The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2017 by David Swinson
Cover design by Allison J. Warner; photograph by Christie Goodwin/Arcangel
Author photograph by Mark Regan
Cover copyright © 2017 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBN 978-0-316-26420-4
E3-20170310-NF-DA
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Three
Eighty-Four
Eighty-Five
Eighty-Six
Eighty-Seven
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by David Swinson
Newsletters
For Linda Schwendiman
She loved a good mystery, and God unveiled for her the greatest mystery of all
Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster, and not many people can keep their balance on it.
—Hunter S. Thompson
One
I tried self-restraint once. Not on purpose. Caught a bad virus. Put me down for a bit. When I got better I continued not using, but after a couple days I came back, preferring high spirits and liking myself again over a state of near comatoseness and self-loathing.
That’s the memory that comes to mind when I think about what I have left of my stash. I can’t get it outta my head. It’d be an incredible supply for the mere social user, and it might even last someone months, but it certainly isn’t enough for the devoted.
Like me.
So in part, that’s what has kept me working this case after I learned what my cousin Jeffrey Baldwin got himself into. I’ve been tailing and surveilling him off and on for over a week now.
Jeffrey’s mom, Linda, still lives in the same small town outside Akron, Ohio. Last time we talked I was a detective at Narcotics Branch, but we lost contact when I was sent into retirement. Didn’t return her calls. It was on me, not her. She didn’t give up trying for a long time.
Then when she called me last week, I answered. She talked like we’d been keeping in touch all this time, told me she hadn’t heard from Jeffrey in days and he was skipping classes at George Washington University last semester so now he has to attend summer school to catch up. Said he got in with a bad crowd in his senior year of high school in Ohio, and she’s worried he’s found another bad crowd to pull him down again. She thought I was still a cop and could help. I told her I was a PI now and maybe I could. No fee, though, I insisted. The least I could do in return for not keeping in touch and because she’d been there for me as a kid after my mom died.
I hate to admit it, but Aunt Linda was right. I have enough to give her, but for my own selfish reasons, I need to go further. That stash of mine ain’t gonna grow on its own.
Last Thursday I followed Jeffrey to the same spot I’m headed to now—Spotlight, a trendy nightclub on Connecticut Avenue. Mostly college kids, but they get a few locals from the area, including some who look like players. Real players, not wannabes like my cousin. It didn’t take me more than a few minutes to figure out the action going on.
Jeffrey would do some little deals there on the sly, quarter and half grams, a dime of weed, but only occasionally and nothing that would draw attention. Most of his dealings were with other students, outside the nightclub.
He’d meet up at the club with one of the local boys who’d re-up him for the weekend. I don’t think the local is a supplier, but he’ll lead me to whoever is. Eventually. Another benefit, but I’m not ready to go that far just yet. I’ll get a quick hit out of Jeffrey before I tell his mom, though. It’ll be like I’m doing her a service anyway. Maybe teach him a life lesson along the way.
I find a nice spot to park on Connecticut. I’ve got a good view of the front entrance, and there’s a large tree at the curb with a trunk that gives me good concealment.
I drive a newish-model Volvo with nice tint, so I’m not worried about the pedestrian traffic, even without the tree and its large trunk. These people aren’t gonna pay much attention to me.
I honed my skills conducting surveillance when I was on the department working 7D Vice, then later as a detective. You wouldn’t get away with what I’m doing here in most of those locations,
and most of the time you’d have one or more partners to watch your back.
I need a boost, so I grab my prescription-pill container out of my left pants pocket. It has fifty capsules that I packed tightly with cocaine. Two capsules make for a nice line—or, in this case, pile. I twist one of the capsules open and squeeze the powder out of each half onto the back of my hand. After I look around, let a couple pedestrians pass, I take a snort, twist the capsules back together, and repeat the process. Light a cigarette after.
It’ll never be like the first time, but the initial wave is still nice. Also takes more than it used to, mostly when I’m home alone.
The sunset isn’t so sudden during the summer months. It just softens into nighttime. This area is well lit, too: large office buildings, restaurants, and retail stores.
