Crime Song

by David Swinson

  He gives me a look, like maybe I’m drunk or something.

  “It’s not like that, Officer. I’m a retired DC cop working a part-time security gig for a couple of buildings on Connecticut. They’re getting torn up with office burglaries, but you know that.”

  “You have credentials?”

  “Of course. I’m going to reach for my wallet. It’s in the inner pocket of my suit jacket on the front seat.”

  Still doesn’t see my weapon. The magazine pouch is too close to the driver’s-side door, and I figure the gun is tucked far enough toward my back to stay out of sight.

  “Lift your jacket slowly off the backpack and hand it to me,” Driver says.

  “No problem.”

  I slowly hand it over to him. He backs up a bit while his partner keeps his Streamlight on me.

  “Frank Marr?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Your badge says you’re a retired detective. You look too young to be retired.”

  “I left early, after seventeen years.”

  He moves back toward me, then hands me my suit jacket but keeps the wallet.

  “Where were you assigned?”

  “NSID.”

  “Stand by for a second, sir, all right?” Driver says.

  He backs up to enter his car. His partner stays. I know Driver’s gonna run me, make sure I am who I say I am. No wants. No warrants. No worries.

  A couple minutes later he returns and hands my wallet back to me. He gives me his business card with it.

  Officer Todd Tyler.

  “You get a burglar, shoot me a call and we’ll take the arrest,” Tyler says.

  “Appreciate that. Saves me a lot of trouble having to deal with the dispatcher.”

  “You take care, Detective Marr.”

  “Be safe, Officers.”

  They return to their car, turn off the emergency lights. Partner waves as they pass me.

  I look at Driver’s card and put it and my wallet back into my suit jacket.

  An hour quickly passes. I’m thinking Younger and Older are going to be there late, like last night at the other club. I roll on home. I’m not ready yet. And damn, I forgot to call Leslie.

  Forty-One

  After a late-morning shower, I dress down again, ’cause the suit makes me look like a cop.

  I try to call Leslie. It goes to voice mail.

  “I’m sorry I forgot to call you the other day. Need to get my mind off things, so I’ve been working this other job. Call me. Miss you.” I disconnect.

  After I get what I need, I walk to 11th and U.

  It’s hotter, more humid than it was earlier, but it’s a short walk. I get there a few minutes early. So does Diamond. He pulls to the corner as if he were waiting for me at the next block.

  I tap on the front passenger-side window. He rolls it down.

  “This ain’t my bank, but it’s got an ATM,” I tell him, pointing to the bank behind me.

  He nods.

  I withdraw three hundred, because that’s all it will allow.

  I walk back and hop in the rear of the cab, set my backpack beside me.

  I count out two hundred and hand it to him through the open slot.

  “I’ll give you the rest when we find Biddy.”

  “That wasn’t the deal.”

  “I said I need to find Biddy and need your help to do it. You agreed. Besides, how do I know you won’t just drive me around to different spots acting like you know where he might be?”

  “I ain’t about that, and I’ve already given you good shit.”

  “I don’t know you, Diamond.”

  “And I don’t know you, and I don’t think I want to anymore after this is done. So I want you to find him, and then we’re through.”

  “That’s a deal, but still, you’ll get the remainder if we find him.”

  “Shit. All right, then.” Diamond yields.

  He drives off, west on U Street.

  “I know where a bunch of them go to smoke their crack. I dropped him off there once. He come and go, but it’s a good place to start.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me about this place before?”

  “Musta slipped my mind.”

  I don’t say what I’m thinking.

  He puts on the left-turn signal when he hits 12th Street, waits until it’s clear, and makes a U-turn to head east on U.

  “Where is this place?” I ask.

  “Old abandoned building on Sixth, just off Florida.”

  “What makes it so popular that he hoofs it all the way down there to smoke?”

  “I can only assume it’s because it’s gettin’ harder to find a safe spot to smoke. All this construction. Everything getting bought up like it is.”

  “How big’s the building?”

  “Just takes up a portion of the corner is all.”

  “Let’s see how it looks when we get there.”

  “What you plan on doing if you see him?”

  “Have to play that part by ear, but whatever I do won’t burn you, so don’t worry.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Old man’s starting to get bothersome, and I have a feeling this is gonna be another waste of time.

  Traffic is already bad, and it isn’t even evening rush hour yet. It takes longer than it should to get there. Diamond’s right; there’s too much damn construction in this city.

  Lot of pedestrians are out, but guys like Biddy know how to walk the streets. They’re the ones walking the curb, using the trees, the posts, and the parked cars as cover. It’s like they had special training at their own academy. Prison academy.

  When Diamond hits 6th Street, he goes south. Damn, he was right. I need to drive around the city more. There was a time not so long ago when I would have counted a dozen abandoned buildings and row houses by the time we hit 6th. Instead it’s little coffee shops, restaurants, and boutiques. Homes with well-kept front yards. Prosperity.

  “There it is there,” he says, directing me with his head.

