Leslie calls a few minutes later. I let it go to message. Don’t know why.
I undress in the master bathroom, drop my clothes in the hamper, put on some fresh boxer briefs and my old gray Redskins division-champs T-shirt, and go to bed. I’ll force-feed myself in the morning, eat some grapefruit and down a couple of vitamins. That should be good enough to go. Well, that and replenishing my supply, but not with as much as I usually take. Need to conserve.
Thunder’s in the distance. Another storm heading our way. I love a good storm. Helps me sleep.
Two in the morning.
Did I sleep?
I think I did, but I don’t remember dreaming. Might be a good thing. Means I might’ve slept deeply, as short as it may have been. As much as I want to, and this body wants to, I can’t bother going back to bed. It’ll just get me thinking.
After my morning ritual cleansing, I pack up my backpack. I put on my good suit ’cause it makes me feel like a detective again, and I’ll need that if I get the chance to chat with Mr. Diamond today.
I do feel like I used to feel back in the day, which really wasn’t so long ago, when I had to get up before the sun to execute a search warrant. Everything but the suit. I’d never wear a suit to a search warrant back then, when I was actually a cop. I do on occasion nowadays, but those situations aren’t really search warrants, and the suit is more of a disguise than a uniform. Fake armor.
Rain-drenched landscape. What little grass I have in front needs it. Must’ve been a good storm. The humidity is oddly low. Sky is cleared of clouds, allowing the subtle first light through. The quiet time.
I drive the car around the block to make sure I’m not being followed. I take some back roads, too. Easier to spot a tail that way. No rush hour, so I make it to Diamond’s neighborhood quickly. I do a drive-through in the alley at the rear of his house. His cab is there.
It’s a tough one to set up on. Would’ve been easier if he’d parked in front, because then there’d be only one direction he could go. I need to get an eyeball on his car. The only way to do that is to set up in the narrow alley and trust that a neighbor won’t complain or, worse, call the police. It’s early enough to think I might be okay. And luckily it’s not so humid, so I can turn the car off.
The sun is slow to rise behind me, but when it does it’s beaming.
Seven in the morning.
You’d think he’d get out there by now. Rush hour beginning, burglars starting their rounds casing the neighborhoods.
Don’t know when I’ll get another chance, so I look around me, squeeze the contents of two capsules on the back of my hand, and snort once, then again. It’s a good one. I usually don’t do it this early, but I felt the need. It takes a couple more sniffs to break the rest through, and there it is again. Damn. It’s great when you have good shit, before they get a chance to step on it a couple of times. Mine flaked off a nice cloudy-white rock. Slight bluish tint if you look closely. Mighty fine hit. Maybe because it’s early and the sun is behind me, rising just right.
Now it’s 8:00 a.m., and he’s backing out. He’s going to head in the other direction, where the street dead-ends, and he’ll have to make a right back onto 4th. I back out of the cut and onto 4th just before he comes into view. Slowly I follow. He turns left at the next street. Back to Northwest. My neighborhood.
Damn if he doesn’t make a right on 11th heading toward Florida Avenue, which is just around the corner from my house. The Florida Avenue Grill stands on the southwest corner, tucked beside a large all-glass structure like a tiny neglected monument. Across the street from it is the Howard University campus police building. I know a few of those guys. A lot of them retired MPD working as campus investigators now. Left on Florida to 12th, and another left is the street my house is on. He parks on 11th, ahead of a bus stop and on the same side as the Howard police building. I drive past him. He doesn’t take notice. Through my rearview mirror I can see that he’s walking north. I find an illegal parking space a short distance down from the Grill, near an entrance to Howard security. I still have a good view of the entrance to the Grill. I recline my seat all the way down and turn off the engine.
It’s a long block, but I notice him crossing to the west side of 11th, then going into the Grill.
Fucking son of a bitch. Right around the corner from my house. Is he going in there for coffee or to shoot the shit with some boys over breakfast before he rolls out to aid and abet?
This is what’s called playing it by ear. Could be good. Could be bad. Most of the time it’s worked out for me. I put my old police patch on the dash so the Howard boys or one of my own won’t give me a ticket.
It’s starting to get hot, so I turn the car back on and crank the air. I put my seat back to its original position, step out of the car, walk around to the front passenger side, set my backpack on the floor behind the seat, and hop in. I light a smoke and get ready to catch a cab.
About forty-five minutes later I see him exit. He walks slowly toward his car, and I exit my car not far behind him. There’s more traffic now. Cars passing. A couple of people coming up on his side from Florida Ave., but they cross the street to continue north on 11th. He’s not paying much attention to this side. I shoulder my pack, walk at a fast pace toward his cab.
I get to the rear of his cab and turn around to see him walking across the street toward the driver’s-side door.
I walk to the driver’s side of his cab as he takes his keys out to unlock it. It’s an old model, so he doesn’t have a key fob. He looks at me, not worried, probably just wondering why a man in a nice suit is standing in the street next to his cab.
“Mr. Diamond,” I say.
