The Night Gardener

by George Pelecanos

  “No he isn’t.”

  “Shoot. You think you’re his bottom baby? Fancy man tells that to Shaylene and every other young girl he fuckin and robbin. Don’t you know that? And now he’s in there sayin that it was you had the idea to kill Jamal.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “True or no, that’s how he’s gonna testify. He might have pulled the trigger, but he’ll get the lesser charge if the premeditation was comin from you.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt Jamal. Why would I?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “Jamal was good.”

  “Tell me, Darcia. You can. You’re no killer. You got the same good in your eyes I saw in your mother’s. The law gonna charge you with accessory to a murder, and you’re gonna do real time behind it, and for what? You didn’t hurt nobody. You couldn’t. I know this.”

  A tear broke free from Darcia’s right eye and rolled down her cheek.

  “Talk to me,” said Rhonda. “I can’t help you unless you do. I know you’re tired of where you’re at. Isn’t that right?”

  Darcia nodded.

  “Tell it,” said Rhonda.

  Darcia crushed her cigarette out in the ashtray. She watched the smoke curl up off the foil.

  “Jamal brought me a rose that night,” said Darcia. “That’s all he did wrong.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “I was talking to him at the bar, and Dominique saw him give it to me. It wasn’t like Dominique was jealous or nothin like that. But he knew that Jamal and me…”

  “Jamal wasn’t a customer. He was your boyfriend.”

  “I wouldn’t let Jamal give me money. That’s what set Dominique off. I ain’t even think of Jamal like that. He was nice.”

  “Did Jamal and Dominique have words in the Twilight?”

  “Dominique was tryin to punk him. Jamal stood his ground, which only made things worse. Then Jamal tipped on out. I knew the bus lines he rode and the way he walked home. Dominique made me tell him, and he made me come along. I was scared not to. I didn’t think Dominique was gonna hurt him bad. I thought he might try and rough him some, but nothing like what he did. In the back of my mind I thought I could stop him if I was there.”

  “Did Dominique Lyons shoot Jamal White?”

  “He rolled up on him at Third and Madison, on the park side. Dominique got out of his Lex and shot Jamal three times.”

  “Darcia, this is a very important question. I know the doorman pats everyone down for weapons when you go in that place. So it’s unlikely that Dominique was strapped inside the Twilight. Did he have a gun in his car?”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “He didn’t have no gun at that time. When we left out the Twilight, he drove to see this man. The man he met sold him a gun.”

  “That night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit,” said Ramone, in the darkness of the monitor room.

  “Looks like Dominique wasn’t your shooter,” said Antonelli.

  Ramone said nothing and rubbed at his face. The door opened, and Detective Eugene Hornsby, rumpled and in ill-matched clothes, stood in the frame.

  “Garloo’s pulling into the parking lot, Gus,” said Hornsby. “He says he needs to speak with you right now. He’s got something to show you. For some reason he wants you to come outside.”

  “Motherfucker,” said Ramone, getting quickly out of his seat, extreme agitation on his face.

  “Shoot the piano player,” said Hornsby. “Not me.”

  THIRTY

  BILL WILKINS WAS seated in the Impala, the driver’s side door open, one foot out of the car and on the asphalt. He was having a cigarette and blowing the smoke away from Ramone. Ramone was in the passenger bucket, looking through the papers that Wilkins had brought in a manila jacket.

  “You got this, what,” said Ramone, “out of the History files of his computer?”

  “It’s basically the sites Asa was visiting the week before his death. He had an automatic delete programmed for every seven days.”

  “This is…”

  “Those are just examples of the home pages,” said Wilkins. “You get deep into the contents, it’s really raw. Take my word for it, it’s explicit. Men-on-men stuff, basically. Dick shots, anal penetration. Cocksucking. Jerking off is a big number, too.”

  “Asa was gay.”

  “That’s a bet.”

  Ramone stroked his black mustache. “I guess I’ve suspected it since the ME’s report. I don’t know why I didn’t look at it dead on. I suppose I didn’t want it to be true.”

