Back on Murder

by Mark J. Bertrand

  Offstage to the right, a four-piece metal band lays down a thumping beat. They’re off-duty vice cops who jam together on weekends, only too happy to provide entertainment at one of Lieutenant Rick’s gigs. The crowd gets into it, clapping their hands, shouting encouragement to the on-screen blonde. Even in the dark room, a spotlight lingers on the Prius, a concrete image of the promise that brought them here.

  As a testament to human gullibility, this show’s tops. Watching it long enough could turn the right sort of man into a philosopher. Not me, though. All I get is depressed. I’d rather pluck these guys off the street one by one. Fair and square, without any subterfuge. Out there, I wouldn’t pity them. I wouldn’t feel sorry for the family members they dragged along, either.

  Once we’ve checked everyone through, the video stops and Rick jogs out onstage like a motivational speaker, cupping a hand to his ear for more applause. His speech changes every time, depending on what we’re supposedly giving away, but the essence is the same.

  “It’s time for Houston to get moving again,” he says, “and you’re gonna be part of the solution. On behalf of all my colleagues, I want to thank you for coming out. It’s our pleasure to serve you in this way.”

  From the back of the room, a group of burly, mustached men in green polos let out a cheer, clapping their hands above their heads.

  “Our pleasure!” someone hoots. The crowd applauds once more.

  Part of the game for Rick is to work as many ironic digs into the speech as possible. Afterward, the team will celebrate each one with a clink of beer bottles. The joke hasn’t been funny to me in a while.

  It seems a couple of our guests feel the same way.

  I spot their silhouettes against the stage lights, two men working their way toward the aisle, then navigating the darkness in search of an exit. A regular odd couple. One tall and broad, the other slight enough to pass for a kid. Maybe the impossibility of the giveaway suddenly dawned on them. More likely, they’re heading for the restroom. Planning to snort one moment-heightening substance or another.

  As they pass me, I follow. Time for some troubleshooting.

  The side exit sign is illuminated by code. Once they find it, a ray of light shines in back of the room. By the time my hand touches the door I can see other officers heading my way, alerted by the flash. But I’m first in line.

  Out in the corridor, there are two options. They can turn left and head toward the escalator, or take a right to the restrooms. I emerge into the brightness, blink my eyes a few times, then spot them huddled halfway to the exit, deep in conversation. As I approach, it’s clear they’re arguing about something.

  “I told you – I seen him,” the smaller one says. There’s a sharp, panicked entreaty in his voice. He’s in a black T-shirt and skinny black jeans, accentuating his diminutive stature. Olive-skinned. Unnaturally jet-black hair.

  But it’s the other guy I fixate on, because there’s something familiar about him. A white tank clings to his lean, prison-built torso, hidden by the square overshirt hanging unbuttoned from his shoulders. Crisp denim and unlaced Timberlands. It’s the face, though, the way he nods in comprehension as the smaller guy talks, pushing out his bottom lip. The white of teeth and eyes against his dark skin.

  I know this man.

  He looks up as I approach. The smaller one sputters into silence.

  “Anything I can do to help, gentlemen?” I ask in my best approximation of a customer-service voice. “You’re missing the best part.”

  “We’re just about to leave,” the smaller one says, jabbing his thumb toward the exit. “There’s this dude I don’t wanna run into – and anyway, this ain’t my thing. I’m just here for the moral support.”

  The big guy holds him back. “Come on, man. Don’t bail on me like this.”

  “Sir, you don’t want to miss your turn. They’ll be handing out keys in a minute.”

  He’s clearly torn between his buddy and the free car, looking one way, then the other, rubbing a hand over his prickly face. Then his eyes fix on me. His expression starts to change. He raises an index finger, trying to place me.

  Coleman, that’s his name.

  His eyes flare. “You’re – ”

  A half-dozen officers suddenly file through the door, taking up positions all around us.

  “Wait a second, here,” he says, edging toward his companion and the faraway exit. His eyes dart around, looking for an opening.

