What Doesn’t Kill Her (14 page)

Mark already had his gun out and at his side, barrel pointed straight down, ready to come up fast.

When the pair got to the door, the driver used his foot to give it a couple of solid kicks.

Then they waited.

Mark and Pence, staying low, edged alongside the Lincoln.

After a moment, the taller guy hissed, “Where the fuck he at? He slow keepin’
time
, too?”

Still cradling his end of the TV, the driver managed a tiny shrug. “Fuck do I know? Maybe he’s takin’ a dump. Do I look like that John Edward dude?”

Then he kicked the door three more times, rattling it, making his partner almost lose his grip. More general profane bitching followed for maybe thirty seconds, then the door swung open and bald squat Slowhand himself filled the frame.

“You’re late,” he said to them in a low, gruff growl, small dark eyes darting up and down the alley, like bugs looking for a place to land.

“
We
late?” the driver said. “We been knockin’ for half an hour, man! You slow in the hand or the head?”

“Just get that fucking thing in here,” Slowhand said, stepping out into the alley to clear the doorway.

Pence popped up next to him. “Raise ’em, Robert!”

Mark stood and, in a voice much calmer than he felt, said, “Hold it right there, fellas.”

The driver did so, but his taller pal dropped his end of the TV and took off down the alley like a sprinter after the starting gun.

Unable to juggle the big TV from one end, its weight and awkwardness conspiring against him, the driver watched with wide helpless eyes as the expensive electronics item tumbled from his grasp and smashed onto the concrete alley, bits of the screen shattering and scattering everywhere, like ice breaking up.

“Fuck it!” the driver said, and put his hands up.

“You goin’ after him?” Pence asked, nodding toward the tall guy, who was already nearing the alley’s mouth.

“No,” Mark said, then eased toward the driver. He wasn’t going to leave Pence with two suspects to deal with. He told the driver, “Grab some wall.”

The driver assumed the position, hands flat on brick, feet spread. He’d been frisked before.

Patting the driver down, Mark asked, “Care to tell me the name of your homey? Cooperation is a beautiful thing.”

“Snitches get stitches,” the driver said, not even bothering to look over his shoulder.

“If that’s the way you want it,” Mark said, and read him his rights.

As he cuffed the man, Mark looked over and saw that Pence already had Slowhand cuffed, as well. The cop may have been old and fat, but he could still handle himself—with an equally old and fat perp, anyway.

Soon patrol cars rolled into the alley and the detectives loaded in the two suspects, who both wore the glum resignation of the career criminal who knew such indignities would occasionally occur.

Then Mark and Pence went in through the pawnshop’s open back door. The interior was only slightly better illuminated than the alley. Three of the back-room walls were lined with shelves, most of the two-by-four and plywood variety, filled with every kind of cheap merchandise imaginable. The fourth was home to a desk, atop that a computer whose screen saver consisted of beautiful naked women (this would seem as close to them as Slowhand was likely to get), and next to the desk a tiny table supported a small flat-screen TV. Whatever Slowhand was up to back here, it wasn’t immediately apparent. The crime scene team would be combing through this junk for days, and that didn’t include the stuff in the shop’s larger front end.

While Pence thumbed through the messy stacks of paper on the desk, Mark strolled along the shelves, shining his penlight into the darkness. Televisions, computers, portable hard drives, Blu-ray and DVD players, stacks of DVDs (predominantly porn), power tools, musical instruments, and one shelf’s worth of piled clothing.

The latter turned out to be costumes—Indian chief, firefighter, policeman, power worker, leather guy. Had the Village People hocked their wardrobe? This was apparently the inventory of a costume shop. He just shook his
head. Pawnshops were amazing places—people would pawn anything, from a screwdriver to a samurai sword.

“Take a gander,” Pence said, and Mark left the shelves and crossed to the desk.

Pence pointed to the computer monitor, where Slowhand’s eBay page was displayed. The pawnbroker was selling a lot of stuff online. Not unusual, this day and age.

“There was a screen saver going,” Mark said. “You touch something? Crime scene unit wouldn’t appreciate that.”

His partner shook his head innocently. “You stompin’ around must have vibrated the desk or something.”

“Oh-kay.”