  Wilkins pitched his cigarette out into the street. “I don’t mean to be flip about it. I was real sorry when I saw this come up. You knowin the kid and all.”

  “You did well.”

  “I wish I had uncovered more. I mean, there’s no correspondence in there. He was careful about his e-mails or he didn’t use the format to communicate. Men pick up boys in those chat rooms, that’s how they connect. I’ve done it myself.” Wilkins caught Ramone’s look. “With women, Gus. Married women, mostly, you want the truth. They’re the easiest to, you know, meet. The wonder of the Internet.”

  “Did you talk to Terrance Johnson?”

  “Hell, no. Not about this. He was intoxicated, anyway. Askin me about the investigation, did we find the murder weapon yet, all that. I was backpedaling out of there with this file tight under my arm. I printed out those pages and booked.”

  “Drunk at nine in the morning.”

  “Can’t say I blame him,” said Wilkins.

  “You know, he asked me if we’d found the gun, too.”

  “You don’t think —”

  “No,” said Ramone. “What’s the motive? Terrance Johnson can be a class-A jerk. But there’s no way he killed his son.” Ramone looked blankly through the windshield. “This explains the Civil War stuff, all that.”

  “Huh?”

  “All those sites Asa visited, about the local forts and cemeteries.”

  “Right. Prime locations for fag hookups.”

  “I imagine two people would arrange the meet through the Internet. A teenage boy doesn’t have his own place to go, and a lot of the older guys, I would think they don’t want some kid being seen entering their house. Hell, a lot of these chickenhawks are probably married.”

  “Fort Stevens would be a good one. Thirteenth and Quackenbos? It’s not far from the Johnson house. All those embankments and, what do you call ’em, parapets you can hide in.”

  “They don’t have a Lincoln-Kennedy monument up there, do they, Bill?”

  “Never heard of it. I mean, President Lincoln was fired on during that famous battle they had there. The only time he was on a live battlefield during the Civil War. But there’s no memorial there for that, none that I can recall. Maybe in that national cemetery they got, up the road.”

  “On Georgia Avenue?”

  “The one that Venable Place backs up into. It’s just a tiny graveyard. That’s where they buried the soldiers who fell in that battle.”

  “Bill, you’re —”

  “I know. You guys think I’m all about pussy and PBR. I like to read, is what it is. I’m telling you, I read my ass off when I’m at home.”

  Ramone gathered his thoughts. “You know what’s bothering me, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “All right, Asa was gay. But what’s that got to do with his murder?”

  “You don’t think we’re any closer?”

  “I do, but I’m not seeing it.”

  “What about Rhonda’s suspect?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Ramone. “Dominique Lyons’s girlfriend is in the process of fingering him for the Jamal White killing. But she says he didn’t purchase the gun until the night he did Jamal. Asa got dropped the night before.”

  “So we find the dude who sold Lyons the gun.”

  “Rhonda’s working on it as we speak.”

  “Sarge?”
>
  “Huh.”

  “You said I was doing a good job on this.”

  “You are.”

  “I been putting in a ton of overtime on it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you sign my Eleven-thirty when we get inside?”

  “Kiss my ass,” said Ramone.

  He looked at his watch. It was past noon.

  RAMONE AND WILKINS ENTERED the video monitor room. Bo Green and Antonelli were seated, watching Rhonda Willis and Darcia on screen 2. On screen 1, Dominique Lyons was alone in the box, his head on the table, his eyes closed.

  “What’s going on?” said Ramone.

  “Bo gave up on the shitbird,” said Antonelli. “Rhonda got it all out of the girl, anyway.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “Dominique took the cylinder out of the revolver and tossed it over the rail of the Douglass Bridge. Then he doubled back and threw the rest of it over the rail of the Sousa. It’s in pieces in the Anacostia River, forever. But the girl gave us a name and location on the seller. Guy by the name of Beano. Eugene’s running it now.”

  “Look at Dominque,” said Green with disgust.

  “Fucknuts is takin a nap,” said Antonelli.

