She took a sip from her diet soda. “Not our case.”
Bigs kept eating his Chinese takeout at the next desk.
“Maybe it ought to be,” Chuck said.
Bigs looked up from his chopsticks. “How come?”
Chuck filled them in on Ted Smoot’s history with Jorge Castellano and Armando Acevedo. “Smoot could have nailed Acevedo with that hit-and-run, and he has the skills to frame Jorge for the Franco hit.”
Kelly picked up the rest of her sandwich. “Whaddya think, Bigs?”
#
Kelly led Bigs and Chuck into Lieutenant Joyce Weiner’s office.
The LT looked up from her desk at the three of them. She nodded at Kelly and Bigs. “Hey, Chuck. Somehow, I don’t think this is a social call. Sit down, all of you.”
They did.
“This about the Castellano case?”
Kelly briefed the lieutenant on the relationship between Smoot, Castellano, and Acevedo. “Chuck thinks maybe Smoot is behind both murders.”
Weiner tapped her right index finger on the desk a few times. “Okay. Kelly, you and Bigs find out who got the Acevedo hit-and-run. Take the case over. You know the drill. Find out Smoot’s whereabouts at the time of the Franco hit and the Acevedo hit-and-run. If he doesn’t have two iron-clad witnesses, turn him inside out.”
Chapter 32
Chuck had promised Darcy Yankton that he would run everything by her, but so far her contribution to Jorge’s defense had been to shoot down every idea he came up with. Nevertheless, he went to see her.
“Darcy, I may have found a witness to the murder.”
She pulled out a notepad. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who is it?”
“His name is Bill Clinton Watkins. He was squatting in the top floor of a warehouse that overlooks the crime scene.”
“Squatting? What do you mean?”
“He’s a sixteen-year-old kid who ran away from his foster home six months ago. The company that rents the warehouse uses only the bottom two floors. The kid found a way into the third floor and that’s where he was living when I found him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still squatting in the warehouse.”
“You didn’t turn him over to DCF?”
“If I did that, he’d never trust me.”
She dropped her pen on the desk. “Damn it, I warned you about taking the law into your own hands. This is exactly the kind of cowboy behavior that makes me regret engaging you as my investigator. You’re breaking about a dozen laws, you know.”
Shooting me down again. “Darcy, the kid sleeps on the floor, begs in the streets, and works as a drug mule. All that while he fends off homosexual predators who want to take advantage of him. He told me that if I turned him in to DCF, he’d just run away again. Cut me some slack, will you? I’m the good guy here.”
She scowled but picked up her pen again. “Okay, okay. What did he see?”
“So far, he hasn’t confided in me. The shots woke him up, and he looked out the window. But, so far, he claims he didn’t see anything.”
Before she could shoot him down again, Chuck plowed ahead. “Look, Darcy, the kid doesn’t trust anybody. He hates the cops, he hates the system, he’s got no friends, no family, and no future. He’ll come around once he gets to know me.”
“You’re Mr. Charming all right.”
“It’s a gift.”
“What do you think he saw?”
“I think he saw the killer, but he doesn’t want to get involved.”
“And when do you think he’ll tell you what he saw?”
He shrugged. “How long is a piece of string?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that it takes as long as it takes.”
“Look, Chuck, our case is weak to non-existent right now. A teenage runaway who hates the system will not make a credible witness. And I just learned that the prosecuting attorney is Mabel the Marauder.”
“The DA took this case personally? I thought she delegates everything.”
“This is an election year. She could use a high-profile scalp to wear on her belt for her re-election campaign. This case grabs headlines: Cop Turned Cop-Killer headlines.”
Chapter 33
Chuck and Terry had good seats behind the third base dugout. The rain had stopped an hour before the game started, but the humidity hung oppressively in the summer evening.
“God, the humidity must be a hundred and ten percent,” said Terry.
“That’s why God gave mankind beer,” Chuck answered.
Terry laughed.
She pointed to the players on the field. “Tell me again: Who is that other team, the ones with that ridiculous cartoon on their sleeves?”
“Those are the Cleveland Indians.”
“Indians. Don’t the real Indians find that cartoon image offensive?”
“Probably some do.”
“Why doesn’t someone make the team change its name?”
“Because this is America, with a capital A, and we have the right to offend anybody we want.”
“Chuck, you joke about everything.”
“Baseball is not supposed to be serious. Unless it’s the playoffs.” He sipped a draft beer, his second.
“Don’t they sell white wine?”
“Such outrageous thoughts.” He looked at her with wide eyes. “Wash your mouth out with soap, woman. This is baseball. You’re supposed to drink beer.”
“I don’t like beer. How can you drink that stuff?”
“Practice. Years and years of dedicated practice.” He took a drink.
Terry gestured with her beer cup. “That woman over there has white wine. They must sell it here.”
“She’s a revolutionary. We won’t speak of her; it would only encourage more revolution.”
“Well I’m bored and you owe me big time for this.”
“I’ll give you a full-body massage later.”
“Will you start with my feet?” She batted her eyes.
“If that’s part of your body.”
“I like the game better already.”
