“We share one.”
“Tamie Darling. That’s just a voice when you need it. She’s never good for information.”
“It’s something, though.”
“I’ll look into it for you.”
“Appreciate it.”
“I know every department has its own share of dirty laundry.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I’m serious, brother. I don’t know what’s going on except what little I hear, and now all this from you. Fucking be careful.”
“Always.”
Eighty-One
Three days of this shit. Moping around the house. I slept hard but had too much to dream, and that can be exhausting. I keep waking up.
I’m not ready to get out of bed. Need to let this aching mind settle. I think about cocaine, how it would help about now, but then I think about Biddy, his uncle, and, oddly enough, Leslie. Maybe it’s not that odd. It makes me wonder how long I can go without having to have any coke.
Damn, I liked Diamond. I liked Biddy even more. Had some weird connection with him. Can’t get it out of my mind that if I wasn’t so fucking hardheaded and simply left the burglary investigation up to Hurley, they’d still be alive. But then there’s Jeffrey. I couldn’t just sit there. Do nothing.
I should’ve shot Biddy in the leg when he had that gun on his lap. He would’ve gotten arrested, but at least he’d still be in the hospital, alive, with a cop on hospital detail to watch him.
All these people floating around in my head.
Leslie especially…
I wake up later on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of Jameson in my hand, just as the doorbell rings.
I think I smell bad.
It’s past 10:00 a.m.
I push myself off the sofa, walk to the door, and check through the peephole.
Millhoff and Hurley.
Hurley’s holding a manila folder.
“Hold on,” I say.
I hurry back to the living room, look around. The only thing is the bottle of Oxys that isn’t prescribed to me. I put it under the sofa cushion. Bottle of Jameson can stay where it is. I’m still in my boxers and T-shirt, but I open the door anyway.
They give me a quick look-over, nothing that looks like concern, more like Didn’t expect this.
“Bad night,” I say.
“Can we talk?” Hurley asks. That means I have to invite them in.
“You have a warrant for obstruction or anything else to take me away with?”
“Of course not,” Hurley says.
Millhoff shakes his head.
“Do you want to get dressed?” Millhoff asks.
“I’m comfortable. Been loafing around lately.”
“Yeah, we can smell that,” Millhoff says.
“Sorry. Been meaning to take a shower. Come in, if you can tolerate it.”
I close the door behind them and walk to the living room. I sit on the side of the sofa where the Oxys are under the cushion.
I signal with my hand for them to have a seat.
Millhoff takes the armchair and Hurley the other side of the sofa.
I light a cigarette.
Millhoff looks at the bottle of Jameson.
“All the doctor prescribed me was Motrin for this shit. You believe that? That’s been my painkiller.”
“You okay, Frank?”
“I’m fine. Want to get back to working, though. Good news is the doctor said I’m healing fine; he’ll be taking the staples out next week. You guys want some coffee or something?”
“I’m good,” Millhoff says.
“Me, too.”
“What’s going on?”
They look at each other like Who should begin first?
Millhoff does. “Sorry we haven’t been in touch.”
“I don’t expect you to stay in touch, but thanks.”
“Talked to the boys in Alexandria yesterday, and it looks like they won’t be pursuing any charges.”
“Good to know,” I say, but I was never worried about it one way or the other.
“Want to share with you a couple of things,” Millhoff says. “Not that we have to, but both Hurley and I thought you should know.”
“You mean like how you’re obligated to share certain things with a victim?”
“We’re trying to give you some respect here, Frank.”
“I know. Go on. I’m just not myself.”
“Forensics took that folding knife you got stabbed with apart. Every piece. Found dried blood on the bottom edge of the tang. It wasn’t your blood. It was an unknown.”
“Tang?” I ask.
“A little part of a knife,” Millhoff says.
I snuff out the cigarette and light another one. They got my interest.
“Your informant, Diamond—” Millhoff begins.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” I say right away.
“DNA was a match.”
“How the hell you get it done so fast?”
“Was able to get it expedited through the feds. As you probably know, the case got seriously political the day your cousin’s mom flew to DC.”
“I still don’t have a TV, but I’ve seen it all over the Internet.”
“Needless to say, that gave us leverage. We were under fire with this one.”
“That fuck killed the—Diamond. I knew it.”
“Yeah,” Millhoff says.
“What about Jeffrey?”
“Nothing yet. No prints on your gun.”
“Damn.”
“We’re working it hard.”
“Diamond was a good man. If it were just him, this would have never been expedited.”
“Don’t go there, man.”
“He got caught up in all this shit because of his nephew, who was like a son to him. You still got that piece of shit Jasper walking free, like he’s king of his world, and he’s the one responsible for Diamond, for Biddy, and for fucking Jeffrey. Tell me you got him.”
I can tell by the look Millhoff throws my way that they didn’t.
I pour myself half a glass of Jameson. Take a swig. Burns in the morning.
“The kid nicknamed Repo,” Millhoff says, “finally rolled, but not like we thought he would. The gun we got out of his room came back to the shooting on Rhode Island Avenue.”
