“How do you know that?”
“He had his keys out and when he unlocked his car it beeped.”
“And then what?”
“He passed the other guys and all of a sudden one of those guys turned and smacked this kid right in the side of the head. He went down like a rock. You could hear it. It was like hitting a watermelon with a hammer.”
“What did the guys do?”
“They thought it was funny,” the woman said. She was disgusted.
“They were laughing and joking around and like, congratulating the guy that hit him.”
“Where did they go after that?” Boyce asked.
“I don’t know. On down the road, I guess. I waited till they were around the building here and out of sight before I called 911.” He looked at Boyce. He looked guilty. “I didn’t want any trouble with those guys.”
“It’s okay,” Boyce said. “You did the right thing. No sense making it worse.”
She turned and stepped away from the building and looked up along the roof line. Each corner had a security camera.
She turned to the patrolmen. “You got their statement and their contact info?”
One of the patrolmen held up his notebook.
“I’ll go see if the bar has something on video,” Boyce said.
She went into the bar and unhooked her badge from her belt and went to the bar. The place was packed and the bartenders were busy. It was the lunch rush. She had been here herself more than once. She loved the honey mild wings. She waited a couple of moments then leaned over the bar toward the nearest girl, a little blonde who was busy fixing drinks. Boyce shouted, “Hey!”
The girl was startled and looked up. Boyce held up her badge. “The manager.”
The girl said, “He’s in the back, I think.”
“Go get him.”
“I’m busy.”
“I’m not asking,” Boyce said.
The girl looked at her. Then looked at her again. She set the half drink down and went around the bar. She disappeared to the back. A moment later she was back with a tall, lanky young man. The girl pointed at Boyce.
The man came up to her. “How can I help you?” he said. He was irritated to have been bothered.
Boyce lifted her badge again. “You have a felony assault out front and I want to help you avoid a lawsuit. I want to see your security feed.”
The guy opened his mouth to protest and Boyce said, “One of your customers left here, walked a few feet and was assaulted. You show me the security feed from the parking lot and maybe it will help me get the assholes that assaulted him. If I get them, then maybe the guy they assaulted will be too busy testifying in court to remember to sue you for negligence.”
“Negligence? How am I negligent?”
Boyce hooked the badge back on her belt. “It’s possible that a jury might find it reasonable that a rich corporation like yours should provide security to your customers within a reasonable distance from your door.” “And it’s possible the poor victim might get a reasonable settlement.” She emphasized the word reasonable each time.
The guy just looked at her.
“The security feed?”
The guy shook his head and turned, “Back in the office,” he said.
A half hour later Boyce walked out of his office with a thumb drive and a handful of photos the manager had obligingly printed for her. Boyce was pleased to see that Patrolman Walker was still there. So was a second patrol car. They were standing together talking. The EMTs had taken the victim to the hospital to check for concussion. Boyce made her way over to the cops. They turned to look at her.
She handed each of them a photo. It showed the five men approaching the victim in the parking lot. She had others of the actual assault.
“These guys are on foot,” she said. “It’s only been about a half hour. Maybe if we spread out, we can catch up with them or at least identify where they might be.”
“Roger that,” Walker said. He looked at the other cop. “You take south of Bethany Home and I’ll take north.” He looked at Boyce. “Okay if you take Bethany Home west?” He paused, “They’ve had plenty of time to grab a bus.”
“Roger that,” she said. She turned and went to her car. She had no hope in finding them, but Mendoza had driven it into her a long time ago. You gotta try.
28
The guy who thought he was Joe Frazier and his buddies were not in sight. Boyce waited for a break in the traffic to pull onto Bethany Home Road turning west. She stayed to the right, slowly looking for the gang of five. She slowed at each cross street and looked both ways. Nothing. The cars behind her were frustrated and would zoom past. She didn’t get any gestures.
