Back on Murder (2 page)

And then he’s gone, leaving the room deathly still in his wake.

The next moment, Lorenz has me by the sleeve, dragging me over to the corner. His voice barely a whisper. I half expect him to chew me out, so his real motive comes as a shock.

“I don’t get it.” He casts a glance over his shoulder, making sure no one’s listening. “What’s the deal with the rope?”

It takes me a second to find my voice. “They’re restraints,
J
One at each corner, like somebody was tied spread-eagle to the bed. The blood on those sheets, it’s probably from two victims. Morales and somebody the shooters took with them, after cutting her loose.”

“Her?”

“Just a guess.”

He takes all this onboard, then backs away, patting me on the front of the shoulder. But the pat feels like a push, too. As if he’s distancing himself from me. Or from his own ignorance.

“All right,” he says to the room. “Here’s the situation.”

Before he can launch into his speech, I’m out the door. One of the advantages of invisibility.

Outside, layers of garbage tamp down the knee-high grass out front, some bagged but most of it not: sun-bleached fast food packets, thirty-two ounce cups, empty twelve-pack beer boxes, all of it teeming with flies. The house is broad, one of the street’s larger residences, complete with a double-wide carport and a driveway full of cracked concrete, rust stains, and a shiny black Escalade. The keys are probably still in Morales’s pocket.

The perimeter line is being held by one Sergeant Nixon – Nix to his friends – a cop who can remember back far enough to the time when Texas produced lawmen instead of peace officers.

“Look who it is.” He gives my shoulder a pat, but it’s nothing like the heave-ho from Lorenz. “What are you doing at an honest-to-God murder scene? I thought you were putting in time with the cars-for-criminals team.”

“I came out for old times’ sake.”

“Roland March,” he says, looking me over. “The suicide cop.”

“Don’t remind me. Anybody talking around here? Neighbors witness anything?”

He glances up and down the street, like he’s worried the nearby uniforms will overhear. “The lady down the way might be worth a talk. See the yellow house?”

“I think it’s supposed to be white.”

Nix isn’t a fat man, but whenever he shrugs, his head retracts turtle-like, giving him a double chin. “We got a statement off her already, but she sure was talkative. If you’re looking for the full canvassing experience, you might give her a try.”

Ducking under the tape, I head for the yellow-white house. The neighborhood must have been nice once, before it was sandwiched in by apartment complexes. In southwest Houston, the complexes serve the same purpose as inner-city housing projects in other parts of the country. They’re easy to secure, so gangs move in and start doing business. Colombian heroin and coke, Mexican meth, crack – it all comes through along the I-10 corridor, and the complexes serve as weigh stations.

A decade ago, there were places along here a patrol cruiser couldn’t go without taking fire from one gang or another. We cracked down, and the dealers got the message. Now they stick to doing business. Everybody gets along, more or less, except for the ones in neighborhoods like this, where the trouble can’t help but leak over. But there’s a tension out on the streets, a lot of rumors about the Mexican cartels and the kind of trouble that might be around the corner.

I adjust the badge around my neck. Give the door a good knock.

When it opens, I’m greeted by a ripe young thing in her early twenties, bursting out of a tank top and pink shorts, pushing the door open with her foot. Glitter polish on the toenails, a flip-flop dangling. Her features are two sizes too big for her face. Huge eyes, a terrifyingly wide mouth marked out in brown liner.

I glance back at Nix, who’s smiling at a cloud pattern overhead.

“Excuse me, but . . . I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

“About that over there? I didn’t see nothing.”

“What about earlier?” I ask. “You notice them driving up in that SUV?”

“Last night you mean? I was out there in the yard. Octavio pulled up, and he had some others with him. Little Hector, I think, and someone else. They rolled down the window and whistled.” If she was flattered by the attention, she gives no sign now. “They don’t stay there or nothing like that. It’s just their party pad.”

“Did they have a woman with them?”

“People’s always coming and going. I told the other policeman already.”

“Well, thanks.”

On the way to my car, I give Nix my best Clint Eastwood glare.

He smiles back at me. “Anytime, Detective.”

I don’t know which I prefer more, being ignored or jerked around.