  Over my shoulder, the door swings shut with a whoosh. That’s the signal. We converge on him all at once, the way we do, swarming a potential threat before it can develop. Coleman’s still at the verbal stage, protesting as the illusion crashes down. No free car. No run of luck. No going home after this. By the time he gets physical, we’ve already cranked him around and pushed his face against the wall, pinning his arms back, securing his wrists with zip ties.

  “This ain’t right, now,” he keeps saying. “This ain’t right.”

  Meanwhile, his friend starts backing down the corridor, leaving Coleman to fend for himself. He turns to run, then sees another set of officers at the exit, cutting off his escape. That stops him. He leans against the wall, burying his face in his hands.

  “It’s me, Detective,” Coleman says. “You know me.”

  My mental filing cabinet rattles, then the details flood back. Serving time for robbery up at Huntsville, Coleman found Jesus and started testifying against his former friends, including a trigger man I’d been trying to build a case against for months. My usual skepticism about jailhouse conversion was suspended, since for once the born-again felon followed up with some action. Last I’d heard, he’d gotten early release after a prosecutor and one of the prison chaplains went to bat for him with the parole board.

  “I do know you,” I tell him. “What are you doing here?”

  He tries to gesture with his pinioned hands. “They said they givin’ away cars in there!”

  “Yeah, but not to just anyone. You don’t get one of those invitations unless there’s a warrant on you, Coleman.”

  His head droops, eyes closing in defeat. The officers around him exchange a look. Then he glances up with a pleading smile. “But, Mr. March, you gotta help me. It’s true I messed up – ”

  “I thought you found Jesus, Coleman.” I get a chuckle from the other cops, which is more gratifying than it should be.

  “I found him,” he says, “then I kinda lost him again. But I’m on the path now, sir, and this was just the thing I needed. This car, I mean. So I can drive myself to a job.”

  It’s getting hard for the other cops not to laugh.

  “There aren’t any cars, boy,” one of them says.

  When this sinks in, Coleman’s head drops again. He makes a keening sound and starts struggling to get free. We all press in, squeezing the fight out of him. The whole time I keep shushing him like a mother comforting her child. The less noise we make out here, the better.

  The officers at the end of the corridor troop the smaller guy over to us, hands behind his back. He glares at me through wet-rimmed eyes. He can’t be much older than twenty.

  “What’s your story?” I ask him.

  “I ain’t done nothing. I told you I just tagged along.”

  “He my ride,” Coleman says, calm again.

  One of the officers hands me the kid’s wallet.

  “Your name’s Francisco Rios?”

  “Frank,” he says. “Can’t you just let me go?”

  “Anybody have the list?”

  Almost before the words are out, someone hands me a copy of the guest list. There’s a rugby scrimmage of officers in the corridor, and somehow I’ve taken the lead. It feels nice, I have to admit. I flip through the list. Francisco Rios isn’t on it.

  Checking my watch, I figure they’re already processing people inside, calling manageable groups backstage while the loud music and the flashing video screen keep the rest entertained. Behind the curtain, we have a well-oiled assembly line that ends i
n a series of burglar-barred school buses out back. Until they’re done, we don’t want any distractions. It’s probably best to sit on Coleman and Rios for the time being.

  “Let’s head down there,” I say, pointing toward the restrooms.

  Coleman follows passively – not that there’s much choice the way we’re frog-marching him – but Rios digs in his heels.

  “I haven’t done anything! You can’t do this!”

  I leave Coleman to help grapple with the kid. In spite of his size, he’s got some fight in him. Somebody gets hold of his bound wrists, though, turning them into a rudder. Rios squeals and tries to twist free, but for all intents and purposes the struggle is over.

  “Listen to me,” he whispers. “Hey, man. Listen!”

  “Will you shut up?”

  “I gotta show you something, all right? Just let me show you.”

  He’s nothing if not amusing. I signal a halt so we can hear what he’s got to say.

  “Look in my wallet,” he tells me. “In the part with the money.”

  I break into a smile. “You trying to bribe me, Mr. Rios?”

