Crime Song

by David Swinson

  I take another drag and flick the cigarette out the window before it’s finished. I grab the burner cell that has Jasper’s number on it. I use my throwaway cell for the call.

  “So this is easy stuff,” I begin. “All I want you to do is call this number, and if a man answers, just say, “Willy?” like you know him really well. That’s all. I want to know if his first name is Willy.”

  “Simple enough.”

  “Let me fill you in on a couple of details.”

  “Okay.”

  “He works at a club.”

  “What club?”

  “Come on now, Darling. You know better than to ask that.”

  “Just testing.”

  “Right. He works at a DC club. You don’t have to remember the name of it, only that he runs the door and that’s how you met. It was on a Thursday a few weeks ago. He gave you his card. If you get him in a conversation, just keep it going.”

  I hand her a clean yellow notepad and a pen.

  “Write down any questions you might need to know, like about the club or something. Don’t go fishing. I just want to know if his first name is Willy. That’s all. No drug talk or anything like that. Once you get that, just hang up.”

  “What if he gets to really talkin’?”

  “Like what, wanting to get together with you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that. Just hang up. I wanna rattle him.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough, then.”

  I tap in the number and hand her the phone.

  I hear a male voice answer after a couple of rings.

  “Hi, Willy,” she says in her best voice.

  I lean toward Darling to see if I can hear him, but I can’t.

  “Tamie…you gave me your card, Willy, a few weeks ago. I think it was a Thursday…yes, Tamie, sweetie. I know you remember. Don’t play hard to get.”

  Darling turns toward me, shakes her head like it’s not looking good, then I don’t hear him talking at the other end. She disconnects.

  “Hung up on me,” she says.

  “Well, what’d he say?”

  “He asked for my name, said he doesn’t remember giving his card to any girls at the club. Then he said ‘I don’t know you’ and hung up.”

  “So he never told you his name wasn’t Willy?”

  “No, not once. In fact it sounded to me like I was talking to this Willy guy.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  I reach for my wallet, pull out eight twenties, which is way more than she should get, but I know she needs it.

  I hand it to her, then say, “You’re good to go, then. Thanks.”

  She takes the money. Doesn’t count it, just slips it into her big purse.

  “Can you help me out just a little more, Frankie? I really do got bills.”

  “Not gonna go anywhere else, is it?” I ask, even though I know it probably is.

  “No, sweetie. I swear.”

  I count out another hundred, add an extra twenty. Hand it to her.

  “I’ll make it up to you. Don’t worry.”

  “I ain’t worried, Tamie. I’ll call Luna for you.”

  She opens the door, smiles at me before stepping out and shutting the door. I watch her walk away, her tiny ass moving right to left like she’s trying to impress. Makes me smile.

  Sixty-Five

  On the way home I stop at a corner where an old Hispanic guy is selling fresh mangoes from a cart.

  “Buenas tardes,” I say.

  “Buenas tardes, señor.”

  “Un mango, por favor.”

  He grabs one from a basket, lightly squeezes it for freshness, expertly peels the skin, and carves it into slices with a large knife.

  He drops the slices in a Ziploc bag, squirts hot sauce on them. Seals it and shakes it up.

  “Three dollar, please.”

  I pay him. He hands it over to me.

  “Gracias,” I say.

  When I get home I drop my pack on the sofa and head to the kitchen, where I sit at the breakfast table and enjoy the spicy-sweet mango. Gotta put something in this stomach. Latinos know about spice. It’s actually good on a hot day like this. Cools down your body temperature. Works for me, at least, and the mango has nutritional value. Lord knows I need as much of that as I can get.

  Now I have to figure out what the hell to do. I don’t like keeping this information from my friends on the department. It’s valuable. How can I reveal it without giving myself up? I’m not ready to do that. Don’t think I’ll ever be ready to do that. I’ve grown accustomed to this life. Hell, even enjoy it. Most of it. The ups, not the downs.

  Leslie.

  Shit. That crept right into my head. I have to let it go. I have to finish this. Figure how to play it out. After that, I’ll think about how to fix what I fucked up.

  I decide to give Diamond a call, but it goes straight to an automated message. I don’t leave one back. Is that fuck avoiding me? Damn well better not be.

  I know now that I can’t keep the police out of this. The easy thing to do would be to kill Jasper, but I can’t do that. I certainly can have fun thinking about it, though.

  The academy always said that drugs, money, and women are the most common things that take a cop down. I can attest to one of them, but only because I like it for myself. I don’t deal, but I do steal. So I guess I got two—drugs and money. Leslie is a good person, so she doesn’t fall into the academy’s category of the wrong woman.

  What’s Jasper’s jones?

  I’m betting it’s as simple as money—and mental illness.

  Cell rings.

  Hurley.

  “What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to your source.”

  Shit.

  “Not that easy. Tryin’ to find him, see if he’s willing.”

  “Can you tell me how involved he is?”

  “Heavily.”

  “Can you tell the source, without making promises, that we might be able to help him if he cooperates?”

  “Wait—what? So you know Jasper’s dirty?”

