingerprints found on the objects at the scene were unusable, and the ATF search on the weapon was negative on account of the shave. Holley met with an MPD artist, and a composite drawing was made of the suspect. Holley said the shooter had a strong body odor, so we distributed the drawing to the area homeless shelters. The media, TV and the papers, they got it as a crime-of-the-week, which meant it was heavily publicized. I’d like to tell you that it was keen detective work that made the case, but as usual we were hoping for someone to come forward with information. The first tip we got was bullshit. A source said a dude she knew had bragged about shooting a police, but when we busted in his door in those homes down around Half Street, it was nothing but a pipe pad. We did find a nine-millimeter in the oven, but there was no link to this particular crime. Then, sixteen days after the event, we got a Crime Solvers tip that a guy named Curtis Dickerson had done the shooting. The source said Dickerson was staying in a crib down in Potomac Gardens. We do a little research, he’s got hard priors, we get a photo, show an array of photos to Holley, he pops Dickerson out of the array. That night, me, Tim McCarthy, and this other detective, Ballard, we go to Dickerson’s apartment. Dickerson’s not there. We stake out the place from the parking lot; Dickerson doesn’t show. It’s late; we go home, plan to return with some heavy hitters.”

  “And?”

  “We should’ve stayed.”

  “What happened?”

  “The next day, we come back with a no-knock warrant. We didn’t have to use a battering ram ’cause the door had already been busted in. Dickerson’s inside, shot to death, facedown on his bed. One in the back of the head.”

  “You think what?”

  “Holley somehow got hold of Dickerson’s address. I think he killed him or had him executed by his neighborhood buddies. Holley ID’d Dickerson’s corpse as the shooter. Homicide caught the Dickerson case, but it was never closed.”

  “Holley stayed on the force?”

  “No. That bullet gave him a limp. He retired soon after all this went down. Shitbird gets a sixty-six-and-two-thirds disability, tax free, for the rest of his life. God, that eats me up.”

  “You don’t mind my sayin so, you still seem pretty jacked up about all this.”

  “I made a mistake on that case, and I don’t like that. More to the point, I don’t like dirty police. I’m not talking about small stuff. This guy was all the way wrong. The fact that he wore a uniform and got away with what he did…”

  Gibson’s voice trailed off. He and Lucas took long swigs of beer.

  “What about the son?” said Lucas. “Larry.”

  “I don’t know much about him. There was a rumor that Richard’s kid had joined the force. I heard he looks just like his old man. Other than that, not a thing. What’s your interest in him?”

  “I can’t say for sure.”

  Gibson coughed into his fist. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Honestly, I don’t have enough information to even talk about it. He kinda drifted into something I was working on.”

  “McCarthy said you do investigative work for an attorney.”

  “I’m solo on this one.”

  “And you can’t tell me what it’s about.”

  “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  Gibson sat back. “You think Larry Holley is connected to your case.”

  “In some way.”

  “You gonna shadow him?”

  “That would be a start.”

  “Tailing a police officer on duty’s a stupid game.”

  “I don’t know any other way.”

  “It’s better to look at him off the clock.”

  “How would I find him?”

  “Not a problem,” said Gibson. “I’ve got someone inside who can get me the information you need.”

  “Obliged,” said Lucas. “Maybe I could get some current intel on the father as well.”

  “I’ll get you that, too. It’s a lead pipe cinch the father and son are sleeping in the same rotten bed.” Gibson got up out of his chair. “I gotta have a smoke. You comin?”

  Lucas followed him through the dark room. The music dimmed to nothing as the front door closed behind them. They stood on the sidewalk, facing Georgia, in front of the bar’s plate glass window. Traffic rolled by, north- and southbound, but it was quieter out here than inside and pleasantly cool. Gibson flipped opened his hardpack lid and offered a cigarette to Lucas, who declined with a short wave of his hand. Gibson lit his smoke with a Zippo he produced from his slacks. He took that first good long drag and exhaled slowly.

  “I used to like driving up Georgia Avenue,” said Gibson. “Coming up it after I got off shift. All the neon liquor store signs. Beautiful.”

  “You were on nights, mostly?”

  “I really loved working midnights. No brass to deal with. In those hours, just police and criminals were out on the street. The game was pure.” Gibson turned his head and looked at Lucas. “I wish I knew what the fuck you were into.”

  “I wish I could tell you,” said Lucas.

  Gibson double-dragged on his Red and squinted against the smoke. “I got nothin going on right now. Nothin. Get it?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You know, when I was tellin you that story in there… I think I got an erection.”

  “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  “I miss those years. Odd to say it, but I never had so much fun in my life. I got up every morning and I couldn’t wait to go to work. Does that make any sense?”

  “It does,” said Lucas.

  “Gimme your phone number,” said Gibson.

  Lucas did it. Gibson gave him his.

  FIFTEEN

  PETE GIBSON had said that he had “someone inside” who could get Lucas the information he was looking for, and the next day Gibson made good on his claim. Lucas now had in hand the addresses of record for Ricardo Holley and his son Larry.

  “I owe you,” said Lucas.

  Gibson said, “Stay in touch.”