As she approached Central Avenue, she spotted a city bus ahead of her. It was pulled up to a bus stop and a line of people were getting on. From a distance, some could have been the guys. She goosed the city ride and sped up, gaining ground. Before she could reach it, the bus pulled out to continue its journey. A moment later she pulled up beside it, then went around. She pulled over in front of it then went a few blocks until they reached the next stop. She pulled over to the curb just in front of the bus stop. As it pulled in behind her, she popped the lights on and slid out. She moved to the door of the bus, pulling the badge from her belt. As the driver slid the door open, Boyce placed the badge in her left hand and moved her right to be close to the pistol. She stepped into the bus.
The driver was looking at her, perplexed. She pushed her badge at him. “I’m looking for someone,” she said. There were several riders. She moved into the bus interior to see each one. Her guys weren’t there. When she had stepped up into the bus, the adrenaline had been flowing, but now it drained away.
She stepped back to the driver. “Sorry, not here.”
She went down the steps. There were no passengers waiting, so the driver closed the door with a pneumatic hiss and the bus slowly lumbered off.
Boyce watched it go. She turned looking up and down the street. She climbed back into her vehicle and got Walker on the radio.
“You got anything?” she asked.
His tinny voice came back, “We got nothing.”
“Roger that,” she said. “Me neither. I’ll get these pictures distributed tomorrow at roll call. Maybe one of our guys will recognize someone. Thanks for trying.”
“Roger that,” he said, and Boyce disconnected. She looked at the pictures the bar manager had printed. He only had copier paper to use so the pictures weren’t very good, and Boyce had little hope that they would help. She laid them on the passenger seat and pulled back out into traffic. When she got a break, she did a U-turn and began systematically driving down the side streets. First south, then north. She didn’t have an ounce of hope she would see anything, but it was something to do before giving up. After an hour, she gave up.
She drove back to the precinct. She took the stairs. There was no one on her floor. She sat at her desk and kicked the computer alive. “Mookie, Mookie, Mookie,” she said under her breath. Where is good old Mookie. She pulled up Cynthia Farwell again. She stared at her mug shot. Stringy blond hair. No makeup. Had the far away stare of a druggy. She had several arrests, none heavy felonies. Possession of drugs. Soliciting. Shoplifting. DiMartini’s name showed up a few times, as did Bennett’s and Barbieri’s. One bust showed both Bennett’s and DiMartini’s names together. Boyce sat back and stared at the screen. After a while she tapped into caseloads searching for Bennett and DiMartini. Bingo! They had worked together back in the Cynthia Farwell days.
Boyce looked around the room. There was no one there. She keyed the computer to look at personnel files. These were off limits to rank and file. She knew Mendoza’s password. She keyed it in and searched for DiMartini. There was nothing surprising except ten years ago when he and Bennett had been partners. Then DiMartini was assigned someone else. This was unusual. Usually partners stayed together. Boyce opened the file. DiMartini had requested the change and it had been granted. Nothing mo
re.
She looked at Bennett. He had been reassigned to a guy named Mason. Shortly after that, Bennett had been decorated by the Department for his actions during an armed robbery. Mason had been killed.
“He was a fucking hero,” Boyce said out loud. Her phone buzzed. She jumped. She shut the computer down. She looked at the phone, thinking it would be Gabe again. It wasn’t, it was Elena.
29
A double date? She hadn’t been on a double date since high school. But you can’t turn Elena down when her mind is set. Elena, Blackhawk, Boyce and Gabe out to dinner. Double date. Just thinking the words made Boyce feel silly. The same as the way she felt the night of the boat party, standing there waiting to be picked up.
They picked her up again. Blackhawk was going to pull to the curb and honk, but Elena made Gabe get out and go to the door. Boyce watched Gabe walk up to the door. He rang the bell and she stood and stared at it for a long moment. When they slid into the back seat Boyce said, “Wow, this is new. Is this yours?” directing the question to Blackhawk.
“It’s mine,” said Elena proudly.
It was a gleaming black Chrysler 300. It smelled new. It looked very expensive.
“I didn’t think you drove.”
