A Killing Night

by Jonathon King

  The prosecutor followed the direction of Billy’s pointed hand and when he looked at me I could see the flicker of an unexpected twitch in his eyes. This was obviously supposed to have been a slam- dunk lockdown of O’Shea with little objection by the overworked and uninvolved public defender.

  “Mr. Cornheiser?” the judge said, maybe even enjoying the elevated banter in his otherwise dull morning.

  “I, uh, again, Your Honor,” the prosecutor stumbled. “This was, sir, a brutal attack and the hospitalized victim, sir…”

  “You’re repeating yourself, Mr. Cornheiser. Bail in the amount of ten thousand cash or bond,” the judge said, interrupting. He had been around long enough to know that when an attorney only had one leg to stand on, his only resort was to hop up and down on it.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Billy said, gathering his things.

  “Thank you, Mr. Manchester,” the judge responded. “And I apologize, sir, for my earlier assumption, counselor.”

  Billy bowed his head gracefully and walked across to where O’Shea was now sitting.

  “We sh-shall have you out by noon,” he said, and I heard O’Shea thank him. As Billy turned to go the big man cuffed to O’Shea stopped him with his voice.

  “You got a card, Mr. Attorney?” he said, holding out a hand the size of a dinner plate.

  Billy looked down into the man’s face.

  “I don’t do this kind of work,” he said dismissively and walked on.

  Richards was waiting outside. She’d left after the judge announced bail. Her companion was gone. Her arms were crossed, lips pressed together. She was looking at the floor as we walked up and Billy excused himself before we reached her.

  “I’m going to p-post O’Shea’s bail,” he said, heading for the lines. I went to face Richards alone.

  “So, Max,” she said when I got within hearing distance. Her eyes were the color of steel.

  “I really didn’t expect the two of you to double-team me in there. You must have done an exceptional sales job to convince Billy to stand up in front of a judge in person.”

  She and Billy had been friendly when we were dating. She shared his love of sailing. She respected his genius and had never asked me once about his stutter. She was pissed. Still, I knew that my explanation was weak. How do you tell someone you think they’re wrong based on a gut feeling, a half-assed dealer theory and maybe a misplaced loyalty to a fellow cop?

  “I hope you two can guarantee that he’s not going to put another woman at risk while he’s out roaming free,” she said.

  I looked away from her eyes, then back.

  “Look, Sherry. I respect what you’re doing,” I said. “I just think you’re wrong on this one.”

  “No shit.”

  I let her anger sit a few silent moments and maybe my own, too.

  “Sherry,” I tried again. “You’ve shot and killed two men in the last couple of years, men who were abusing women. You were fully justified in both.”

  “And saved your ass in one, Freeman,” she said, her arms still crossed.

  “And saved my ass,” I agreed. “You’re also a solid investigator and I know you haven’t forgotten the rule to keep an open mind and consider all possibilities.”

  She looked down and I could see she was holding her tongue, taking my words like an unwanted and condescending lecture. I took my chance and pressed on.

  “Can you honestly say this mission you’re on hasn’t gotten in the way of your eye for other suspects?”

  I’d meant to appeal to her professionalism and now I was questioning it.

  “Freeman, I’ve been working this for months. I’ve dealt out the other possibilities. Christ, I even posed as a bartender to run a living, breathing lineup past myself every night. Your friend is the one that sticks out. He fits the profile, and yeah, it’s the profile I put together, but he’s right there. If he hadn’t made me as undercover, I might have gotten him to make a move or give up a piece of evidence. That didn’t happen, but I saw him in action.”

  “OK,” I said. “How about someone you never saw in action? Someone who might fit your profile, but who would have bailed at the first sign or recognition of a cop?”

  She finally looked me in the eyes.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Max?”

  “Suppose you’ve got over-the-counter drug dealing going on in a bar? The supplier is smart, he recruits the girls working as bartenders.”

  I saw the head tilt start, the draw of exasperated breath.