  Lucas phoned Marquis Rollins and told him he had a little work for him, if he was interested. Marquis said that he was.

  The following morning, Lucas and Marquis were having an early breakfast at the Tastee Diner on Cameron Street in downtown Silver Spring. Marquis was dressed conservatively: Adidas track pants and a matching shirt, with his usual New Balance sneakers. Lucas was in Dickies. Marquis was having eggs over easy with hash browns and a small steak; Lucas was enjoying his favorite Tastee dish, the chipped beef on toast.

  Their roving waitress arrived, coffee pot in hand, and refilled their cups.

  “Habesha, baby,” said Marquis.

  “You speak my language?” she said with a brilliant smile.

  “Enough to let you know I care.”

  The waitress, still smiling, drifted. She held the smile as she filled the cups of a couple of Montgomery County police officers in a nearby booth.

  “It’s damn near all Ethiopians working here,” said Marquis. “I mean they’re all over this neighborhood.”

  “Eritreans, too,” said Lucas. “They do work hard.”

  “I like the way the women look. They got that beautiful reddish skin, you know? Real nice complexions. But they won’t
give me the time of day.”

  “She smiled at you.”

  “She smiling at everyone.”

  “True.”

  “I can’t get to first base with these Ethiopian gals.”

  “They can’t all like you, man.”

  “I don’t understand what it is. African women just don’t want to get with African American men.”

  “Maybe you ought to call Al Sharpton. He could organize a protest or somethin.”

  “You got his number?”

  “Yeah, we’re tight.”

  Lucas and Marquis went to the register to settle up. It was time to get to work.

  LUCAS AND Marquis drove over to a car rental lot on Sligo Avenue and got a couple of vehicles, a beige Buick Enclave for Marquis and a black GMC Acadia for Lucas. Same platform, different badges. Marquis got into the Buick and made sure that he and his prosthetic leg fit comfortably in the driver’s seat. He said that he was good with it, and they went into the rental office, where a couple of Ethiopian men ran the paperwork.

  On the way out of the office, Lucas said, “Aren’t you going to comment on their complexions?”

  Lucas got some equipment out of his Jeep and met Marquis by the rentals. There he handed Marquis a business-grade Motorola two-way radio, and an earpiece with an in-line mic.

  “I gotta wear this thing?” said Marquis. “I’m gonna look like a newscaster.”

  “It’s easier. Voice activated, so it leaves your hands free. You can keep one on the wheel and the other on your johnson.”

  “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “I know you like to multitask.”

  They coordinated channels and frequencies, got into the rentals, and drove off the lot.

  RICARDO HOLLEY’S residence was on 9th Street, Northwest, uptown between Tuckerman and Somerset. A middle-class neighborhood where teenagers attended Coolidge High, kids played ball down on 3rd Street, and adults got their beer and wine from the Safeway on Piney Branch Road. The block contained row houses mixed with detached houses in varying conditions. Quiet, most of the time.

  Ricardo’s place was an old one-story bungalow painted dark brown with black trim. It did not look inviting. The windows were barred, the grass was uncut, and there were no flowers or toys in the yard. A small alarm system sign was planted in the grass near the front steps. A Lincoln Mark V, white with a white landau roof and opera window cutout, sat out front.

  Lucas and Marquis were parked nearby on different cross streets. Both of them had the bungalow in view. Lucas had a pair of Nikon 10x50 security binoculars on the bucket beside him, a bottle of water, and an empty piss bottle on the floor of the backseat. He and Marquis had been out here for an hour or so. It was now midmorning.

  “Here he comes,” said Lucas, speaking into the mic, his radio activated in the console cup holder to his right.

  “I see him,” answered Marquis.

  Ricardo closed the front door behind him and limped onto the sidewalk toward his car, holding a manila envelope under his arm. He was wearing a black shirt and pants, a dark ensemble more suitable for night. Ricardo had a long thin nose. His hair was cottony and receding.

  “Looks like that Jewish dude,” said Marquis, “half of that old-time duo, you know those guys who sing those songs and, like, harmonize?”

  “Simon and Garfunkel,” said Lucas.

  “Whichever one got the fucked-up hair.”

  “What do you think Ricardo is?”

  “You mean, is he mixed? Shit, I don’t know what he is.”

  “On the force they used to call him Rooster.”

  “I see it,” said Marquis.

  The envelope Ricardo carried bulged with weight. He popped the trunk on his car and dropped the envelope inside. Closed the lid, got into his Lincoln, and started it up.

  “What you suppose that was?” said Marquis. “Paperwork, somethin?”

  “He doesn’t look like much of a businessman to me,” said Lucas. “Could be cash.”

  “Car like that,” said Marquis, “he’s gonna be easy to tail.”

  “So let him get far ahead,” said Lucas. “And remember, he’s ex-police. He notices things.”

  “Right.”

  Ricardo stopped at the nearby Safeway for a Starbucks coffee, then drove south on Georgia. Lucas and Marquis took turns as the lead tail and kept well back. Mobile surveillance was easier on heavily trafficked streets than it was on side streets, and Ricardo did not stray. Down in Park View he stopped on the Avenue and went into a well-known establishment that featured pole-and-freak-dancing onstage.

