Back on Murder rm-1

by J. Mark Bertrand

  When the waitress returns with my whiskey sour — I always order the same thing, and always do the same thing with it — I dig for my wallet, planning to settle up right away. With Tommy on the scene, I won’t be nursing this one all night.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she says, pointing across the bar to the main room. “A guy in there took care of it.”

  “You sure?”

  She nods.

  “All right then.”

  That idiot Tommy. Thanks to his father’s deep pockets, he’s never learned the value of money. I don’t know if he’s trying to impress me, or the kids at his table. Either way, it takes the shine off my evening. I push the drink away.

  He’s about the same age as Carter Robb. On the surface, they might not have much in common, but they both have kids looking to them for guidance. The burden seems to weigh more heavily on Robb than Tommy, though. It would be interesting to get the two of them in the same room. I imagine the tenant bending over backwards to deliver veiled insults, while the youth pastor, recognizing them for what they are, does his best to seem unruffled.

  Staring into my drink, I recall Robb’s wife. With her mannered wardrobe, Gina Robb wouldn’t look out of place over at Tommy’s table. I wonder what she would make of the guilt her husband’s carrying. Maybe she feels it, too, the shipwreck of their shared idealism. What would have to happen for Tommy to feel that kind of guilt? Not a girl leaving his garage apartment the morning after, not very certain of what had happened to her. I’m not sure whether anything would.

  I drop a couple of dollars on the table, about to get up.

  Coming toward me, the man from the other night, the cop I couldn’t quite place. The horn-like projection of black hair crowning his forehead, a more youthful style than his lined face will support. We make eye contact and he nods without smiling, pulling out a chair right across from me. He glances at my untouched drink.

  “You don’t remember me,” he says.

  “Should I?” I don’t like the way he’s drilling me with those eyes. I don’t like that I can’t see his hands under the table.

  “We have some friends in common,” he says, putting enough spin on the word that I know not to take it at face value.

  Instead of facing me head-on, he cocks his chair, sitting sideways with his back to the wall so nobody can come up behind him. Keeping track of the other patrons from the corner of his eye. I was right the other night. This guy’s one of us. A cop.

  “You got a name?” I ask.

  He nods. “Maybe it’ll come to you.”

  My right hand leaves the table, resting on my thigh. Between the staring contest and his tight-lipped way of speaking, this is starting to feel like a high-noon standoff. Maybe that’s what it is. He’s got an advantage, thanks to the angle, since my gun side is facing him. In a draw I’d need to be quick.

  The thing is, I am.

  “If you’re not going to introduce yourself, then I was just getting ready to go.”

  “You’re not gonna say thanks?” he asks, nodding toward the drink. “Looks like you hardly touched it. Knowing your story, I think I can guess why.”

  “Knock yourself out. I’m going.”

  I rise quickly, giving the table a tap with my hip, the same way you’d finesse a pinball machine. The drink shakes, ice clinking on the glass, and the man grabs the table with both hands to steady it. He looks at me, then at his hands.

  “Oh, I get it.” He flattens them out. “You can sit back down. I don’t have a problem with you, March. I’m here to do you a favor if you’d only let me.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “Have a seat,” he says, tilting his chin. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  I turn my chair, sitting with my right hip away from him, my hand still resting on my thigh. “You can start with your name.”

  “Fine, fine.” He reaches across the table. “Joe Thomson.” I ignore the outstretched hand, so he pulls it back. “If you’re not gonna drink this, mind if I do? You kind of stopped my heart for a minute there.”

  “Help yourself.”

  He sips the drink and makes a face. Down in the basement of my mental archive, I’m looking for a folder with Joe Thomson’s name on it, coming up empty. The face is so familiar. He’s one of those guys who was handsome once, but didn’t age so well. Jet-black hair, blue eyes, and a kind of pucker to his mouth, like he’s sucking an invisible cigar. The parchment lines on his skin look premature, due more to hard living than age.