  “Just hear me out. OK?” I said. She relented and chewed on a corner of her lip.

  “Suppose the supplier is smart enough to move these girls around, to different cities or states, or just sends them packing when he thinks they might compromise his action?”

  I reached into my pocket and took out the photo that O’Shea had taken and offered it to her.

  “Ever seen this guy before?”

  She looked, brow scrunching, studying longer than necessary.

  “I’ve seen him before,” she finally said. “But I’ve never seen him here. This is Kim’s, right?”

  She was a good investigator, strong in the details. She probably recognized the jukebox just as I had.

  “You have a name?” I said.

  “No, I’m not that familiar.”

  “He snuck out of Kim’s the other night as soon as you walked in.”

  The corner of her mouth turned up.

  “Lot of people wouldn’t want to be seen sitting at a bar by a detective.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said and waited.

  “Why else did you single him out, Max?”

  “He seemed to have some kind of connection to the new bartender, the one who was watching us that day when we were interviewing Laurie.”

  “Connection?”

  “Yeah. When he bolted, she kept looking from us to the spot he left, very nervous.”

  She was still looking at the photo, her eyes narrowed. There was something else there, I was sure of it. And she was trying to decide whether she was going to share it with me.

  “He’s a cop. Works patrol. Maybe even in that sector,” she said, looking up into my face.

  “No shit,” I said, mostly to myself.

  “Easy, Freeman,” she started. “Lots of cops wouldn’t want to be caught at a bar by a superior officer, even if they’re off hours. Who knows, maybe he doesn’t want word getting back to the wife?”

  “Can you get a name and run a history, get a look at his record?” I said, my head working the possibilities.

  “Jesus, Freeman. You’re ballsy,” she said. “Trying to blow my case on the main suspect, and asking me to help you line up another officer for the fall guy? A defense attorney would have a field day with that. ‘I understand, Detective Richards, you were also investigating another possible suspect? Doesn’t that mean you aren’t sure who may have done this?’” she said, making her voice deep and smarmy.

  Maybe I should have just let it sit. She would think about what she’d said without my holier-than-thou response. But I didn’t.

  “Come on, Sherry,” I said, stepping closer to her. “We’re not like them, the lawyers trying to argue through who wins and who loses and to hell with what’s right or just. We’re cops. We’re here to stop it. If there’s even an outside chance with this guy, you can’t just kick it to the curb.”

  “I’m a cop, Freeman. You used to be,” she said. “Maybe your old cronies up in Philadelphia forgot some of the basics of homicide investigation while they were covering themselves for getting laid on the job.” She started to say something else, then held it.

  “I’ve got a suspect who had opportunity, a suspect with a violent past, a suspect who is on the top of another agency’s list in the disappearance of another vulnerable woman. I thought you were the one who never believed in coincidences.”

  Her eyes were still burning when Billy walked up.

  “Sh-Sherry.”

  She put the phot
ograph in the pocket of her slacks and extended her hand to meet his.

  “You are l-looking great,” Billy said, taking her hand in both of his and meaning, I knew, every word.

  “Counselor,” she said. “You were quite impressive in there. I’m sure I’ll get a call from the prosecutor for not warning him who he’d be up against this morning.”

  He stepped in and at first I thought he might kiss Richards on the cheek, but instead he whispered: “It’s not personal, Sherry.” And then louder: “I s-still need a good crew person on my Sunday b-beer can races. Diane is learning, but slowly.”

  “I’ll see if I can get a weekend evening free,” she said.

  “Wonderful,” Billy said and turned to me. “Ready?”

  He stepped away and I turned to Richards.

  “I’ll guarantee it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll guarantee that no one will be in jeopardy while O’Shea is out.”

  She didn’t answer. She just nodded. When I caught up with Billy I looked back and her hand was back in the pocket of her slacks.

  We walked over to the county courthouse which was next to the jail. Billy said he needed to visit an acquaintance. As an attorney, he might never show up in court, but the man had more connections than a senator at a lobbyist’s convention.