  “That’s the information we’re getting, too.”

  “How’d you find that out? I mean, I know you’re a great detective and all—”

  “Let’s just say I had an enlightening hospital interview.”

  Damn, he got Repo or his older brother or both to roll. I don’t remember much of that night, but I know I went right to the edge with it. Maybe softened them up a bit for Hurley. Literally. From the outside in.

  “How did you find this source, Frank?”

  “Hoofing it, just like the old days.”

  “Is he a burglar? Is it your burglar?”

  “No,” I lie, as usual.

  “It would be really helpful if we had another cooperator.”

  So he only got one of the brothers to talk. And yes, when you’re working something like this, the assistant US attorney always likes two independent sources of information. Not that he can’t work it with one. It just makes the information more reliable having two.

  “I can talk to him and see, but it’s going to be tough. Why can’t you just put a wire on whoever you have?”

  “That’s something we might do, but he’s going to be in the hospital for at least another week.”

  Damn. I really did lose control.

  “I need your source, Frank. This involves some heavy shit.”

  I think that’s the first time I ever heard Hurley cuss.

  “Please tell me you got something good on my cousin’s homicide,” I say.

  “We’ll know soon enough. Got a couple of guns out of the house on Riggs. One is the same caliber used in the shooting on Rhode Island Avenue. Firearms Examination is on it.”

  That’s probably why the kid is rolling. He knows that gun and possibly the other one are gonna come back on him.

  Fuck. Do something really stupid like I did that night, and it looks like it might pay off. I don’t wan
t to jinx it, so I stop thinking about it.

  May as well cast the line all the way out, see what bites.

  “What about me?” I ask, sighing. “I’m getting a feeling that in some weird way I’m tangled up in all this shit. Something having to do with Jasper. Maybe I was just in the wrong place at the right time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I went to surveil my cousin at the club. I don’t know. It’s crazy.”

  “We’re keeping the file on your house in the same case jacket as these boys on Riggs now. Does Jasper know where you live?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. He pulled some off-the-wall stunt using his rookie to stop me near my house a couple nights ago. Told his rookie I might be a robbery suspect, but Jasper stayed in the car. Let’s just say I had some words with him about his training methods.”

  “You did something to piss Jasper off.”

  “Wait—why? No.”

  “Frankie, I know you.”

  “I would have told you if I did. In fact I’ve been struggling to figure that out. Only conversation I had with him was at the nightclub he works, and that was just casual. He even bought me a drink.”

  “He’s buying stolen property,” Hurley begins. “That’s what the kid in the hospital says. Who knows? Maybe he did have your house hit because he knew there’d be a gun in there. Maybe it is coincidence you were surveilling your cousin and all the time he was doing business with Jasper, too. Maybe he thought you were nipping at him.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something? Listen, I’ll talk to my source again, see if I can persuade him to do the right thing.”

  “Let me know. I’m always here.”

  “Later, Joe,” I say.

  “Later.”

  I disconnect.

  Jasper’s a big guy. Bigger than I am, but he’s take-out-food big. Still, he’s intimidating enough to dissuade me from going hand to hand with him if it ever comes to that. Wyatt is bigger, though, and it ain’t from takeout. He’s the one I have to worry about. When it comes to dirty cops, it’s not something I want to handle alone. As much as I might want to, there’s just too much that can go wrong. It’s not like those books or shows.

  I feel better that Hurley is on it now. My head is clearing up a bit, and some blow will help even more. After I snort one up, it’s clear to me that I have to convince Biddy and Diamond that the only way they’re going to get out from under this mess is to cooperate with the police. That means making another trip to Old Town.

  Sixty-Six

  I park in a space on the street and walk a couple of blocks to the motel. The streets are well lit in this area. The continuous shrill of the cicadas is starting to drive me crazy. Day after day, night after night. I know it’s supposed to be some kinda love song, but all I hear in it is frenzy.

  I don’t see Diamond’s cab in the lot.

  There’s a light on in Biddy’s room, though. I knock on the door.

  Knock again. Harder. No response.

  I listen for movement or anything else, maybe the TV, but nothing. I wait a couple minutes just in case he’s in the bathroom, knock again.

  I call him on my phone, but it goes straight to voice mail. Call Diamond and get the same thing.

  I walk to the motel office, peek through the window before I enter. It’s not the old man. Some young twentysomething guy with a disturbing hair bun, if that’s what you even call it. I enter.

  He looks up from his iPhone.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” I say. “A friend of mine is supposed to be staying here for a week. I came here to take him to dinner, but there’s no answer at the door. I hope I was knocking on the right door. If I give you his name, can you tell me if he’s still here? Maybe he went to another motel.”

  “I can tell you if someone is here but not give out the room number.”

  “Well, I guess that’s good enough. His name is Robert Givens, but he also might be checked in under his uncle’s name, Robert Diamond.”

  He checks the computer.

  “Yes, he’s still checked in.”

  “Both of them?”

  “No. Just Mr. Givens.”

  “Appreciate it. Thanks,” I say, then exit.

