by Mark Dawson
Milton went back to the station house. The first floor was built in brick, with the second and third floors accommodated within a dun-coloured concrete block that was larger than the building beneath it and seemed to have been lowered atop it. The windows were narrow and the ones at ground level were barred. The entrance was through two sets of adjacent steel-plated double doors beneath large shining metal letters that read 75th PRECINCT – POLICE DEPARTMENT – CITY OF NEW YORK.
Milton turned his attention to the buildings on the opposite side of the road.
There was a white clapboard house, free-standing from the rest of the block and separated by two narrow alleys. The door was protected by a wide awning and the windows were protected by decorative grilles. The neatly tended plants outside the property suggested that it was occupied, and Milton quickly dismissed it as unsuitable for his purposes.
There was a second house to the right of the first. It, too, showed obvious signs of habitation from owners who cared about their property: this one was separated from the street by a recently painted gate and a whitewashed wall topped with ornamental spikes. Milton dismissed that property, too.
Next was a large block of four buildings. The three to Milton’s right had been turned into apartments and looked in good order. The property on the left of the block was mixed use. The ground floor, 1013 Sutter Avenue, was the Golden China takeout. The two floors above the yellow awning that advertised the restaurant looked to be in a state of some disrepair. The window frames were rotten with faded and peeling paint, the glass in two of them replaced by plastic sheeting. The pediment at the top of the building was stained and crumbling, and the telephone wires that ran to a pole on the other side of the road had worked their way loose and hung limply.
It looked promising.
Milton walked north on Essex Street. There was a one-storey brick building behind the block that contained the Chinese restaurant. It was derelict, with metal sheets fixed over the windows and blocking the doorway. There was a narrow alley between it and the building to its right, and Milton walked up to it. A decorative gate blocked the way ahead, but it was open and Milton was able to walk through. The alley was the width of a car and, beyond the derelict building, it allowed access to the yards at the back of the buildings on Sutter Avenue. They were demarked by a crumbling brick wall, and Milton was able to haul himself up so that he could see over the top of it. Each of the buildings was equipped with an external fire escape, a zigzagging ladder that climbed all the way to the top with landings on each floor.
The yard behind the restaurant was in an awful state: it had been concreted over, but weeds had pushed through the cracks. Trash had been dumped there too, with empty cardboard packaging and cans and trash cans that overflowed with rotting food. A plump rat, gorged on the fetid remnants, slunk away as Milton approached.
A door to the restaurant had been propped open. Milton could see into the kitchen and could hear the sound of a radio, Iggy and the Stooges playing ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’. He saw motion from inside and heard the sound of conversation; the staff were busy preparing the food for the evening.
Milton went to the fire escape. The ladder wasn’t extended all the way down to the ground, but he was able to pull himself onto the first-floor landing by clambering atop one of the large industrial bins that was shoved up against the side of the window. He climbed to the second and then the third floor. The window that faced onto the landing was broken and covered with plastic sheeting that had been stapled to the frame. Milton pried his fingers between the plastic and the wood and pulled; the frame was rotten and the staples popped out easily. He tugged the sheeting back until there was a large enough gap for him to look inside. It was dark; he took out his phone, switched on the flashlight and shone it inside. The room had evidently been damaged by fire at some point in its recent history. The floor and walls were blackened, and soot was spread across the ceiling.
Milton tugged the sheet a little more until he had opened it enough so that he could slide inside.
He passed through the room and carefully opened the door. There was a second room beyond, larger than the first, and, as Milton crossed to the other side, he was able to look down on Sutter Avenue and the station house directly opposite. He was a little to the left of the entrance, but he had an excellent view of the building and the approach to it in both directions.
Milton had seen enough. He lowered himself to the ground and went back to Sutter Avenue again. With a final glance at the precinct house, he checked the map that he had saved on his phone and set off to the north. The camera store was four miles away.
48
Milton returned to Sutter Avenue an hour later. The gate at the mouth of the alley was still open. He pushed it aside and went through. He reached up and placed the bag containing the things that he had purchased on the top of the wall. After checking that he was unobserved, he reached up and hauled himself over. He grabbed the bag and dropped down into the garden on the other side. He made his way across the yard, clambered onto the bin and then scaled the fire escape to the third floor. He climbed inside and crossed the two rooms to the window that looked down onto the precinct house.
Milton opened his bag and took out the equipment that he had purchased: a digital camera with a decent zoom lens, a tripod, extra memory cards, and a pen flashlight. His purchases came to a little short of a thousand dollars and he had paid for them with some of what was left from the money he had taken from the dealer.
He took out the camera and tripod. The window was high enough that he would be difficult to spot from the ground, yet it offered a good range of vision. Milton set up the tripod and fixed the camera to it. He put his eye to the viewfinder and looked down at the entrance to the station house. The door opened and two men in uniform stepped outside. They paused between two cars, conversing easily.
