American Static

by Tom Pitts

  The man stretched out on the tile beside him was young, white, and well-dressed. He was also very dead. His eyes were wide, a meaty round bullet-hole right square in the middle of his forehead. It bled some, not as much as the exit wound in the back of his head now making a small puddle on the floor. Peters now smelled gunpowder along with the formaldehyde.

  “You know who this is?” Alvarez said.

  Peters shook his head.

  The two men moved out of sight behind Peters. He couldn’t turn in the chair, but he felt them back there.

  “This is a lawyer. A fucking good one, apparently. Or at least he was, ’til he couldn’t follow my simple instructions. Goddamn lawyers always think they know better than you do. There’s only one thing that I hate more than a lawyer, Officer Peters, and that’s a cop.”

  There were more footsteps behind Peters, some furniture scraping the floor. Manuel, the bodyguard, appeared at his side with a black ballpeen hammer in his hand.

  “First we gonna find out what you know,” Alvarez said. “Then, you gonna make a little call for us.”

  ***

  Carl was on the phone trying to explain to Bill Panzer why he couldn’t come in for a statement. He’d been circling a few blocks aimlessly and he was now pulled over to give the call his full attention. He told Panzer he still hadn’t heard from Peters and he was beginning to worry. Beginning? Hell, he was seriously worried, he said. He told him about seeing Tremblay at the scene, but didn’t tell him about their second meeting.

  Steven sat in his seat across from him. Silent, watching. Carl didn’t mention Steven to Panzer and he didn’t mention Teresa either. He wondered what the old man was up to.

  Panzer was saying, “That’s all well and good, Carl. But we need to make it official. We need to get this all in a statement. You know how this works. I don’t understand why you can’t come in here. You’re stalling. I’m sure Peters is fine. Shit, if you’d pick up your phone when it rang you probably would’ve heard from him by now. I’m still at the scene, but if you’d like, we can meet at the Hall of Justice. Either way is fine with me, but we got to see you right away.”

  Carl said okay, he’d be there soon, and broke the connection. He stared at the phone screen, willing it to ring.

  Quietly, he said, “C’mon, Peters. Where the hell are you?”

  The phone rang.

  It surprised Carl and his hand twitched on the first ring. He read the caller ID and read it again. It was Peters. He hit the answer button.

  “Carl? It’s me.”

  “Where the hell have you been?” Carl said. “And where the hell are you? I was getting ready to send out the dogs.”

  “I’m okay. After you left I followed the big guy that was with Alvarez. He tore outta the place. I lost him though. I’m not far from there. I’m at Anza and Blake. Come pick me up.”

  It was Peters’ voice, but his cadence was halted. His speech was robot-like, unnatural.

  “Followed him? What for? Why haven’t you called?”

  “Have you talked to anybody?”

  It was a strange question for Peters to ask.

  “What do you mean, have I talked to anybody? Are you all right?”

  Peters only said, “The battery on my cell is dying. Just come and get me. Anza and Blake. We’ll talk then. I’ll be waiting.”

  Carl started to ask him something else but the call went dead. He stared at the screen. Call ended. He didn’t know what to think. He was relieved to hear Peters’ voice, but something didn’t sound right. Peters didn’t have the goofy upbeat tone he usually had—always had—no matter what the circumstance. He also didn’t sound like he was outside. For a guy standing on a city street corner, it was deadly silent in the background.

  Carl broke his gaze at the phone screen and looked up at Steven. The boy sensed something was wrong, clearly the call they were waiting for didn’t go as Carl had hoped.

  “You know where Anza Street is?”

  “Sounds kinda familiar,” Steven said, hoping to be helpful. “But, not really…no. You got a map, though. Right in your phone.”

  Carl nodded and reached into his jacket pocket for his mints. He popped the tin with his thumb and shook a couple into his palm.

  Steven asked, “What are those things?”

  “Just mints. You want one?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Alvarez was back on the phone with Manuel. He paced back and forth in front of Peters who still sat tied to the chair.