Thirty
Do I know you, sir?” he asks with a kind smile. Not an image of this man I expected to see.
As a PI and a retired cop, I’m breaking one of the biggest rules I can break, but still, I pull out my wallet and flash my badge, trying to do it so fast that he can’t take notice of RETIRED etched above DETECTIVE. I can easily get my license revoked doing this kinda shit, but I’ve been lucky playing it so far. And fuck, I break rules. I do.
He withdraws his smile. Guess he didn’t see the RETIRED part.
“Did I do something wrong here, Officer?”
Not the question to ask if you didn’t do anything wrong.
“Yes. But nothing we can’t work out.” And I immediately regret saying that, but it just came out, so now I have to go with it.
“What’s this all about? I ain’t done nothin’.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, Mr. Diamond.”
What the fuck? My mouth’s quicker than—
“What are you talkin’ about? I ain’t done nothin’, nothin’ at all. And I’m parked in a legal spot.”
“It’s not today we have to talk about.”
“I’m an honest, hardworking man. I never been arrested. What’s this about?”
“I’m sure you’re hardworking. And I know your record is clean. There is a possibility it can stay that way, but that’ll depend on how you wanna play this.”
“Play this? I don’t know what the hell you talking about. I got fares I got to pick up. I’m a working man. And what the hell you doin’ standing next to my car, anyway? You been here waiting for me?”
“I’ll be straight with you. I followed you from your home on Fourth Street.”
“What?”
His old hands start shaking, and he panics and struggles to put the key in the lock to open the door, but his hand is trembling too much. I almost worry he’s gonna have a heart attack.
“Slow down there, Mr. Diamond. Give me your keys. I’ll open the door for you.”
“Hell, no. You got some kinda warrant? I want to know what this here is about.”
“I’ll open the door for you. We can sit and talk in your car.”
He pauses like he’s considering it, but then he faces me, keys dangling in his trembling right hand.
“What kinda line of question
ing is this? You want to talk to me in my car? What kinda police do that?”
“The kind who can help you if you help them. And I’d like to keep this private, but if you want I’ll call a marked unit, and we can talk at the Third District.”
If he calls my bluff, I’ll have to call a unit. Millhoff will come in, and I’ll have to give up everything I know. Piss him off, and this old man’ll probably lawyer up. I know that’s how it’ll play out, so don’t call it, old man.
“I’m a hardworking man. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He’s just playing the game now. Okay.
I snatch the keys out of his hand. He steps back, startled, like he’s going to scream for help.
A car slows to pass him. I notice the driver turn to look at me, passing me slowly. No threat, just a concerned citizen.
“Step to the front of your car or you’re gonna get run over.”
For some reason, he obeys the command. Maybe I got my real police tone back.
I unlock the door and open it.
“See, I opened the door for you.”
He just stands there, on the other side of the open door, mouth gaping.
In my experience, an innocent man would either demand a supervisor or get on his cell and call the cops himself. He wouldn’t take this shit. Bad guys aren’t afraid of the police anymore. That I know for sure. Especially getting the keys snatched out of his hand the way I did. He knows what this is about, but I don’t think he’s much of a bad guy. I can tell he’s mulling things over in his head, thinking something like maybe one of his burglary boys got arrested and rolled on him.
He’s wearing a tucked-in short-sleeved shirt with no bulges, and he’s fucking too old for an ankle holster ’cause he probably can’t even touch his toes, but I still don’t wanna take a chance.
“You got a gun or any kind of weapon under that seat or anywhere in the car?”
“Lord, no.”
“Well, for your safety and mine I’m just gonna check under your seat. And you’re no match for me, Mr. Diamond, so don’t get stupid.”
“I ain’t got no gun, and I ain’t stupid.”
While keeping an eye on him I reach my right hand in, feel around the floor under the seat. I stand and reach further in to open the center console. Nothing.
I move back, extend my arm to the open door, and say, “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Diamond?”
He sits down in the front seat, looks up to me.
“What about my keys?”
“I’ll give them to you once I hop in the front.”
He shakes his head. Lips tighten. He shuts the door. I walk around the rear of the vehicle, keeping an eye on his movements. I unlock the front passenger door, sit, and shut the door.
“Starting to get real humid,” I say while handing his keys back to him. “How about you start this up and get the air going? Then I’ll tell you what this is all about.”
Thirty-One
He keeps a clean cab, which is interesting. With the air on it cools down nicely. A plug-in deodorizer sticks out where the car lighter should be. Smells like cinnamon. His ashtray is clean, so I’ll be polite and won’t even ask about smoking. There’s thick Plexiglas with a slide-open window that separates him from the passengers in back. Doubtful it’s bulletproof.
His hands are on his lap.
“You keep a nice cab.”
“Been doing this for thirty-three years. Always kept a nice cab. You never told me your name, Officer.”
“Frank Marr, and I’m going to start by being straight and tight because I don’t want to waste my time or your gas. I got you good, so in order for this deal to work between us I need you to work with me.”