  “It w-will take a couple of hours for them to process O’Shea out.”

  “You paid his bond, cash?”

  “A cashier’s ch-check,” he corrected.

  “You just happened to have it in the exact amount?”

  “I anticipated.”

  “Pretty damned sure of yourself, Counselor.”

  He paused a second.

  “It was n-not as unpleasant as I thought it might be, M-Max.”

  This time I paused, letting Billy consider what he was saying about his lifelong fear that his stutter was an intolerable flaw that society would forever hold against him.

  “So if this goes to trial, you’ll represent him?”

  He stopped at the corner.

  “They don’t t-take aggravated assault to trial, M-Max. They deal them down and plead them out.”

  “I meant if they tag him for the disappearances,” I said. This time he looked me in the eyes.

  “Be careful, M-Max,” he said without hesitation. “If they come up with enough evidence to indict O’Shea on homicide charges, w- we both may have made big mistakes.”

  CHAPTER 21

  She knew she’d made a mistake, and now she was paying for it. Scared as hell, and paying for it.

  They’d gone to dinner, his choice, the steak house that she was really getting sick of, but whenever she balked he gave her that look, the one that made her turn her face away, waiting, the skin on her cheek almost warming like she’d already been slapped.

  But the dinner conversation went well. He was smart, no doubt about that. He kept up on current events and spoke intelligently about issues that she rarely paid attention to. They’d talked, like adults. Then they went to the movies, again, his choice. Again, somehow, they always ended up at the show he first suggested. Not that she hated them. It was just that if she mentioned another film, he’d say “Yeah, OK, that’s a possibility. Let’s see what else there is,” and by the time they went through the listings in the paper, they’d be right back to his choice.

  She’d thought about her father then, how they always “discussed” things but whenever it looked like she might get something her way, he’d pull his trump card: “Your holy mother and the Lord himself are looking down on us, Marci. Ask them. What would they do?”

  Kyle didn’t have to push those cheap buttons. His trump card was now the back of his hand. In the last two weeks he’d stung her a couple of times. She’d told herself that was it. Then he’d show up with apologizing flowers. Then there was that “love light” with the candle in it that he said he wanted her to hang in her window to remind him that even brushing his hand too close to the flame could put it out, and he would never do it again. Christ, she’d thought. How do you dump a guy like that?

  She’d told him after the movies that she didn’t want to go riding again. She was tired. She had another double shift coming up. He started driving out Broward Boulevard and pulled the flask filled with Maker’s Mark from under the seat and didn’t bother mixing it, just sipped it, right out in traffic.

  “Come on, Marci. Just for a little while.”

  “Kyle, no,” she said. He didn’t like no. But she wasn’t sure she cared anymore.

  “Oh, I see. I take you to dinner. I take you to the movies. Then when I want to do something for me, it’s no.”

  She was silent and he looked over. She sat there, slack-jawed. Then she let that half-grin come into her face, the one she knew pissed him off. The one he called her “It’s almost amusing how stupid you are” look. Then she made her big mistake. They were already west of Dixie Highway, past where he should have turned to take her home.

  “Christ!” she snapped. “Can’t you give up this ‘My way, my way, my way’ all the time and give someone else a little say?”

  She watched those marbles in his jaw start to roll, but didn’t care this time.

  “I mean, goddamn. It’s not always about you, Kyle, and you ruin it when you’re always making it about you!”

  He still remained quiet, but she could feel the car accelerate as they passed the Fort Lauderdale Police Department building doing at least fifteen over the speed limit. But what were his friends going to do? Pull him over?

  “Goddammit, Kyle. Take me home! Now!”

  The movement was faster than she could catch in the soft darkness of the car. She didn’t even pick up on it until the impact snapped her head to the side. He’d backhanded her with the speed and lightning-fast anger she’d seen him use on others. The sound of his skin and knuckles smacking her cheek and the bridge of her nose came a millisecond before the sting of pain.

