Back on Murder (22 page)
Coasting by the Wendy’s on the right, I spot my red bandanna. Five foot seven or eight, in wide black shorts with white stitching and a loose-fitting Rockets jersey, the bandanna cinched tight over his forehead, covering his eyebrows but leaving his scalp exposed. He sees me rolling up and snaps his phone shut, slipping it into a bottomless pants pocket.
He opens the passenger door, slips inside. “Keep driving, homes.”
“Yo, ese, you got a name or what?”
He brushes me forward, not looking too impressed by my mastery of the lingo. “Just move, okay? We can’t be talking right here.”
I let my foot off the brake and coast back onto Fondren. He smells of fast food and stale cigarettes. A hairline goatee rims his mouth, and he has an ominous teardrop tattoo under his eye. I get a strange vibe off the guy, but people who can name names in a murder are a different breed, and strange is the only vibe they give off. At Bellaire he motions for a left, and then another left onto Osage, into a shady residential block full of low-slung ranch houses, their backyards divided by pickets of sun-grayed fencing.
“Park under one of these trees,” he says, pointing to a row of oaks overhanging the street.
I slide the gearshift into park, then turn in my seat. “So what do you know about Octavio Morales?”
He answers with the flash of a hand, his half-formed fist snapping against my jaw, knocking me back against the driver’s side door. I wince, my teeth rattled. His other hand comes up, and I see a glint of metal. The notched round cylinder of a J-frame revolver. He punches forward with the muzzle at my belly.
I go for his wrist, seizing the bone just in time to push the muzzle wide. The hammer drops and the cabin fills with smoke, like a bomb’s gone off. All I can hear is silence, but my eardrums throb.
I jerk his gun hand forward, blading my body to get my right arm between him and the revolver. He buries his hand in my hair, ripping backward.
Another concussion and this time the driver’s window shatters. Glass everywhere, and I’m choking on the cordite-filled air.
I trap his gun hand against the steering wheel, setting the horn off. It blares, but I hear the sound as if it’s coming from over the horizon. I cock my right arm back, smashing my elbow into his face. His chin snaps back, so I pound him again. And again.
His fist tightens around my hair, pulling hard, but I barely feel the pain. My elbow rams back at him over and over, until I feel his grip on the revolver loosen. He shrinks back, letting the gun drop, then fumbles for the door handle.
I catch a handful of jersey as he goes, but he twists free and starts running down the sidewalk.
Then I’m outside, leaning into the crook of the open door, the front sight of my pistol lining up over his shrinking silhouette. I’m breathing too hard to take the shot.
My hearing fades back in with a distant screech of tires somewhere behind me. I turn, ready to unload on Nix, who should have rolled up with lights flashing at the first shot.
Instead, a massive red Ford pickup speeds down Osage, the tinted passenger window sliding down. I can’t make out the driver until he’s on top of me, at which point his face is hidden behind a sawn-off double-barrel shotgun.
I drop to the pavement. A hurricane of buckshot blasts through the half-open window, showering me with glass.
The truck screeches off, accelerating toward my would-be assassin, who crouches winded on the sidewalk. Looking down at my pistol, I find the hammer back and smoke rising from the muzzle. On the ground around me, a half-dozen silver shell casings, even though I don’t remember pulling the trigger.
When I try to stand, a knife-like burn runs through my left thigh. My pant leg is damp with blood, but I can’t find a hole, just black wetness and the smoky char of a contact wound. Up ahead, the truck’s passenger door opens and the man climbs in. I raise my pistol one-handed, take a breath, and almost pull the trigger. But I don’t, not wanting to miss and send a stray round flying.
As the truck moves away, laying down more rubber, I slump halfway into the driver’s seat, dropping the cocked hammer with the thumb release. On the floor beneath the brake, the shiny revolver lies smoking, flecks of blood on the metal.
Sergeant Nixon’s unmarked car pulls alongside.
“Did something just go down?” he calls out.
“Yeah,” I say, holding my sticky fingers up for inspection. “I just got shot in the leg. But don’t worry, the shooter got away.”