  It’s a large two-story detached home. All the windows are boarded up. By the looks of it, crackheads won’t have much longer with this place, either. A contractor’s sign has been posted in the front yard.

  “Make this left so I can get a view of the side and back.”

  Couple of questionable characters walking side by side on the sidewalk on the S Street side of the house.

  “You know those boys there?”

  “No.”

  They cross 6th and continue west on S. Don’t know if they just came out of the house or not, but when Diamond makes the turn it appears that the only safe way to gain access is from S Street, at the rear of the house. It’s too close to the neighboring house on the 6th Street side. Looking at some of the beautiful homes and landscaping here, I gotta assume I made a good investment with my house. Who fucking knew?

  “If you back into the cut up there and come back this way, there’s a parking space across Sixth right at the corner.”

  “Man, you gonna get my ass burned bad. Real bad.”

  “You’ll be parked facing west. If people come out of the house they won’t even catch a glimpse of you.”

  “Unless they make they way cross Sixth on S and pass me.”

  He’s smart. “You worry too fucking much, old man. This how you talked to all those B-and-E dopes when you pulled right up to the house they just got finished busting into?”

  “Shee-it” is all he’s got to say.

  “I think you can handle this, then, huh?”

  He drives ahead, backs into the cut, heads west on S, and pulls into the parking place.

  “I’m parked illegally.”

  “If any cops come around, which I doubt, it’ll look like you’re dropping off a fare.”

  He rolls down his window and turns the car off.

  “You kidding me, Diamond? I’m gonna roast back here.”

  “Damn. You know how much fuel that burns just parking with the air on?”

  “I�
�ll cover the fuel cost, so turn the damn car back on. Shit.”

  He obeys.

  I feel like having a fucking smoke, but I don’t want to make this situation more testy than it already is.

  I put my pack on my lap, slide to the other side, and stretch out over the seat. It gives me an easier view through the rear window, so I don’t have to wake up tomorrow with a stiff neck. I get my binos just in case.

  Let’s see how this pans out.

  Forty-Two

  It’s most certainly a crack house. Not that much traffic inside and out, but I bet the police have been called to it on several occasions because of complaints from some of the neighboring homes. Been sitting on it for over an hour, and I’m fiending, not only for a bump or two but also for a smoke.

  A few minutes later I notice a white male and a black male walking together toward the house. They definitely fit the profile—crackheads, I mean. I get Diamond’s attention and point them out to him.

  “What about those two?”

  “I seen them around the neighborhoods, but no one I know.”

  It’s already rush hour, and a lot of vehicles are rolling by. My opinion—Biddy’s gonna be a no-show or never was going to show. Another part of me is starting to think I’m being played, period.

  “I’m not going to waste any more time on this shit,” I say.

  “All right, then,” he says with a little too much ease.

  “I’m also starting to get the impression you’re fucking me good.”

  He looks at me through the rearview mirror, won’t even turn to face me. That’s how I know I’m right.

  “I’ve worked with a few burglars in my time, and I know how much some of them can smoke on a daily basis. That means a lot of homes they need to break into. I don’t understand why he hasn’t called you yet.”

  “I told you he doesn’t always call ’cause he doesn’t always go for the big items.”

  “I think he’s called you, but I can’t figure why you wouldn’t tell me unless you’re trying to protect him or you’re just plain scared. I don’t figure you for being scared, so you better fucking give it up or I will surely mess up your life.”

  “You can smoke a cigarette if you want. Just roll down the window and blow the smoke outta my cab.”

  What the fuck?

  “What kinda answer is that?”

  “Figured you need one. Might calm you down.”

  Now he’s being a smartass, thinking he can turn it around.

  I sit up and lean toward him so I’m near the back of his head.

  “You sure you wanna try me like this, old man?” I tell him.

  “You want me to take you to R Street, sit there for a bit?”

  “I think we both know that’d be a waste of time, too.”

  No answer.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Diamond. I won’t give you a second chance.”

  I can see that he bows his head, looks up again, and gazes through the front windshield, probably at nothing in particular.

  “Haven’t I been a man of my word with you?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Pretty much? Fuck you. You’re still driving the cab and going home after.”

  “I ain’t stupid, either, so I figure you for either one dirty cop or not one at all.”

  Damn, he is sharp.

  I lean back, pull out my wallet.

  “Turn around for me.”

  He does.

  I show him my badge and my creds.

  “Can you see it good enough?”

  “Yeah, including the identification that says you’re retired, but you showed me that before, and I didn’t see ‘retired’ on it, so isn’t that against the law, pretending to be the police?”

  “I told you before—I’m always the police. But I chose not to tell you that I’m a private investigator now. I can lie. That ain’t against the law.” That’s not quite true. I can lie, but I can’t impersonate a cop unless I say I’m a retired cop, so he’s right. I’m gonna take a chance that he doesn’t know that, though. “I regret lying to you, but I’m being straight with you now. I do have enough evidence for the police to arrest you if I turn it over to my buddy on the burglary squad and the detective in charge of the homicide. Doesn’t matter how I obtained the evidence because I’m not working on behalf of the police department, so they’ll take it.”

