by David Hosp
Cassian was also running his hands over Train’s vest, searching for any sign of penetration. “You okay?” he was yelling. “Are you hit anywhere?”
Train shook his head. “I’m fine,” he managed to say at last.
Cassian nodded at him, and then turned to Minnelli, who was still pointing his gun at Jerome Washington. “Stay with him!” Cassian ordered. Then he got to his feet and slid across the wall toward the edge of the bathroom door. Train watched as his partner set himself and then swung into the room, pointing his gun into each corner. It was empty.
Train got to his knees, still shaky from the impact of the round in his chest. It felt like someone had hit him with a baseball bat. He looked over at Minnelli, whose eyes were wide, but who seemed well in control of Washington. He nodded at him. “Stay here,” he said, confirming Cassian’s orders. Then he got to his feet and followed Cassian into the bathroom.
Cassian was already over by an open window in the corner of the room, but was plastered up against the wall. “You all right?” he asked again as he inched closer to the edge of the window.
“Yeah. You?” Train kept low, in part to avoid any shots coming through the window, and in part because the pain in his ribs made it difficult to stand straight.
“Oh, just fuckin’ great.” With that, Cassian gave a smile and thrust his gun through the window.
The shooter was moving quickly, crab-walking down the shallow-sloped roof at the back of the house a short jump down from the bathroom window. Train came up behind Cassian so he could see what was happening. The suspect looked young—Train was guessing only fifteen or sixteen—and he flew down the structure, disappearing over the edge of the roof just as Cassian seemed to get him within his sights.
“He’s going down, out the back!” Cassian yelled. Train wondered where Kiper and Halston were. They were supposed to be covering the back alley to prevent anyone from escaping in that direction. He felt his chest tighten at the notion that the little punk might get away, but then he saw the officers. They were partially concealed behind some overgrown bushes toward the end of the backyard. Just then, the shooter emerged on the ground from behind the roof. He was limping, now, and he looked up at the window, raising his gun and firing off two shots that went wild, missing Cassian and Train by several feet.
Cassian drew a bead on the young man, and appeared ready to shoot, but Train tapped his shoulder and nodded toward the other officers. “Let them get him,” he said.
The young man was moving below again, sprinting toward the gate at the back of the lot that led into the alley. As he ran, he looked back over his shoulder twice, to be sure that no one was shooting at him. That was his mistake.
The first blow caught him completely by surprise, landing on his wrist, just above the hand that held his gun. It made a sickening sound that Train could hear from all the way up in the window as the bones in the boy’s forearm snapped. Train watched as the young man looked up just in time to see Halston raising his police baton again. He tried to duck, but the second blow caught him behind the ear and he went down hard, unable to make a sound.
The two officers in the yard pounced on the boy, labeling him with kicks and punches to the head and torso.
“Stop!” Cassian yelled from the window. The two officers looked up with expressions of shock. Train couldn’t tell whether it was shock at their own brutality, or at the fact that Cassian was calling them off. There was a momentary standoff, as Halston and Kiper seemed inclined to pick up where they’d left off. As the senior detective, Train knew they would take their cue from him. He felt his ribs, and recognized that there was a part of him that wanted the beating to continue. Shooting at a police officer should come with drastic repercussions, and too often the judicial system allowed suspects— particularly young suspects—to walk too freely. There was a part of Train that wanted revenge.
At the same time, he knew that it would be an empty revenge, and it would leave him unsatisfied. “Call it in,” he said to Cassian quietly, pulling away from the window, signaling an end to the retribution.
Chapter Twelve
MINNELLI HAD CUFFED Jerome Washington by the time Train and Cassian returned from the bathroom, but he still had his gun pointed at the restrained man, just in case. Train still felt awful, but better than he had a right to expect, given the circumstances.
“What happened?” Minnelli asked.
“Halston and Kiper got him going out the back,” Cassian said.
“Alive?” Minnelli looked hopeful that the answer would be no.
“More or less,” Cassian replied. He looked over at Train, who was still holding his ribs. “You sure you’re all right, Sarge? Even with the vest, a direct hit like that can do some damage.”
Train nodded. “I’ve had worse,” he said. “Couple of Advil and a scotch, and I’ll be fine.” He looked at his partner, and the two exchanged a nod of understanding. They were both fully aware that Train would be dead if Cassian hadn’t forced him to wear the vest.
Cassian turned to Washington. “Anyone else up here we should know about, Jerome?” he asked.
“I don’t have nothin’ to say, man. I just stopped in here for a rest, y’know? I don’t even know who that was in the bathroom. Damn, I thought the place was empty.”
“Yeah, I can see how that might happen.” Cassian looked at Minnelli. “You search him?”
Minnelli nodded. “He’s clean.” He pointed to the chair where Washington was sitting. “There’s a stash underneath him, though. I didn’t touch it yet. I didn’t want to mess up the evidence.”
Train looked over at Cassian. He was in too much pain to get down on his knees to take a look, so Cassian took the hint and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, walking over toward Washington. He went to the side of the chair and knelt down, lifting up the fabric of the chair. “Oh, my!” he exclaimed in mock surprise. He reached under the chair and pulled out a plastic bag filled with crack cocaine. “Got a good little business working here, huh, Jerome?”
