by Scott Mackay
“Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it.”
“It’ll be just like old times, only more so.”
“Why more so?”
“Because if what Al Valdez says is true, Barcos is going to make it fun for us.”
“I’ve already thought of that,” said Gilbert. “I’ve talked to Mike Strutton in Patrol.”
“And he’s game?”
“He’ll have units ready and waiting.”
“It should be easy then.”
“We still wear vests, though. And we take our weapons.”
Doubt flickered in Bannatyne’s eyes. “We’ll take our weapons,” he said. “But those vests are so damn hot.”
Gilbert gripped Bannatyne’s shoulder and gave it a comradely shake. “We’re not cowboys, Bob,” he said. “We’re detectives. This guy’s a pistol. Strutton would have a conniption fit if we showed up in shirtsleeves.”
When Gilbert told Regina that Marie Barton planned to build a case against her, she turned off the electric frying pan, let the pork chops sizzle untended, and sat on one of the kitchen chairs. She raised her thumb and finger to her brow, closed her eyes, and rubbed gently. She looked up at Gilbert, her eyes distressed.
“What next?” she asked.
“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “Me and Bob Bannatyne are going to nab the real killer tonight. Barcos. I told you about him.”
Her eyes widened. “But I thought you were off the case,” she said. “And I thought Barcos was a wild man. Are the two of you going to pick him up yourselves?”
“It was the only way it could be arranged,” he said. “Remember? What I told you about the sister?”
“First Nina, then Marie Barton, and now you’re going one-on-one with a known killer.”
“There’s no other way, Regina. And if it helps, I’m just the guy who’s baiting Barcos. Patrol will be there to move in once I’ve got him hooked.”
“It still sounds dangerous.”
“I’ve got to do it,” he said.
“You can just refuse,” she said. “I don’t care what happens to me. They can put me in jail, for all I care. As long as my family is safe.”
He walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He heard the girls watching television in the den. Regina seemed to sag under his touch, like the strain of everything was too much for her.
“This is just a bad patch, Regina.”
“Be careful. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’ve got to do it,” he said. “I’m not going to let them arrest you. The lawyer’s fees…and all that crap from way back when…that would just put more of a strain on the family. I’m going to end this, Reggie. And I’m going to end it tonight.”
Fifteen
Gilbert and Bannatyne sat in Gilbert’s Ford Windstar later that night next to Hillcrest Park. The lights shone in the tennis courts, and a quartet of club members played doubles. A half-dozen teenagers loitered around a picnic table by the playground. A last rosy smear of daylight reddened the sky. Some eleven-or twelve-year-olds swung on the swings, straining the rusty old danglers to their limit. A big half-moon, the color of orange sherbet, hung in the hazy evening sky.
Gilbert looked toward the bench by the wading pool. The bench was still empty.
Bannatyne checked his Beretta Nine. “I’m glad we got these,” he said. “Those old revolvers were about as effective as a leaky condom.” Bannatyne peered at him with some concern. “What’s with you?” he asked. “Why the look on your face?”
Gilbert watched an elderly woman walk a Pomeranian by.
“I just feel sorry for Magda,” he said, “that’s all.”
“You spoke to her again?”
Gilbert nodded. “She’s going to stop by the van in fifteen minutes,” he said. “She wants to talk to me first. She doesn’t know you’re here. You better get going or we’re going to blow it.”
Bannatyne’s brow furrowed as he reached between the two bucket seats and grabbed his bullet-resistant vest from the back.
“Just remember,” he said, “her brother’s an asswipe.” He double-checked the radio attached to the shoulder of his vest. “Don’t go all soft on me just because she’s a nice girl.”
“You know me better than that, Bob.”
Bannatyne gave him a doubtful look. “You live with three women,” he said. Bannatyne opened the van door and stuck one foot on the sidewalk. “Now, look…keep in contact. Let’s not fuck up. Keep an open channel. And speak loudly, for Christ’s sake. I’m an old man. I’m going deaf.”
“Don’t worry.”
“I worry,” he said. “Especially with an asswipe like Barcos.”