Milton centred the shot, adjusted the focus, and fired off a burst.
The men got into separate cars. Milton took photos of each vehicle, ensuring that he was focused on their license plates.
The cars drove away.
The two cops were white. Milton wasn’t looking for a white cop. He took out his phone and navigated to the website for NBC New York. He found the video report of the event at the Community Center that he had watched in the station last night. He hit play and then paused the video at the moment the black cop was staring into the camera. He copied the screen and parted his fingers to zoom the image.
He looked down at the image: he was looking for a black man, mid- to late-fifties, with a receding hairline and a beard that was almost as white as it was black.
Milton had a couple of hours before he had arranged to meet Manny and Freddy at the meeting.
He put the phone down where he could glance at it and settled down to wait.
49
Bobby Carter parked his car outside the precinct house and went in through the big double doors. He went down to the locker room and got changed into his uniform. The other men were drifting in and out, and the officers from the eight-to-four would be here soon. The atmosphere was the same as it always was: they related tales of what had happened on yesterday’s shifts, predicted what might happen today, all of it underpinned by banter and joking. Carter had been around long enough now to be a well-liked and respected presence in the locker room. The younger cops looked up to him as a leader who knew the ropes and wouldn’t be shy of helping them out should they need advice; the veteran cops had seen enough action with him over the years to know that, if they ever got into trouble and put out a ten-thirteen over the radio—officer needs assistance—Bobby Carter would be one of the first to respond and was exactly the kind of guy you wanted on your side.
He was a little anxious. He knew that the murder would come up in the meeting today. He was confident that he and Shep had been careful and that they hadn’t left any loose ends that might lead homicide back to them, but you could never be completely sure. This would be the first chance he had to gauge the
state of the evidence.
Carter pulled on his pants, did up his shirt and grabbed his hat from the shelf where he kept it. He fastened his service belt as he made it up the stairs and into the muster room to answer the three-thirty roll call. Rhodes was already there with the rest of the shift. Carter took the seat next to him.
“How you doing, kid?”
“I’m good,” Rhodes said. “Are you a daddy?”
“False alarm,” Carter said with a shake of his head. “She thought she was having contractions. Turns out it was indigestion—go figure, right?”
“So it could happen any time?”
“Today, tomorrow, next week—who the fuck knows? I told her she better be sure next time.”
Sergeant Ramirez came into the room and made his way to the lectern that faced the chairs.
“You ready for your second tour?”
“Sure,” Rhodes said.
“What’d you do yesterday after I booked?”
“Stayed out. Just drove around the sector. Nothing much happened.”
Ramirez clapped his hands to bring the men and women to order.
Carter shuffled in his chair.
“All right,” Ramirez said. “You probably heard we had a murder last night. Guy had his throat cut in the restroom at Euclid.” He looked into the small crowd and pointed in the direction of one of the female officers. “Farley was first on the scene. And Mack has got the case. Mack—you wanna?”
Carter turned and saw Rebecca Mackintosh. She was a straight shooter, the sort of cop who would take arrests from those other cops who couldn’t be bothered to write them up themselves. She was ambitious and had padded her résumé with dozens of collars that she’d run for others who didn’t have the same burning drive. Carter remembered when she had been transferred into the precinct. He had given her plenty of arrests himself, and she had parlayed all of those little wins into a swift promotion to detective. She wouldn’t have been his choice for lead dick on this particular case, though; she was much too keen and efficient for his tastes.
“Thanks,” she said, taking Ramirez’s place at the lectern. “Like he said, it was at Euclid. It was nasty. Looks like we want two guys. One black, the other white.”
Carter listened, his stomach tightening. “How’d you know that?” he said, his throat suddenly dry and scratchy. “You got a witness?”
Heads turned to look at him and Carter suddenly wished the floor would open up and swallow him. Mackintosh looked over at him, too, and nodded. “That’s right, Bobby. We caught a break. There was a kid there. He saw two men near the bathroom as he was going in, then he found the victim.”
“So he can ID them?”
“We’re looking into that. There was another guy, too. Turned up afterwards. English guy, works in a kitchen down in Coney Island. He found the kid. Didn’t get much from him, though. He said he didn’t see anything.”
“You interviewed the kid?”
“This morning. Farley brought the kid and the English guy back to the precinct last night, but we couldn’t get the kid’s old man. We’re not gonna interview a minor without a responsible adult, so I drove him home and went back today. I don’t wanna get into the nitty-gritty—it’s too early for that. But what I’m saying is that I want you all to keep your eyes open.”
Rod Marinelli spoke up. “Who was the vic?”
“José Luis González. Used to have the stereo shop on Atlantic.”
Marinelli nodded. “He put a stereo in my Buick five years ago.”
“He was well known,” Mackintosh said. “From what I know, he was well liked, too. No reason why someone would do him like that—with a knife, made it look very personal, like it was more than just a simple beef. But someone knows something. Put the word out. Speak to your snitches. We’ve done better with murders the last eighteen months. We don’t want this one hanging around.”