“Shit’s not mine,” Jerome said sullenly.
Cassian looked around the room. “Really? Well, you’re the only one here, aren’t you? That’s a pretty unfortunate coincidence for you.”
“You got a warrant?” Washington challenged.
Cassian laughed, looking at Train. “Look who’s turned into a jailhouse lawyer.”
“We don’t need a warrant, Jerome,” Train said. “You see, you’re a trespasser here.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m assuming you don’t own this place, right?” Jerome said nothing. “I’ll take that as a no. So you don’t have what they call an ‘expectation of privacy’ here. You can look that up in the prison law library when you get back there. Plus, I’m also guessing that was one of your runners who went out the window after he took a shot at us, so we have the right to search any area you— the suspect—might be able to reach to grab a weapon. I’d say under the chair qualifies. Any way you look at it, you’re in a whole heap of shit.”
Washington glared at Train. “You got a hard-on for me, D-Train? You got nothin’ better to do? I thought you were workin’ homicide these days, anyway. You come back after me just for kicks?”
“Actually, I’m the one having fun, Jerome,” Cassian said. “Sarge over there looks at this kind of thing like a job. I see it as a cheap entertainment.”
“We came here just to talk to you, Jerome. We weren’t lookin’ to jam you up, but now that we’ve found the rocks, we may be in a different position. Unless you talk to us.”
“Fuck you, D-Train. I want a lawyer.”
Train shook his head. “That’s your right—and your call, Jerome, if you want to make it. But you may do better if you just talk to us first.”
Cassian pulled Washington up out of the chair roughly, elbowing him in the stomach and leaning in close as he doubled over. “I think you should take the man’s advice.”
Washington glared up at Cassian and then turned back to Train. “Bullshit, Train,” he sp
at out. “You can call off your boy, here, ’cause I ain’t buyin’ it. You ain’t never looked out for me. Not when I was growin’ up, not when you busted me the first time, and sure as shit not now.”
“You’re wrong, Jerome,” Train said.
“Save it, D-Train. Mr. high school hero. Mr. college star. What you say don’t mean shit to me. Look where all your ‘success’ got you—bustin’ your own people in your own neighborhood. Save your sympathy and your self-righteousness—it’s all a bunch of bullshit to me anyhow.”
Train looked at Jerome Washington for a moment, and he could feel his shoulders tighten. There was a part of him that wanted to take a swing at the young man: to feel the satisfaction of knocking him senseless. He’d get away with it, too. A bruise or two on a suspect brought into the station house was almost expected, and if Washington complained, it would be his word against the word of two detectives and a patrolman. Neither Cassian nor Minnelli would take sides against Train.
But Train knew he wouldn’t do it. As much as he might have enjoyed pummeling the young man, to do so would only prove him right, and Train was better than that. At least, he thought he was.
“Let’s put this piece of shit in the car and get him down to the station,” Train said, rubbing his chest. Then he turned and headed down the stairs.
Chapter Thirteen
SYDNEY CHAPIN SAT in the library of her mother’s house, staring out the back window into the generous yard that was ringed with tall trees and a wall of bushes that surrounded the property. With all the coverage provided by the greenery, you’d never know that the house stood in the middle of one of the nation’s largest cities.
The house was quiet. Her mother had disappeared a little after noon; she’d said that she had to make some “arrangements,” and although she hadn’t elaborated, Sydney assumed she was attending to the details of Liz’s funeral.
Amanda had slept through the night, which was a blessing. She’d awakened briefly while the doctor was there in the morning, and although she still hadn’t spoken, she seemed more aware and responsive than she’d been the prior day after her gruesome discovery. She’d fallen back to sleep quickly, aided by the pills coaxed down her throat, and the doctor didn’t expect her to wake again before the evening. “A shock like this exhausts the system,” he’d explained. “If she’s still not speaking in a day or two, we’ll take her in to a neurologist, just to be sure, but I don’t expect that to be necessary.” That left Sydney alone in the house, for all intents and purposes.
She walked over to the small marble table near the library door; the day’s newspapers had been fanned out there on the table as always. The New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, and the Washington Times were all laid out in order of national renown, crisp and neat and imposing.
She picked up the Washington Post and unfolded it so she could see the entire front page. The story was there; below the fold, but on the front page nonetheless. “Post Reporter Knifed to Death.” That was the headline; not very dignified, Sydney thought. The article itself seemed to take pains to describe in the fullest possible detail the physical violations visited on her sister, even teasingly pointing out that the police “would not comment on whether Ms. Creay had been sexually assaulted.” Of course, the police had told the family that there didn’t appear to be any sign of rape, but as long as the newspapers could work sex into the article, even in its vilest form, it would seem more sensational. It was, Sydney believed, proof that the media were willing to devour even their own in the pursuit of any story that would sell.