“Eugene Wrayburn, remember?” Hurley says.
“Of course.”
“Once that happened,” Millhoff continues, “he couldn’t stop yapping. But he’s putting it all on Wyatt Morris. He pulled back on Jasper having anything to do with anything.”
“You know that’s bullshit. I mean, it’s perfect, because how’s a dead man gonna defend himself?”
“We know that. You know that. We have another debriefing set up. We’ll try to hit him harder with what he’s looking at, which is some very serious time.”
“My cousin got messed up with Wrayburn, probably buying powder from him, am I right?” Of course I already know I am.
“You’re right,” Millhoff says. “Your cousin started dealing more and more at the club. And the club was territory to Jasper’s boys, Repo and his brother. Wrayburn started skimming from their stash to feed his buyers, your cousin being one of them. They were making some good money together. According to Repo, Morris found out about Jeffrey and took care of him.”
“In my house.”
“That’s another story,” Millhoff admits.
“What about my stolen gun on Wrayburn’s chest? Right now, that’s looking like it was a message from Jasper because of Officer Tommy.”
“The AUSA opened a grand jury original. You willing to appear?”
Fuck no!
“Of course.”
“Good. You were a witness at the club, with seeing Wrayburn and the dece—your cousin—there. Then there’s your gun and your interesting connection to Jasper because of the drive-by. I’m pretty sure that everything that Biddy and Diamond told you about Jasper will be hearsay because they’re not here to testify. A good defen
se attorney will probably get that thrown out, but then I’m not a lawyer, so maybe I’m wrong. We’ll have to get with the AUSA, but we’ll definitely need you for all the other stuff when the grand jury investigation gets going.”
“Whatever it takes,” I say.
“But not in the shape you’re in,” Millhoff says.
Well, there’s only one way I know of to get back to the way I was—better.
“With all this shit going on, I know there’s no way certain officials didn’t get word. So why didn’t Jasper get suspended for the part-time?”
“We want him to feel safe. Lot of shit happening in that club.”
“He may be a good-for-nothing, but he’s not stupid enough to get caught up in illegal activity now,” I say.
“Well, he is working the club,” Hurley says. “His supervisors at 1D don’t give a shit. They’d have to suspend half the department for doing the same thing. So they let it go, and we don’t talk about it. We only deal with our command, and they let us do what we have to do to make a good case.”
“Remember the phrase they would pound into our heads at investigator school—‘Time is always on our side,’” Millhoff says.
I’m not that patient.
I change the subject ’cause I’m getting pissed off.
“What about Biddy? Was it a suicide?”
“Yes,” Millhoff says. “Nothing suspicious. No struggle. He’s the main reason we stopped by, though.”
“Go on.”
“You must have made a connection with him somehow, because before he committed suicide he gave a guard a message to relay to you.”
“What?”
“The only family he had left was his uncle, Robert Diamond, and Diamond’s son is out of the country. Probably would have asked a relative to tell you instead. But he had no one.”
Hurley pulls out a white piece of paper, a photocopy of someone’s handwritten notes on what looks like a pocket notebook.
“This is what the guard notebooked after Biddy told him that,” Hurley says, handing it over to me.
I read it.
I don’t like who I am right now. I want to apologize for breaking into your house and messing your life up.
“Guard said those may not have been his exact words,” Millhoff advises me.
“I don’t understand. Why would he say that?”
“Make amends, something like that,” Millhoff says.
“And the CO didn’t think that was a bit odd and maybe they should put a watch on him?”
“Guard took it as just another crackhead trying to get sympathy from the court. He wrote it down. It went through the right channels and finally got to us.”
“I guess your burglary is officially closed.” Millhoff smiles.
I don’t respond to that.
All I can think of now is fuck everything. It has to change.
After they leave, I sit back and think about it, what I have to do. It doesn’t take long, because I already know.
I go to the laundry room, look at all that blow on the shelf in my wall.
It looks back.
“You’re the best I ever had,” I tell it. “But fuck…”
Eighty-Two
I find an illegal spot to park, ’cause I don’t give a fuck. I step out and walk easy, because it’s hot with this suit on. I got my backpack over my good shoulder. I make my way to the rear lot of the nightclub. This is Jasper’s night to work. I don’t know what kind of car he drives, but I want to check out all the vehicles parked back there and look at the back entrance. I don’t know which way Jasper will go when he exits at the end of the night.
One of the cars in the lot has tags with an FOP logo on them, but it could belong to someone who’s working for Jasper. It’s a beautifully kept old-model Cadillac DeVille. I note all the tags and return to my car.
Start it up and get that air-conditioning on high. I want to have these tags run. If one of them is his car, it’ll make this a hell of a lot easier. If it doesn’t pan out, then I’ll have to find a new surveillance spot where I can make out the front and the rear. Pretty certain that the only way I’ll get that kinda view is on foot.
It’s still the evening shift, and I know I’m gonna piss the hell out of Luna. I call him.
“How you doing, Frankie?” he answers.
“Much better. Smaller bandage on my hand now. Stitches should come out in a few days. You on the street?”