Bannatyne got out of the van, closed the door, and retreated along the sidewalk, turning right when he reached Christie Street, where he had his own car parked. God, here they were, two old guys trying to take down a Colombian cocaine cowboy. Bannatyne was right. They had lots to worry about. He felt his adrenaline building.
Ten minutes later, Magda appeared at the passenger-side window.
“Hello,” she said. She glanced into the van. “So you are alone?”
“Do you see anybody else?” he asked.
“And you’re not going to hurt him?”
The earnest look in her eyes was painful to behold.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” he promised.
She nodded. “I have phoned his lawyer,” she said. “His lawyer knows what is going on and he will be expecting our call. We will get this all sorted out.”
Gilbert stored at Madga, amazed by how sweetly obtuse she could be. Shooting two men in the head at point-blank range in front of seven Club Lua witnesses wasn’t something that could be sorted out easily. Barcos was going to jail for a long time.
“So you’ll give me a signal?” he asked.
“I will wave to you like this.” She demonstrated with ballerina-like grace. “Then you can come over and take him back to your car.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be watching. You’ve done the right thing, Magda. Your brother will thank you for this.”
She blushed, pleased by this praise. “I hope so,” she said.
She left the Windstar and walked across the park. Some teenaged boys at the picnic table flicked their chins over their shoulders and watched her—she was a Latina goddess. They stared at her longingly, eyes pining away. She walked all the way across the park and sat on the bench by the wading pool.
The light in the sky faded to black, like the end of an old-time movie. Gilbert reached for his bullet-resistant vest, slipped it on, and engaged the radio attached to its shoulder.
“Five-twenty-four, this is nine-sixty-nine, do you copy, over?”
Bannatyne’s gruff voice crackled over the radio. “Ten-four on that, nine-sixty-nine, over.”
“The bait’s in position, repeat, the bait’s in position, copy?”
“Copy that, nine-sixty-nine, over. All units standby, repeat, all units standby, over.”
Gilbert waited for the man of the hour, Oscar Barcos, to show up. He lifted his Beretta Nine from the floor and gave it a quick check. Bannatyne was right about the old revolvers—they hadn’t been that good, not even at close range. At least he could actually aim this new Beretta with a fair degree of accuracy, even though he hadn’t fully mastered the gun’s strong kick yet. He cranked a round into the chamber, stuck the safety on, and slid the weapon into his holster.
A halo of moths flew around the tennis-court lights. Two girls detached themselves from the knot of teenagers at the picnic table and drifted diagonally across the park. Gilbert heard them laugh. He thought of Nina, how her own carefree summer nights in Topham Park might forever be a thing of the past. An ambulance raced down Christie Street, lights flashing but no siren. He wanted to hold onto Nina forever, to somehow make her anxiety disappear, to give her a guarantee of a long and healthy life. But such guarantees were beyond a father’s power. A raccoon lumbered out from under a cedar bush, looked around, its eyes catchin
g stray beams from the tennis-court lights, then retreated into the shadows under some large maples. Gilbert could only hope—and even pray—that Nina’s second HIV test had in fact been a false positive.
Fifteen minutes later, Barcos, a short, skinny man in his late twenties, turned the corner at Christie and Hillcrest. While of obvious Hispanic origin, he nonetheless had kinky hair, evidence of an African ancestor somewhere in his blood. He wore a white tennis jersey untucked over baggy beige cargo pants. He had a curious way of walking, sliding his feet over the grass as if the soles of his shoes were magnetically attached to the ground.
Magda stood up and waved to her brother. Barcos glanced around nervously. Gilbert knew Barcos had to have a gun. He wouldn’t be wearing baggy cargo pants with so many big pockets if it weren’t to conceal a weapon.
Barcos shuffled across the park, his white shirt looking blue in the harsh glare of the sodium lamps.
The cocaine merchant reached the bench by the wading pool fifteen seconds later.
He hugged his sister, kissing first one cheek, then the other. Gilbert again felt sorry for Magda. He wanted to give Magda a chance to work it her way, allow her at least a few minutes to talk to her brother before he called Bannatyne. So he stalled with the radio, knowing Bannatyne was going to give him shit later.