Ignoring Mark’s skepticism, Pence said, “Item here you might like to add to your eBay watch list.”

Mark leaned in. “That’s the Lladró sculpture from the Mohican Avenue job. In Collinwood.”

Pence nodded. “How about this one? Catch your fancy?”

“Hah. That upscale grill from the North Royalton burglary.”

“Yeah. Which tells us what?”

They had already determined that while the two robbery crews overlapped, some territory appeared unique to each.

Mark gave his partner half a grin. “Either this bunch of turds is invading the
other
ring’s turf or…”

Pence said, “Slowhand is fencing shit from both rings.”

“Detective Pence—nice going.”

The bigger man puffed up. “Back atcha, Detective Pryor. Now, shall we go interview a certain scumbag pawnshop owner?”

Mark gave him the rest of the grin. “We shall indeed.”

As they were walking out, Pence asked, “Turds? Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Mark’s grin turned silly and embarrassed.

“Are you blushin’, kid?” Pence grunted a laugh. “You are one of a fuckin’ kind, my boy, one of a freakin’, fuckin’ kind.”

In the interview room, they found Slowhand sitting at the scarred table, drumming his fingers—nerves or boredom? In any case, the pawnbroker said nothing when they entered. In fact, he didn’t look at either cop, as Mark took the chair opposite him and Pence remained standing, prowling like a big anxious cat. Up in the corner, a video camera captured everything, and Mark knew Captain Kelley was on the other side of the one-way glass behind him.

Pence took the first swing at the little round pawnbroker. “In all my many years on the force, I have had the misfortune of dealing with some dumb sorry fucks, Robert my man, but
you
might well be king of the dumb sorry fucks. My apologies we ain’t got no throne available for your royal ass.” He shook his head, then leaned in, getting right in Slowhand’s face.
“eBay,
for shit’s sake?”

The truth of that hit Slowhand hard enough to make him cringe; but he said nothing.

Prowling again, Pence added, “And fencing for two burglary crews at the same time? Two competing crews, workin’ the same basic area, who probably like each other the way a couple of street gangs would? Bold, imaginative thinking, Robert… or maybe the kind of greedy shit that could get you fucked up if one crew thought they were getting the short end of the stick.”

His fingertips making small circles, Slowhand massaged his forehead. If this was a nervous habit, maybe it explained his baldness: he’d simply rubbed his hair off.

Pence’s comment had struck a jarring chord not only with the pawnbroker, but with Mark, too. Slowhand was just one of many fences for high-end goods in a city the size of Cleveland. Dealing with two competing crews put him seriously in harm’s way, not wise for a man not as fast on his feet—or with a gun—as he once was.

Why would an experienced crook like Slowhand risk courting this kind of trouble?

Unless…

“You weren’t just
fencing
for them,” Mark blurted. “You were
running
both crews.”

Slowhand’s cool evaporated, and he sat there gaping at the young cop. Pence gaped at Mark, too.

“That’s why you could risk working with two crews, working the same territory,” Mark said, running with his theory. “
They
were working for
you
.”

Slowhand shook his head,
no, no, no,
and his trembling hand seemed about to rub away the flesh above his eyebrow.

“We have two suspects in custody,” Mark said. “One of them is going to get a heck of a deal tonight. The other isn’t. But this is your lucky night, Slowhand, because we talked to you first. You get first shot.”

Pence, keeping up, smiling to himself, no longer pacing, said, “Your lucky fuckin’ night, Robert. What say? Or should we go talk to the mope next door?”

Slowhand sat there twitching like a dog with fleas, but he did not respond, did not look at either detective.

“Looks like it’s somebody else’s lucky night,” Mark said, and started out, Pence falling in behind. The second Mark’s hand touched the doorknob, Slowhand said, his voice firm and loud: “
All right!
All right.”

Pence turned and said casually, “All right
what
, Robert?”

“… All right, I’ll talk.”

The two detectives returned to the table. Mark took his chair opposite Slowhand, and now Pence sat as well, next to the pawnbroker.

Slowhand said nothing for a while.

Mark said, “We’re listening.”

Finally Slowhand said, “It was about… retirement.”

Pence frowned in confusion. “Retirement?”

