by Walter Marks
A MAN’S PARTNER
A Detective Jericho
SINGLE
WALTER MARKS
Copyright © 2016 by Walter Marks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Top Tier Lit New York, NY
“When a man's partner is killed,
he's supposed to do something about it.”
— Sam Spade in Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon
PROLOGUE
Two years ago, in a booth at the Nuevo Korean Kitchen on First Avenue and 117th, Detective Jericho and his ex-partner Mickey “Mouse” Davis were talking about their last case. Mouse was a forty-two-year-old black man, with caramel-colored skin, droopy lidded eyes, and grey hair getting thin in patches.
“...Guilt?” Mouse asked. “What have you got to feel guilty about?”
“You kiddin’ me?”
“Well, shit, man. I’m the one who spooked the guy.”
“No. It was me. I took a couple of steps towards him, and he backed up and toppled out the window with the kid.”
“Is that what you been thinkin’ all this time?”
“Yeah.”
“Battle,” Mouse said, using his partner’s nickname. “I went for my gun.”
“What?”
“Remember, he made us put our guns on the floor?”
“Of course I remember.”
“The way he was holdin’ the little girl,” Mouse explained, “I saw I had a clean shot at him. He was lookin’ at you, ‘cause you were talking to him, and I figured I could grab my weapon without him seein’. But he saw me and yelled, ‘Don’t do that.’ Then he backed away and fell out the window holding the kid.”
Jericho looked at him incredulously. “It wasn’t because I stepped toward him?”
“No,” Mouse said. “I thought you knew that. I never talked about it, because it hurt too much.”
“My God.” Jericho said in amazement. His breath whooshed out in a sigh of relief.
“Lemme tell you somethin’,” his partner said. “I saw the department shrink for a year after the incident. And I still have nightmares about it. Truth is, that child’s death was probably the main cause of my heart problems. It’s something you really never get over.”
“Jesus, Mouse. That’s terrible,” Jericho said quietly. “But look, man, it wasn’t your fault. You were trying to save her — you did your best. And what if we’d let that drug freak get away with little Estrellita? What would he have done to her?”
“What if?” Mouse said, his gray-green eyes getting moist. ”That’s the question I keep asking myself. And I always get the same answer: Who knows?”
CHAPTER 1.
The single gunshot could barely be heard — just a muffled pop from inside a car parked in the pier’s parking area, the sound blending with the hum of late-night traffic on the Harlem River Drive.
It was early morning when the car was discovered by cops in a passing blue-and-white, who noticed the vehicle illegally parked at the pier.
When the two police officers approached the automobile, they saw the windshield dripping with red spatter. Peering into the car, they could see a black man slumped over the steering wheel, his head a bloody mass of bone, brains, and matted hair. In his limp right hand was a Glock 19mm handgun. Next to him was a note, written on lined paper.
“Christ!” Officer Fernandez said.
His partner pressed his nose against the side window to get a closer look. “That could be a suicide note.”
“Don’t touch nothin’,” Fernandez said, taking out his Vertex. He called the 25th Precinct station house and spoke to Deputy Inspector Jenifer Babatunde. She instructed him to wait for the CSI unit and the detective who would be there shortly.
When Detective Blake Reardon arrived, the first thing he did was read the note beside the dead man. In neat handwriting on lined loose-leaf paper, it read:
I have this dark feeling inside me, a sense of uselessness and impending doom. I have tried to fight it for the last few years, but it is clear to me now — I can’t go on. They say what I’m doing is the coward’s way out, that a man must fight and never give up the battle. This is not true. Sometimes it is braver to leave the world, rather than burden family and friends with having to cope with a depressed, self-destructive human being.
Darius and Kwame, you are good boys and you’re growing up right. I wish I could see you both graduate from college, it would sure make me proud. But please know I will be there in spirit.
Keisha, I hope you can forgive me
I love you with all my heart. Always remember that.
— Detective Michael Aaron Davis, NYPD
“Oh, my God. I…I can’t believe it.” Reardon said. “That’s Mouse!
CHAPTER 2.
On that warm May morning, Jericho was walking along Napeague Harbor beach with his new girlfriend. They’d met at Ink, Inc., her tattoo studio in Riverhead, where Rainbow gave him a rose tattoo with his daughter Katie’s name inscribed
below it.
The beach stretched out in a mile-long curve that ends at the harbor’s inlet channel. Its surface was covered with small rocks and pebbles and myriad tiny crustacean shells, which made crunching sounds as Rainbow and the detective strolled along the strand.
Jericho gestured toward a grouping of three high, imposing sand dunes that rose up beside them.
“They call those the Walking Dunes.”
“Walking?”
“Yeah,” he said. “They were formed about a hundred years ago, and they’re slowly shifting, or “walking,” to the west. You can see from those plants sticking out of the sand — the dunes are swallowing up vegetation as they continue to move.”
“How do you know that?”
“This is a state park. I know the park ranger.”