“I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have my own car. Besides Blackhawk’s Jaguar is too tiny, you couldn’t get all four of us in it.”
“She bought this just so we could have a double date,” Blackhawk said.
“She what?”
Blackhawk laughed and Elena punched his shoulder. “Don’t listen to him,” she said. “I’ve been wanting my own car for a long time. Now I will learn to drive.”
“God help us all,” Blackhawk said. He fiddled with the touch screen and some light jazz came from the speakers. “Turn off all your electronics, put your seats and tray tables in an upright and locked position. Lean back and relax,” Blackhawk said. “Enjoy the ride.”
“How much did this cost?” Gabe asked.
“Don’t be rude,” Elena said.
“You know what they say,” Boyce said. “If you have to ask what it costs you can’t afford it.”
“You got that right, girl,” Elena said.
“Where are we going?” Gabe asked.
“You’ll see,” Elena said.
“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it,” Blackhawk said.
“Thanks pal.”
It turned out they were headed to Abby’s Kitchen, a restaurant under the shadow of Camelback Mountain. It had a back patio that had shady trees for the afternoon and a gentle breeze and subtle lights for the evening. Boyce had been there once before, but Gabe said he had never been.
Blackhawk refused to surrender the Chrysler to the valet attendant. You don’t surrender your car keys. He found a fortuitous parking spot on the north side. He backed in. Boyce thought she remembered that the place didn’t take reservations. There were people on the front patio waiting to be seated. She assumed they would have to wait also but Blackhawk spoke softly to the hostess. She smiled at him, looked at Elena and said, “This way please.”
She led them out the back onto the patio and to a table for four sitting in the back corner. It had a reserved sign on it. She deftly swept it up as the men seated Boyce and Elena. There was a beautiful arrangement of flowers in the middle of the table. The waitress came immediately and took their drink orders. Elena order a glass of white wine, Boyce had a cosmopolitan, Gabe ordered a Guinness and Blackhawk told the waitress he wanted a Harry Truman Old Fashioned. The waitress looked puzzled.
“I don’t know what that is, sir,” she said.
“Make it Wild Turkey on the rocks with a cherry,” Blackhawk said.
The waitress looked relieved and turned to get their order.
“What in the world is a Harry Truman Old Fashioned?” Gabe said.
Elena just shook her head.
Blackhawk said, “When FDR died, Harry Truman became President. Truman liked to have a cocktail every night and the White House butler wanted to make sure the new President got what he wanted. Truman always ordered an Old Fashioned. The butler was very eager to please, so after the first time Truman tasted the drink he asked, “How is your cocktail, sir?”
Truman responded, “It’s okay.” The butler was devastated that it was just okay. Every night he would tweak the drink, but every night Truman’s response was, “it’s okay.” Finally, one night out of sheer frustration the butler filled the glass with ice, bourbon and one cherry. Truman took a drink and exclaimed, “Now that’s an Old Fashioned!”
Boyce laughed out loud.
“He tells the same old stories all the time,” Elena said.
“It’s a good story,” Gabe said. “I’m going to try to work it into my podcast sometime. Is it true?”
“All good stories are true,” Blackhawk said.
“Speaking of your podcast,” Boyce said. “When are you going to put Elena’s interview on?”
“Probably in a week,” he said. “The schedule is filled until then and we’re still editing.”
The waitress brought their drinks. Boyce took a sip and leaned back. She realized she hadn’t been out in a social setting like this since the night of Livvy’s murder. She looked around at the people on the patio. She wondered if it was only in Phoenix where some men dressed for a nice restaurant and others were in jeans, tennis shoes and ballcaps. All the women were dressed well. Even the ones with the clods.
She looked at Gabe. He was dressed in slacks, polished shoes and a sports jacket. His cream-colored shirt was open at the neck. He was a good-looking man. He caught her looking and smiled at her. She smiled back, embarrassed. She turned her attention to Elena. What’s wrong with me, she thought. Why do I put this guy off? He’s a damned good-looking man. He’s obviously interested.