  “Just look. There’s a card in there. Call that number, okay? Call it and he’ll tell you to let me go.”

  We’ve got nothing better to do. I take a look, and sure enough there’s a business card tucked behind a wad of crinkled Washingtons.

  “Call him,” Rios says.

  The card is one of ours. I run my finger over the raised emblem.

  The name reads ANTONIO SALAZAR, a detective formerly assigned to the gang murder unit. Now he works on a bogus Homeland Security task force headed up by an old rival of mine. The less said about him, the better. But Salazar is all right. He’s passed a few tips my way over the years, and I’ve returned the favor once or twice. There’s a cellular number inked on the back.

  I tap the card against my finger. “This is legit?”

  Rios looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Just call.”

  “Give him to me,” I say, grabbing his wrists. I pilot him down the hallway to the restroom door, kicking it open and shoving him through. I park him against the sink, tell him to stay there. Then I flip my phone open and make the call.

  It rings a couple of times, and then a groggy Salazar picks up.

  “What time is it?”

  I check my watch. “Noonish. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  “Long night.” He runs a tap, then makes a jowly sound like a dog shaking itself dry. “Anyway, March, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’ve got a Hispanic male here, about a hundred and fifty soaking wet. Age – ” I consult the license – “twenty-one. Name of Francisco Rios, goes by Frank. That ring any bells on your end?”

  I hear a cigarette lighter flick to life, then a long exhale.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Frank’s one of my irregulars.”

  In the old days, people used to say that whenever a trigger was pulled between the Loop and Beltway 8, Tony Salazar knew who was guilty before the bullet even struck. He had a knack for recruiting informants. Instead of investigating murders, he’d work the phones for half an hour and come back with a name. Usually the right one.

  “So what do you want me to do? We rounded him up at the George R. Brown – ”

  “Cars-for-criminals?” He chuckles in a way I don’t like. “I thought he was clean.”

  “I haven’t run him, but he’s not on our list.”

  Salazar starts making so much sound he could work as a foley artist for the movies. Bare feet slapping tile, newspaper wrinkling, even what I’m guessing is a half-empty coffee carafe being slotted back onto the burner. All the while he hums a frenetic tune, like he’s sorting something out in his head, and having a hard time.

  “Tony, you still there?”

  “I’m thinking,” he says. “The thing is, I need to talk to this guy.”

  “I can hold on to him.” I glance at Rios, who’s hanging on every word. An involuntary shiver runs through him.

  “Really? I could be down there in, like, fifteen maybe thirty.”

  “Just meet us downtown,” I say. “I’ll have him transported and you can spring him when – ”

  “No, no, no. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You sure? It’s no trouble.”

  He rubs the stubble on his chin for me, so I can hear the friction. “Do me a favor, okay? Cut him loose and tell him to call me as soon as he’s out. Put a scare in him, too. If my phone doesn’t ring, I’m gonna look him up. You tell him that.”

  I palm the phone and repeat the message to Rios, whose relief quickly dissipates.

  “Matter of fact,” Salazar says into my hand, “go ahead and put him on the line.”

  I put the phone against the kid’s ear. After a minute or so, the tinny rumble of Salazar’s voice comes to a halt, and Rios lets out a subservient grunt. Remembering the fight he showed out in the corridor, though, I imagine this attitude won’t last once the zip ties come off his wrists. If Salazar gets his call back, I’ll be surprised.

  Not my problem. I take the phone back, get through some final chitchat, then end the call.

  “Turn around,” I tell Rios, then I fish a lockback knife out of my pocket and slice the restraints off. “Next time, just so you know, don’t flash the card in front of anybody. Pulling it out like that in front of Coleman, you basically blew your cover.”

  I slip Salazar’s card back, then hand him the wallet.

  As soon as we emerge into the corridor, Coleman proves the wisdom of my advice. He gets a funny look, seeing I’ve freed his buddy’s hands, then his eyes follow the kid’s progress, crazier with each step. When Rios passes him, he springs for the kid. It takes six men to hold him back.