“You really know your territory.”
“It’s my job.”
“Can we walk on the Walking Dunes?”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
“Before we go,” Rainbow said in a serious tone. “I’d like you to do me a big, big favor — that is, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“What’s that?”
“Kiss me.”
Jericho immediately pulled her close and covered her soft lips with his own. Their tongues explored each other’s mouths, wet and hot, slithering in a sensual dance that was still quite new to them.
Jericho’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled away.
“That could be Dobrowolski” he said. “He’s covering for me on my day off.”
Rainbow made a face.
Jericho’s Caller ID showed an unfamiliar number. “Hello?” he said.
A choked woman’s voice responded. “Jericho?”
“Who’s this?”
“...It’s Keisha,” she said. “Jericho, Michael, he’s...”
“What?”
“He’s... he’s gone. He passed.”
“...He’s dead?” Jericho said incredulously.
“Yes. He... they said he shot himself in his car. Last night...”
She broke off. Her sobs were heartbreaking.
“Where did this happen?”
“A pier... somewhere down by the river.”
“Are you home?”
“...Yes.”
“The boys with you?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there. I’m coming right in. Three hours, depending on traffic.”
The
drive took almost four hours. An overturned tractor-trailer jammed up the Long Island Expressway around Dix Hills and forced cars onto the service road, where they had to perform slalom-like maneuvers around orange traffic cones.
Jericho drove in a trance-like state; Mouse’s death seemed unreal, as if it were happening in a dream.
He took the Cypress Hills exit off the Jackie Robinson Parkway and followed the road along the edge of New Mount Carmel Cemetery. Through its iron fence he could see the rows of eight-foot high Russian Jewish gravestones, etched and painted with garish full-color portraits of the deceased.
The Davis family lived in Ridgewood, Queens, on Onderdonk Avenue — a tree-lined street in a densely settled, middle-class neighborhood. Jericho occasionally had dinner at Mouse’s house when they’d worked together at NYPD Homicide. But he came more often after his wife Sarah left him. Being with a family was a great comfort.
After he parked in front of 658 Onderdonk, the tragic enormity of Mouse’s death suddenly paralyzed him. He sat there motionless, as if moving would somehow release feelings inside him he couldn’t possibly cope with.
Finally, he got out of the car and walked up the four stairs of the stoop. As he rang the front doorbell, he had the same thought so many next of kin expressed when he told them the bad news: There must be some mistake.
CHAPTER 3.
Fifteen-year-old Kwame Davis let Jericho into the house. The boy’s face was pale and expressionless. He was wearing a neoprene wrap-around wrist brace.
“What happened to your wrist?” Jericho asked.
“Sprained it. Skateboarding. Got clipped by a passing truck. No biggie”
Jericho nodded.
“Mom’s in the den, talking to the detective.”
They entered the room, which was dimly lit by one slightly tilted floor lamp. The gloom was palpable. Keisha, in a bathrobe, was sitting on the couch with her older son Darius. An unkempt, curly haired man in a no-iron poplin suit sat in a chair, scribbling notes on a pad.
Keisha looked up as Jericho entered.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “This is a detective from the Two Five.”
Jericho didn’t recognize him, but it had been six years since he’d left the 25th Precinct and he knew there’d be a lot of new faces.
“Blake Reardon.”
“I’m Jericho.”
Reardon nodded. “I know you used to be Mouse’s partner,” he said. “This is a terrible tragedy... for all of us.”
Jericho swallowed hard. He looked at Keisha, wanting so much to comfort her. But the detective in him needed to ask questions.
“You found him in his car?”
“Yes,” Reardon said. “Single gunshot wound to the head.”
“Where?”
“Parking lot of the East Harlem Fishing Pier,” Reardon said.
“You’re saying suicide.”
“Yes. His gun was near his hand and there was a note next to him. Handwritten.”
Jericho shook his head and turned to Keisha.
“...I can’t believe this,” he said. “It makes no sense.”
“I know,” she whispered. She dropped her head and her dark, ropey box braids flopped down over her face. She brushed them back and looked up at Jericho. Her eyes were inflamed from crying.
“Michael would never do this to us,” she said.
Jericho sat down and hugged the devastated woman. Her older son spoke up.
“Mama,” said Darius. “We have to be strong. That’s what Pop would want.”
His mother forced a smile and patted his hand.
Jericho spoke to Reardon. “I’d like to see the note he left.”
“No problem,” Reardon said. “I’m finished here now, so I’ll head back to the station house. You can drop by this afternoon and I’ll show it to you.”
“Okay,” Jericho said. “Where’s... where’s the, uh, where’s Detective Davis now?”
“ME’s office.” He turned to Keisha. “Mrs. Davis, do you wish to make the ID in person?
“Why?” Jericho said testily. “A photo of the face is usually sufficient.”
Reardon shook his head sadly, indicating “no.” It took Jericho only a moment to realize his ex-partner’s face was probably disfigured by a bullet — not something his wife would want to see.