I notice Jeffrey. It’s just after nine. Right on schedule. Not like working some of the street ops from back in the day. Can’t depend on those drug boys worth shit. At least he’s reliable. He’s wearing designer jeans and a stylish black slim-cut sport coat over a gray V-neck T-shirt.
Fucking kid. What happened to you?
Fuckin’ me. What the hell am I doing? Just go tell Aunt Linda and leave it, maybe have a talk with him after. In my mind he’s still just a small round-faced boy.
I watch him enter, then I give myself another bump and exit the car. I flick my cigarette to the gutter, put my suit jacket on to conceal my sidearm, straighten it out so it falls nicely over my shirt collar, then make my way to the front entrance.
Two
An older cop in a cheap suit is working the door tonight. He greets me with an upward tilt of his head. I don’t know him. He’s not one of the regulars who work this part-time gig. He’s a big man, mid- to late fifties, but I wouldn’t ever fuck with him. He looks like he hits the gym almost every day.
The music’s loud, though not as uncomfortably loud as it’ll get when the DJ hits the mixing board with that techno-electronic shit and scratches vinyl on his turntables. Scratch vinyl? Good God. I should be long gone by then.
Jeffrey’s standing at the bar nursing a beer. Everyone seems well dressed. Trendy. Black leather booths set in darker areas for those special moments. The area around the bar is backlit against gold to highlight the liquor bottles on the shelves. Two bartenders working—one male and one female. She’s wearing a bra like it’s an eighties fashion statement.
It’s early enough for me to find a seat at the edge of the bar, where it’s darkest. I’ve got a couple of hours before the in crowd starts to show. I order a double Jameson Caskmates ’cause the bartender measures the shit out, and an ounce and half is nothin’ but a sip for me.
I notice Jeffrey over my left shoulder still nursing his beer when I’m surprised by a question: “Just saw ya last week, Frankie boy. You becoming a regular here?”
Willy Jasper is leaning on the edge of the bar between me and an empty stool. He’s a master patrol officer out of the First District and runs the part-time here. It’s an unsanctioned off-duty job, ’cause cops can’t work as bouncers at a club.
Who am I to care?
Jasper’s not wearing a suit tonight, so I’m assuming he’s not here to work.
“Willy, hey. Just finishing up that security gig, that building down the street. What’s up with you? I thought they had a dress code here. Or are you working undercover?” I ask with a bit of a smile.
“Undercover. Shit. I’m on my way to work midnight shift. Stopped by to check in on my boy first. Then I saw you at the bar here all by your lonesome and thought I’d drop by.”
The bartender in the bra shows up for Jasper.
“Hi, sweetie,” he says.
“Hey, there, Willy. Can I get you something?”
“Just a soda.”
She shoots him a smile before she turns.
“Yeah, you got a good gig here,” I tell him.
I casually look over my shoulder to make sure Jeffrey’s still there.
He is.
“I can hook you up if you want. Money’s good, and I can use the extra manpower. Chief’s got us working all kinds of mandatory OT shit. Hard for me to fill up some of the hours here.”
“I keep myself busy enough, and I’m not pressed for money right now. But you never know what the future holds. I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”
The bartender returns with his soda.
“Thanks, hon,” Jasper says with a smile. “And give my boy here another of whatever he’s drinking on my tab, would ya?”
“’Preciate it, Jasper.” I lift my glass toward him, and he clinks his glass of soda against mine.
He throws me a peculiar half smile after.
“But seriously,” he says after sipping his soda. “Big boy Wyatt Morris over there at the door is retired, like you. He’s been working with me for a few years. We go back. In fact, he was my training officer.”
“No shit? Yeah, I noticed him. Looks like he keeps in shape for his age.”
“Ex-military and straight to DC police after. Retired outta ERT.”
I down the rest and trade the bartender the empty for another. Looks like she gave me a good pour this time.
“Job comes with benefits, too, huh?” I take a drink.
“Naw, man, I ain’t tapping that,” he tells me.
“I meant the drinks.”
He belts out a screwy laugh. “Oh, yeah. They take care of ya here.”
I casually look toward Jeffrey again.
Jasper looks at the time on his big wristwatch.
“I gotta roll. Still have to hit the locker room and change up before roll call.”
