by Frank Zafiro
“Yes!” She lowered her voice conspiratorially and gave Katie another nod. “He doesn’t work, you know. Goes out all night drinking, then comes home and sleeps all day. Must be on welfare, the lot of them.”
“I see. And what’s your oldest child’s name?”
“Brian.”
“And where is Brian now?”
She gave Katie a strange look. “At a friend’s house, where he’s been since school let out. You think I don’t watch my kids or something?”
Katie didn’t answer right away. She pretended to write in her notebook while she thought about the situation. She really wanted to strangle this obnoxious woman, but she doubted that Sergeant Shen would consider that a satisfactory resolution to this oh-so-important problem.
Finally, she surrendered to the inevitable. “Mrs. Masters,” she said, “let me go and have a talk with the Baileys, then I’ll come back and talk with you again.”
“All right. But don’t be surprised if you find drugs in that house. That’s if they even let you in.” She gave Katie another knowing nod.
Katie left the house and walked up the block to a small tan house. The yard appeared well-tended. A tricycle lay on its side by the front porch. Katie advised radio of her new location as she knocked on the door.
The door opened and a man in his mid-thirties wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a tattered robe stood rubbing his eyes. When he noticed Katie’s uniform, his eyes widened slightly and he closed his robe self-consciously.
“Can I help you, officer?”
“Mr. Bailey?”
The man nodded.
“May I come in and talk with you for a few minutes?”
“Sure.” He opened the screen door and let her into the living room. On the couch sat three kids, two boys and a girl who were now more interested in her presence than the cartoons they’d been watching. Katie smiled warmly at them as she looked around the room. It contained the normal clutter one would expect in a household where children lived.
“What’s this is all about?” Mr. Bailey asked.
Katie asked, “Which child is Tommy?”
Mr. Bailey pointed to the largest child on the end of the couch. “Why?”
“Well, according to Mrs. Masters, Tommy has been beating up on her son Brian.” She nodded toward the father. “With your encouragement, Mr. Bailey.”
“Oh, jeez.” Mr. Bailey rubbed his eyes and sat in an easy chair. “That old witch is telling tales again.”
“So she’s lying outright?” Katie asked.
Mr. Bailey sighed. “No, not entirely. Look, Officer, Brian is a little terror in this neighborhood. He is the bully of the block. My kids are under strict orders to avoid him. Yesterday, he started picking on Clay, my youngest there. Tommy stood up to him and punched him in the nose when Brian wouldn’t leave them alone. I saw the whole thing from the front window.”
“Did you encourage it?” Katie asked.
Mr. Bailey shifted nervously in his seat. “Well, sorta. After the fact.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that I told him after it was over that it was a good thing that he stuck up for his brother. I mean, I know fighting is wrong and all, but you can’t let the bullies rule the world, either. We had a talk about it.”
Katie glanced at the three children. They sat calmly, watching her. No one asked her for stickers, which surprised her. That was the thing most kids asked for right away.
“Okay, Mr. Bailey. I figured it might be something like that.”
Katie turned her attention to Tommy, who had been watching enraptured. “Tommy? Your daddy explained to you about fighting?”
Tommy nodded.
“You make sure you always listen to your Mom and Dad.”
All three children nodded.
When Katie turned her attention to Mr. Bailey, he smiled. “They’re good kids, really, officer. I work nights and my wife works days, so they don’t get as much time with us as I’d like, but they’re doing okay, you know?”
“Everything looks fine here,” Katie said, turning for the door. “Continuing to avoid Brian is the best policy. I’ll take care of Mrs. Masters.”
“Thank you.”
Katie walked back to the Master’s house. Evelyn Masters waited on the front porch, her arms crossed. “Did you arrest those little hellions?”
“No, Mrs. Masters, I didn’t. They tell a completely different story.”
“Well, they’re just lying.”
Katie shrugged off the assertion. “Either way, I can’t take any action without physical evidence or witnesses. And besides that, a child under the age of twelve is deemed incapable of committing a crime in the state of Washington.”