  It’s gonna be a lot of driving tonight, but I decide to head to Diamond’s house. It’s late enough on a weekday for him to be home, which would mean he didn’t take my advice and get outta Dodge City for a while.

  Traffic isn’t fighting me. The heat index, along with the humidity, is probably keeping most people indoors.

  I get to his house in reasonable time.

  No cab in front, but he usually parks in back. I take the cut and the alley that leads to the rear of his home.

  His cab is parked in the small space behind his house. I make my way back to his street and have to drive a block up to park.

  I take my pack, because the way things have been going, I’ll probably end up a theft-from-auto victim if I leave it.

  A few steps to his stoop. It’s clean, well kept. Looks like there’s a lamp on, maybe in the living room area. I ring the doorbell, rap on the door several times after.

  Again, nothing. I try one more time, and when there’s no answer, I decide to walk around to the back.

  Lighting on this block is not like it is in Old Town. Certainly not in the alley. I walk carefully so I don’t run into anything and don’t get run into. Don’t want to attract unnecessary attention by using my Streamlight. But once I get behind the house, I take out my Streamlight to light up the interior of the cab. I check the driver’s-side door. It’s locked.

  I move toward the wooden stairs that lead to a back deck and the rear door. Before my foot lands on the first step, I see a shoe, toes up, sticking out from under the stairs. I already know when I step back what I’m gonna find.

  Training has a way of kicking in at moments like this.

  I step back slowly, around to the side of the stairs, and light the area under the deck, careful of what might be behind me or in the darkness near the corner of the house.

  The light shines on a body.

  It’s Diamond.

  His eyes are partly open, like he submitted to the inevitable. Throat’s cut. Clean, all the way across. Opens up just under his chin a bit. Thin red lips with a wide smile. Fuck. Moist blood soaked into the shirt from the chest down. Bled out fast. I still kneel down, see if his chest expands. I check his carotid.

  Damn. He’s dead, but I already knew that standing over him.

  Son of a bitch. Where’s Biddy?

  I light the area behind me, make sure I didn’t mess up the crime scene. No signs of a struggle.

  I can’t stop looking at his face.

  Fuck, old man.

  “What the fuck did you do, Diamond?” I say quietly.

  Sixty-Seven

  Why didn’t Diamond listen to me?

  First unit on the scene is an old-timer I know from back in the day. Has to have more than thirty years on by now. Sam O’Connell. Second responder is a female officer who I don’t know, but she must have a little time on to be working midnights 10-99.

  Blue, red, and white strobing lights pulse through the alley. The two cruisers’ spotlights are directed at Diamond’s backyard and the crime scene. Everything is visible. From where I’m standing in the alley, I don’t see signs of a struggle.

  Some neighbors have stepped out to their back patios and yards to watch.

  The EMT on the scene already confirmed his death. It was obvious at first sight, but the boy still has to follow procedure. The EMT steps back into the ambulance with his partner.

  “Homicide should be arriving any minute,” O’Connell tells me.

  “I’m going to call Joe Hurley. He’s working with Millhoff at Homicide, but this is something they need to know about.”

  “What the fuck you get yourself into, Marr?”

  “More than I bargained for, that’s for sure.”

  “Damn. And I thought you retir
ed early to get away from all this.”

  If only he knew.

  “You have the front secured, right?” I ask.

  “Who the hell you think you’re talking to, some rookie?”

  “Never know. You mighta got lazy.”

  “When that happens, it’ll be time to go. But I sure as hell won’t get myself caught up in something like this.”

  “You’ll have a nice boat with your name on it, huh?” I say.

  “Got that right.”

  “I gotta make a call.”

  O’Connell throws me a nod and walks to stand beside the female officer.

  It takes more rings than normal for Hurley to answer.

  “I know you’re not working now,” I say.

  “Sleep,” he mumbles with a groggy voice. “What’s going on? What time is it?”

  I say, “I found my source”—who was actually supposed to be Biddy, but it’ll make it more serious if it’s Diamond. Besides, I’m only bending the truth a little, because Diamond was a source, too. “He’s been murdered.”

  “Damn,” he says.

  After I give him the location, he says, “I’ll call Millhoff.”

  I’m worrying about Biddy. Wanna get out of here, go to the motel, but I can’t.

  Another marked unit shows up, parks behind the ambulance. Based on the unit’s number on the front fender, I’m assuming it’s the watch commander. Two men step out. I can tell that the passenger is a sergeant. The driver is a tall, lanky man, looks young, maybe early thirties. O’Connell walks over to him. The female officer stands by the scene to make sure no one steps in. The sergeant walks up to me.

  Introduces himself as Sergeant John Handle.

  “Frank Marr,” I return.

  “How’d you happen onto this?”

  I know O’Connell filled him in, but he wants to make himself useful, so I oblige.

  “I’m sure Officer O’Connell told you I’m a retired detective.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m a private investigator now, and I was checking in on a source because I hadn’t been able to get in touch with him.”

  “What are you working that you’d need a source?”

  “All due respect, sergeant, I don’t have to tell you that.”

  He’s taken by surprise. I don’t want to piss him off.