  When he puts the drink down, Thomson hunches forward and clasps his hands together like he has something to confide. He glances over his shoulder before speaking.

  “I’m in a position to help you,” he says. “Only you’re gonna have to help me first.”

  “Don’t take this wrong, Joe, but can I see some ID?”

  “If that’s what it takes.” He smirks. “I’ll reach slow so you don’t jump to any conclusions.”

  True to his word, he edges a wallet out of his back pocket, sliding it across the table. I flip it open, a sergeant’s badge catching the light, and match the photo to the face in front of me.

  “You’re looking a little beat down these days,” I observe.

  “Yeah, well.” He takes the wallet back. “You would be, too.”

  “What are you offering me?”

  “It’s a two-way street. I need something from you first.”

  “What’s that?”

  His mouth opens, but he can’t seem to form the words. He tries again, fails, then rubs his lips with the back of his hand, glancing away. A cough rumbles in his lungs. His cheeks color. The signs are pretty unmistakable. Thomson’s embarrassed.

  “Spit it out,” I say.

  He clears his throat, takes another sip. “What I’m looking for — and it’s not negotiable — is a blanket immunity. The information I share, I want it in writing that nothing will come back to bite me. You understand? No prosecution, but on top of that, no trouble at work, either. I come out looking like a hero, or I don’t take another step.”

  A tremor runs up my spine, but I try to look indifferent. “You’ve lost me, Joe. Are you saying you want to confess to a crime?”

  His mouth twitches. “This isn’t a confession, no.”

  “Why don’t you give me an idea what we’re talking about then.”

  “When I have something in writing, something I can take to an attorney and double-check, then we’ll talk. Not before.”

  “You’re a cop, Joe. You know it doesn’t work that way.”

  “What I know is that sometimes, for the right people, that’s exactly how it works.”

  “Let me put it another way. You’re asking me to pull strings I don’t have the juice to pull. If there’s somebody in this department who can deliver what you’re demanding, it isn’t me.”

  “Wrong,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re the only one. You’ll fight for it in a way nobody else will, because of who’s involved.”

  My tremor turns into a vertebral earthquake. “Who is involved?”

  He smiles. “Not yet, March. Here’s what you need to do. Your ex-partner Wilcox, the one who’s in Internal Affairs? He can deliver what I need. You go to him and explain, and he’ll smooth the path. Those guys have a magic wand they wave to get the prosecutors to see things their way. Why are you laughing?”

  I cover my mouth with my hand, shaking my head slowly. “You don’t know Wilcox, do you? If it’s a favor from him you want, then you’ve really come knocking on the wrong door.”

  “It’s not me who wants it,” he says. “It’s you.”

  “That’s my point. Wilcox is my ex-partner, the operative word being ex. That’s Latin for ‘no longer on speaking terms,’ in case you didn’t know.”

  “Whatever. Don’t sell yourself short, March. You’ll make it happen. Besides, this will work to his benefit, too. Tell him that. If he gives me what I want, he won’t be working in Internal Affairs anymore. He’ll be running i
t.”

  “That’s a big promise,” I say, wiping my damp palm on my thigh.

  “And I can deliver.”

  He sounds confident, but as soon as the words are out, he turns to scan the room again, like he’s expecting a knife in the ribs. When he looks back at me, there’s a hunted look in his eyes, maybe a haunted one, too. I start wondering how much of this premature age he put on over the last few days.

  “You make it hard for me to say no,” I tell him. “But unless you’re prepared to give me something, I can promise you I won’t lift a finger. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not real big on career advancement.”

  “All right,” he says, leaning forward, sliding the drink aside. “I’m not giving you any names. This isn’t even a preview. But that case you’re working on, the Morales hit. .?”

  “What about it?”

  “What I have for you is gonna blow it wide open. I mean wide.”

  He pushes away from the table, takes another look around.

