Snoop raised his reading glasses a fraction of an inch and leaned closer to the monitor. “Play it again.” He watched for a moment. “It’s hard to see because of the reflections from inside the diner.”
“You sure it’s not just because your eyes are getting old?”
“Humph. One of these days, you’ll find your arms are too short to read the newspaper, kid. You’ll need reading glasses too. Then I’m gonna laugh my ass off and make jokes about you getting old. At least I can still out-shoot you.”
Chuck laughed. “What do you see through the window?”
“I think somebody’s jogging on the sidewalk across the street.”
“Notice how he’s dressed?”
“Dark shirt, long-sleeved. Dark pants. Dark shoes. Maybe a dark watch cap, but I can’t tell. Makes it real hard to see him.”
“Maybe that was the idea, Snoop. Who wears long-sleeved shirts in Port City in the summertime, and at night? No one. Dress shirt, maybe, but not a dark sport shirt.” He replayed the clip again.
“Look at his stride, Chuck.”
“That’s right. His left arm is bent the whole time as if he’s holding a cellphone to his ear. Who jogs with their cellphone to their ear? No one. If you talk on the phone while you jog, you use a Bluetooth.”
Chuck fast-forwarded the clip as they watched the time index in the corner. “Okay, now look at this one.” The same figure jogged across the screen back the way he had come forty-five minutes earlier.
“I see it, Chuck. Dressed the same way. Still holding that phone. It’s a long way across the street, but I think it’s the same guy.”
“Okay. Now let’s look at the tapes from the ATM and the convenience store.”
Chapter 8
Chuck knocked lightly on the open door, then stepped inside. “I’ve found a lead for another credible suspect, Ms. Yankton.”
“We don’t have to be best buddies to be on a first name basis, McCrary. You can call me Darcy.”
“Only if you call me Chuck.”
“Sit down, Chuck, and tell me about your credible suspect.” She sounded bored.
“I canvassed all the businesses on 84th Street between Sixth and Second Avenue. I found three surveillance cameras with footage from the night of the shooting. Would you like to see what I found?” He reached for his briefcase.
She raised a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to spend the next hour watching grainy images on a computer screen. Just tell me—briefly.”
“At a few minutes after midnight, a man jogged east down 84th Street with a cellphone to his ear. He was dressed in black from head to toe, including long sleeves to cover his arms. He ran back the same way forty-five minutes later, still carrying a phone.”
“So?”
Frustration gripped him. He raised his voice. “Don’t you get it, counselor? This could be huge. Tell me: Who jogs after midnight? No one.” He smacked the desk for emphasis. “Who carries a cellphone at their ear when jogging? No one. Who wears long sleeves in a Port City summer? No one. Who jogs in long pants in the summer? No one.”
The lawyer leaned back and crossed her arms. “A mysterious jogger a few blocks away from the shooting? That’s your credible suspect?”
Chuck leaned forward. “Darcy, this guy even wore dark shoes. Jogging at night is dangerous. Most people wear reflective clothing or reflective tape so they don’t get run down by some idiot driver who doesn’t see them. This guy didn’t want anyone to notice him.”
She waved a finger in Chuck’s face. He remembered she’d done that before. He didn’t like it any better this time.
“Let me tell you about the real world, cowboy. Unless you find the guy, it doesn’t mean squat. The prosecutor would tear me up if I presented this. It’s the old SODDI defense.”
“Some other dude did it?”
“It would make us sound desperate.”
“Don’t look now, Darcy, but Jorge is desperate.”
Chapter 9
“Hit me again.” Terry held out her glass for Chuck to fill. “How’s it going with Jorge’s case?”
Teresa Kovacs and Chuck had dated for several months and had an exclusive relationship. The exclusive part was Chuck’s idea.
Mother Weiner had said to Chuck, “So you and Terry are going steady.”
Chuck had answered, “People don’t go steady anymore, Mother. They have exclusive relationships.”
