by Mark Pryor
He nodded and got out of the car to confer with his buddies who’d just arrived. I alternated between watching the body-cam footage and looking out the window as they moved toward the house. It looked like they sent the rookie around back, judging from his uncertain movements. As Chipelo and his colleague De Jong got close to the door, they drew their weapons, and my heart beat faster. I took off my seatbelt in case I needed to duck out of the car, and looked at the button on the control panel that released the AR. What had seemed like a cool possibility an hour ago now seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. In fact, as those guys went through the front door, I knew for sure that I had neither the training nor the courage to use a gun anywhere but the range.
As they disappeared inside, I stared at the screen. The image went dark but then adjusted, and Chipelo was calling out, “Austin Police, Austin Police, anyone home?” But I also heard music and De Jong saying something about upstairs. A moment later I could see the stairs, winding up and to the left, and every now and again Chipelo’s gun would swing into view as he cleared left and right.
The top step came into view, then a small landing and a closed door. I assumed it was a bedroom door. I was spellbound, eyes glued to the screen as Chipelo’s hand reached out and rested on the door knob.
“On three,” he whispered to De Jong, the music now turned off, and I counted along in my head.
One. Two. Three.
In one swift moment they went in side by side, and right before my eyes the narrow doorway opened into a large bedroom. The camera jostled and bounced with Chipelo’s movement but then went still, and there was no mistaking the brief flash of a naked woman leaping up from the bed and streaking toward an open door that I presumed to be the en suite bathroom.
There was no mistaking what was going on, either: I saw another woman, older, each appendage tied to a bedpost, with headphones clamped over her ears and a ball-gag in her mouth. Her head and shoulders were propped up on pillows, and her eyes bulged with what must have been shame, or possibly rage, her face crimson as she strained at her bonds.
Chipelo and De Jong must have stopped and stared, too, because the whole scene froze, almost deathly quiet, apart from some animal sounds coming from the furious woman on the bed, who finally managed to spit out the gag, a line of drool falling across her chin.
At that point, my mouth quite literally fell open and I spoke aloud to myself, not caring whether the patrol car’s recording equipment caught my unofficial identification.
“Fuck me. That’s Judge Barbara Portnoy.”
I sat back in the passenger seat and stared at the computer screen for another five seconds or so, right up until Chipelo fumbled with the record button and turned off his body cam.
CHAPTER FIVE
DOMINIC
I arranged to meet Detective Ledsome for lunch on Friday. She had been surprised when I called her, and hadn’t tried to hide it; but as we talked on the phone I heard something in her voice change, like she’d come across a chance to get something on me, an admission—or maybe catch me in a lie.
We sat across from each other at a picnic table beside a taco trailer on East Oltorf, close to my office but closer to a couple of housing projects, a shady gas station, and one of East Austin’s underperforming middle schools. As a result, I paid in cash and made sure the badge in my wallet stayed hidden and the DA identification I wore around my neck was tucked away in my shirt pocket. But people came and went around us, paying no attention to anything except their bags of tacos and which salsa they should get. I knew the chick behind the counter, Esmie, and she gave me a look when she saw me sit opposite Ledsome, like I was trying to seduce the cop.
Already tried and failed, Esmie.
Ledsome unwrapped the foil from her taco and said, “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“Yeah, I thought maybe we should clear the air.”
She took a bite, just chewing and watching as I poured green salsa on my chicken taco. Eventually she swallowed and said, “Go on.”
“You’ve been asking questions about me. The kids in detention. I wondered why.”
She smiled. “Juvenile delinquents. Who knew you couldn’t trust them to keep their mouths shut?”
“Yeah, shocking.”
“It’s nothing official, Dom, you don’t have to worry.”
“Seems official, using your position and all to get access to the kids.”
“There’s no official investigation, that’s what I mean.”
“Just an unofficial one? Into what?”
She took another bite, then dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin. “I’ve been receiving letters,” she said.
“How very 1980s.”
“They’re not big on letting inmates use e-mail. Probably a good thing.”
“You have a boyfriend in jail? How unusual for a cop.”
“Not really a boyfriend,” she said. “More of an informant.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“His name is Tristan Bell.” As she spoke, her eyes never left my face, and I knew she was watching for a reaction.
So I laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” Tristan Bell had been my roommate for less than a year, time he’d spent orchestrating the theft of cash from a trailer-park landlord. The heist had gone wrong, and the landlord and his bodyguard had wound up dead. So had Otto Bland, an accomplice of Tristan’s. Even though I’d played a peripheral and unintentional role in the crime, very peripheral and unintentional, Tristan had tried to frame me for the whole thing. Ledsome, fortunately, had figured the framing part out, with a little help from yours truly.
“What does Tristan have to say?”
She shrugged and looked away. “You know, the usual. Mostly the usual. I mean, normally they claim they’re innocent and have been screwed by the system, stuff like that. Tristan, he admits he was involved but disputes the role we attributed to him.”
“Criminal mastermind,” I proffered.
