Dead End Fix

by T. E. Woods

  D’Loco leaned against the window. “Ooh-wee. Boy, there’s no stoppin’ what good you do for the brotherhood, is there? Where you learn about all that?”

  Kashawn couldn’t tell him it came from hours spent in the library, reading whatever book or magazine caught his eye. Anything to keep from going back to those foster homes.

  “I pick things up. Never know when a man might need to know somethin’.”

  D’Loco smiled. “You make me proud, son.”

  Kashawn figured he was supposed to say something, but in that moment it was all he could do to breathe. J-Fox spared him from humiliating himself.

  “All eyes, all eyes.” J-Fox turned off the sound system. “Three cars up. My side.”

  Kashawn glanced ahead. Another SUV. Black like D’Loco’s Escalade. Tinted windows dark as the law allowed. Hip-hop music blasting a sonic roar over the Orchard Avenue traffic.

  “Right-hand bumper,” J-Fox said. “Check it.”

  Kashawn zeroed in. A decal. About the size of a man’s hand. An outline of the state of California. Solid red.

  Pico Underground.

  J-Fox, Big Cheeks, and D’Loco freed their guns and laid them in their laps. Kashawn overrode his pounding heart and pulled his own piece from his jacket pocket.

  “I’ma pull up.” J-Fox powered down all the windows in the Escalade. “Green K, it’s on you. You got the angle.”

  Kashawn turned his nervous eyes to D’Loco.

  “J-Fox will pull up slow,” D’Loco instructed. “When they make us—”

  “Already have,” J-Fox interrupted. “They got windows down.”

  “We ready, then,” D’Loco continued. “Green K, keep your eyes on the man riding shotgun. We don’t want no daylight trouble in this kind of traffic, but if they feelin’ froggy we’re gonna jump. You watch him. If he reaches down or leans forward, you take your shot.”

  “But…” But what if he’s reaching for a soda? Kashawn thought.

  “No buts, boy. He make a move, you pop him. J-Fox will take off. Then you aim for their front window. Just keep firing until you’re out of lead. Like I said, we don’t want no trouble. But if those Picos are crazy enough to ask us to dance, we got ’em.” D’Loco offered him a reassuring smile. “ ’Sides. This is old shit for you, right? You took down that Pico in the light of day. This here ain’t nothin’ you ain’t done before.”

  Kashawn hoped D’Loco didn’t see his shaking hand. He swallowed hard and nodded. Then he riveted his gaze on the Pico SUV. It was held in place by cars making left-hand turns. D’Loco’s Escalade rolled forward. Kashawn’s breath was short and shallow by the time the two cars were side by side.

  There was no one in the backseat. Kashawn kept his focus on the Pico riding shotgun. The Pico stared back at him. He knew Kashawn would be the shooter. The Pico looked to be just a couple of years older than Kashawn.

  Did you get a room like I did? He pushed that thought out of his mind and focused on the Pico’s shoulders.

  Don’t move. Please. Stay frozen where you are.

  Kashawn was no stranger to negative emotions. He’d seen frustration in the eyes of his teachers. Anger in the faces of social workers. Punishing rage pouring out of more than one foster parent. But none of those experiences prepared him for the slow-motion gaze of the Pico. Kashawn stared into pure animal hatred. It was the face of a creature bent on a single mission: to destroy the thing it was looking at.

  Please don’t move. Kashawn’s finger shivered against the trigger.

  No one spoke. Kashawn could no longer hear the booming music. It was drowned out by the deafening roar of his own heartbeat pounding a rhythm of panic deep inside his skull. He kept his eyes locked on the Pico’s shoulders.

  Please don’t move.

  Their Escalade glided forward. Kashawn swiveled in his seat, his eyes still on his target as J-Fox cleared the intersection.

  “Hot damn!” J-Fox raised the car windows. “Fuckin’ Picos knew better! They knew we had ’em! Whew! That was some shit right there.”

  Kashawn allowed himself to breathe. He settled back into his seat, looking forward. It took a few moments before he stole a glance toward D’Loco. His leader’s face was a warrior’s stony mask.

  D’Loco gave him one brief nod.

  “Count me good for a hundred large, Big Cheeks,” D’Loco said. “Go hire yourself some suits.”

