Graffiti Creek

by Matt Coleman

  Most of the places on Sameer’s board led nowhere. He located them—random bars or storefronts or intersections. Graffiti Creek turned up as a local name given to some vandalized bridge over a stretch of stream out in the sticks. But he had no details to connect those places to any happenings. Sometimes not even a person. And searching people turned up lots of details, but no way of knowing which were sources and which were suspects. The only lead he had to work with was Booker. And an address for the old Parker Building.

  After a quick stop home to freshen up and change into an inconspicuous hoodie and joggers, Sameer drove down to Old Town to find the Parker Building. The task turned out to be much easier than he anticipated. The Parker Building was the one surrounded by police cars. Sameer slowed to a crawl as he passed by, but he couldn’t tell what had happened. About a block over he parked in an old grocery store’s abandoned parking lot and walked back toward the scene with his hood pulled down around his face.

  Enough homeless meandered about to allow Sameer to blend in. He found a corner of a building across from the biggest collection of police cars. The sun created shadows for him to lurk within, obscuring anyone’s view of him while allowing him a pretty clear shot of what was going on. The comings and goings seemed to center around the back of the building. Sameer couldn’t locate the source of the trouble, but his focus was drawn to a homeless man being catered to near a bus stop right across from him.

  Sameer reached into the pocket of his hoodie to pull out the information he deemed fit to bring. He unfolded the screen grab of Booker from the YouTube video. There was no doubt in his mind. Booker was right in front of him.

  After several different cops spoke to Booker briefly, two detectives came over to speak with him. One was an attractive blonde, possibly Bright Hudson. Sameer studied her intently until the conversation ended and the two detectives started away. He fumbled around for his phone and leafed through his papers for Bright Hudson’s card. He punched in the number Seamus had for her. Sure enough, the blonde detective across the street answered her phone. Sameer let a little gasp escape when she did, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Detective Hudson hung up and continued toward the scene, stopping to speak with another officer.

  Booker continued to sit at the bus stop bench and sip on a cup of coffee. Sameer had no idea how to reach him. Before returning his wad of notes to his pocket, he noticed the mysterious phone number. He shrugged and punched in the numbers. Booker jumped. Sameer grew wide eyed as Booker pulled a phone out of a pocket of his jacket and looked around nervously before answering it. They sat in silence for a moment. Booker whispered into the phone, “How you get this number?”

  Sameer sucked in air and swallowed. “Seamus Fitzgerald.”

  He scrutinized Booker as the man hung his head. The hand holding the Styrofoam coffee cup shook. “I can’t—I can’t talk to you right now.”

  Sameer nodded like Booker could see him. “Yes. I understand. Are you familiar with the old Holt’s Grocery? About a block over from here?”

  Booker also nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I’m parked there. Come find me when you can slip away. Please.”

  Booker hung up.

  Sameer sat in his car long enough to fall asleep. When his passenger side door burst open, he awoke with a start. Once he regained his composure, Booker was sitting next to him staring straight ahead. Before Sameer thanked him, Booker blurted out, “How do you know Seamus?”

  Sameer nodded once. “He is my husband.”

  Booker nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Sameer shook his head. “Sorry? For what?”

  “I know he’s missing. He and Do Right both. Think they got too mixed up in something.”

  Sameer sniffed and fought back a swell of tears. “Do you think they’re okay?”

  Booker cocked his head. “I don’t know. I wish I could tell you different, but I just don’t know.”

  Sameer collected himself. “I was told you have a story. Something Seamus was very interested in.”

  Booker nodded. “Some years back, I helped this girl get away from a rough John. Helped her as much as I could.”

  Sameer frowned. “Why did this story matter to Seamus?”

  Booker hesitated. “This girl. She worked for the cops.”

  “Worked for the cops? Like undercover?”

  Booker laughed. “Oh, under covers all right.” He shook his head. “No. She answered to a couple of cops. They arranged meetings like the one that night for those kind of guys.”

  “What kind of guys?”