The Port City Pilots’ designated hitter smashed a double into left center. He drove in three runs, putting the Pilots up seven to six. Everyone in the stands stood and cheered.
Terry stood with the rest of the crowd, but she did not cheer. “Why did we stand up?”
“Because Ozzy Richmond hit a double and drove in three runs.”
“Oh, I know what a double is. It’s when the hitter gets to second base.”
Chuck patted her on the shoulder. “You’re catching on.”
“Would you like to get to second base? Maybe a home run?” She rubbed his back as they sat down.
“Later, absolutely. Right now, let’s enjoy the game.” Chuck sipped his beer.
“Earlier you said you wanted to talk about the boy you found in the warehouse the other night? The kid with the funny name.”
“Sneakers. Let’s talk about him after the game.”
“What kind of name is Sneakers?”
“Nickname, street name, I don’t what you’d call it. But we can discuss it at great length…after the game.”
Juice Ball Cordoba hit a long fly to the warning track in deep left field for the third out. The Pilots grabbed their gear and took to the field, hanging on to a one-run lead. The top of the Indians’ batting order was coming up.
“What’s his real name?” Terry asked.
“Juice Ball? It’s Gerald Cordoba.”
“No, I mean your kid, Sneakers.”
“Bill Clinton Watkins.”
“What’s wrong with that name? Not cool enough?”
“Beats me. He says ‘don’t nobody call me that name.’” Chuck had figured out Terry’s game, and it wasn’t baseball. “You’re not going to let this wait until after the game, are you?”
“Can’t you talk to me and watch the game at the same time?”
“Sweetheart, when I talk to you, y
ou deserve my full attention. I don’t want to be distracted by other things…like watching a baseball game.”
“You’re pretty good at this, you know.”
“Good at what?”
“Telling me to shut up about the kid, but saying it diplomatically.” She laughed.
Chuck surrendered, gracefully he hoped, and squeezed her hand. “Okay. Let’s talk about Sneakers.”
“What about him?”
“The kid’s got no one. I think I told you that he begs on the street and scrounges food from dumpsters behind restaurants when he doesn’t have enough money for a Big Mac. And he hides from the world every night on the top floor of a semi-abandoned warehouse.”
“That’s sad.”
“Statistically, Sneaker has no chance.”
The crowd cheered and Chuck looked up to see an Indian hit a pop fly. One down.
“He’ll be dead or in prison by the time he’s thirty, unless somebody takes an interest in him.”
“And that somebody would be you?”
“Maybe.” Chuck stared at his beer cup, twirled it in his hands. “I don’t feel right just standing by and watching this kid get flushed down the toilet because no one in his whole life ever cared about him. He doesn’t deserve that.”
Terry sipped her beer, made a face. “No one deserves that. But it happens all the time.”
“I know. It’s just…”
Another cheer as the second Indian batter grounded out to first.
“Chuck, what do you intend to do about this kid?”
“I’m not sure what I can do. I’m not a guidance counselor. I’m not his family. I’m not a foster parent. I’m not qualified to rescue a child.”
“Not true, baby. You mean that you have no training to rescue a child. But you’ve made it your life’s work to rescue people, even if you have to make it up as you go along.”
“True enough.” He sipped his beer.
“What effect would rescuing this kid have on us?”
Chuck shrugged. “Uncertain. Whatever I do, it would take some nights and weekends away from our time together.”
She leaned against his arm. “I’m pretty possessive, you know.”
“And I am really happy about that.”
“Seriously, what good could you do Sneakers?”
“I’ve given that some thought. I could buy him some good books. Maybe enroll him in a private tutoring program. I’m not sure, Queens.”
Dipsy Donohue fanned the last Indian. It was bottom of the eighth and the Pilots’ turn at bat.
She sipped her beer. She was on her first beer, and it was the eighth inning. Terry obviously knew nothing about the game’s hallowed traditions.
Chuck decided to get his third beer and asked Terry to be the designated driver.
She agreed and the Pilots threw the Indians out on a double play in the top of the ninth. The Pilots won seven to six.
#
Terry pulled the Avanti into the line of cars exiting the parking garage. “I feel bad about this kid too, Chuck, but there are thousands of boys and girls—maybe millions—just like him. Don’t you feel bad about those kids too?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know them. I ate a meal with this kid. And we had a real conversation that meant something.”
“So have you decided what you’re going to do about him?”
Chuck fell silent, thinking about Terry’s question. “Well, I can’t adopt him,” he finally said.
“What about the Department of Children and Families?”
“He’s been there, done that. Doesn’t want to go through it again.”
They drove on in silence. Terry merged onto the causeway over Seeti Bay toward Port City Beach and Chuck’s condo. “It’s not like you to let things hang, Chuck. You have this passion to do something. Anything, even if it’s wrong.”
“Yeah. This thing has me stumped.”
“Okay. So what are you going to do?”
He sighed. “I don’t see any alternative but to give you a full-body massage.”
#
Chuck finished Terry’s massage, but his heart wasn’t in it. Neither was another important part of his body. “I’m sorry, babe. Maybe in the morning.”
“That’s okay, Chuck. I can tell this thing with Sneakers bothers you.”