“So what’s the difference, boychick?”
Chuck had tried to explain the difference.
“Going steady,” she’d said. And that was that.
However Chuck described the relationship, he hoped that Terry and he would fall in love, because he wanted a wife and children. Terry had told him she just wanted to have fun for a few more years. We have lots of fun, Chuck thought. I’ll give you that.
The young couple sat on Chuck’s balcony with a pitcher of Sangria and a platter of cheese and crackers and watched the sun drop toward the horizon. Terry had removed her bikini top to catch the last of the sun’s rays as the first reflections of the setting sun danced across the surface of Seeti Bay. A dozen boats swung at anchor. The eastern breeze turned their back decks to the sunset. They had spent many an evening on The Gator Raider Too, as she swung at anchor near the same spot. After the sunset, they would go in the cabin, turn on the air conditioner, and rock the boat.
Chuck refilled her glass and squeezed a little more lime in it.
“Ooh!” She jumped when a stray drop of lime juice hit her breast.
“Sorry. Would you like me to lick that off?”
She smirked. “Later, lover. I don’t want to miss the sunset. But hold that thought.” She dabbed the drop of lime juice with a napkin. “About Jorge’s case?”
“His PD is a tight-ass Yale attorney named Darcy Yankton. I checked out her past cases. She usually defends poor, downtrodden tenants who are about to be evicted by some dirty, money-grubbing bastard landlord for non-payment of rent.”
“She got any murder experience?”
“Two murder cases in ten years in the PD’s office. She plea-bargained both of them, so she’s never run a murder trial.”
“That’s not good.”
“Tell me about it. When I met her, she called Jorge a rogue cop. She thinks that all cops—and former cops—are bad guys. She almost sneers when she sees me. She called me a killer and a vigilante.”
“Jeez. How can you work with a client like that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have a choice. When a defendant chooses the PD’s office, it’s practically impossible to pick which attorney they get. You’ve got to have a strong reason to ask for a different attorney, like a conflict of interest, not a political conflict. But the worst thing is that Yankton thinks Jorge is guilty. She’s just going through the motions, so I have to do this on my own.”
Chapter 10
Chuck was nervous and bored at the same time. He glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time as he paced the institutional green interview room. Four steps, turn, repeat. His rubber-soled Rockport dress shoes squeaked a faint echo off the concrete-block walls of the hard room. Opposite the single door, a wire-reinforced exterior window looked out on the courtyard from the eighth floor. He stopped pacing long enough to rearrange the murder book and his notepad for the third time where they lay on the metal table bolted to the concrete floor. Finally, he heard the doorknob turn.
Jorge entered the Spartan room and waited for the guard to close the door behind him. Jorge shook hands with Chuck and grabbed him in a quick bear hug. “God, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Chuck squeezed his shoulders. “It’ll be okay, amigo.”
Jorge blinked back tears. “God, I hope so.”
Chuck pulled out a metal chair and opened his notepad. “Tell me everything.”
Jorge wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sat down across from Chuck. “Where do I start?”
“You got any enemies?”
“I’ve been a
detective for ten years. We all have enemies. You know that.”
“But that kind of enemy would backshoot you from ambush, not frame you for murder. Or, if they did try a frame, they’d screw it up. This was sophisticated. Someone knew how to do it. Which enemy has the smarts to frame you?”
Jorge shrugged. “I’ve thought about that for the last three days. I come up blank.”
“Any cops mad enough at you to frame you for murder?”
Jorge shook his head.
“How about former cops? Any crooked cops who hold a grudge?”
“Nope. I never crossed paths with Internal Affairs, either as a target or a witness.” Jorge rapped his knuckles on the table. “God willing, I never will.”
Chuck smiled. “How about a jealous husband?”
“Never. Karen and I’ve been married eight years. Never any trouble like that.”
“You gamble?”
“Karen and I go to the dog track a few times a year with Dan and Jessica. We have hot dogs, drink a few beers, and lose maybe twenty or thirty dollars.”