  “Are you sure you see no other cops?”

  Manuel was sure. He was at Anza and Blake. He’d been planted near the corner watching even before they’d forced Peters to make the call.

  “What do you mean, he’s got a kid with him? Are you sure it’s not another cop?”

  Manuel was sure.

  “How old’s this kid? You mean like a toddler, or what?”

  Manuel described the young man sitting in the car next to Carl.

  Alvarez said, “What the fuck? You keep an eye on ’em. Stay close and keep me updated.”

  Alvarez heard the other line ringing. Holding the phone away from his head he saw the screen ID: Home. He had an elaborate system of forwarding calls so they could not be traced. He couldn’t tell where the call was coming from, only that it was forwarded from home. Very few people on earth had his home number. He told Manuel, “I gotta go.”

  ***

  Quinn sat across from Teresa with a big grin on his face. He could hear the phone ringing in her hand while she held it to her ear. It was their fourth try. The previous three had all ended either with a wrong number or a frustrating recording telling them the line was no longer in service. He had no doubt Teresa was trying to get the right number. Why wouldn’t she? Her life depended on it.

  It must have rung a dozen times. No message was picking up.

  Then someone answered. Quinn heard a male voice say hello. His smile broke into a toothy grin.

  Teresa went right into the routine they’d rehearsed. “Dad, it’s me. I’m in trouble.”

  She told Alvarez she’d been abducted. She didn’t know where she was. She was scared. Where was the guy? He was taking a shit. She spoke in a hushed and hurried tone. It wasn’t hard to convince Richard Alvarez that she was scared.

  Then Quinn interrupted, playing his part. “Hey!” he bellowed. “What the fuck?” He reached over the table and unplugged the phone.

  “All right then,” he said.

  “That’s it?” Teresa asked.

  “For now. We got a few minutes, then we’re gonna take a little walk.”

  Quinn got up and started his ritual of wiping fingerprints off anything he may have touched. He started with the knife that still stuck straight out of Sofia’s chest and worked his way backward though the apartment. He didn’t bother worrying about Teresa’s prints, so he skipped the bathroom. Then, with a paper towel, he took Sofia’s cell phone out of her purse and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  While he worked, Teresa sat still at the table trying to figure out what Quinn was planning. There had to be a chance for her to escape, she only had to wait for the opportunity.

  The last thing he did was pick up his gun from the kitchen counter. “You ready, kid?” Before she got up, he set a twenty-dollar bill in front of her. “We’re going to need this in a minute. We need cigarettes and you’re buying.”

  She nodded, stood, and did her best not to look into the bedroom where Sofia’s body lay as she and Quinn went out the front door and back into the afternoon daylight.

  Once they were on the stairs, Quinn took Teresa again by the base of her elbow and steered her toward a corner store on 24th Street. His bag was still unzipped, he reminded her. It would only take a second to pull the gun and shoot her in the back if she tried to flee.

  “It won’t change my overall plan much,” he said. “Not really. It’d be better if you lived, I mean, I’d like it if you lived, but as far as the plan goes, it can go either way.”


  Saying these things into her ear as they made their way down the block.

  “Pace yourself,” he said. “We still have a few minutes.”

  Quinn stopped suddenly and told Teresa to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out the cell phone, explaining what she needed to do. “You’re gonna call nine-one-one. You tell ’em: ‘The guy you’re looking for just murdered another person, a woman. He’s still there, inside. The address is one-one-six-nine Alabama.’ That’s it. They’re gonna want more, but you hang up and drop the phone on the sidewalk. Okay?”

  She said okay and did exactly as she was told. The 9-1-1 operator pressed for more information, but Teresa dropped the cell onto the ground and Quinn crushed it with the heel of his boot.

  Once they were in the store, Quinn positioned them near the window where they could watch the front door of Sofia’s house. And then, they waited. They pretended to browse a little but never changed their spot. After about ten minutes they saw a car pull up and park in the driveway next to the house. A nice new Mercedes Benz. A small wiry man hopped out and dashed up the stairs.