Nix looks at me like I haven’t answered him. Maybe I haven’t. All the sudden I have this incredible urge to lie down. I set my pistol on the floor mat and stretch out, staring up at the car’s ceiling. Somebody’s in the vehicle with me, making this high-pitched animal whimper. I glance between the seats, but there’s no one in back. It must be me.
In the back of the ambulance I inspect my new wool cutoffs, the left leg shorn to reveal a crisscross of white bandages. The paramedic, looking pleased with his work, gives my knee a slap. Thanks to the pain medication, I barely feel it.
“You’re lucky it caught the meaty part,” he says, talking loudly in deference to my temporary hearing loss.
“I feel lucky.” I lift my leg to inspect the underside. “Are you saying I have fat thighs?”
He chuckles, climbing out of the ambulance. Down on the pavement, Nix looks haggard under questioning from Captain Hedges, who, in spite of having farmed me out, responded with admirable speed when the news reached downtown. We don’t take an officer-related shooting lightly around here, even when it happens to an officer we’ve thought about shooting a couple of times ourselves. Mosser is out there, too, and so is Cavallo, who keeps sending told-you-so glares in my direction.
Bascombe hops up onto the fender, then slides alongside the stretcher for a look.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“Come again?”
He repeats himself, dialing up the volume.
“What I really want,” I tell him, “is to eat. I’m starving.”
“You can eat at the hospital. But seriously, if this guy drew down on you without no warning, then – ”
“No hospitals,” I say, shaking my head. “Look, you’ve got his description and his prints will be all over that revolver. I didn’t get the license plate of the truck, but I’m thinking you’ll be able to recognize it from the bullet holes. When you catch the guy, you can ask him what he was thinking. Me, I don’t know.”
“We are gonna find him,” he says. “That’s a promise.”
“I know we are.”
He looks at the bandages awhile, shaking his head. “And that’s everything?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“All right,” he says, scooting his way back to the ground.
In fact, it’s almost everything. I left out only the part about my visit yesterday to Tony Salazar. That is one angle I intend to follow up personally.
Despite my protests, the paramedics insist on transporting me to Herman, where Charlotte turns up in an understandably apoplectic state. Cavallo, perhaps motivated by some instinctive revenge impulse, takes her aside, and instead of glossing over the details, fleshes them out one by one, making sure no aspect of the life-or-death struggle escapes Charlotte’s notice. From my bed I can hear them out in the hallway, and every so often one or the other will glance inside, Charlotte’s nose and mouth hidden behind her hands, Cavallo shaking her head at me.
The doctors troop in and out, displaying about as much sensitivity as homicide detectives hovering over a headless corpse. One of them, a youngish Indian with a posh English accent, assures me that in spite of the superficial nature of the wound, it’ll make for a nasty scar, as if he can already imagine me showing it off years from now, telling the story to my nonexistent grandkids.
“Can I please just go?”
Half a dozen different medical personnel answer in the affirmative over the course of a couple of hours, but there’s always another doctor to see, another bout of bedside manner to endure, until I start to feel like an animal in a zoo. Finally, a thick-waisted nurse comes in, her every movement calibrated to communicate how unimpressed she is by my suffering – after all, her frown seems to say, they get plenty of real gunshot wounds here. I’ll have to do better next time if I want to be taken seriously.
“You’re ready to go,” she says, and this time she really means it.
Charlotte, who’s been sitting quietly at the foot of the bed most of this time, rises to her feet. As I put weight on my injured leg, she rushes forward.
“Are you all right to walk?”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to wince at the jab of pain.
Out in the hallway, Cavallo leans against a wall checking messages on her phone.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Your next appointment’s waiting.” She nods down the corridor toward a couple of guys in nice suits. IAD and the District Attorney’s office. Standard procedure after a shooting. “And when they’re done with you, you’ve got a few days off, March. Don’t even think of coming back.”
Charlotte coils her arm around mine. “He won’t.”
On the way home, Charlotte swings by Whole Foods, leaving me in the car while she picks up all my favorites, which means nothing but ice cream and white chocolate until the weekend, possibly fried chicken and barbeque, too. She makes me wait in the car with the engine running.
“Keep the doors locked,” she says, like she’s afraid someone might come along and snatch me.