  Booker shrugged. “Important ones. Guys who depend on votes to keep their jobs.”

  “Do you have any names?”

  Booker shook his head. “Nope. I try to keep my head down and my ass intact.” He pointed back toward the flashing blue and red lights around the corner. “Thought I could blend in here. But I can’t help myself. If I see a young girl in trouble, I can’t sit by and watch.”

  Sameer looked back. “Now? What happened in the Parker Building? Another girl?”

  Booker nodded. “Same damn cops. Thought they were after me at first.” He shook his head. “But they had their crosshairs set on some new girl.”

  “And you helped her?”

  Booker nodded. “I tried. Best I could. From the looks of it, she managed to get away. One of those cops took a nosedive off the building. Girl tore off after. Didn’t see what became of anybody else.”

  Sameer squinted at Booker, who still stared straight ahead. “Why did you think they were after you?”

  “Your husband and Do Right started getting real nervous a week or two ago. Seamus, he came and found me and took me to Do Right’s apartment. Said I should keep out of sight for a few days due to this documentary they were working on.”

  “Do you know anything about the documentary?”

  Booker smiled broadly. “Called it ‘Chicken Little.’ Said it was a working title. I told my story for it. They filmed me talking about it over near Dollar Hill where it happened.”

  “How long were you at the apartment?”

  Booker hung his head. “Few days. Seamus dropped me off there.” He looked at Sameer for the first time. “It’s the last time I saw him.” He looked off again. “Do Right came home and set me up on his couch. Few days later, Do Right came in all crazy. Scared. Upset. He told me it wasn’t safe for me there anymore. He grabbed some stuff, like he didn’t plan on staying either. Ran down stairs for a bit and then said we got to go.”

  Sameer nodded. “And he brought you here?”

  Booker tilted his head to the side. “Not at first. We made a stop. He was rushing around like crazy, but he pulled his shit together to make one stop. Got himself all proper for a minute. Said he needed to pop in and leave something for his ex-girlfriend. I waited in the car. Then he drove me here and dropped me off. Last I saw of him, too.”

  Booker shrugged as if to say that’s all I got to say and started out, but Sameer stopped him by offering a handful of cash. Booker waved it off and smiled, looking Sameer in the eye for the first time. “I hope you find your husband.”

  Sameer smiled back in thanks. “One more thing. Do Right’s apartment? The Girlfriend’s house? Can you tell me where they are?”

  Booker nodded. “Yep. I got a way with addresses. You got a pen?”

  Chapter 32

  Cary waved the shotgun around in the air and smiled broadly. She was slightly ashamed to admit it to herself, but robbing a bank was a bit of a rush. Her heart raced and her brain flooded with life and energy. She was hyper alert and electrified with confidence. Shelley and Marlowe both barked out unintelligible questions and objections.

  Thompson smiled and reached for his gun. Shelley was on her feet, gun drawn and dangling next to her leg. Thompson laughed and mumbled something about her and Cary both being “crazy bitches.”

  Cary’s senses were jumbled and warped. Screams and voices blurred and the colors of the lobby swirled into a technicolor-explosion-aci
d-trip.

  Thompson stood and pulled at Marlowe’s sleeve. He waved at Shelley and grunted, “Come on! Get the fuck out of here!” The three of them scrambled for the door along with several people in the lobby. Others laid down on their stomachs and covered their heads.

  From across the lobby, two security guards were drawing their weapons and shouting things at Cary: “Put it down!” “Don’t do it!” “Drop your weapon!”

  Cary kept her shotgun pointed straight up. As soon as she saw Thompson running for his car, she lowered the gun to the table and clambered down with her hands up. She repeated, “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. I’m surrendering. I’m putting it down.”

  The next fifteen minutes passed in a frenzied blur. Cary was roughed around and her hands were zip tied—much better this time, police grade zip ties. Multiple uniformed officers bustled in and out of the bank, yelling things out over their radios. By the time Cary was able to focus, she was being half-carried out toward a squad car by two burly police officers. She started trying to talk, twisting her head toward both of them intermittently. “My name is Cary Trubody. Call it in. Tell them you have Cary Trubody.” They tugged at her arms and barked at her to shut up.