“You’re kidding.”
Katie shook her head. She’d left out the fact that a child between eight and twelve could be found capable of committing a crime if it could be shown that the child knew the difference between right and wrong. That little factoid would remain her secret. She didn’t want to give this woman anywhere to go.
“So you’re just going to do nothing?” Mrs. Masters asked, exasperated.
“No, ma’am. I’ve given those children explicit orders not to have any contact with Brian. Of course, this order has to be reciprocal to maintain objectivity.”
Mrs. Masters’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”
“It means that Brian can’t talk with them, either.”
“Why would he want to?”
“My point exactly. If that’s all, then I-”
“Is there going to be a report on this?”
Katie almost sighed but caught herself. There’s no reason to report this, she thought angrily. I shouldn’t even be here. And I certainly shouldn’t be tied up an additional thirty minutes later in my shift working on this go-nowhere report.
She forced herself to keep an even voice. “There is a report in the computer that I came here, ma’am. If there are any future problems, you can ask them to send the same officer. They’ll have my number.” And hopefully I won’t be working.
When Mrs. Masters didn’t answer right away, Katie allowed herself a small smile. “I’m sure things will be better now that we have this verbal no-contact order in place. Good luck.” She turned and walked back to her car.
It wasn’t until she got into the car, drove out of the neighborhood and cleared the call that she finally allowed herself a long sigh.
What a total busybody. I need something cold to drink.
2209 hours
Karl Winter sat at the table with Ridgeway and Will Reiser. They’d arrived late and found their usual table in the corner occupied by some newcomers. Johnny apologized, but the three men didn’t mind. As Ridgeway pointed out, “The beer tastes the same at any table.”
Winter looked at the date on his digital watch, which Mary had bought for him two Christmases ago. He’d protested, preferring a watch with a face and two hands but Mary told him it was time to enter the latter half of the twentieth century.
The date now read August 23rd, which put him at just over eight months to go. It also told him that Gio was an hour late and probably wasn’t coming. All three of them knew he’d been seeing the blonde he met in here, even though he kept uncharacteristically close-mouthed about the affair. Even more telling, Winter had never known Gio to miss a choir practice with the guys over a woman.
“Major Crimes put out a bulletin for patrol today,” Reiser reported. “Scarface has nineteen hits now. There’s another three or four more that are uncertain, but probably him. And he got money on almost all of them.”
Ridgeway didn’t seem impressed. “Major Crimes can pound sand for all I care.”
Winter didn’t join the conversation. Ridgeway had become increasingly irritable over the past few weeks. More and more people knew about his wife’s affair, thanks to her openness and the couple’s common friends. Ridgeway might have been unhappy about losing her, but he was even unhappier about everyone knowing his business.
“You know what Kahn said to me?” Ridgeway asked.
“What?”
“That IA poster boy said that if I would have shot that copycat instead of smacking him, then Major Crimes would’ve never got an admission from him that he wasn’t the real Scarface.” Ridgeway shook his head ruefully. “Without the admission, Hart could then claim to the press that all these new robberies were copycats. He’d be so happy that he’d let me take Poole’s place as day shift lap dog.”
“That’s cold,” Winter observed. He felt sorry for Ridgeway and Gio. Nabbing the copycat at Silver Lanes was still a good pinch. The guy committed a first-degree robbery and they arrested him. But just like no one calls the loser of the Super Bowl the second best team in the NFL, almost getting Scarface didn’t quite cut it among the other officers. Everything on the police department was high-speed, low drag. This was particularly true in the patrol division.
“You know that arrest went to Internal Affairs?” Ridgeway asked.
Winter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why?”
“Use of force. Per Hart the El-tee Prick himself.” Ridgeway took a hard slug of his beer and signaled to Johnny that he wanted a shot. Then he turned to face Winter and Reiser. “You know what their main beef is?”