“Naw, doing some write-up. Locked up a few buyers. Fucking waste of my time. So what’s up?”
“You know, the usual.”
“Fuck you, Frankie.”
“No. This is important. These cars keep driving up and down my block, same cars all the time. I don’t know if Hurley’s task force is watching my house because of Jasper or what, but it’s getting me nervous.”
“Get a cruiser to go over and check it out.”
“No. I don’t want to waste anybody’s time if it turns out to be nothing.”
“Fucking give me the tags.”
I do.
A couple minutes later he comes back with, “I’m going to come over now.”
“What the fuck? Why?”
“One of those tags comes back to Jasper’s personal vehicle.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. I’ll call a cruiser to get over there, and I’m on my way, too.”
“No. You have work to do, and I’m still pretty good with my gun. I’m not leaving the house, and I know he’s not stupid enough to come in. He’s probably just checking if cops are surveilling me.”
“The other two cars come back to females, but it might be a couple of his boys in them.”
“I’m serious, Al. Don’t fucking come here. I’m going to call Hurley. I know they have him under surveillance, and I don’t want to fuck it up for him.”
“Fucking stay away from your windows, all right?”
“Don’t worry, partner. We’ve both been through much worse.”
“If I don’t hear from you in thirty, I’m going there.”
“I’ll call you back. Stay out of this. I mean it, and don’t call Hurley, because I’m not supposed to be talking to anybody about it. So which tag is it?”
“The FOP tag. It’s a red Cadillac sedan.”
“I got it. I’ll talk to you later. And do not call anybody, Luna. You’ll fuck me up.”
“Shut up with that shit talk. Thirty minutes.”
“Later.”
“Yeah.”
I slip my phone in the inner pocket of my jacket.
My night just got a whole lot easier.
Eighty-Three
I call Luna back in thirty minutes and advise him that Hurley’s on it. I pound it into him to not tell anyone I told him about the investigation. After a few expletives, he promises.
I grab my backpack. My big sacrifice is inside it. I cut a few grams off of the brick I got from the boys on Riggs Street, enough to wean me off. The rest—fuck, that’ll make District court if Jasper gets locked up with it. And if I do it right, he will.
I feel like I’m giving up my life.
Shit. Don’t think twice.
I also have the gun that I took off Biddy and five thousand dollars in denominations of fives, tens, and twenties. On the way here I stopped at a gas station near my house, where I bought a few boxes of zips, like the kind a corner dealer would use to sell anything from a quarter gram to a full gram of blow. I also bought a box containing fifty rose-glass tubes, like the kind used for crack pipes.
I sit in the car until it’s after midnight. Fewer people walking around on the side streets. Most of the action is in the front of the club. I do a single hefty bump and walk back to the lot.
I’m blessed, really. The DeVille is old enough for my slim jim to work on it. I’ll try not to scratch the car’s finish. It’s in pristine condition. The fuckhead probably has it detailed once a week.
I’m good with the slim jim. Back when I was on patrol, I was the guy they called when
citizens locked their keys in their cars or when there was a search warrant. Nowadays, a slim jim is useless unless it’s an old-model car.
I scan my surroundings again. On one side of the building is a small side street with zero traffic on it. I look up at the rear entrance, too. Gotta be cautious.
I get the slim jim placed just right, near the inside door handle. Move it up slowly, feel the rod, and pull up.
Lock pops up. With any luck there’s no new-type alarm system. Even then I can do what I have to do very fast.
I open the door.
No alarm.
I pop the trunk, close the door quietly, move around to the rear of the car, and lift the trunk lid to look inside.
Fuck me!
I huff out a half chuckle ’cause I’m so happy. It’s like Christmas.
A couple hundred records and an equal number of CDs are stacked in several piles along the large bed of the trunk. I don’t even have to look through them to know they’re mine. The cover edges I can see reveal the titles. Fucking Fugazi, Ramones, Funkadelic, Velvet Underground, Johnny Cash, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, just to name a few, and then the CDs—Spacemen 3, the Cave Singers, Pogues, and so many more. And then there’s a laptop, but it isn’t mine. Why would that motherfucker keep all this in the trunk of his car with everything going down around him? Arrogant asshole or just stupid. Maybe he’s gonna dispose of it all.
Whatever. I feel…so vindicated. But I know I have to make another sacrifice. I can’t take anything. It’s a chance, because Hurley is the only one who can make the connection, so I’m hoping he gets a call if—or, I hope, when—Jasper gets nabbed.
I place the money beneath two stacks of records. I set the boxes of zips and the rose pipes in a space toward the front, then open the box of zips and scatter some around the same area. I also sprinkle a bit of cocaine on the trunk liner and on a plastic Pogues CD case. I take out five of the rose pipes so it looks like he sold a few.
I quietly close the trunk and return to the front door. I check under the seat using my Streamlight.
Nothing there. Clean dude.
I slip the wrapped cocaine under the seat so it’s secured between a couple of thick metal bars, but not so far under that it’s hard to see. I do the same with the gun. I lock and then close the door.
Crime Song Page 25