  “See that there? That’s Guillermo Gutiérrez. One of your father’s right-hand men. He’s a smart little fucker, pretty handy too. I wonder why Pops sent him?”

  Teresa said, coolly and quietly, “I know who he is.”

  They watched as Gutiérrez stopped at the front door, listened, and then, without knocking, tried the knob. Quinn had left it unlocked and he now watched Gutiérrez creep right inside.

  A few more minutes went by and they heard sirens. Quinn said into Teresa’s ear, “Time to get those cigarettes.” He moved them toward the counter where an annoyed clerk had been eyeing them. The clerk didn’t speak, didn’t smile, he sat frozen beside the register with a look of suspicion still painted on his face.

  “A pack of Marlboro red and whatever she’s smoking,” Quinn said as he flashed a wide, white smile.

  By the time they were back on the sidewalk, there were three squad cars outside Sofia’s house with more arriving every second. Crown Vics, an unmarked Ford Taurus or two. Policemen ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, with guns drawn. More stood at the bottom of the stairs giving hard looks up and down the block.

  Quinn said, “Look at that. Two Asian cops. There goes two more. Two black ones. What’s that guy, a Mexican? Jesus, it’s been so long since I seen ’em swarm like this. Things really have changed.”

  Two dark sedans pulled up with pairs of plainclothes cops in both.

  “There they are. The white ones. Detectives. Homicide. The white fuckers still hanging on to the best jobs.”

  They watched from their vantage point down the block as the serious and slow detectives asked a few questions to the officers in front before they sauntered up the stoop.

  “Perfect,” Quinn purred. “One down, three to go.”

  ***

  Manuel Herrera waited patiently atop the grassy hill that gave him a full view of the intersection at Anza and Blake. It was a steep green slope that bordered the back of the University of San Francisco’s Lone Mountain campus. Too steep for buildings or paths for citizens to be walking on. Manuel was a loyal dog and, of the many things Alvarez had asked him to do over the years, this was an easy task. Beat them there and make sure they didn’t alert the police, Alvarez had said. That and keep him informed. Alvarez always wanted to be kept up to date. A lot of guys in his position liked to keep a little distance between them and the dirty work. Not Alvarez. He was hands-on. It was how he kept control.

  Manuel’s spot was high up off the street and obscured by trees. Alvarez had chosen the corner because of this spot. They’d used it before. It was almost impossible for someone on the street to notice him up there and it was quiet enough that whoever needed watching wouldn’t get mixed up in any crowds or traffic.

  He eyed the old cop and the young man sitting on the corner in their bland green Acura. Just sitting there, waiting, hoping their friend would show up. Fools, thought Manuel. He’s never going to show up—anywhere. He took down the license plate number, did his best to judge the year and make of the car. What were they doing down there, though? They sat talking, clearly having some kind of serious conversation. What would an old man be doing with a kid like that? Maybe he’s a faggot, thought Manuel. Wouldn’t be the first old cop to have a sweet tooth.

  Then he saw something else. Another car up the block. One full block back on the corner of Collins and Anza. He recognized it. A fucking Ford Focus. He knew that car.

  Tremblay.

  What the fuck was that piece of shit doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be back at the restaurant waiting for Alvarez, waiting for orders?

  He pulled out his cell and started scrolling for Alvarez’s number.

  Then the old cop’s car started up, began to move.

  Manuel hopped down the hill taking long double strides. He’d be in his car before they got two blocks.

  He reached his Dodge Charger prepared, key in hand. He jumped in and started the engine. When he looked back, he saw Tremblay’s car was already gone. He pulled his car out and started after Carl and his young friend. They’d gone up to Masonic and taken a right and were heading toward the Panhandle. As soon as Manuel made the turn he saw them less than a block ahead. If the lights played in his favor, he’d have no trouble tailing them.

  There it was, Tremblay’s car, about three car lengths ahead of him and one lane over. No question who was driving. He was staring at the back of Tremblay’s fat head. Tremblay was following the Acura, too. This was going to make it all easier. Tremblay was doing half the work for him.