Frowning back but in irritation, Slowhand said, “I’m seventy-eight years old, you dumb cluck—y’think I wanna work forever? I meet these kids, they’re
already into the burglary thing, but they’re strictly smalltime.” He used his thumb to tap himself in the chest. “
I
taught ’em how to make some real dough. How to choose where they hit, and what kind of swag to score.”

“Fagin,” Mark said.

“Hey, fuck you, I’m
straight
!” Slowhand yelped. “Watch your mouth, kid.”

Mark started to explain but Pence waved him to quiet. Slowhand seemed about to continue.

“Me, I figured to bank some dough,” Slowhand said. “Take my ass down to Florida to live out my golden years. Learn to play fuckin’ shuffleboard, maybe.”

Pence said, “I’d pay to see that, Robert.”

Shaking his head slowly, painting a picture in the air with two hands, Slowhand said, “I had this place
all
picked out. Little town on the gulf side, where the water’s warm… not like the Atlantic, where you freeze your nuts off even in August.”

Pence couldn’t resist. “Where is this little piece of heaven, Robert?”

“Place called Yankeetown.”

Mark said, “You almost made it.”

“Huh?”

“You’ll be going to Youngstown.”

Home of Ohio State Penitentiary, where Robert Slowenski would
really
spend his golden years.…

Between Slowhand and the van driver—from whom words spilled like a rapper who didn’t know how to rhyme, once he knew ratting out his pals might pay off—Mark and Pence got the names of the members of both burglary rings. The day shift would stay busy, rounding ’em all up, but Pence and Mark were through for the night. They got pats on the back from Captain Kelley, which were harder to earn than Medals of Valor, then went their separate ways. Pence would head for some all-night fast food joint, no doubt. Mark had a date with some cool, clean sheets.

When Mark walked out to his Equinox, a middle-aged African-American male was leaning against the vehicle. This was no robbery suspect, not hardly.

This well-dressed goateed detective was Sergeant Morris Grant, “Mo” to his friends, which Mark was not. The big-time homicide specialist hadn’t deigned to pronounce ten words in Mark’s presence since the younger man had earned his gold shield.

As Mark neared, Grant said in his resonant baritone, “I hear you did some nice work tonight, Pryor. Did some real good out there tonight.”

“Thank you,” Mark said, leaning against the fender next to Grant. “I appreciate that. Really thoughtful of you to hang around to tell me that at three thirty in the morning.”

Grant smiled, his teeth very white under the nearby streetlight, glowing, feral. “I heard that about you from people.”

“What?”

“That you weren’t dumb.”

Looking around, Mark said, “Which people? Point ’em out, and I’ll set ’em right.”

Grant’s chuckle was almost a growl. “I like you, Pryor. People also say you’re a good detective, who’s going to be working homicide one day. That where you think you’re heading? Office next to mine?”

“Why not?” Mark said, maybe a little too eagerly.

The homicide cop was sizing him up, testing him; but for what, Mark had no idea.

“What would you rather do, Detective Pryor? Catch bad guys all your life for no credit, or become police commissioner?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, I don’t want to ride a desk, no matter how big or important it is. I want to be a cop.”

“Like a kid wants to be a fireman?”

“Like a man who wants to take bad guys off the street.”

The homicide detective’s gaze remained appraising. He laughed softly, then said, “All right, here’s the deal. My partner and I are looking at a cold case that has some vague similarities to another case we’re working on.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s a witness in that cold case that we need to talk to. She’s not cooperating.”

What was this about?

Grant was saying, “We need you to talk to her and pave our way, or even just talk to her for us.”

“Well, of course,” Mark said. “Captain Kelley’s still inside—he’s been working these hellacious hours, too. We can clear it with him now.” He stepped away from his Equinox, but Grant’s arm stopped him.

“If we go to the cap,” Grant said, “it’s a damn near certainty he won’t let you in.”

Mark frowned. “Why?”

“He’ll say you’re too close,” Grant said.

As if Grant had dialed the last number of the combination of a safe, the tumblers falling in line, the door swung open for Mark.

Mark said, “You mean Jordan Rivera.”

Grant gave a curt nod. “I mean Jordan Rivera.”

Somewhere a siren screamed. A long ways off, but distinct.