  “Frank!” he shouts. “Frank! Why they lettin’ you go, man? Why? ’Cause you workin’ for ’em, that it?”

  Rios keeps walking, shows a little swagger.

  “I’m tellin’! You hear me? I’m tellin’, man! Everybody gonna know. You dead! You hear me? Frank! You dead!”

  Sonia pops through the side door, a finger over her lips. “You wanna keep it quiet down there? We’re trying to arrest some folks in here.”

  “You heard the lady,” I tell Coleman. “Anyway, you’ve got your own problems to worry about.”

  The big man deflates as my reminder takes effect. He hangs between the officers, letting his weight drag him down. Finally they release him to the floor, where he curls up, ducking his head between his knees. From the jerk of his shoulders I think he’s starting to cry.

  That’s the last thing I want to see. I head back to the door, where Sonia’s waiting, and pause before going inside.

  “It’s just getting good in here,” she whispers.

  With a glance back at Coleman, I pull at my golf shirt, stripping it over my head while straightening the white tee underneath.

  “You know what? I’m done.”

  I hand Sonia the shirt.

  She hisses my name a few times, but like Rios I just keep walking.

  With a swagger in my step. It’s nice to have some for a change.

  CHAPTER 3

  This is not my beautiful house. And this is not my beautiful wife. But with apologies to David Byrne, it is. And she is. But things aren’t always what they seem.

  The house is in the Heights, a creaky old thing from the late Victorian, lovingly restored over the course of the past fifteen years. I’ve forgotten more about dentil molding than I ever wanted to know, and can disassemble and oil a mortise lock blindfolded.

  The wife, Charlotte, is in the wholly anachronistic kitchen, perched on a Carrera marble countertop, staring hard at her foggy reflection in the stainless refrigerator door. Like she’s expecting it to wave.

  “What’s wrong now?” I ask.

  Five minutes through the door and already I’m putting things badly. Adding that “now” like a barbed hook at the end of the question. Implying there’s always something. But this time of year there is. Every September we beco
me strangers again, Charlotte taking refuge in her prescriptions and me in the company of unfamiliar faces, blank canvasses of skin, out after dark, testing myself in a city that sweats all night. This distance is predictable. We anticipate its ebb and flow. But somehow knowing it will come never quite prepares us.

  So I’m short with her, but the fact that she doesn’t rise to the challenge – no flush on the ivory cheeks, no fire in her coal black gaze – means there really is something wrong. I go up to her, putting my hand on her denim-clad thigh.

  “Charlotte? What’s wrong, baby?”

  She wipes her dry eyes with the back of her hand. Her way of letting me know that, while she isn’t crying, she’s considered the possibility.

  “You have to talk to him.” Her voice comes out in the quiet, measured flow characteristic of her ultimatums. A reasonable tone, but brittle as a sheet of ice over a running river. “If you don’t do it, then I will.” The surface cracks. “But it ought to be you, Roland, because you’re the man here.”

  Charlotte walked down the aisle with an unspoken list of male responsibilities – pumping gas, putting out the garbage, going to the door when someone knocks – which has only expanded over time. The one thing not on the list, because she does it so much better than I do, is bringing home the bacon. She’s so valuable to her law firm, she works the hours she wants, from wherever she wants, redlining contracts phrased in language so obscure that reading over her shoulder gives me headaches.

  I flick a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, letting my finger brush her cheekbone. She recoils ever so slightly.

  “It’s Tommy you’re talking about?”

  “Who else? This whole thing has gotten way out of hand.”

  My big plan for the evening looks hopeless all the sudden. Sharing my good news, dragging her to Bedford, the new restaurant she’s been talking about, where I’ve already managed to secure last-minute reservations. Bringing her home, leading her upstairs and lighting a candle or two. After that, who knows? Ending up in bed these days requires ever-longer campaigns, and this one isn’t off to the best of starts.

  “Let’s not talk about him,” I say. “There’s something I want to tell you.”