  Once in the car, a woman settled in behind the wheel, with one of the burly cops in the passenger seat. The woman looked back at Cary, who was struggling to sit up after being thrown into the car. The female cop said, “What did she say her name is?”

  Cary craned her neck to make eye contact. “Cary Trubody! Call it in!”

  The woman looked at her partner and mumbled. “Holy shit. Call it in.”

  They drove in silence to the police station. When they arrived, as they led Cary to a set of doors, a woman in a red trench coat came bursting out holding up a badge. She stared down the cops in an authoritative stance. “Officers. That’s my suspect. I want her in an interrogation room.” The woman turned her attention to Cary and softened. “Hi, Cary. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Cary didn’t have time to respond. She was whisked away by the elbows. It was her first time being whisked and the experience isn’t as pleasant as the word makes it sound. She ended up getting tossed into a chair in a stark room. The room consisted of a few chairs and a single table with a box of Kleenex. The female officer released her from her wrist constraints and called out into the hallway, “Ask if they need her restrained.” There was a beat and she heard the answer from her partner come back as no. Without another word, the female officer left Cary alone in the room.

  In less than a minute, the woman in the red trench coat burst through the door and glided into a chair across the table from Cary. She didn’t appear to be much older than Cary—maybe three or four years deeper into her thirties. But she had a gait and the posture of someone in charge. She was sleek and blonde and newscaster attractive. A short Latino man followed her in and took the other chair across the table. He had on a tailored suit with a thin tie, but his eyes betrayed something a little less polished—a kindness not made for police work. Cary preferred to look at him with his half-smile and soothing expression, but the lady in the trench coat snapped her fingers to bring Cary’s eyes back to her. “Cary? Cary, you with me?”

  Cary nodded.

  The woman continued. “Good. I’m Detective Bright Hudson. This is Detective Carlos Moya. We’ve been working on a couple of cases we think you can help us with.”

  Moya held up three fingers. “Three cases.”

  Hudson clucked her tongue and looked at the ceiling. “That’s right. Three cases.” She twisted her mouth. “Four if you count your show at the bank.”

  Moya nodded. “Oh. And five counting the homeless guy with the stab wound.”

  Hudson snapped her fingers. “Absolutely. Can’t forget him.” Hudson pointed at Moya. “Stolen truck.”

  Moya smiled open-mouthed. “The farmer! Yes. He’s pissed.”

  Hudson nodded. “Very pissed.” She turned to Cary. “You’ve been a busy girl.”

  Cary closed her eyes and nodded. She smiled. “I can explain well over half of those things.”

  Both of the detectives laughed. Hudson gestured for her to carry on. “Do tell.”

  So Cary did. She told them everything, from winning three thousand dollars playing poker at a party all the way to pretending to rob a bank in order to save her ass. She left out the bit about turning Haley and Grayson into teenage getaway drivers, but everything else was there. Moya wrote it all down, flipping page after page of a tiny notepad. Neither detective reacted. They asked a handful of clarifying questions, but nothing probing.

  Hudson leaned over and said something to Moya, which caused him to leave and return in a matter of minutes with a yearbook-style directory of police department staff. They showed her pictures of Thompson, Jolly, Reynard, and Doyle.

  Hudson leaned back in her chair and glared at Cary. “So this is all one big conspiracy?”

  Cary sighed. “I’m not saying the whole police force.” She jabbed at the police yearbook with a finger. “I’m saying those four are wrapped up in something.”

  Hudson nodded. “And you got mixed up in it because of—” she snapped her fingers and fluttered her hand at Moya.

  Moya flipped through his notepad. “Um, Do Right.”

  Hudson nodded. “Do Right.”

  Cary rolled her eyes. “Dante Holliverse. He’s the brother to your Officer Doyle and Marlowe—the guy who I thought was helping me.”