I sit fiddling with the radio for a while, avoiding anything that promises to develop into a news update. Two meteorologists are arguing on an AM call-in show about the severity of a hurricane building out in the Caribbean, so I let them talk. My hearing seems back to normal, but I snap my fingers a few times just to be sure.
As I’m waiting, a squeaky shopping cart rumbles past. I crane my neck around to watch. Last time I found myself sitting in a car, somebody tried to kill me. It seems like a long time ago, but it was only a few hours. The sun is just now setting on the near-fatal day.
My phone rings. Checking the display, I see it’s Bridger.
“You heard, huh?”
“Everything’s all right?”
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I won’t need you to do my autopsy for a while yet.”
“Actually, I think Dr. Green has first dibs.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Listen,” he says. “Are you sitting down? I have the results of that dna test for you.”
My back straightens and I press the phone tight against my ear. “Go ahead.”
“Sheryl did the comparison, but I went in and double-checked, just to be certain. We worked up the swab from the mother, got a profile, then made the comparison with the samples taken from the sheets at your crime scene.”
“I understand the process, Alan. What did you get back?”
“The results are pretty conclusive . . .”
“You’re killing me here, man, and I was already in some pain. Just tell me. Is the girl missing from my scene a match for Hannah Mayhew?”
He lets out a long sigh. “No, Roland. It’s not a match. Not even close, I’m afraid.”
The driver’s door opens and Charlotte leans in, asking me to reach over and pop the hatchback button. She turns, then does a double take, leaning further into the car.
“Roland, what’s wrong? What are you doing?”
Her eyes are wide with alarm. I glance down. My free hand is clutched around my bandaged thigh, squeezing hard enough to make the blood seep. I don’t feel pain, though.
“Bridger,” I say into the phone, “I’ve gotta go now. Thanks for letting me know.”
I close the phone and toss it onto the dashboard while Charlotte leans over my leg, clamping a hand over her mouth.
So that’s it. My long shot proved too long. Of course it did. A coincidence like that, how did I ever convince myself it might pan out? I’m a fool. They all knew it. Hedges and Bascombe with their convulsive back-patting, the long-suffering Cavallo indulging my idiotic whim. It would have made for such a neat, simple conclusion, but then there are no simple conclusions or neat ones, either. I want to hit something, even shoot something – only I’ve done that already today, and it didn’t seem to help.
Charlotte loads the groceries, then studies me for signs of collapse.
“You are all right, aren’t you, Roland?”
“I’m fine.”
If I were the sort of man to learn from his mistakes, I would be fine. I could go home with my beautiful wife and let her prop my leg up and proceed to baby me, passing the next couple of days in a well-earned anesthetized haze. Then I’d go back to the job practically a hero, having fought off single-handed a pair of stone-cold killers, no doubt gang muscle, hardcore enforcers.
Instead, as Charlotte drives quietly toward our neighborhood, as the sun’s orange hues deepen and the first fat drops of rain break across the windshield, I steel myself for a nighttime errand. Once she’s satisfied that I’ve been squared away in front of the television, confident enough for a glass of water and a couple of sleeping pills, I’ll dress quickly and limp out to the car, keeping a rendezvous with my last hope.
Joe Thomson, if he’s going to drop in on me, won’t do it at my house. He’ll be waiting at the Paragon for me to show. And after today, there’s not a chance I’ll disappoint him.
The girl tied to the bed and Hannah Mayhew are not one and the same. But Thomson’s still dangling the names of the shooters. My path back into Homicide just contracted into the tightest of crawl spaces, but it’s still there. And no matter what it takes, I intend to squeeze through.
I wait, alone at a table, quite still in spite of the movement all around. For ten minutes. For sixty. For half as much again, until the ice in my untouched glass is down to a pair of floating lozenges, murkily transparent. I wait as the crowd ebbs and wanes, as the music changes and the lights dim. The second hand on my watch crawls by, but I’m done with checking it.
Either he’ll come or he won’t.
If he doesn’t, then I’ll make it my business first thing in the morning to track him down. Regardless of my enforced leave, ignoring all the hoops still left to jump through after a good shooting, I will make Joe Thomson my focus, my case, my mission in life. If he doesn’t come to me, then I will go to him.