“Wha—”
“Don’t even go there, because here’s what you stand to lose: you’ll get a warrant for your arrest. You’ll get your cab seized because you used it during the commission of several felonies. It’ll get impounded as evidence. What are you, late sixties?” I ask before he can respond.
“Seventy-two.”
“You look good for seventy-two.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy.
“You married?”
A moment.
“My wife passed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“You don’t know me. Just tell me what I need to know. What about kids?”
“All due respect, Officer—”
“Investigator will do.”
“Investigator. All due respect, why you need to know all that?”
“I like to know the kind of man I’m dealing with.”
“I got a son. He’s in the military.”
“What branch?”
“Army. He overseas somewhere.”
“You must be proud.”
Nods.
“So you’re at that age when you stand to lose a lot, maybe everything. If your health is good, you’re not counting the years yet. But in prison you do. Not to mention your son. So here’s what I have. I got you solid on several burglaries. There’s also an accessory to homicide.”
“What? You fucking crazy. Get out of my car!”
“That’d be a mistake. You should let me finish.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Homicide?”
“Even though you weren’t the one breaking into the homes, and even though you didn’t kill anyone, you aided and abetted those who did, like Graham Biddy and this other dude, Givens.”
My head’s not in the game right now; too long since my last bump. But I get the reaction I like. That sudden intoxicated look: he feels like his insides just dropped to the pit of his stomach. We’ll see if I fucked it up.
“I mean, really? Transporting them right from the site of the homicide to the fence who bought the stolen goods? Not to mention chauffeuring one or both of them to a hit? Never would have dreamed it. These are serious charges, because you’ll get hit with several counts of burglary two, along with conspiracy, trafficking in stolen property, and accessory to murder. Some serious shit.”
“No, sir, you can’t do that. I don’t aid and abet nobody. I don’t know nothin’ about any murder. I just pick up people and take them where they want to go. I don’t conspire with them about breakin’ into other people’s homes. I’d never have anything to do with killin’ someone.”
“You pick up crackheads, let them put merchandise—flat-screens, laptops, music, and on and on—into the trunk of your cab. I got photos. I got witnesses. And like I said, you don’t have to break in to pick up the same charge.”
“Hell, I don’t know what they doin’. For all I know they moving.”
That’s what I want to hear.
“Yeah, moving stolen property. And it doesn’t look like you’re in the legitimate moving business. The Taxicab Commission might have something to say about that.”
Bows his head this time.
“I mean, Thrift World and that mom-and-pop convenience store on Fourteenth? You were at both of those spots the other day. I have photos to prove it. Shows everything.” I don’t allow him to answer. “Don’t play me for a fool or you don’t got any kind of chance here. I’ll walk out right now.”
“How come I ain’t locked up, then? You say you got all that on me.”
“So you don’t deny it. Good.”
“I never said that. You puttin’ words in my mouth now.”
“You’re not locked up because I choose not to have you locked up. If I believed for a second that you were a murderer we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I need your help.”
“Like I said, I ain’t stupid, and I never heard of the police working deals like this. Sitting here like you are, no partner or other cops around.”
“That’s because I do things a bit different. Got a different set of rules. For instance, I’m actually working a different case, and that’s the one I need your help with. I could care less about all these other burglaries, but I know a detecti
ve who does. He’s the lead detective for burglaries in the city. I can call him here, too, if you want, but he’s by the book, and you’ll get hit with everything. No kinda deal like I’m going to make. I’m just looking to pick up Graham Biddy and Givens.”
I’m starting to think I didn’t play this right. I gave up the homicide and the suspects much too soon. I’m off with my interrogation skills. Haven’t had the cause to do it for a while. He’s gotta know something about Jeffrey’s murder.
“You’re thinking too much, and you don’t want to take that kind of chance. I can get Biddy on my own, but it’ll just take a bit more time. And the other detective working the case, he’ll get you right away, ’cause I’ll pass off all the evidence I got on you to him. It’s an easy out for you. You just show me where Biddy took certain property, then help me find him and Givens.”
“I don’t know anyone by the name of Givens.”
He’s lying. It’s the way he paused, even if it was for a second, before he said “Givens.” I don’t want to push it, ’cause I might lose him.
“Biddy, then. You find him for me, I’ll let you slide.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I told you. I’m different. I care. I believe you’re a decent man who just got caught up with the wrong people. I mean, it’s gotta be hard being an independent cabbie in this city.”
“Sure, no denying that.”
“You got it good. Self-employed. Good-looking little house. You own it?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t jeopardize all you’ve worked for.”
“It’s just hard nowadays. You got that Uber business jackin’ you and then the Taxicab Commission making it even harder to earn a living as an independent.”
“I truly can understand that. I personally don’t like Uber. Don’t trust them, but I’m old-fashioned that way.”
“Old-fashioned? Shit, you’re too young to be old-fashioned.”
I chuckle in my head.
“How much do you make on a good day, not including what those mopes give you?”
It doesn’t take him long.
Crime Song Page 9