  Hudson reached over and grabbed Moya’s notepad, which didn’t seem to bother him. She read over his notes as she said, “So this Dante Holliverse. If he hated you as much as you say”—she cut her eyes up at Cary—“and I imagine you’re right, then why would he text you?”

  Cary shrugged. “It had to be a mistake. Or maybe he knew Thompson and Jolly would think he had sent a message to somebody, and he picked me because he didn’t care if they came after me. I don’t know.”

  Hudson handed Moya back his notepad. He looked at his boss with a question in his eyes. Hudson gave him a slight nod and he turned to Cary. “What did this Holliverse kid have?”

  Cary shook her head. “I don’t know. They kept saying ‘a copy.’ I can only assume it might be a video. Dante was always filming. It’s why they called him Do Right.”

  The two detectives shared a look, and Hudson glanced toward Cary to say, “Sit tight.” They rose in unison and stepped into the hallway.

  Bright leaned against the wall and raised her eyebrows at Carlos. “What do you make of this?”

  Carlos shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I want to believe her. It scares the shit out of me, but I want to believe her.”

  Bright nodded and stared off. “Me too.”

  “Thompson had those zip ties. Everything she says checks out with what we found.”

  Bright nodded.

  “I worked with Doyle. Don’t know the other three, but she’s a good cop. She may be mixed up in something because of her brother, but I think we can convince her to come clean on what’s going on.”

  Bright looked at him. “If we can find her.”

  Carlos held up the last page of his notes. “Cary said Doyle said they would look for the copy. If your brother had a copy of something, where would you start looking?”

  Bright shrugged. “Wherever he lives, I guess. But don’t you figure Thompson and Jolly already searched it?”

  Carlos smiled. “You have siblings? Because I do. And I guarantee you could search my brother’s room seven times. Turn up nothing. I could walk in and find his weed in thirty seconds.”

  Bright nodded. “Okay. I’ll find the last known on the brother. See if I can catch up with Doyle and this Marlowe.”

  Carlos frowned. “What do you want me to do? Babysit?”

  Bright looked around the station. “Yeah. Only not here. I hate to admit it, but we don’t know how deep this goes. Cary might be safer elsewhere until we sort it out. I want you to keep her with you. Get her some clean clothes and keep an eye on her
until you hear from me.”

  Carlos shrugged. “Fair point. How do I take a murder suspect for ice cream?” He closed one eye. “You think it’ll tip anybody off if I put on a vest to do it?”

  Bright chuckled. “I got her before she was processed. So you just walk out. And, if I’m being honest, the vest always makes you look a little pudgy.”

  Carlos shook his head. “Pudgy might be better than dead or homeless. Cause this is going to get us fired or killed, I imagine.”

  Bright curled her lip. “God, I hope the latter. I don’t want to change careers at this point in my life.”

  Chapter 33

  Marlowe lost himself in a wall of sound. As soon as Cary’s shotgun chewed the air around him with a violent sound of being cocked, he curled up into a tunnel of cotton. Every shout came at him muffled and faraway. Cary was saying something, screaming at everyone in the bank. Thompson reached for his gun. Marlowe looked to Shelley, and his sister had hers out and poised, hanging at her side. His head and neck lolled around like he was drugged. Thompson said something, or maybe Shelley did, or Cary. Someone was pulling him, at his sleeve, dragging him away. Shelley pushed at him to go. He ran for the door and felt his senses start to return. The noises came into focus—people screaming, Cary shouting out for everyone to get down. Thompson was pulling his arm and Shelley was at his back repeating, “Go, go, go, go.”

  They all stumbled their way into the parking lot. It was eerily quiet. When the doors to the bank slid shut, the world went almost silent. The sirens would come, but not yet. No one else had thought to duck out before Cary faced her inevitable standoff with the security guards. Marlowe glanced back, feeling, for maybe the first time, the weight of his own guilt and responsibility for what was happening to Cary. He started to object, to ask if they could simply leave her.

  He turned back to Thompson and his sister to find them facing off, guns drawn.