  “You got me all messed up now. I don’t fucking know what to believe or what you want.”

  “I want to find Biddy. But more than that, I want to find out if Biddy killed my cousin in my fucking kitchen.”

  “What? Your cousin?”

  Head drops.

  I had to go there. Personal. It’s my only chance to keep him with me.

  “You got it, Robert. My cousin. You know now. Something you might not know. The gun he stole—”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about a gun.”

  “The gun he stole from my house was found on another boy’s dead body.”

  “Fuck no. Robby would never do something like that!”

  “Robby?”

  “Biddy. His middle name is Robby. I call him that sometimes.”

  Shit. Biddy is an alias, and Robby is someone—something more—to him. I’m certain of it now. He’s protecting him. Probably thinking I’ll give up pursuing it after a while.

  “On Rhode Island Avenue. That ring a bell?”

  He doesn’t answer. He knows something.

  “I know you feel you can’t trust me, but I’m telling you the straight truth. I was thinking all the time that Graham Biddy was a fake name, but now I’m still bettin’ he’s probably never been arrested before. Just got caught up with smoking crack somehow. I’ll tell you this: his time is short. He will get arrested, but I’ll turn you in before that happens. They’ll find out who Biddy really is, ’cause I know now he’s something to you. I don’t want to do that, though. That’s the truth, Diamond. Really is.”

  He slowly shakes his head, considering things. Not a good sign.

  “What the hell you protecting this guy for? Why would you put yourself in a position like this?”

  “He my nephew, and he ain’t bad. His mother just fucked him up, and he ain’t ever had no dad.”

  “But you were like his dad.”

  “Yeah. I been there for him.”

  “And your son in the army, like Biddy’s brother.”

  Doesn’t have to respond to that.

  “So he doesn’t live on R Street, does he?”

  “He don’t, no. He ain’t no murderer, though.”

  “But he might know who is.”

  He just keeps on shaking his head, not knowing what to do.

  “I understand now,” I say. “If my cousin Jeffrey were still alive, I’d be doing the same thing to help him. But he doesn’t have a chance now. He’s fucking dead. And like Biddy was more to you than just a nephew, Jeffrey was more to me than just a cousin.”

  “I’m truly sorry for that, but Biddy would never harm anyone. That ain’t no lie, either.”

  Am I losing my touch? I shouldn’t believe him, but I do.

  “Let’s start with me finding out where he took the rest of my property. The records and the CD collection. The laptop and flat-screen.”

  “He never been locked up before.”

  “You can’t protect him from that. Crack’s a monster, and it don’t care.”

  “He get locked up it’ll change him. Like his mother.”

  “Your sister.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If he didn’t do the murder but knows who did, the cops will work with him. I’ll make sure of that. I got a friend who’s a great lawyer.”

  “He can’t go to jail.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m no social worker. I can just assure you that I will help keep him out of jail.”

  There he goes with shaking his damn head again.

  “You’d give up your livelihood and go to jail for him?”


  “Yeah, I probably would.”

  Didn’t want to hear that.

  I could beat it outta him, but I have a feeling that wouldn’t work, either. Family goes deep, and somehow he feels responsible for how it turned out with his nephew. That gives him strength and an upper hand. I know guys like Diamond. Hell, I’m one of them.

  Forty-Three

  If Biddy hadn’t stolen my fucking laptop, I’d run a background check on both him and Diamond through LexisNexis. Thing is, my password is saved on my laptop, and I can’t remember it. Fucking ridiculous. Can’t ask Leslie. Can’t bring her into this mess. I can’t go to my buddy Luna, ’cause he’ll know I’m working the case, and he won’t step out like that, even to help me. Diamond’s the only worthy lead I have, but he won’t budge. He’d probably take a bullet in the teeth for that nephew of his.

  “Take me home, Diamond. You know where I live,” I say all of a sudden.

  “I’ll take you to the corner I picked you up at.”

  “And you’re comfortable with this? Because I am going to give the police everything. They’ll get warrants on you and your nephew.”

  “No. I ain’t comfortable with any of this.”

  “Here’s your choices, then—drop me off, and I guarantee you both will get arrested, or let me talk to him, find out what he knows about the murder, find out where he sold my property, and that’s the end of it. I won’t bother you again, or I can recommend a good defense attorney and you work it out that you or both of you turn yourselves in. It would be to your advantage if you did this before they get warrants. You give everything up, and in my experience you’ll probably get some kind of deal, especially if Biddy or you has information about the homicide.”

  “I got to look after him.”

  “I figured that much, you risking everything because of him. But I’m at my wit’s end here, so make a decision or I’ll make it for you and call Detective Hurley right now.”

  “I gotta find him. Then I’ll call you,” he says.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning the latest.”

  He turns to face me.

  “I’m probably a fool for trusting you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He fiddles with something near his lap. I lean forward to get a better look. It’s the money I gave him. He tries to hand it to me through the slot.