  “He’s goin in that titty bar,” said Marquis, driving past it.

  “Might be in there for a beer or two,” said Lucas, behind him. “I could use some lunch.”

  “Already?”

  “We better fuel up. You know that place I like down here?”

  “Got that sign, with the trout jumpin out water, a hook in its mouth. That one?”

  “Yep. Get two fish sandwiches. Extra hot sauce on mine. I’ll park on Georgia and keep an eye on the club.”

  They ate their sandwiches in their respective vehicles. Ricardo did not emerge from the club. Marquis told Lucas that he needed to piss, and Lucas said to go ahead, that he would use his bottle if he needed to and stay where he was. Marquis got out of the Buick and crossed Georgia, holding out his palm in a halt gesture to the oncoming traffic as he limped deeply over the asphalt and then the sidewalk, heading toward a gas station that had a restroom. He stopped to talk to a man outside a liquor store, a man he surely didn’t know, a conversation that had probably started over spare change and had gone on to involve the Wizards and the Redskins and would eventually lead to God and church and some message involving a blessed day.

  Lucas felt a rush of affection, watching his friend. Dipping down the sidewalk, trying to get from A to B. He’d be walking on a titanium shin pole and plastic knee for the rest of his life. But always positive, because Marquis looked for the good. A man with faith.

  RICARDO CAME out of the bar around one o’clock in the afternoon and drove east, taking Irving Street to Michigan Avenue, then South Dakota Avenue to Bladensburg Road. Again, major roads, but with frequent stoplights, so they had to be cautious. Marquis offered to take the lead, reasoning that Ricardo would be less likely to notice a youngish black man driving a ubiquitous SUV in the city. Eventually they all appeared to be coming to some sort of destination in Maryland, out there near the Peace Cross, where Ricardo turned off Annapolis Road and headed into a commercial and industrial strip in Edmonston.

  “Let him go,” said Lucas, who knew the area from his frequent bike rides up along the nearby Northwest Branch trail. “That’s Tanglewood at the end and nothing much else. He’s got to be stopping. Bunch of little streets back there, but we can always make his Lincoln.”

  “Copy that,” said Marquis.

  They drove for a bit, then cut back on 450 and went down the road where Ricardo had turned, staying several car lengths from each other. Lucas in his GMC had taken the lead. They went by several fenced-in businesses. On the road itself Lucas noted that there were signs prohibiting stopping and parking. They did not see the Lincoln, and began to hit the side roads, the U, V, and W streets, the high forties on the cross. Finally, near a dead end, Lucas neared a business with a big sign that said Mobley Detailing, and he saw the white Mark V in its lot, young guys shining up a car, Ricardo idling, waiting to enter a cinder-block building before one of several bay doors that was coming up on its track, and Lucas said, “Go back.” He and Marquis both reversed, swung around in driveways, and drove back to a place where there was something like a turnaround. They got nose to ass in their vehicles like police and talked to each other through open windows.

  “Stay here,” said Lucas. “I’m gonna walk down there and take a couple of photos.”

  “Seems kind of reckless to me.”

  “Parking on that road’s illegal; we’d stick out. And I don’t like that dead end.”
>
  “Whatever you say, cowboy.”

  Lucas found a spot to park the GMC, removed his headset, and got out of the vehicle. He nodded at Marquis and began to walk down the road. He looked like a working-class guy in his Dickies shirt and pants, young dude, short hair, nothing about him standing out among other guys who looked like him here, going about their blue-collar business in Edmonston. A jellybean Ford F-150 came up on him and passed, raising dust. There was no one else walking on the road, but that was all right. He pulled his iPhone from his pants pocket and touched the camera app, readying the device. He went by an auto body shop and was about fifty yards away from Mobley Detailing when he heard the rumble of a V-8 approaching from behind. As he turned his head there was a black Cadillac Escalade beside him, come to a crawl, and his stomach flipped as he locked eyes for a moment with the man behind the wheel, who was a younger version of Ricardo Holley. The Escalade accelerated and turned into the lot of the detail shop. Lucas spun around and walked back, his face flushed.

  “Stupid,” he said, and repeated it, muttering as he quick-stepped down the road.

  Marquis watched him approach, knew at once that something was wrong. He waited for Lucas to come up to the Buick.

  “What happened?”

  “I was burned,” said Lucas.

  “You sure?”

  “Ricardo’s son Larry.”

  “The police officer?”

  “He stopped right beside me and looked straight into my eyes. I’m certain he knows who I am. He drove past me in his squad car last week when I was surveilling a house on Twelfth. Got my plate numbers, most likely. Him and whoever he’s in with probably know where I live.”

  “What now?”

  “I blew it,” said Lucas. “Let’s go.”

  LARRY HOLLEY had been let into the cinder-block building by Beano Mobley, who told him that his father was waiting for him in the office. Earl Nance and Bernard White were standing by their Tahoe, parked beside the Lincoln in the bay. Nance was smoking a cigarette, grinning at Larry as he approached. Larry did not acknowledge either of them as he went back to the office and knocked on the door. It opened, and Ricardo Holley stepped aside to let his son pass.