  For a moment she thought she hadn’t even had time to close her eyes, and was astounded that someone’s hand could be faster than a blink. Then she opened her eyes and oriented herself. She was against the door. Kyle was staring straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. She blinked through welling tears and looked out the windshield, thinking. Now they were pulling up to the I-95 entrance and she could make out the blur of colored traffic lights going from green to yellow. She felt the car slow, felt for the door handle and clack! The locks snapped down. He’d anticipated her move, flipped on his siren and lights and swung through the red light, gathering speed onto the interstate. She knew she’d made her big mistake. Now she was scared.

  CHAPTER 22

  Turnkey” sandwich. Maybe the food was better than the prison wit. I had coffee and watched the morning hustle. There were lots of ties and an equal number of wonderful women’s dresses. There was an energy around the place, people moving, bumping, saying hello or even avoiding eye contact. A guy shuffled a briefcase from one hand to the other to dig for change. A woman watched the eyes of the cashier, waiting for them to catch hers and take an order. A too loud guffaw sounded from the knot of three suited men, causing the rest to turn and look. People moved with purpose and checked their watches. In my semi-isolation I had lost some of my people-watching skills. It had been a constant when I’d worked a beat, watching, and not always just for the pickpocket working his way through the tourists or the smack dealer hooking up with a new face on the corner. You had to have a suspicious eye as a cop. But you also had to remind yourself that ninety-nine percent of what went on around you were folks just living, working honest jobs, filling their spot in the world. You got jaded if you weren’t careful and did something stupid or just burned out. Richards’s words were still stinging. She was right. She was the cop. I wasn’t. But I resented her implication that I’d gone home and fallen back into the brotherhood of see-no-evil. I’d gotten jaded and left. The shadows followed, but I had left.After I left Billy I went across the street to the Barrister’s Bagel and had breakfast. T
hey had a special on a “Locks &

  I bought another large coffee to go and walked back to the jailhouse. I was on the outside bench when O’Shea came through the doors, automatically looked up into the sky and took a deep breath of air, and then spotted me.

  “Thanks, Max,” he said, shaking my hand, “and your friend Manchester.”

  His eyes were red-rimmed. He’d only been in overnight but looked like he’d lost weight. His clothes carried a stink that flashed me back to Philadelphia lockups that we as officers only had to stand for a few minutes and then joked about back in the squad rooms.

  “You all right?” I said, watching his face.

  “You see that bitch, Richards, standing in the back of the courtroom?”

  I just nodded.

  “Took that fucking gloat off her face, your boy Manchester did.”

  “He’s good,” I said. “You need a ride home? Want to get something to eat? It’s almost noon.”

  O’Shea nodded and walked with me.

  “What’s with that guy’s stutter, anyway?” he said after a few moments. “He puttin’ that on for a sympathy factor or what?”

  “Does he look like a guy who needs sympathy?” I said, sharp, snapping to Billy’s defense even when he didn’t need it.

  “No. Shit, no. He kicked their ass,” O’Shea said and took my tone and let it go.

  We got to my truck and as soon as I started the engine I hit the automatic windows and pulled out of the parking to get some air circulating. I got on Andrews Avenue and headed north. O’Shea put his arm out his window.

  “Back in the world. Isn’t that what the cons say?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Christ, only one night and you can feel it,” he said. “I can’t understand why they even take the gamble.”

  I looked over at the side of his face when he said it. She was wrong, I thought again, shifting more of my doubt. O’Shea wasn’t the one. When I got to Sunrise Boulevard I started east and then threw a U-turn at the crossover and pulled into a small lot at Hot Dog Heaven. Chicago-style dogs. Best in the city. Plus tables outside in the breeze. I bought two with everything for O’Shea and couldn’t help myself and got a third for me. We sat at a picnic table outside, only fifteen feet from the street traffic. I let him finish the first dog.