Brother and sister sat on the bench by the wading pool. They spoke for nearly two minutes before Barcos, jumping to his feet, looked wildly around.
Here we go, thought Gilbert.
Barcos gestured angrily at his sister. Gilbert heard his voice, raised and furious, chastising Magda in Spanish. He knew the young Colombian was going to bolt any second. Gilbert couldn’t hold off any longer. He gripped the radio on his shoulder and spoke quickly.
“Five-twenty-four, this is nine-sixty-nine, do you copy?”
“Copy that, nine-sixty-nine. Do you have a ten-twenty-five on the suspect yet, over?” asked Bannatyne.
“Ten-twenty-five on that, and he’s a code Six-AD. Repeat, armed and dangerous, and ready to run, copy?”
“Copy that, nine-sixty-nine, and will alert all units.”
“Copy that, and over,” said Gilbert.
Barcos, after a last few harsh words to Magda, walked quickly toward Hillcrest Avenue, trying to remain calm, acting as unsuspiciously as possible, under the sad impression that this tactic might work. Gilbert watched with mounting apprehension. Madga leapt to her feet, ran after her brother, grabbed his wrist, pleaded with him, but he shook her away.
Gilbert drew his weapon, got out of the van, and ran into the park. He aimed his gun at Barcos with both hands.
“Police!” he yelled. “Get down on the ground! Get down on the ground right now!”
Barcos, validating Al Valdez’s characterization instantly, pulled a gun from his pocket and fired twice at Gilbert, the reports rending the humid summer air like a pneumatic drill pounding concrete. Both shots missed Gilbert. Gilbert dove to the ground. He shot his own gun, aimed to the left of Barcos, making sure the bullet skidded safely into the ground, a warning shot, enough to get Barcos headed the other way. Barcos turned and bolted toward the hill, heedless of the obstacles that might lay ahead. Magda screamed. The teenagers at the picnic table took cover. The kids on the swings jumped off and sped out of the park.
Gilbert spoke into his shoulder radio again. “Five-twenty-four, we have a ten-fifty-seven on that, repeat, we have a ten-fifty-seven times two, over.”
“Copy that,” said Bannatyne.
“Suspect is headed south down the hill.” Gilbert sprang to his feet. “Am in pursuit.”
Magda ran up to him. “Don’t shoot him!” she cried. “Please don’t shoot him!”
Gilbert raised his hand. “Stay here!” He gripped her by the arm and forced her back. “Just stay here and get down on the ground!”
He left her there and ran toward the hill, fifty years old but feeling like a young man again. Barcos was a white streak in the shadows ahead of him.
Gilbert heard sirens in the distance—Mike Strutton coming with backup. Neighborhood dogs howled in response to the sirens. Everything was sharp. Everything was clear. His knees were good. The big aspirins were working for a change. He felt flexible and strong. Maybe it was because of Regina. Maybe it felt so easy because he knew he had to do this for his wife, throw Barcos at Marie Barton as a way to stop her from looking at Regina.
Barcos disappeared down the hill.
Gilbert reached the crest of the hill and saw the cocaine merchant struggling through the knee-deep weeds. Barcos disengaged himself from a particularly nasty thatch of pink thistle and dodged around two black locust trees. The weeds got smaller, and he headed toward the exit at Christie and Davenport. Gilbert was afraid he might get away.
But then Gilbert saw Bannatyne huffing out of the shadows down there, ready to stop Barcos, his great belly under his flak jacket as impressive as Buddha’s.
Barcos saw Bannatyne and turned around and ran the other way.
Gilbert sped down the west side of the hill to cut him off.
A few seconds later, two radio cars roared into position at either exit.
Barcos, now realizing both exits were blocked, retreated up the hill. It didn’t matter that Gilbert was coming down the hill after him. Barcos simply raised his weapon and fired at him again, intent on shooting his way out.
Barcos missed Gilbert yet a third time.
Gilbert gained speed and dove straight for the little man. He crashed right into the Colombian. Barcos raised his hands to protect himself and accidentally smashed Gilbert’s right cheek with the grip of his pistol.