“Right.”
“Let me guess, that was my role.”
“That’s the gist of it,” Ledsome said. “And he sure does put a lot of detail in those letters.”
I grunted and took a big bite. If she was looking to see signs of worry, she was in for a disappointment. Even if I were guilty of anything, one of the advantages of being a sociopath is that a guilty act didn’t dress itself in a cloak of guilty emotions. I wasn’t going to stammer or blush or shake with nerves. Not possible. Finally, I took a sip of my soda and said, “Any of his details check out?”
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
I sharpened my tone. “Yes, which is why I asked.”
“He does raise some interesting questions. Like, where did all the money go? Did Otto really commit suicide? And who found out about Silva driving around East Austin with a van full of cash?”
“No clue.”
“He says it was your buddy, Gus. He says Gus Cronstedt was Silva’s immigration attorney, and he told you about the way Silva collected his rent in cash, drove around with it in his van.” She was staring at me. “You know Gus, your good friend who coincidentally has disappeared.”
“He left his wife,” I said. “He’s probably serving drinks at a bar in Costa Rica. That was his dream.”
“Not as far as I can tell. His passport’s not been used, and I can find no trace of his existence beginning about a week after the robbery.”
“Do your bosses know you’re conducting this investigation? Or should I call it a witch hunt? Does my boss, the DA know? Because I’m almost certain that if they found out, especially by reading about it in the newspapers, they would be less than happy.”
She colored slightly. “I told you, there’s no official investigation.”
“And there shouldn’t be an unofficial one, either.” I sighed. “Look, Megan. He tried to frame me the first time around. Right? I mean you’re the one who figured that out.” She didn’t say anything, just lo
oked at me, so I went on. “Why would he stop trying to do that? I mean, he had one scheme, one trick up his sleeve, and he’s still trying to play it. The guy now has all the time in the world to sit in prison and dream up gnarly little questions or vague theories just to get your juices flowing.”
“Maybe,” she conceded.
I let myself get a little hot. “No, not maybe. Definitely. I mean, Jesus, Megan. I’m a fucking prosecutor and he’s a convicted murderer and pedophile. You’re really believing the shit he’s dishing up?”
“I don’t know, Dominic; I’m just trying to do my job.”
“You already did it!” I banged my hand on the table and ignored the looks from around us. “You saved my arse from that lunatic, and for some reason you’re buying into his psycho little games, and at my expense.”
“Calm down,” she said. “I’m not buying into anything at this point, just looking into stuff.”
“And that stuff happens to be me. Look, have you found something, anything, that substantiates what he’s claiming?”
She thought for a moment. “No. Just those questions that I can’t answer. About the money, and Otto. Gus’s disappearance.”
“Of course you can’t answer them, only he can! And he knows damn well I can’t—and he wants that to make me look guilty of something. But if I wasn’t fucking involved, how the hell can I know?” I took a deep, calming breath. “It’s like you’re asking me to prove a negative, which I just can’t do; it’s not possible.”
“Your friend Gus really took off from his wife like that?”
“Ask her.” I took a bite of my taco. Ledsome was still holding hers, watching me.
“I did,” she said.
“Great, so my best friend’s wife now knows you’re investigating me. Thanks for that.”
“No, she doesn’t. I didn’t give her any details.” Ledsome played with her straw. “And she couldn’t give me any, either.”
“That makes two of us.”
“How about your little friend, Bobby? I got the impression he knows more than he’s letting on.”
“That kid.” I shook my head. “He wants you, he wants everyone, to think he’s smarter and tougher than he is. I’m trying to help him, in my own way, but he doesn’t make it easier.”
“Does your boss know you’re dating his sister?”
Ah. “He tell you that?”
“Nope. Kinda figured you were all keeping it a secret.”
“Yeah.” I gave a rueful shake of my head. “That doesn’t look good.”
“No shit. You’d get fired.”
“Maybe, but probably not. Like I said, I’m just trying to help him out. For his sister’s sake as much as his.”
“Good of you.” I couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic or not. “What’s she like?”
“Different,” I said, then: “Look, I can’t stop you from doing whatever it is you’re doing, but do me one favor. Give me the presumption of innocence, OK? If you have to go around asking questions . . . fine, I have nothing to hide from you. But for fuck’s sake do it in a way that doesn’t make me look guilty when you don’t have any evidence, none at all, that I am.”
“I can assure you, I’m very careful in what I do and say.”
“If that were true, I don’t think we’d be having this conversation.”
“Sure we would. We’re here because of those letters.”
“Which you should be throwing away.” I waved a hand. “Or recycling these days, I expect.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve always felt like there was something off about you, Dominic, something not quite right. And until I can put my finger on it, I’ll keep reading Tristan Bell’s letters.”
“Fine, then read them all you like,” I said. “I don’t care what he has to say. But just have the decency not to drag my name through the mud unless and until you have a damn good reason to do so.”