In spite of my reptilian tolerance for heat, the air-conditioning back on the sixth floor feels great, especially given the white Freon my car’s been spitting out in lieu of cool air. This is Homicide, the nerve center, humming as always with quiet intensity. The clack of keyboards is a constant, the hum of conversation. For the most part, though, the cubicles stand empty. Only a few detectives have trickled back in, filling mugs with coffee, combing the break room for anything not too stale, reviewing notes in anticipation of the big briefing.

We aren’t what you’d expect. Watching television, you might think we’re all scientists with guns, working our cases with calibrated precision. But we make mistakes just like anyone, and all that technical jargon can be a coping mechanism, an alternative to dark humor. Some guys like to crack jokes over the corpse, and others like to talk about castoff and trajectories and residue. We’re only human, after all, and the job gets to us sometimes.

We aren’t like the cops on cable, either. We aren’t crooked. We aren’t pushing drugs on the side, or even taking them. We’re not functioning alcoholics. We don’t take backhanders or use racial epithets or delight in parading our ignorance, even ironically. If anything, we pride ourselves on a certain professionalism, which means we won’t beat you with a phone book or a rolled newspaper. We won’t frame you, even if we know you did it.

We don’t have our own reality show – a sore spot ever since the Dallas unit made its debut on
The First 48
– but if we did, they wouldn’t have to edit out the violence, or even bleep that much of the language. For the most part, we’re middle-aged and male, split pretty much down the middle between married and divorced. We dress like there’s still a standard to keep up. And no matter who you are – a shirtless banger with enough ink on your skin to write a circuit court appeal or a corner skank in a skintight halter – we’ll address you politely as sir or ma’am.

We are polite not because we are polite, but because we want to send you to Huntsville for the balance of your natural life, or even stick you with that needle of fate. And respect works. It’s as good a way as any to send you down.

All of this is true about us. Except when it isn’t. And when it isn’t, all bets are off.

Don’t mind my bluster, though. Like the sick jokes and the pseudo–science, it’s just another way of coping. Because I’m on my way out, and realizing too late I don’t want to go.

The man with all the power is Captain Drew Hedges, who sits behind glass walls and metal blinds, his door resolutely shut. In a department that’s seen its share of shake-ups, Hedges has shown a knack for hanging on and, in spite of his better judgment, has a soft spot in his heart for others with the same knack, myself included. He doesn’t just run the Homicide Division, he leads it, which means earning the respect of some notoriously independent-minded detectives.

I rap a knuckle against the wood, then wait. No sound from the other side. I try again. This time the door swings open.

Just inside, Lieutenant Bascombe stands with his hand on the knob, still listening to the captain’s final instructions. I wait my turn. Bascombe is black, bald, and six foot four, an object lesson in intimidation. His eyes have as many signs for fury as the Eskimos have words for snow, and I’ve grown fluent over the years, having so often been on the receiving end of these glares. Now, fortunately, he doesn’t even look my way.

“I’m not asking for perfection,” the captain is saying, “but it wouldn’t hurt to get some dictionaries in here. It may not seem like much, but I’m telling you, this is an embarrassment. We look like a bunch of illiterates here. Is that really the impression we want to make?”

Bascombe’s nodding the whole time, trying to cut off the flow of words. I can tell he’s heard enough, and if I’ve walked in on another lecture about the standard of spelling on reports coming out of Homicide, I can sympathize. Hedges can go from stone-cold cop one second to high school English teacher the next, and the latter incarnation is by far the more frightening.

“I’ll take care of it,” Bascombe says. Then, noticing me, he seizes on my presence as an excuse. “March’s here to see you, sir. Let me get out of your way.”

He pushes past, disappearing in the direction of his own, much smaller, office.

“Come on in,” Hedges says. “Take a seat.”

His jacket hangs on a rack in the corner, the sweat stains on his shirt all but dry. He’s rolled his sleeves up like a man with hard labor on the agenda. I sink into one of the guest chairs, crossing my leg in an effort to look relaxed. His leathery, nut-brown face is so weatherworn that even a decade under the fluorescents hasn’t raised a hint of pallor.