“Ma’am,” Reardon said to Keisha. “Viewing the deceased is optional. We can make the ID from DNA.”
“I want to see him,” she said firmly.
“You could wait a few days,” Jericho said. “Maybe till the funeral...”
“I want to see him.”
Jericho spoke to Reardon. “I’ll drive Mrs. Davis in this afternoon.”
“I need to be present when she IDs the body,” Reardon said. “Let me know and I’ll meet you two down there. Here’s my card.”
Reardon turned to Keisha. “Will you look again for your husband’s cell phone?”
“I told you,” she said. “I looked everywhere. It’s not here.”
“It wasn’t found with him?” Jericho asked.
“No.”
“That’s odd. He was never without it.”
“Well, hopefully it’ll turn up.”
After Reardon left, Jericho asked Keisha if they could talk privately. She sent the boys upstairs to their rooms.
For a while they sat silently in the den, the widow and the cop each staring down at separate floral patterns in the carpet.
Finally, Jericho raised his head and looked at Keisha.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, instantly realizing how inadequate his words were.
She nodded.
“Listen,” he said softly. “I know this doesn’t make sense to either of us. As Michael’s friend, I’m at a loss for words. But as a detective, my instinct is to investigate. And I think that’s what he’d expect from me.”
“Yes.”
“So... can I ask you a few questions?”
“Okay.”
Jericho paused. He knew he had to frame his words carefully, so they didn’t seem like a police interrogation.
“Did Michael show any signs of... deep depression recently?”
“No more than usual,” Keisha said. “He’d told me about that terrible business you guys had with the drug dealer and that little girl a few years ago. He blamed himself for her death, and that guilt always hung over him. But beyond that... he was just, y’know, frustrated and resentful because a few months ago they took him off active duty and stuck him behind a desk. Just ‘cause of a little atrial fibrillation, they wouldn’t let him work as a detective. It ate at him all the time.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jericho said. “They benched him right after he nailed the killer of that Marcus Garvey Park jogger. I spoke to Mouse a week later and he told me he’d cultivated a new CI who snitched on the woman’s attacker. And if he couldn’t work the streets, that valuable contact would go to waste.”
“The damn department can be so short-sighted.”
Jericho nodded in agreement. “So tell me,” he said. “Did you notice anything recently that was out of character in Michael’s behavior? Anything that seemed erratic or unusual?”
Not really,” she replied. “Well...”
“What?”
“The last month or so, he...” She stopped speaking, her lips pressed tightly together.
“Tell me.”
“I dunno, Jericho,” she said with difficulty. “He was working very long hours, getting home late. Said he was overloaded with paperwork. Then the last few days, he came home after midnight. Said he was out drinking with the guys. I told him alcohol was bad for heart disease, but he said he deserved a little relaxation.”
“That doesn’t sound like Michael,” Jericho said. “When we were partners, I’d go out with the guys and stay up all night boozing, but he’d never join us. He said it was... immature. And he was right.”
After a few moments, Keisha spoke hesitantly. “I... I started thinking... maybe he was hav
ing an affair.”
“That doesn’t sound like him either.”
“I know,” she said. “But late one night, a few weeks ago, I overheard him talking on his phone. And he kept calling the person Rosie... Rosie. I mean, I know it was a woman.”
“Come on, Keisha,” Jericho said. “All right, maybe it was a woman — someone from work. Or... listen, there was a guy on the detective squad named Rosenberg. We used to call him Rosie. Don’t know if he’s still around, but...”
“And on our bank statement,” she said. “I saw a cash withdrawal for a thousand dollars. I asked him about it and he said, ‘Oh, that’s a down payment on a birthday present for you.’”
“Okay.”
“Jericho, my birthday is six months from now.”
“So... he was planning in advance.”
“Oh, God,” she said. “I just... I don’t know what to think.” Her eyes filled with tears and she began to cry. Jericho drew her close and held her till the sobbing subsided.
“Hey,” she said, sniffling. “How ‘bout a little lunch? We didn’t have breakfast this morning, because of... everything. The boys must be starved. I could make tuna salad sandwiches.”
“That would be nice.”
Keisha went into the kitchen and after a while called out to her sons that lunch was ready.
As they ate, hardly a word was spoken. But the act of sitting around the kitchen table gave them all a feeling of comfort and normalcy.
As he picked at his food, Jericho’s mind was racing, trying to make sense of this tragedy. From what Detective Reardon said, The Two Five was already treating Mouse’s death as a suicide.
I know they’ll handle the case diligently — the death of a fellow officer is never treated lightly.
But still — this just doesn’t sound like Mouse.
CHAPTER 4.
The 25th Precinct house on East 119th Street used to be a classic Medieval Revival police station. But it had been renovated into a featureless, concrete- and brick-faced structure — the only reminder of its past being the green light lanterns next to its entrance.