Before she could answer, I swung my legs out from under the table, stood up, and walked toward the barrel trash can, scrunching my taco wrappers into a ball and dunking them in. I felt her eyes on my back as I walked away, but she didn’t say anything, which pleased me. I do like to have the last word.
◯
I was surprised to find Brian at his desk when I got back. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt, and he looked worried.
“So much for my peace and quiet on Fridays,” I said.
“Funny. I forgot to do a few things for my docket on Monday. Not used to preparing in advance.”
“Yeah, I knew that about you. How was the ride-along?”
“Fine.” His eyes darted away from me, and he looked uncomfortable. “You get your car fixed up?”
“I will. No real damage; insurance is covering it.”
“Why did that old lady tell us you were being hostile?”
“I expect she was scared. Preemptive call, something like that, just in case I was mean.”
McNulty smiled. “As if.”
“Right? Picking on old ladies isn’t my style. I prefer to pick on you. Speaking of which, your path to the judicial bench just got a little more crowded.”
His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t apply, did you?”
“I did.” I gave him my most charming smile, the one where I crinkle my eyes a little, too. “But I only did that for the future, I have no intention or desire to get the job now. You know how it is; you have to show interest a couple of times before they take you seriously. Pay your dues and all that.”
“Right, this is my third attempt.”
“They may make an exception for one new candidate, though.”
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Our very own Mo Barcinski.”
“Shut up. Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” Mo had been our previous court chief, a quiet but very efficient and well-liked prosecutor.
“Fuck,” McNulty said. “Portnoy and the other judges love her.”
“I know; Portnoy tried to stop her getting transferred out of here. I’m guessing that means she’d welcome her to the bench with open arms.”
“I have more experience than her in juvie. But, fuck,” he said again.
“You want it that badly?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Hey, it’s not over until the fat lady sings. You’ll do great in the interviews, and, like you said, she’s not applied before and you have.”
“Thing is,” he said, in that irritating hangdog way, “I’ve been here five years. I don’t know why but it seems like I’m never getting back downtown, to the trial courts. I suppose they might put me in Motor Fuel Tax Evasion, or some other bullshit division, but I don’t want that. This place is close to my apartment, close to the gym . . .” He shrugged.
“You go to the gym?”
“Fuck off, Dom, you know what I mean.”
“That you want that judge job.” I swung my feet onto the desk. “Trust me, moping around and assuming you’ve lost out isn’t going to help. You have to go to those interviews and act like you’re already a judge. You know the law, now you need to show them you’d be good in that role, too.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I picked up an offense report, a seventy-pager, and started reading, highlighter in hand, and tuned Brian out. But after a few minutes he spoke up. “Hey, I need to get some evidence for this one case.”
Something we learn to do on the first day. “And?”
“Well, I know we can download the in-car video from the dash cam, but I can’t remember if we can do the same thing for the new body cameras.”
“Yes.” I refrained from rolling my eyes. Brian was one of those people you had to explain things to three times, and show him four times, before he got it. “Same Versadex portal as for in-car video, but different drop-down menu. Otherwise, all the same.”
“Right,” he said, but didn’t sound sure.
“Do I need to show you again?”
“No, I just . . . it’s in the offense report, the
photo . . . that’s what I needed. I’m good, thanks.”
Hardly good, I thought, but as long as he left me alone for the rest of the afternoon, I’d have nothing more to say.
◯
MEGAN
Megan Ledsome checked her phone as it rang, and realized it was almost nine in the evening.
“Hey, Greg,” she said. “I just saw what time it is. Sorry.”
“No problem, babe, I was just checking on you.” People had told her not to date, let alone marry, another cop—“inevitable disaster,” they’d said. But not with Greg. For one thing, he understood when she had to work late, when she got deep into a case and forgot to check the time, or eat.
“Thanks,” she said. “We have any of that pizza left?”
“We do. I’ll heat you a couple of slices. Salad too?”
“And a large glass of wine.”
“Done. You leaving now?”
Ledsome stood and looked down at her mess of a desk. “Hell yes. I’m not solving anything tonight.”
“OK. We can talk about it when you get home, if you think it’d help.”
“Sure, it might. See you in a few.”
She disconnected and walked through the quiet of the police station, seeing only a handful of other cops and a couple of cleaners. She waved at the two guys manning the front desk, and pushed the door open. The night was clear and bright, a full moon beaming down over the city, and she breathed in the fresh air as she crossed Eighth Street to get to the garage. She had an idea, somewhere she wanted to check before heading home. Greg wouldn’t mind, and if she just cruised past the place her pizza would still be warm.
Tomorrow she’d take another run at a couple of the kids who had acted weird when she talked to them. That Bobby kid included. Something about him wasn’t right, sitting across the table from each other, and they both knew it. Something in his eyes, which managed to seem both dead and amused at the same time. Many times in her career she’d sat across from people who claimed, or suggested, that they knew more than they did. Bobby managed to do it without saying a word. What this kid could know about Dominic she had no clue, but a sparkle in his eyes was enough to bring her back to him, to try to coax something out of him.