  “You know what the captain says,” said Wilkins. “If they can sleep in the box, they’re guilty. ’Cause otherwise they’d be screaming their asses off about how we made a big mistake.”

  “Let him sleep,” said Green. “Young man believes he’s gonna walk out of here free. But he ain’t goin no goddamn where but the joint. I’m gonna stick around just to see the look on his face when we tell him about his future.”

  “What about the girl?” said Wilkins. “They gonna charge her?”

  “We need to talk to the prosecutor,” said Green. “But I imagine, what with all the cooperating she did, and her testimony, she’s gonna pull probation. Rhonda promised her WitSec. It’s a start.”

  “Like that little ho is gonna turn her sweet ass around,” said Antonelli, “just in time for Mother’s Day.”

  “Don’t you ever shut up?” said Ramone.

  As Rhonda recorded the time for the camera, Ramone and Wilkins left the room. When they were gone, Antonelli looked over at Bo Green.

  “What the fuck did I do?”

  “I guess he just don’t like assholes,” said Green. “Damn if I know why.”

  Ramone and Wilkins met Rhonda Willis at her cubicle. She and Ramone exchanged a look, and then he lightly touched her arm.

  “Nice work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve put in a full day.”

  “Uh-huh. And you?”

  “It’s been interesting, so far. My son got bounced from his school. I went there and peed on the principal’s desk, and then I questioned the assistant principal’s manhood.”

  “You’re quite the diplomat.”

  “Also, Bill here found some things on Asa Johnson’s computer that pretty much prove Asa was gay.”

  “You must have had a feeling.”

  “I did.”

  “But what’s it got to do with his murder?”

  “I don’t know if it has anything to do with it. I’m hoping the two of us can find the dude who sold Lyons the gun and figure this shit out.”

  Eugene Hornsby joined the group. He had run the name Beano through WACIES. The program had the ability to cross-reference the street name and bring up the given name, last known address, and priors. Hornsby passed out copies he had made after printing out the information. He had found two Beanos, but one was currently incarcerated.

  “Aldan Tinsley,” said Hornsby. “Our man has a sheet indicating a history of receiving and selling stolen property. Plus one recent arrest for driving while intoxicated.”

  “Darcia said that she and Dominique met him in an alley behind a street off Blair Road,” said Rhonda. “She didn’t recall the cross.”

  “The LKA is in the two-digit block of Milmarson,” said Hornsby.

  “That’s right near Fort Slocum,” said Wilkins. “Where Jamal was found.”

  “And a stone’s throw from the community garden on Oglethorpe,” said Ramone.

  “I gotta call my sons,” said Rhonda, “make sure they’re straight.”

  “Meet you out in the lot,” said Ramone.

  RAMONE AND RHONDA WILLIS drove uptown in a Taurus. They were on South Dakota Avenue, headed for North Capitol via Michigan, the best route north through Northeast. Ramone was forcing the Taurus up a hill as Rhonda applied lipstick using the vanity mirror behind the passenger-side visor.

  “Shame about Asa,” said Rhonda. “Shame his parents got to add that to their grief as well.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Ramone. “One of the many things Terrance Johnson did to his son was to call him a faggot. Wonder how he’s gonna live with that.”

  “Do you think Johnson knew?”

  “No. He was just being ignorant.”

  Milmarson Place was a short block of well-tended brick and shingled colonials running from Blair Road to First Street, between Nicholson and Madison. It was a one-way going west to east, so Ramone came in from Kansas Avenue and Nicholson. A complicated system of alleys connected the streets, with alleys breaking in on both sides up by First. Ramone turned into an alley entrance and followed it around, horseshoe-style. They passed freestanding garages, wooden and chain-link fences, overturned trash cans, and several dogs of the pit and shepherd mix variety, standing and barking or quietly lying in the small backyards. This section of the alley came out near Blair. When they emerged they saw a parked 4D squad car facing west. Ramone put the Taurus along the curb behind it. The Tinsley residence was on the opposite end of the street.