“I’m used to being bothered. Goes with the territory. There will always be people I can’t save. I got used to that when I was a cop. I’m sure you did too.”
“We get used to it because it eats us up if we don’t. Mother Weiner always says, ‘You can’t save them all. Your job is to serve and protect the ones in front of you. You’re not a missionary.’”
Terry put her hand on his forearm.
He kissed it lightly. “On the other hand, this kid may have witnessed the Franco murder.”
Chapter 34
After sunset, Chuck parked at the warehouse where Sneakers squatted. He shined the Maglite back and forth across the third-floor window. A face appeared at the window. Chuck pointed to the back of the building and walked around to the access door.
Sneakers came out a few minutes later. “What you want, man?”
“A piece of pecan pie from the Day and Night Diner. How about I buy you dinner again?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” He pronounced “ask” as “ax.”
#
Veraleesa waved at the two as they walked in. “Hello, gentlemen. Sit anywhere. I’ll be with you in a second.”
This time when Sneakers read the menu, Chuck watched his eyes. He seemed to be a good reader, but Chuck needed to know for sure.
After Veraleesa took their order, Chuck pulled a newspaper clipping from his pocket. “This is from the Sports Section of the Pee-Jay.”
“What’s the Pee-Jay?”
“The Port City Press-Journal.” Then Chuck realized the boy had probably never read a newspaper. He handed the clipping to Sneakers. “Here, read this.”
The boy shrugged and smoothed out the clipping on the tabletop.
Chuck put his hand on the paper. “Would you read it aloud, please?”
“Why for?”
“Because I asked you to and because I bought dinner again. Is that a good enough reason? Humor me.”
“Okay, man. That ain’t much to ask.” He began to read the article aloud. He read it well and didn’t stumble over any of the words.
He finished and handed the clipping back to Chuck.
“Keep it if you like.”
Sneakers shrugged and stuffed the clipping in his shirt pocket. “What’s this shit all about?”
“My girlfriend Terry and I went to that game last night.”
Sneakers sat a little straighter. “No shit, man?” This was the first time in his short acquaintance with Chuck that Sneakers had shown the slightest interest in anything.
“Would you like to go to a baseball game sometime?”
“With you?”
“With me.”
Sneakers laughed. “You sure you ain’t gay?”
“And I have a girlfriend to prove it.”
“Would she come with us?”
“No. She suffers from a bad upbringing and she has no interest in baseball.”
“What’s that ‘bad upbringing’ shit?”
“It was a joke. ‘Upbringing’ means the way a person is raised. The joke implies that a good upbringing includes instilling a love for baseball. It implies that anyone who doesn’t share my interest in baseball is…misguided.” He smiled. “In fact, my girlfriend’s parents raised her very well. I hate to admit it, but it’s okay not to love baseball. She and I have lots of other things in common.”
“So what’s the joke, dude?”
“You don’t think it’s funny even after I explained it?”
“Nope.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Can I still go to a game?”
The Pilots had left town for some away games but Chuck told Sneakers that he would get tickets for the ne
xt home series. He picked a game for the next Sunday. That would give him a chance to spend Saturday and Saturday night with Terry.
Chuck gave him another fifty dollars when he let him off at the warehouse. I wish I could do more. This boy needs more than money.
“I sure am glad you ain’t gay, man.”
Chapter 35
Bigs sat down in Chuck’s client chair. He looked tired.
Kelly had called from their car to make sure Chuck was in his office. Said she and Bigs had news about Ted Smoot. She hadn’t told Chuck whether it was good news or bad news, but she sounded down in the mouth.
Kelly remained standing.
Maybe she just wants to look out my window. Or maybe she wants to be far away when her partner tells me why they came.
Bigs started. “The good news, Chuck, is that Smoot doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the Franco murder or the Acevedo hit-and-run.”
“And the bad news?”
“Neither do ninety percent of the people in Port City. Hell, the ME placed the time of Franco’s death at between 11:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. Nobody has an alibi for that time of night. Same same for the Acevedo hit.”
Chuck said, “Unless they’re guilty and arrange a fake alibi.”
Bigs almost smiled. “Unless that.”
“Bigs, the LT told you and Kelly to turn him inside out if he didn’t have two iron-clad witnesses.”
Kelly spoke up. “Oh we did, Chuck. We grilled the SOB for three hours. He laughed at us. Remember, he was a cop. He knows his rights, he knows the law, and he knows police procedure. He said if we had any evidence, we would have asked him about it specifically.”
“What about the Acevedo hit-and-run?”
“Same thing. He admitted he hated Acevedo’s guts. Admitted he was glad the guy was dead. He said, ‘But his ex-wife feels the same way. You investigate her for the hit?’”
“You try the phantom witness?”
“Smoot invented the phantom witness trick. If we’d claimed to have a witness to place him near the crime scene, he would’ve demanded to know who it was. He would’ve lawyered up, and the lawyer would’ve demanded to see the video of the witness interview.” She shook her head. “Couldn’t use the phantom witness.” She turned back to the window.
Double Fake, Double Murder (A Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series Book 2) Page 8