“Any other gambling?”
“An occasional poker game at someone’s home. But it’s dollar limit. On a big night, I win or lose a hundred bucks.”
“There’s got to be something.”
Both men sat silent for a time.
“Tell me about the phone call,” Chuck said.
Chapter 11
Jorge closed his eyes, remembering. “I was watching TV with Karen when my phone rang. Our favorite cop show had just started, so I know it was right at ten o’clock.”
#
True Blue rolled the opening credits. Jorge paused the television when his cellphone rang. It wasn’t a regular contact because no name or picture showed on the screen. “Castellano.”
An electronically altered voice said, “I understand you wanna nail Garrison Franco.”
He knew better than to ask who the caller was. “Yeah. What’cha got?”
“A couple of videos of Franco selling Mollies.”
Jorge sat straighter. He and Murphy had tried for the last six months to nail Franco for dealing heroin. This was the first he’d heard about Franco selling Mollies. “Do they have sound?”
“One does, but the other one, the sound ain’t so good.”
“How’d you get the videos?”
“Cellphone. I held it like I was talking and pointed it at Franco. He was standing maybe ten feet away in the one with the good sound.”
“What about the other one?” Jorge asked.
“We was in an auto garage and there’s some banging and clanging. But the picture is good.”
“Can you bring it to the precinct?”
“Don’t be stupid. My life wouldn’t be worth a slice of day-old pizza if anyone saw me walk into the precinct. No, I’ll give you the chip in person.”
“Where?”
“Eighty-sixth and Sixth, Northwest.”
“When?”
“Midnight. Come alone. You bring anyone else and I won’t show. Just you.”
“Okay.”
The caller disconnected.
Jorge handed the TV remote to his wife. “Work.”
“Again? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Karen, you know the drill; we’ve been through this a million times.”
He hit a speed dial number. “Dan, we got a lead on a video of Garrison Franco dealing Mollies.”
Karen pointed the remote at the TV. True Blue began to play again.
#
An hour and a half later, Jorge parked near the corner of Northwest 84th Street and Fifth Avenue and put his cellphone to his ear. “Okay, Dan. I’ll put this in my pocket for a test.” He dropped the phone into a jacket pocket and spoke in a conversational tone. “Mary had a little lamb…testing, testing.” He pulled the phone from his pocket. “How’d that do?”
“Good. Let’s move into position.”
Jorge drove to Northwest 86th Street and Sixth Avenue. The commercial district was deserted. He parked at the curb and called Murphy. “You in position?”
“Yeah. I just parked on 85th between Fourth and Fifth.”
“Good. Now we wait.” Jorge tried in vain to make his heart beat slower.
“Jorge, stay quiet. The guy may have hidden where he can see you. Just stick the phone in your pocket like we said and be patient. Okay?”
“Okay. These guys are never on time.”
“Enough talk, Jorge. Zip it.”
Jorge drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. He took his own pulse. Got to calm down. He slowed his breathing. In...out...
The humid air cooled, and the night put halos around the streetlights. The only movement he saw was a traffic light a few blocks away making its lonely circuit from green to yellow to red. Twice he stepped out of the car and stretched when his butt fell asleep.
He glanced at his watch for the fiftieth time when he heard a noise from his pocket. He put the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
Murphy’s voice came from the phone. “No joy?”
“Nah. The guy’s a no-show. You want to pack it in?”
“I’m tired.” Jorge heard Murphy’s car start. “Let’s call it a day.”
Chapter 12
Chuck wrote the last words on his pad. “That’s all?”
Jorge nodded. “I didn’t think any more about it until I heard the next day that Franco had been murdered.”
Chuck asked, “How long did you wait for the guy?”
“Dan logged his arrival at the backup site at 12:03 a.m. I parked at 12:05. Dan logged out as leaving at 1:17 a.m. and I logged out at 1:17 also.”