Both men shook their heads. Discussing Internal Affairs investigations, ongoing or otherwise, was strictly forbidden. Rarely did anyone observe that rule.
Ridgeway ticked off the facts on his fingers. “That radio didn’t broadcast anything specific about a gun. That I saw no weapon before I cracked him. That the fake gun was under the seat. And that using my gun as a striking instrument is forbidden in department policy and procedures.” He smiled bitterly.
Winter shook his head in disgust.
“I can’t believe that,” Reiser said. “He just committed an armed robbery and he was reaching inside his jacket!”
Johnny set Ridgeway’s shot in front of him. Ridgeway threw it back and grimaced. “Imagine that. They said I could have justified shooting him but not pistol-whipping him. How ass-backward is that?”
No one spoke as Ridgeway continued.
“So let’s recap. My wife throws me over for a pansy fireman. Which everyone is now aware of because she is out there running her mouth. Then, instead of killing some dumb sonofabitch, I give him a headache. IA comes to talk to me and of course they have to send the Brass Bitch to do the interview. Four goddamn investigators in IA, one of them is a woman, and I get her. I just know she is going to recommend a finding of improper conduct.” Ridgeway’s voice rose as he spoke. “This shithead copycat robber will probably sue, in which case the department can step aside and lay all the responsibility on me. ‘Look, we gave him proper training. We never said he could hit somebody with his gun. He was operating outside the scope of his employment.’ So now Shithead Copycat gets to fight over my stuff with Alice and her little fireman. Now isn’t that all just absolutely, fucking wonderful!”
At the last word, Ridgeway slammed his palm against the table, rattling the glasses. Conversation in the bar stopped abruptly and all eyes turned to their table, including a disapproving look from Johnny. Winter held up his hand slightly and waved him off. Ridgeway stared at the table, oblivious to it all.
Winter and Reiser sat silently. In a few seconds, conversation again picked up throughout the bar. It took another few minutes for the dark cloud over the table to dissipate. Ridgeway brooded, feeding it.
Winter broke the silence, telling them about his encounter with Poole in the locker room.
“No kidding?” Reiser asked.
“No kidding. It was strange.”
“What do you expect?” Ridgeway asked. “His wife pulled the same thing on him that Alice did on me. If you throw in being Hart’s lackey, he’s got to feel like shit about life right now. I’m surprised he hasn’t eaten his gun yet.”
“Don’t say things like that, Mark,” Winter said, more sharply than he intended.
Ridgeway didn’t react to Winter’s rebuke. “I’m telling you,” he said darkly, “sometimes a guy thinks about things like that.”
Winter eyed Ridgeway closely. “But not you, right?”
Ridgeway grunted and took a slug from his glass.
“Mark?”
“What?”
“Not you, right?”
Ridgeway stared at him, expressionless. “No, Mother Winter. Not me.”
“Good.”
A short silence followed, then Winter waved for another round. “I volunteered for Hart’s task force,” he said, trying to change the subject.
“No lie?” Reiser asked, joining in the conspiracy.
“Yeah. I drew the rover position, tomorrow night. I think I’ll put my theory to the test.”
“Theory?” asked Reiser.
Before Winter could answer, Ridgeway broke in. “Just make sure you shoot him, Karl. Don’t be merciful. Mercy is for the weak.”
Reiser half-nodded. “Mark’s right, in a way. Not for the IA reason, but this guy is either really smart or really crazy. Either way, don’t fool around.”
“It’s drugs,” Ridgeway said. “He’s doing this to support a habit. Has to be.”
Winter had already come to that conclusion. He relayed his theory about the woman accomplice in a car to the two men. Both nodded.
“Sounds reasonable. Either that or he is an Olympic-class runner,” Reiser joked.
“Those druggies have no strength. They can’t run,” Ridgeway said. “You do have one thing on your side, though, Karl.”
“What’s that?”
Ridgeway grinned but there was no humor in it. “If his getaway driver is a woman, she will eventually screw him over.”