And yet the story wasn’t all bad. It contained a glowing account of Liz’s life; a life with which, as she read, Sydney became acutely aware she was unfamiliar. The article described Liz’s involvement with various charities and civic organizations. It detailed interviews with several of the people whose lives her sister had touched: a lonely old woman who had lost her son to gang violence whom Liz made time to visit every week; a young girl to whom Liz had been a tutor and a mentor; a fellow volunteer at the Special Olympics. Each of them told stories of boundless kindness and energy, and these made Sydney feel angry again at the loss of her sister.
The article also mentioned many of the news stories Liz had written in the past two years since joining the Post, describing most of them as powerful and controversial. She had been responsible, the paper said, for leading an investigation into the former mayor’s office that had proved politically devastating, and had been credited with costing him any chance at reelection. She had investigated irregularities in the trading of the city workers’ pension fund, which had led to the indictment of several prominent fund managers. She had shined a light onto the practices of several city hospitals that were accused of gouging people without medical insurance, violating numerous federal laws in the process.
In all, other than the unnecessarily detailed description of the circumstances of Liz’s death, the article was complimentary and well written, and Sydney found herself again wishing she’d known her sister better. She felt a thirst to understand her only sibling in a way she knew she would never have the opportunity to do.
It took a moment before she realized she was crying, and the tears brought to her a recognition of the strange cocktail of anger and sadness that was flowing through her body. She wiped her face and cleared her throat; there was no point in wallowing. That wasn’t what Liz would want her to do.
Sydney got off the leather chair and turned toward the door. She took a step in that direction before she froze, a feeling of absolute emotional panic ripping through her.
Amanda stood in the doorway. Her hair was a mess, and she was wearing sweatpants and a dirty T-shirt—the same T-shirt they had put on her when they’d put her to bed the prior evening. But it wasn’t the disheveled appearance that so startled Sydney; it was the expression on her face. She looked calm—poised, even—as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened to her in weeks.
Sydney stood as still as she could, afraid to make any move lest she unsettle her niece. The fear that raced through her heart was the worst she’d ever experienced—the terror of her own inadequacy. Faced with the pain and need that was so plain in Amanda, Sydney worried that she would’t be strong enough to help her in any way that would make a difference.
“Amanda—” she began, and then stopped. She had no idea what to say. What do you say to a fourteen-year-old girl who’s just found her mother brutally murdered in her apartment? “Good morning,” she managed at last.
“Is it morning?” Amanda asked, her voice even but stilted, as if emotions couldn’t make it past her vocal cords.
Sydney looked at her watch. “No, I guess it’s not.” The two of them stood silently for a long moment, neither of them moving. “How do you feel?” Sydney ventured tentatively.
Amanda’s eyes went down and focused inward, as if taking genuine stock of her well-being in response to the question. After a moment, she gave a look that seemed to fall somewhere between a nod and a shrug. “Where’s my mom?” she asked.
Sydney gave no visible reaction, even as her heart rate doubled. How am I supposed to handle this? She looked closely at her niece, wondering whether she’d lost the memory of having found her mother. It was possible; after all, who could imagine a more traumatic experience?
“Amanda, your mother had an accident,” Sydney said softly, with as much tenderness as she could.
“My mother’s dead,” Amanda said, rolling her eyes slightly. “She was murdered—I haven’t forgotten.” Sydney felt like her niece had been able to read her face. “I want to know where her body is.”
Sydney was rocked by the matter-of-fact tone of Amanda’s voice. In many ways, it reminded her of her own mother. She recovered quickly and took a deep breath. “She’s down at the hospital,” she said, answering Amanda’s question. “At the morgue.” Her own words sounded harsh to Sydney, but they seemed to satisfy Amanda.
“Where’s Grandmother?”
�
�She had to”—make your mother’s funeral arrangements, Sydney thought—“run some errands.”
Amanda nodded, and the two of them stood in silence again, looking at each other almost as strangers, both petrified of each other. And then something happened. Amanda glanced away for a brief second, and then looked Sydney in the eyes. “Sydney?” she started.
Sydney focused hard on her niece, and for the first time she noticed that the teenager’s lower lip was quivering ever so slightly, the tears beginning to gather in the corners of her eyes, like puddles in the rain, welling until they spilled over, running down her cheeks. “Yes?” Sydney answered.
“What happens now?”
Sydney could feel her own tears falling again now, dribbling down over her lips and off her chin freely. She moved forward, opening her arms to Amanda, who took two quick steps and nearly fell against her, sobbing. Sydney closed her arms around the girl and held her tightly, rubbing her back, trying to find the words to comfort her.
“Now,” she said at last, her own voice sounding foreign to her, “we work together—you and me and your grandmother. We put our lives back together and we move forward— because that’s what your mother would have wanted us to do.”
Amanda buried her face deeply into Sydney’s shoulder, holding on to her as if for dear life, sobbing harder now. And yet, somehow, Sydney sensed that some of the emotion spilling out of the young girl, mixing with the grief and fear that was inevitable, was relief.
Chapter Fourteen
TRAIN WAS STILL HOLDING his ribs when he walked into the First District station house on Capitol Hill. He let Cassian deal with Jerome Washington to avoid any residual temptation to exact some retribution, and he held back a few yards as he watched his partner manhandle the drug dealer through the booking process.