  Chapter 17

  Seattle

  “How is it our paths don’t cross more often?” Mort asked the African American man sitting behind a gray metal desk held over from the Eisenhower administration. “From what you’re telling me there’s enough homicide generated by these gangs that at the very least we should be drinking buddies.”

  Lincoln Lane chuckled. “Could be a couple of reasons, I guess. Maybe the department likes to save the grand and noble Mort Grant for high-profile murders.” He ran a hand across his close-cropped black hair. “Short brothers like me don’t look too regal standing next to the mayor or the chief. If they’re smart, they’ll get a good-lookin’ dandy such as yourself to address the press when the city’s been saved from yet another killer.”

  Mort liked the flattened consonants he heard when Lincoln Lane spoke. While he had never shared a case with the department’s gang specialist, they had attended several meetings together over the years. Mort knew a bit of his background. Lincoln Lyndon Lane was born on Chicago’s south side. His father moved the family to Seattle before Lincoln started kindergarten. Lincoln’s dad found work at the Boeing plant and his mother added to the family’s income by working as a nursing assistant. Lincoln and his younger brother, Franklin, also a Seattle cop, were products of local public schools, but neither had been able to escape the heartland accent they heard at home.

  “My own money’s on my second explanation.” Lane’s teasing grin wore a twinkle.

  “Which is?” Mort asked.

  “That my shop is so damned good at what we do, once a banger commits the ultimate sin, me and mine are in no need of assistance from Mr. Fancy Chief of Homicide.”

  Mort made a show of looking down at the khakis, blue cotton shirt, and navy sport coat he wore. He was just as obvious in giving Lincoln’s blue jeans, sneakers, and University of Washington sweatshirt the once-over. “You may be on to something there, buddy. Never thought of myself as fancy, but as I see the…What is that stain there? Coffee? Mud?”

  Lincoln pulled the front of his sweatshirt away from his chest and inspected. “I believe, Detective Grant, you’re staring at the sainted mixture of barbecue sauce and five-dollar whiskey. Anointed upon me the moment the Huskies kicked a last-minute field goal from fifty-six yards to beat the bastards of USC last Saturday afternoon. The boys play Oregon State next, and I have no intention of taking off this garment until those bastards are crying all the way back to the land where beavers roam.”

  “And after that win, you’ll wear your lucky shirt for another week? It’s early in the season. Things could get pretty ripe by Thanksgiving.”

  Lincoln smoothed a hand down his flat belly. “A fan does as he must.”

  Mort smiled. Not only at Lincoln’s commitment to the Huskies but at the memory of Edie’s own superstitions. Whenever her beloved team played, Edie made him hoist the purple flag exactly sixty minutes before kickoff while she sang the school’s fight song from the porch. She was convinced her ritual was the reason for every win.

  “Jimmy and Micki have already paid me a visit.” Lincoln’s tone lost its playfulness. “The kid killed a few days back.”

  “Benji Jackson. Folks called him Banjo. Twelve years old.”

  Lincoln lowered his gaze and shook his head. “These streets are getting meaner every year.”

  “Jim and Mick tell me you don’t think it’s related to the Picos or the 97s. Help me understand that, given what you told them about Banjo’s brother.”

  Lincoln Lane locked eyes as brown as buckeyes on Mort. “There’s a lot of folks might tell you they don�
�t understand how I’ve climbed so high in the department. What with me lacking the college credentials of most squad leaders. But you can survey every officer from the Canadian border to the Columbia River and they’ll tell you there’s no one who knows the goings-on with this street filth better than Lincoln Lane. When I say the best place to hunt for Banjo’s killer is away from the posses riding this town, you can count that as gospel. This killing has nothing to do with the 97s and the Pico Underground. Doesn’t matter who the boy’s brother is.”

  “You mind telling me what you base that on?”