“You and Dan didn’t talk at all while you waited?”
“Not after we got into position.”
“Damn. A little conversation at the time Franco was shot might’ve helped Dan to give you an alibi.”
“20/20 hindsight, right?”
“And you never heard the shots from Franco’s shooting.”
“Dan and I remember that an ambulance came by a few blocks from where I was staked out. It was about the time Franco was shot. Even so, I don’t think we would’ve heard the shots. It’s too far.”
“What did you wear to the meet?”
“Slacks, a golf shirt, and a sports coat to hide the vest. That’s what I usually wear after work.”
Chuck wrote that down. “What color?”
“What difference does it make?”
“What color?”
Jorge looked at the ceiling. “Shirt was red, I think. Most of my golf shirts are pretty colorful. Jacket was silver.”
“What about the slacks?”
“Khaki.”
“Short-sleeve shirt?”
“Of course. What’s this about, Chuck?”
“What kind of shoes?”
“That I remember. White Reeboks. What’s this about?”
Chuck set the pen on the desk. “I found three surveillance tapes from two stores and an ATM on 84th street that show a man in dark long pants, dark long-sleeved shirt, and dark shoes, jogging east on the sidewalk on the north side of the street at 12:12 a.m. He jogged back the way he came at one o’clock. He held a cellphone to his ear both times while he jogged.”
“That makes no sense. Who jogs after midnight?”
“That’s what Snoop and I thought. What clothes did Dan wear that night?”
“Dan? Now wait a minute. Dan’s my partner—”
“What did he wear?”
Jorge shook his head. “I never saw Dan that night. We set up the whole thing on the phone and took separate cars to the site. It couldn’t have been Dan. His car never moved. I saw the GPS report.”
“Your car never moved either. But Kelly arrested you for the murder.”
“You shown this video to Kelly yet?”
“No. But when I do, they’ll say the jogger could be you. I can’t tell from the video if he’s wearing a vest under that shirt. It’s just too dark.”
“I wasn’t wearin
g black.”
“But we can’t prove that. Look, amigo, I didn’t say that Dan is the jogger. I’d like to eliminate him as a suspect. If I knew what he wore that night, it would help.”
Chuck referred to the folder. “Homicide says that one bullet that hit Franco came from your Glock and that the other slugs were consistent with your Glock.”
Jorge frowned. “That can’t be. I had my gun with me the whole time.”
“Could someone have switched guns?”
“I don’t see how, Chuck. When my gun isn’t on me, it’s in my nightstand.”
“Who else knows your gun is in your nightstand?”
“Karen, of course. She knows it’s there in case she ever needs it while I’m in the shower or something.”
“Anyone else?”
“My folks know. Dan, of course. Hell, I’d bet that most cops keep their guns in their nightstands unless they have small kids. Where do you keep yours?”
Chuck smiled. “My nightstand or Terry’s when I’m over there. What about the shell casings?”
“Kelly and Bigs didn’t find any. He must have policed his brass.”
“How do they know they looked in the right place?”
Jorge grabbed the binder, flipped to a page, and turned to show it to Chuck. “Homicide found three slugs plugged into the front of the building and matched one to Franco’s revolver. The shooter must have fired from there and policed his brass.
“Who fired first? If it was Franco, it could’ve been self-defense.”
“No way to know. The autopsy says Franco could’ve taken a while to die from the chest shot, so he could have returned fire even if the shooter fired first.”
“Hmm. Unless we figure out how someone switched guns with you, it doesn’t look good, my friend.”
“Don’t forget they had to switch them back.”
“Yeah, that’s even worse. When did homicide take your weapon?”
“Two weeks later, when they made the ballistics match.”
Chuck made a note. “Why the delay on the ballistics?”
“I asked around. The autopsy was delayed four days because of a backup in the ME’s office. They had two people on vacation and two more at a medical convention.”
Double Fake, Double Murder (A Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series Book 2) Page 3