Winter and Reiser chuckled, but it did little to relieve Ridgeway’s black mood.
Winter rose, dropping a ten on the table. “Have a couple on me, gents. I’m going home before I start to believe all these evil lies about the fairer sex.”
Ridgeway and Reiser raised their bottles in salute as he left Duke’s.
Outside, the air remained comfortably warm but he could feel the cool promise of night. He was glad that Reiser would stay with Ridgeway a little longer. A man needed his friends at a time like this.
His Corsica started up without hesitation, and he let it idle for a minute before leaving the parking lot and driving toward home. He and Mary had planned for a late night dinner after choir practice and he was looking forward to it. Already, he could see Mary’s bright eyes dancing. He could feel her smallness as she pressed against him for a hug. He could smell her delicious cooking, a skill hard-won over the years. The woman couldn’t brew tea to save her life, but she could cook like nobody’s business. He could see her apron, perhaps splashed with flour or sauce and the small wine glass on the counter that she sipped on for hours before it was empty. And he knew he would soon taste the wine that would be on her lips.
2316 hours
T-Dog reached for the phone. When Morris said now, he meant right now, motherfucker.
He dialed the number from memory.
Jimmy answered. “Hello?”
T-Dog smiled at Jimmy’s nervous tone. That was good. It would make things easier. He waited a few moments before answering. He could almost smell Jimmy’s sweat on the other end of the line.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Jimmy. It’s T-Dog.”
“Oh.” A tiny pause hung in the air. “What’s up?”
“I need your car tomorrow night.”
“The brown Chevy?”
“No, the Maserati,” T-dog sneered. Stupid shit. “Of course the Chevy, you idiot. Drive it over about seven.”
There was another, longer pause.
“Did you hear me, bitch?”
“Uh, yeah. I kinda had something going, though.”
“Reschedule.”
Pause. Then, “Okay, T-Dog. You think you could hook me up when I come over? I’m hurting.”
T-Dog grinned at the desperation in Jimmy’s voice.
“Yeah, sure. Ten for a twenty-piece, since you’re giving up your car for the night.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Seven o’clock. Don’t forget.” He hung up without waiting for a response.
Dialing, again from memory, he switched gears. He punched the proper buttons and paged Cally. Had to be respectful this time. Cally was no addict. He had some juice.
It took only three minutes for the phone to ring. T-Dog picked it up.
“Cat?”
“No. T-Dog.”
“Unh,” Cally grunted. “’Sup?”
“I need two gatts.”
“Baby nines?”
“That’s fine, unless you got anything bigger?”
“Not here,” Cally told him. “I got the baby nines right now, but anything bigger might take a while.”
“How long?”
“Coupla days.”
“That’s no good,” T-dog said. “I need them before tomorrow night.”
“Then the babies is all I got.”
T-Dog considered. Three-eighties were small pistols, good for concealment, but they lacked a lot in the power department.
“I guess I’ll take ‘em, then. Are the numbers filed off?”
“They can be.”
“Need ’em that way.”
They haggled briefly over price and T-Dog hung up. He turned to Morris, who lounged on the sofa, drinking from a forty-ounce bottle of beer.
“Got the drive and the gatts.”
Morris nodded his approval and licked his top lip. “Thas’ right. Gonna get that lily-ass motherfucker.”
Wednesday, August 24th
0400 hours
Gio lay in the early morning darkness. The red numbers of his clock gave him another thirty minutes of sleep, but Gio wasn’t tired.
He could still feel Marilyn’s presence in his bed. She’d risen at midnight and left. She seemed regretful, but she had to work in the morning and could not wear the same clothes two days in a row. Gio watched her dress in the darkness, admiring the silhouette of her body and head standing and bending like a dance. Her lips radiated warmth when she kissed him wetly and slipped out.
Now, he watched the minutes slip by on his clock and dreamt a waking dream of her. He realized Marilyn was different for him. That difference frightened him.