“Be safe, Jasper.”
“Likewise, brother. Drop by again sometime. I’m always here Fridays, Saturdays.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
He walks back to the front, talks with his boy for a moment, then rolls out.
With any luck, after tonight I won’t have to come to this place again. My hangouts are the spots that never change, like Shelly’s and Rebellion DC. They don’t cater to crowds who expect the next trend. Or, thankfully, play this fucking music. I’m just hoping my cousin gets this shit done before the DJ hits the stage.
“You a cop, too?” the bartender with the bra asks.
She’s leaning over the other side of the bar facing me. Maybe a little too close.
“No. Not anymore.”
“You look too young to be retired.”
“Moved on is all.”
“So what do you do, then?”
“I like to drink. Occasionally sleep,” I say straight-faced, with a tone that I hope expresses lack of interest.
She shoots me a cute smile, and with little effort she slips away to help another customer.
There was a time in my life I might’ve been interested, pursued it with enthusiasm. See if she really liked me or was just making a flirty attempt at getting a bigger tip. But no, I’m too fixed on a certain lifestyle, one that I can’t jeopardize. And Leslie Costello is a major part of that lifestyle. Last thing I want to do is fuck it up with her. You don’t get that many chances in life.
Third drink in, more people showing up, and Jeffrey is still at the corner of the bar, but now nursing a martini. It’s been around forty-five minutes, and he hasn’t budged.
Few minutes later, a young kid wearing a white T-shirt with an abstract cannabis leaf design on the front seems to bounce through the entrance. His baggy dark blue jeans hang a bit too low, and his dreadlocks fall to his shoulders. It’s not the same kid as before, when I was here last Thursday, but I note Jeffrey clocking him.
At the bar, they share some kind of special handshake. They talk for a second, then Jeffrey gets the attention of the male tender and orders something. The tender draws a glass of beer from the tap, slides it to Dreadlocks. Jeffrey pays the tab, and the two walk to a corner booth in a quieter area of the club.
For an experienced guy like me, the exchange is obvious and quick. Jeffrey stuffs something into the left i
nner pocket of his sport coat—something that seems too large to fit there. He stands afterward and walks to the men’s room.
Dreadlocks picks up his beer and walks toward a group of girls near the DJ booth. A couple of them smile as he approaches.
I could follow him into the restroom. It’d be easy. So easy I even find myself giving it serious thought. He’d know who I am. That’d make taking the shit off of him easier. What’s he gonna do? It’d scare the shit outta him, but then maybe we’d hug after. Fuck me. I know what he’s got, and I know he’s going into the restroom to check it out. At most he’ll share a half a gram with a couple of cute girls, but that’s about it. He’ll go home, probably shove what he got in a shoe box, and hide it somewhere close to his bed. I’ll snatch it up after he goes to his morning classes. After I give his mom everything I know, she’ll kick his ass into the military or some shit like that—I hope.
I down the rest of my drink, then signal the bra queen for the tab.
“It’s taken care of,” she says kindly.
“Thank Willy for me, then.”
I drop a twenty on the counter. She smiles.
I go home, see if I can find some sleep.
Three
First thing I do when I get home is go check my stash wall. I admit I’m getting increasingly paranoid, but for some reason being aware of it makes it feel less like a weakness. It’s become obsessive, I guess, a stupid little ritual. Otherwise I don’t feel safe. Seeing the neat little wall in its place, I feel my heart lift. It’s like magical thinking in reverse.
There’s a small room just before the entrance to my kitchen. Inside is the HVAC system for the house as well as a washer and dryer. I unlatch a phantom hinge that allows me to open the molding along the outer edge of the drywall. It’s like a tall, thin secret door. I slide the drywall that’s against the right side of the washer out along its hinges to open the enclosed area.
Inside there are several shelves affixed to two-by-fours.
I got rid of the weapons I’ve picked up along the way, ’cause I’m sure they had bodies on them. I still carry, but I’m covered under my retirement and 218, so mine’s legal. Will a certain assistant chief at the department try to fuck me out of my weapon? Maybe. But then maybe he forgot about old Frank and I’m just being twitchy.
Crime Song Page 1