“Amen to that,” Ramirez said.
Ramirez continued with the rest of the briefing, but Carter hardly heard another word. It was all he could do to stay in his seat. He needed to get away, to speak to Shep, to try to figure out how exposed they were. He was furious with himself. How had they left a witness?
Rhodes elbowed him in the ribs.
“What?”
Ramirez was looking at him. “Wake up, Bobby. Jesus. What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Sorry, Sarge. I got no sleep last night. Becky thought the baby was coming the entire time.”
“Wait until you got the baby,” Farley offered. “Sleep? What the fuck is sleep?”
There was a ripple of laughter; Carter waved it off.
“I got nothing else,” Ramirez said. “Find out who killed González. Dismissed.”
Carter got up so quickly that he sent the chair skidding back behind him.
“You okay?” Rhodes asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good. Just need to speak to my wife before we get out there. I’ll see you in the car?”
“You got it.”
50
Carter went out to the yard at the rear of the station. It was empty. He took out his phone and called Shepard.
“Hey,” Shepard said. “I was asleep. This better be—”
Carter spoke quietly. “We got a problem. About last night—a kid found González.”
“So?”
“The kid saw us outside the bathroom just before he found the body.”
There was a pause. “What?”
“What I said. He saw us outside.”
“No,” Shepard said, the grogginess all gone. “I don’t buy it. I didn’t see no one. I was careful.”
“Not careful enough. I’ve just had roll call. Farley took the call. The kid was coming out. He saw González go inside, then he saw us. He remembered he’d left something and went back, saw us again, then found the body.
“Fuck,” Shepard said. “There was a kid looking at the subway map. I didn’t think he was… Fuck.”
“Yeah, Shep, fuck. There was an English guy, too. He went in after, saw the body and found the kid in one of the stalls.”
“What are we gonna do?”
Carter took a breath to compose himself; they would get nowhere fast if they panicked. “Okay,” he said. “There’s no point making this any worse than it already is. What’s done is done. We just need to figure out what happens next.”
“Did the kid get a good look at us?”
“He said a black guy and a white guy. Mackintosh didn’t say anything else.”
“Mack’s got the case? This gets better and better.”
Carter ignored that. “She didn’t interview him last night—says they couldn’t find his old man. Took him home and went back to see him this morning. Saw the English guy, too.”
“I’m guessing, seeing as neither of us have been arrested, we’re in the clear for now.”
“Maybe,” Carter said. “Until they get the kid to help them put together a composite and they think it looks familiar.”
“We can’t think like that, Bobby.”
Carter ran his fingers through his hair. He felt tired.
“What about this other guy?” Shepard said.
“I don’t think we need to worry about him. Mack said he came later. We were long gone by then.”
Shepard said nothing. Carter waited for him to break the silence.
“So what do we do?” Shepard asked.
“I’m going to look into it. I get on with Farley. I can speak to her.”
“And Mack?”
“You think it’s a good idea to start showing too much interest around her?”
“She’s sharp,” Shepard agreed. “Won’t be easy to get anything out of her without her getting itchy about it.”
Carter agreed. “So we go at it another way. I’ll find out where the kid lives.”
“You let me know and I’ll keep an eye on him. See what happens.”
“And if we get the sense that he’s a problem?”
“Y
ou have to ask?” Shepard said.
Carter knew that he was right. They couldn’t take chances.
“What about the other guy?” Shepard asked.
“I’ll find out what I can,” Carter said. “Might be that we want to look at him, too. Mack mentioned he worked in a kitchen in Coney Island. I'll ask around. Someone's gonna remember a Brit.”
“We need to talk about this,” Shepard said. “Properly. What are you doing after your tour?”
“I was gonna go home. You know how close it is to the baby coming.”
“Come for a beer. Becky won’t mind if you’re an hour later. She’ll be asleep anyway, right?”
“All right,” Carter conceded.
“You think you’ll be able to go out when the kid is born?”
“I said all right, Shep.”
“I’ll come pick you up at the precinct. I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
51
Milton rode to the Tillman Senior Center on Mother Gaston Boulevard. The meeting started at 7 p.m., and he arrived with ten minutes to spare. The men and women who attended the meeting were gathered in the lobby of the building, drinking their mugs of coffee and eating pastries. It was an Al-Anon open meeting, a chance for relatives and friends of alcoholics to attend with them.
Milton waited at the door until he saw Manny and Freddy. The boy was clutching his father’s hand. He was nervous. Milton wasn’t surprised by that at all. It was daunting to see so many people that he didn’t know, but, more than that, there was an unfamiliarity to the proceedings and what he might learn about his father. Manny bringing Freddy with him was an acknowledgement that Manny had a problem that needed serious help; he was admitting it, underlining it, and there would be no way it could be ignored or brushed aside any longer.