Four young women dressed for a night out moved by the table and were seated two tables over. Blackhawk didn’t seem to notice but Gabe was watching them. Maybe that’s the reason, Boyce thought. Get all caught up with a guy and he’s looking at other women.
Blackhawk was in no hurry to order, so they had another round of drinks. When the drinks arrived, they ordered. The men ordered steaks, Elena ordered a salad and Boyce ordered the shrimp ceviche. During a lull in the conversation Gabe turned to her and said, “I wasn’t sure you would come tonight. I was getting the impression that you weren’t interested.”
“That’s not it at all,” Boyce said, self-conscious about the way this was turning. “I told you, I’m a police detective. My life really isn’t my own. It has nothing to do with you, I like you, I really do.”
Gabe smiled and started to say something, and the centerpiece of flowers exploded.
30
Pop! Pop! Pop! The gunfire was deafening. Without hesitation Blackhawk swept Elena from her chair and threw her to the ground. Gabe went sideways and Boyce went after him, knocking him from the chair and landed on top of him. Boyce’s hand went to her waist, then she cursed. Just a belted summer dress and no weapon. Blackhawk came to one knee, his Sig Sauer in his hand. He was pointing it at the back gate. The gate led from the back patio out to the parking lot. The gate was open but there was no one there.
Gabe was holding his side. Then he looked at his blood-soaked hand. A dark stain of blood was spreading on his shirt. Everyone was screaming and scrambling to get away. Boyce pulled Gabe’s jacket out of the way. The wound was at the far edge of his torso. It looked like the bullet had grazed his abdomen. It didn’t look like it had penetrated. She grabbed a white napkin and pressed it against the wound. She took his hand and pressed it against the napkin. “Push on this,” she shouted at him.
“Stay here,” Blackhawk said loudly to Elena and started toward the gate. Boyce got to her feet. “Keep a compress on Gabe,” she shouted to Elena and went after Blackhawk. She knew there were probably a hundred people dialing 911 right now. She went through the gate and was immediately between parked cars. Blackhawk was running to the Chrysler. She raced a
fter him. By the time he was in the driver’s seat and starting the engine, Boyce was sliding into the passenger’s seat.
“Did you see him?”
Blackhawk nodded. “Gray Tahoe. Just ahead of us. Headed back north.” He wrenched the wheel and they spun out of the parking lot, tires squealing. The Chrysler had a lot of power and Blackhawk used all of it.
“Did you get a look at him?” Boyce shouted above the roar of the engine.
“Tall guy, Hispanic,” Blackhawk said. “Saw him come through the gate. Thought he worked there. Didn’t see the gun until he was using it.”
“You think this was random?”
Blackhawk looked at her, then back to the street, jamming the accelerator. “Hell no,” he said. “The guy was a bad shot, but he was aiming at you.”
They reached the end of the street and Blackhawk went screeching around the corner. Boyce was slammed against the door. She fumbled for the seatbelt, found it and, with some difficulty, snapped it in place.
For an odd moment she was thinking of DiMartini. “Guess I’m not the best person to be next to,” she said.
“There he is,” Blackhawk said.
The street they were on butted into 32nd street, and two blocks ahead a grey Tahoe was running the stop sign, tires squealing as he turned north. Blackhawk had to brake hard to make the turn. He didn’t hesitate. As the back end slid around, he stomped the gas. Two cars in the opposite lane went over the curb to avoid him. A quarter mile ahead was the stoplight at the top of the hill. Blackhawk goosed the Chrysler.
“Gimme the gun,” Boyce shouted. “You can’t drive and shoot.”
“Son of a bitch is heading to the 51,” Blackhawk said, handing her his pistol. They watched the Tahoe run the red light, at the top of the hill, getting lucky with a break in traffic. They watched it turn west onto Lincoln. Blackhawk had made up ground, but when they got there the intersection was solid with cars. He jammed the brakes. He lay on the horn and pushed his way into the traffic and around the corner.
The Darker Hours Page 10