  Rhonda grabbed a walkie-talkie. She and Ramone got out of the Ford and were met by the uniformed patrolman, who had stepped from his car. He was young and blond, and had a crew cut with a cowlick. The name Conconi was on his chest plate. Rhonda had radioed ahead for assistance.

  “Arturo Conconi,” said the young man, extending his hand.

  “Detective Ramone, and this is Detective Willis.”

  “What do we have?”

  “Booster name of Aldan Tinsley,” said Ramone. “We think he might have sold a gun that was later used in a homicide. There’s no history of violence.”

  “No reason to take a chance,” said Conconi.

  “Right. You got good eyes?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Watch the house from here,” said Ramone. “If Detective Willis calls you, move into the alley.”

  Conconi pulled his radio off his utility belt. He and Rhonda set their frequencies.

  “They call you Art or Arturo?” said Rhonda.

  “Turo gets it.”

  “All right, then.”

  Ramone and Rhonda walked down the block.

  “One of your countrymen,” said Rhonda.

  “Don’t hold it against him,” said Ramone.

  They walked up concrete steps to a concrete porch fronting a brick house at the end of Milmarson. Rhonda chinned toward the door.

  “Give it the cop knock, Gus.”

  “Your hand still hurting?”

  “From countin all my money.”

  Ramone made a fist and pounded on the door. He tried it again. The door opened, and a man in his midtwenties appeared. He was Ramone’s height, with a large head, long arms, and a skinny torso. He wore a We R One T-shirt out over jeans. He had a cell phone to his ear.

  “Hold up,” he said into the phone, then looked at Ramone. “Yeah.”

  Ramone and Rhonda took one step into the foyer. Ramone badged the man as Rhonda looked over his shoulder, trying to determine if there was anyone else in the house. She thought she heard movement from somewhere in the rear.

  “I’m Detective Ramone and this is Detective Willis. Are you Aldan Tinsley?”

  “Nah, he’s not in at this time.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m his cousin.”

 
Ramone tried to match the man in front of him to the photograph he had seen on the sheet. He looked like Aldan Tinsley. He could have been his cousin, too.

  “You got some ID?” said Rhonda.

  “You still there, girl?” said the man into the phone.

  “I’m gonna ask you to end that call, sir,” said Ramone.

  “I’ll hit you back,” said the man into his cell. “Police up in here lookin for my cousin.”

  The man clipped his cell on his belt line.

  “Can we see some identification?” said Rhonda.

  “What’s this regarding?”

  “Are you Aldan Tinsley?” said Ramone.

  “Look, you got a warrant? ’Cause if not, you stepped into my house, and that’s trespassing.”

  “Are you Aldan Tinsley?” said Ramone.

  “Look, fuck y’all, okay? My cousin ain’t here.”

  “Fuck us?” said Ramone. He felt himself smile.

  “I’m sayin, this shit ain’t right. I really don’t have the time for it, so you gonna have to excuse me.”

  The man tried to close the door. The detectives stood still, and the door swung toward Rhonda and clipped her shoulder, knocking her off balance. Ramone kicked the door back violently and stepped full into the house.

  “That’s assault,” said Ramone.

  He grabbed two fistfuls of the man’s T-shirt and danced him across the room. He put him up against a wall. The man struggled under Ramone’s grasp and tried to twist free, and Ramone lifted him off his feet and tripped him, and as he was falling Ramone put more into it and slammed him down onto the hardwood floor. Ramone heard Rhonda on the radio, calling the patrolman. He reached for his cuffs and turned the man over, noticing the blood on his lips and teeth from when his face had hit the wood. Ramone put his knee in the man’s back as he fitted the cuffs to his wrists.

  The man muttered something obscene under his breath. Ramone told him to shut his mouth.

  An older woman walked into the room. She carried a dinner plate and a rag she had been using to dry it. She stared at the man lying cuffed and bloody on the floor.

  “Beano,” she said with disappointment in her voice. “What you done now?”

  “Is this Aldan Tinsley, ma’am?” said Ramone.