  “As in what?” I ask.

  He taps the table with his index finger. “As in shooters, March. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  And then he turns to go.

  “How do I get in touch?” I call after him, trying to be heard over the music.

  He pivots, putting a hand to his ear. I stick out my thumb and pinkie, jamming them phone-like to my head.

  “You don’t,” he says. “I’ll call you.”

  Nothing sinks in for the first minute or so. Then I feel a stupid grin on my lips. I wipe it with the back of my hand, but can’t get rid of the smile. A blur of faces swirl around me. I want to kiss them all. I’m happy as a drunk, in love with the world, all the sappy clichés rolled up into one.

  Cavallo can sit on that dna test as long as she wants. Joe Thomson just threw me another lifeline. Last time this happened I screwed it up. But I won’t make the same mistake twice.

  I’m back in this thing.

  Back to stay.

  I put a few more dollars on the table for luck, then head for the door, still dizzy from the turn of events, gazing at life through a gauzy adrenaline-induced tunnel. Circling the bar, paying no attention to my surroundings, thanks to the thoughts blaring in my head, I come face-to-face with the waitress Marta. She stops short, almost ditching the tray of drinks in her hand. Her eyes light up with recognition.

  I step around her, but not quickly enough.

  “You,” she says, grabbing my sleeve with her free hand.

  I twist away. “Excuse me — ”

  “Wait just a second,” she hisses, loud enough for people at the bar to turn.

  Not wanting a scene, I’m torn. I can brave whatever she’s about to say, or I can make a dash for the door. As tempting as retreat is, I’m in no mood to run.

  She slides her tray onto the bar, then gets right up in my face. “I know what you did.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You want me to say it in front of everybody?”

  A couple of young men in striped, tall-collared shirts are watching, trying to decide whether they should take an interest or not. I’ve had crisis resolution drilled so deep into my psyche that my automatic impulse is to diffuse the tension. But I don’t want to diffuse anything. There’s a part of me that would like nothing better right now than a fight. I couldn’t be beaten, not by anyone.

  They step forward, shoulder to shoulder for support. To my surprise, Marta turns on them, freezing the men with her glare.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?” she says, ticktocking her finger at them.

  They shrug their way back to their drinks, pretending nothing’s happened.

  “And you,” she says, back to me. “What gives you the right —?”

  I whisk my jacket back just far enough for her to get a glimpse of badge and maybe a little gun just behind. It’s a well-practiced gesture, perfect for shutting people up mid-sentence. On Marta it has a curious effect.

  “You’re a cop?” she asks, shaking her head. “And you think that means you can do anything you want? You can go up to random women and start pushing them around? For what?” She jabs her finger at my chest. “Because she wouldn’t go home with you?”

  “What’s the problem, Marta?”

  I find Tommy at my elbow. He takes her by the arm, nudging her back.

  He’s acting friendly, but Marta shuts down at the touch, suddenly petulant. “This is my problem.”

  “He’s cool, though,” Tommy says. “Hey, you don’t want to make any trouble for him.”

  She pulls free, eyes on the floor. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  “No, really, I’m serious. He’s one of the good guys.”

  The men from the bar pause. One of the bartenders holds a mobile phone in his hand, his finger poised over the call button like he’s going to detonate a bomb any second. I start going into resolution mode, flashing the badge, motioning for everybody to calm down.

  Tommy’s big smile starts working its magic, too. He puts an arm around Marta, easing her back, and sends some kind of invisible signal to the bartender, who takes his finger off the detonator button. The waitress tries to shrug free, but he holds her tight.

  “Everything’s cool, everybody,” he says. “Hey, it’s all right.”

  I owe him one, but instead of staying to chat about it, I take the opportunity to slip outside. The sun is gone without a trace, mosquitoes circling the lampposts overhead. Before I can make my escape, I hear footsteps behind me. Turning, I find Tommy and Marta, his restraining arm still around her.