  Carl and Steven had been sitting and waiting. Carl’s eyes darted from the windshield to the mirrors. His guts told him this was a ruse, but he wasn’t ready to give up on his friend yet. The seconds ticked by. Carl tried to keep his mind away from the worst-case scenario by absentmindedly asking Steven questions. What he and Quinn had for lunch. What did he say his plans were in the city? They’d just gotten round to talking about Teresa when the phone rang.

  It was Panzer saying there was another victim. This time a female. That was all he knew. He was en route to the scene.

  Carl pressed Panzer. How’d he know it was the same killer? What was the cause of death? Panzer said he had no more information, but he’d happily meet Carl at the scene.

  Carl must have mentioned it was a female victim out loud, because he looked at Steven and saw the boy’s eyes welling up. He asked Panzer for more particulars, an age, a physical description, anything. Panzer repeated he knew nothing. Carl asked Panzer the address and turned over the engine.

  As they pulled into the street, he asked the boy if he was familiar with the address. 1169 Alabama. The kid said he had no idea where that was.

  “Well, make yourself useful and punch it into my phone and tell me how the hell we get there.” Carl was having trouble hiding the apprehension in his voice.

  While Carl stayed focused on the traffic, Steven played navigator with the phone. He pulled and stretched the map with his fingers and directed Carl through streets he’d never traveled.

  Neither had time to notice the two cars weaving through traffic behind them.

  Steven wasn’t used to using this kind of phone, this kind of map, or giving directions. Although a panicked sense of urgency ran through them, it didn’t part the traffic ahead, or flatten out the city’s steep terrain. Steven made mistakes more than once and had to allow the phone’s GPS to correct itself before telling Carl which way to turn next. His stomach contracted when he thought about Teresa and he couldn’t concentrate on the map or the road.

  They worked their way through the Lower Haight and pushed through the Castro District. More than once Carl asked, “Are you sure you put the right address in there? Are you sure you spelled it right?”

  They’d reached Dolores Park when the phone went off in Steven’s hand causing the map to disappear.

  “It says Panzer.”

  Carl frowned and reac
hed for the cell. He thumbed the yes button and said hello.

  “I’m here,” Panzer said. “Where are you?”

  “On the way. You looking at the victim?”

  “Oh yeah. Fuckin’ knife right in the heart. Just like the others. Looks like our guy all right.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  Steven sat paralyzed while Carl listened to the answer. The sick feeling spread from his stomach to his whole body, causing his skin to rise up in cold goose bumps.

  Carl slowed the car. “I’ll be there in a few more minutes,” he told the man on the phone before hitting the end button and passing it back to Steven.

  Steven wanted to ask, but couldn’t.

  Carl said, “It’s not her.”

  “Are you sure? How can they know for sure?”

  “It’s a woman, probably in her late forties. They’re guessing it’s the leaseholder of the house where they found her. Sound like Teresa?”

  Steven shook his head. He was relieved she wasn’t dead, but the sick feeling didn’t dissipate. She was still out there somewhere. In danger. With Quinn.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “What now?” Steven asked.

  Carl said, “Enough with this cowboy stuff. We’re gonna head over there and see what’s going on. I’m going to have to talk to my friend on the force face to face and they’ll take it from there.”

  Steven sighed and looked out at the hilly sides of Dolores Park. Its grassy slopes forming a green bowl, lined with people tanning, lunching, and walking their dogs. All of them seeming relaxed and enjoying life in a way Steven never could. Regular life. It was right outside the car window and somehow unreachable.

  If they were going to talk to the police, the chances of him finding Teresa had just shrunk away. Would they hold him? What would happen to him if he put his fate in the hands of the police?

  “I’m sorry, kid. I’ve been putting this off, but I can’t anymore. My partner’s missing, your friend is gone, there’s a killer out there who’s probably got her. This is no time for heroics. We’ve got to do the right thing. I may be retired, but I’m still a lawman.”