  “These bangers are animals. Guarded. Predatory. Ready to kill without giving a second thought to what comes next. They might wrap it up in some romantic bullshit about territory or honor, but they keep their bad blood between themselves. Killing’s a tool with these buggers. The only way Banjo’s death is tied to the Picos or the 97s is if he’s involved with their shit himself. And like I said, I know who’s who and what’s what. Bayonne Jackson, aka Three Pop, kept his little brother far away from Pico activity. Kid was pure as snow, far as anyone can tell. This is the doing of some freelance punk looking to make a name. That’s why my team didn’t raise its hand when the killing went down. You can have it. Not that it’s going to do much for your numbers.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Look, I’m so sick of what goes on in these gangs it’s about to make me rethink my brother-in-law’s offer to join his Amway pyramid. We can’t stop it. These kids have no hope. No way out of the stench and the ugliness and the death walking the streets of their hood. Kids are raising themselves, doing the best they can to get food in their bellies before Mom or Dad give the welfare check to the dealer on the corner. Schools are war zones. Nobody’s learning a blessed thing. Churches are boarded up. All most of these kids know is hooking up with the gang. They want protection. And if the 97s or the Picos don’t want ’em, they’re so desperate and scared they’ll try to stand alone. Grab themselves a gun or a knife and go on the prowl. Growling and slicing and shooting just so somebody will think twice before messing with them. That’s what you got going on here. Listen to me. Banjo got hit by some kid, maybe a couple of them, who couldn’t make the jump into an established gang. Maybe they got drunk, maybe they got mad. I don’t know. Whatever the reason, they decided to get in the car and prove to the world they’re not afraid. Banjo paid the price. You get a make on the car?”

  “Nothing reliable. Two witnesses. One saw a sedan, the other an SUV.”

  Lincoln nodded. “And you can forget about any security cameras picking something up. Not in that area. The shooters just sped off, right? Probably scared shitless about what they just did. Maybe they’ll do it again, maybe they won’t. But I’m telling you, this is random. And my gut says whoever it is has slunk back into their hidey-hole. This case is going to go cold.”

  “Not on my watch.”

  “Bull fucking shit.” Lane’s cynicism sounded loud and clear. “Some white kid ODs in a dorm room or a society name gets himself offed? You and your team will get called off Banjo’s case faster than you can say, Sorry, kid. It’ll be just another inner-city youth fell victim to the streets. Isn’t it a shame? people will say. They’ll cluck and sigh how somebody ought to do something. Then it’ll be time for Dancing with the Stars and everyone will forget about little black Banjo.”

  Mort took his time responding. He weighed the pessimism of Lincoln Lane against the man’s wealth of experience. Then he considered his own weariness at the state of the human condition. He knew how cruel one human being could be to another if they were scared enough. He also knew how indifferent otherwise good and caring people could be when trouble befell someone who didn’t look like them. Still, he didn’t want to believe Lane’s assessment of the case.

  “Maybe it’s best my team take it, after all.” Mort stood and stepped to the door. “Mind if we check in with you from time to time to tap your expertise?”

  Lane gave a salute. “Always eager to serve. But I’m telling you, you’re wasting time barking up any tree planted on Pico or 97 turf.”

  Mort thanked him. “And I’ll be thinking about you on Saturday. Good luck against Oregon State.”

  Lane’s broad smile returned in a heartbeat. “Now there’s something worth spending your time on, detective.”

  —

  It was midafternoon when Mort walked into the interview room to greet the person seated at the metal table in the center of the space. He had spent the time after leaving Lane rereading every report associated with the murder of Benji Jackson.

  Then he had sent a car to pick up his guest.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Mort said after introducing himself. “I know you and your dad have been here before, but I wanted to talk to you myself.”

  Bayonne “Three Pop” Jackson was tall, built for speed and strength. Six foot two, two hundred pounds of sculpted muscle. He wore his hair in rows of tiny braids, tight against his skull, then falling free down to his shoulders. A rolled red bandanna was tied around his neck. His grim mask of disgust did little to hide his handsome features. Mort imagined the women swooned when Three Pop smiled. Two tattoos, outlined teardrops high on his right cheek, called attention to brown eyes, large and rimmed in the same long lashes Mort had noticed in Benji’s photos.

  “I’m sure Detectives Petty and DeVilla offered you their condolences on your loss. I’ll add mine.”

  Three Pop stared at him in silence.

  “I understand you and Benji…What do you prefer I call your brother? Benji or Banjo?”

  Three Pop gave no answer.