  She steps clear of him, standing halfway between us. “Why’d you rough that woman up? What kind of man thinks he can do that, badge or no badge?”

  “You poured enough tequila down that woman’s gullet to sink a whale. When I came out here, she was just about to get behind the wheel. She was going to drive in that condition. You understand what I’m saying? I didn’t rough her up — I saved her life, and probably somebody else’s, too. At the very least, she would have lost her license, spent some quality time behind bars.”

  “Oh,” she says. “So you did her a favor. Now I get it.” She plunges a hand into her tiny apron, pulling out a crushed twenty, waving it between her fingers. She balls the twenty in her fist and throws it to the ground, then turns on her heel to go.

  Tommy stands there, eyes wide. “She’s kinda loco, that girl. I think when she calms down, she’ll be more understanding.”

  I take out my keys and unlock my car. “You really think I care?”

  He laughs. “Deep down? Yeah, I think you really do.”

  CHAPTER 10

  By the time I show up, the briefing’s reached standing-room-only status, with plainclothes officers and uniforms from four or five different agencies shifting for elbow space along the back wall. Near the front, Cavallo motions for me, but I shake my head and find a hospitable notch between a couple of county constables and a Sheriff ’s Department detective with a tobacco-stained brush of a mustache. He wears a nickel-plated Government Model.45 on his hip, what we call a “barbeque gun” around here, for wearing to fancy shindigs. He looks lonesome without his Stetson.

  There’s a strange energy in the room, something I can’t put my finger on. A lot of hard stares shooting back and forth. Something’s happened, but I don’t know what. I turn to ask the detective, but he just shrugs, mystified as me.

  Scanning the brass at the far end of the room, I get a surprise. Next to Wanda, who stands out in any crowd on account of her snow white hair, Rick Villanueva sits reviewing a stack of documents in his lap, whispering the occasional question, like he’s trying to get up to speed and only has half a minute to do it. This can’t be good.

  Wanda goes to the podium, tapping the mic a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. Upwards of a hundred officers are packed into the cramped space, and it takes awhile for everyone to settle in.

  “Before we get started,” she says, “I’m sure you all saw the p
iece on Channel 13 last night.”

  A collective sigh goes up, along with some random profanity and a few choice words about Wayne Dolcefino, the investigative reporter.

  “You see it?” I ask the sheriff ’s detective.

  “At my watering hole of choice,” he says, his breath smelling of stale coffee, “there are better things to look at than the idiot tube.”

  Wanda gives the microphone another series of taps, and Rick Villanueva eases out of his chair, standing at her elbow.

  “The first thing I want to make clear,” Wanda says, “is that whoever made those statements to the press, I’m going to find out. What we say in here has to remain confidential. Am I clear? There’s a girl’s life at stake, people. Never forget that. Secondly, Lieutenant Villanueva here is joining the task force as of now. From this moment forward, all information to the press — and I mean every single detail — will be going through him. No one talks to the media without his say-so. Understood?” A few heads nod. “Come on, people, I know it’s early, but if you understand what I’m saying, raise your hand.”

  Hands go up across the room. I glance at my new buddy before hoisting mine. He shakes his head and does likewise. Everybody’s craning around, like they expect to sniff out the leak here and now by spotting a telltale unraised hand.

  “Okay, okay. You can put your hands down. Lieutenant, you have a few words you’d like to say?”

  Rick, never at a loss for words, spends the next five minutes talking about his satisfaction in being asked to join the task force, and his determination to do everything in his power to turn this negative into a positive. While he’s speechmaking, I quiz the constables for details about the news report. One of them, a thick-necked bulldog with a tight military crew cut, cups a hand to my ear and fills me in. The lead story on the Channel 13 news last night was about trouble inside the task force. No progress is being made in the hunt for Hannah Mayhew because of interagency rivalries and a general lack of organization. “Sources inside the investigation” were credited with the scoop.