To look at him, you’d imagine that squint could see through any persona, plumb the depth of any lie. When I first joined the squad, I was in awe of those narrow-lidded, all-knowing eyes. But I’ve worked for him long enough now to realize that it’s just an expression, no more indicative of insight than his starched shirts or his square, gunmetal glasses.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Instead of answering, he reaches behind him, pulling a book from a shelf bursting with color-coded ring binders. He slides it across the desk so I can see the cover.
The Kingwood Killing
. Brad Templeton’s true-crime thriller. I feel a twitch under my eye.

He taps the book. “You ought to read it sometime.”

“I don’t have to read it. I lived it. Remember?”

“I remember. The question is, do you? The reason I wanted to talk to you is, that was good police work today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that out of you.”

How am I supposed to reply to that? Instead of answering, I give a noncommittal squirm. If I had my way, every copy of that book would be rounded up for incineration. It’s like a yearbook photo, only worse. A reminder of someone I’d rather forget I ever was.

He sees me looking at the book and clears his throat. “Now, the fact of the matter is, you got lucky. Eventually somebody would have noticed those restraints. It just happened to be you. But I recall you used to be very lucky. You used to make your own luck. Question is, can you do it again?”

I’m getting tired of his rhetorical questions, but I don’t show it. Instead, I force myself to nod. It isn’t easy. My neck’s as stiff as a corpse’s in rigor.

“Sir, if you’d give me a chance, I think I could.”

He shows me his open palms. “What did you have in mind?”

“Stop loaning me out for these special assignments. Put me back on the regular rotation. Let me work cases again. Hand the suicide cop mantle over to one of the younger guys.”

His head shakes the whole time I’m talking. “You don’t get it, Roland. I didn’t give you these assignments. You earned them. You haven’t been pulling your weight, so it was either that or cut you loose. And to be honest, that’s what a lot of people have wanted me to do.” His eyes flick toward the door, where Bascombe was standing a few moments before. I know the lieutenant doesn’t have much love for me, but it’s still a blow to realize he wants me out.

“I have a lot of experience, sir. I didn’t discover those restraints by accident.” His squint tightens, but I press on. “You’ve got Lorenz heading up that investigation, and you know it’s too big a job. Coordinating something like that, it’s a little more complicated than filling out a few reports and interviewing a couple of witnesses.”

“You don’t think he’s up to it? That’s too bad.”

My throat dries out all the sudden. “Why’s that?”

“Because I was thinking of putting you on the case with him.”

“With him?” I ask. “How about putting me in charge?”

Hedges laughs. “I admire your nerve, March. But you’ve gotta be kidding. I mean, take a look out there.” He jabs a finger at the blinds. “If I pulled a guy like Lorenz off the case and replaced him with you, I’d have a mutiny on my hands. In case you haven’t noticed, your approval ratings in the bullpen are at an all-time low. Ever since Wilcox bailed – ”

“But if I get results, people will have to respect that.”

Whenever he has something to think over, Hedges temples his fingertips, resting his bottom lip on the steeple, bouncing his head slowly until a decision comes to him. He pauses, goes through the motions, and then sits up straight in his chair.

“Take it or leave it,” he says. “You can work the case alongside Lorenz, with him as the lead, or you can keep doing what you’ve always done and see where it gets you. I’m sorry, Roland, but you’re not in any position to bargain here. I’m throwing you a bone. You want it or not?”

I used to love this job, and there’s a part of me that wants to love it again. That will take work, though. After a free fall like mine, you don’t expect to summit all at once. This is a good offer. I’d be a fool not to take it.

“Well?” he asks.

Two things are holding me back. The first is Lorenz. Not his inexperience, which could be an advantage for me, but the fact that, in spite of his inexperience, he’s made it so far up the ladder. The man is connected. He has friends everywhere. If he wants to, he can make my life difficult.

“I’d be working for Lorenz?”

“More or less,” he says. “On this one case.”

Then there’s the second thing. “Would this mean I’m off the cars-for-criminals detail?”

“Well,” he says, drawing the word out, widening his hands to show just how much distance he’d have to cross to pull something like that off. “When’s your next show?”