  “I understand you and Benji were close. Weekly basketball games. Seen around town together, that sort of thing. Far as we can tell, Benji wasn’t in any trouble at school or with his friends. What do you know that’s not in the reports?”

  Three Pop moved his gaze to the only window in the interrogation room. Mort shifted his focus.

  “I’m told Benji was quite the hoopster. High school coaches already sizing him up. You must have been very proud.”

  Three Pop sat as serene as a Zen monk.

  Mort reached for a box on the floor. “These weren’t processed when you and your dad were here.” He slid the box across the table. “Benji’s belongings. Maybe you could deliver them to your father.”

  Three Pop turned his attention to the box. He looked at it. Then he looked to Mort. “This everything?”

  Mort nodded.

  Three Pop laid a large hand on the top of the box. His countenance softened. Mort noticed the pulse in the vein running up his neck quicken.

  “Would you like some time alone?”

  Three Pop raised his eyes to the one-way mirror mounted in the wall of the interrogation room. He turned toward Mort with a questioning look.

  “No one’s back there, Bayonne.” Mort kept his tone soft. “Look. I know who you are, and we’ve each got reason not to trust the other. But we’re on the same page here. I want to find who killed your brother. Point me in a direction, a place to start. You and your father deserve to know what happened. Benji deserves justice.”

  Three Pop looked again at the box. He removed the lid and pulled out items, laying them on the table. First out was a pair of running shoes with socks tucked inside, larger than Mort would have thought possible for a twelve-year-old boy. A softness came to Three Pop’s face. Next out was a pair of jeans, faded and worn, and a white T-shirt, each stained with streaks of blood. Three Pop put a flat hand over the T-shirt, covering the dried lines of red.

  Then a denim jacket. Three Pop took a sudden, sharp breath and blinked rapidly. He unfolded the bloodied garment. His fingers lingered over the ragged edge of the sliced-off sleeve. He lifted his eyes to Mort.

  “It was like that,” Mort said. “When the police got there. Benji was wearing the jacket. One sleeve intact. The other cut. That mean anything to you?”

  Three Pop draped the jacket over his lap and tilted the box toward him. The only thing left was a large pla
stic bag, departmental issue, zip-locked to hold Benji’s student ID card, two one-dollar bills, seventy-seven cents in change, and a folded and worn Kobe Bryant player’s card.

  Three Pop’s face reverted back to a cold, stony mask. His jaw churned. He tossed the bag back into the box. Put back the shoes, T-shirt, jeans, and zip-locked bag too. Then he secured the lid, keeping only the denim jacket in his lap.

  “Work with me, Three Pop. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Three Pop wrapped himself in his silent stare. Mort waited several minutes, hoping something would loosen in the young man. Finally he pulled out his card and laid it on the table. “Don’t do anything stupid. Your father’s already lost one son.”

  Three Pop stood. “We done here?”

  When Mort nodded, Three Pop laid the denim jacket over the box containing his brother’s possessions and tucked the whole thing under his arm. He walked out the door without another word.

  Leaving Mort’s card on the table.

  Mort waited until Three Pop was on the elevator to leave the interrogation room. He crossed to the large bank of windows offering a view of the police station’s main entrance three stories below. Bayonne Jackson emerged a few minutes later, still resting Benji’s box between his hip and arm. Mort tracked him as he walked to a bench across from the parking area. Three Pop laid the box down, grabbed the denim jacket, and slid it on before walking toward his car.

  It was a perfect fit.

  —

  Mort walked into the restaurant and glanced at the clock. Two minutes past seven. He was late. Lydia would have been there ten minutes earlier. She’d sounded relaxed when he called that morning, asking if they could meet. Mort was pleased she had offered to meet him at a Tacoma restaurant halfway between her office in Olympia and his place in Seattle. She waved him over from a corner booth.

  “You catch any traffic?” He slid in across from her. The light was dim.

  “Not too bad. My last patient left at five o’clock. I had plenty of time to finish my paperwork before driving up.” She wore a cashmere sweater a shade or two lighter than her blue eyes. Her auburn hair was pulled back, with a few strands drifting across her cheeks. “I was surprised to get your call. I assumed you’d want to spend at least a few days with Robbie and the girls before we got together. Everybody okay?” She handed him a menu. “I recommend the halibut.”