They tumbled into the pungent weeds. Gilbert made a grab for the man’s gun. He stuck his finger in through the trigger guard and lodged it behind the trigger. A few seconds later he yanked it free.
“I’ve got his gun!” he shouted to Bannatyne. “I’ve got his gun! Don’t shoot!” He turned. He saw uniformed officers running up the hill from Turner and Davenport. “Don’t shoot!”
Uniformed officers swarmed around Gilbert and the Colombian a few seconds later.
They ripped Barcos away from Gilbert and forced the suspect to lay facedown on the ground.
Barcos, the fight gone out of him, simply allowed himself to be handcuffed.
Who should be one of the arresting officers but Constable Virginia Virelli? Her blond hair was tied back tightly under her police officer’s cap, and her face was flushed by the night’s warm, humid air.
She knelt beside Gilbert as two officers yanked Barcos to his feet.
“Are you all right?” she asked. She pointed to his cheek. “You’re bleeding. Do you want EMS?”
“Oscar?” a shrill voice called from up the hill. “Oscar, estas tu bien?”
Barcos swung round and looked up the hill.
“Magda, vete al casa,” he cried in a tired, irritated voice. “Vete al casa ahora mismo.”
Gilbert glanced up the hill, struggling to catch his breath.
“That’s his sister,” he told Virginia.
“That’s really starting to bleed,” said Virginia.
He touched his cheek, pulled his fingers away, and saw blood. “It’s not too bad,” he said. “More of a scrape, I think. I don’t think I’ll need EMS.” He swallowed a few times as sweat beaded his forehead. “I’ll have my wife put some iodine on it when I get home.”
Virginia helped Gilbert to his feet. “That was good,” she said. “You really did a good job. I can tell you’ve been doing this a long time. Especially the way you disarmed him.” She looked around. “Where’s Joe?” she asked. “Isn’t Joe with you?”
“This is Bob Bannatyne’s case,” he said. “Barcos is his guy.” He glanced up the hill again. Magda worked her way down through the tall weeds. “Could you do me a favor?” he asked. “Could you take his sister down to your car? Her name’s Magda. Try to be nice to her. We need to keep her somewhere out of the way while we question her brother.”
“Sure,” she said.
She started up the hill.
“And by the way,” said Gilbert, “how are you and Joe doing?”
She stopped, a shy grin coming to her face. “Good,” she said. But then she frowned. “Only he…he’s got this thing with his hair right now.”
“Yeah?” said Gilbert, acting innocent.
“He got it cut really short.” Her frown deepened. “Too short.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“No, I mean really short. He looks like…like he’s been sheared. I tell him I like it. I mean, what else am I supposed to say? But it’s…you know…hideous. I wish he would let it grow long again.”
“Do you want me to tell him?”
She shook her head, bewildered. “Don’t bother,” she said. “He says he never listens to you. Especially when it comes to style.”
Sixteen
Gilbert and Bannatyne escorted Barcos to Bannatyne’s unmarked car on the corner of Christie and Davenport. Constable Virelli took Magda to her own car.
Once they had the suspect at Bannatyne’s car, Gilbert told him the deal.
“If you come clean on Glen Boyd’s murder,” he said, “we’ll give you a break on the Club Lua killings. We’ve got solid evidence that puts you at Boyd’s apartment the night he was murdered.”
“I want my lawyer,” said Barcos.
“Give me his wallet,” said Bannatyne. “I want to see if I can find any receipts from Club Lua. Fuck his lawyer.”
Gilbert dug in Barcos’s pocket and handed Bannatyne the man’s wallet.
“I didn’t kill no Glen Boyd,” said Barcos.
“We know you were down there at nine-thirty,” said Gilbert. “That’s exactly when he was killed.”
“I was on the subway going home at nine-thirty,” said Barcos.
This didn’t jibe with Gilbert.
“On the subway?” he said. “Your sister told us you drive a Porsche.”
“These cuffs are too tight,” said Barcos. “I’m going to charge you with police brutality.”
“The cuffs are fine,” said Gilbert.
Barcos squirmed, bending his wrists to illustrate his point.
