Blueblood (16 page)

“Murder weapon?”

“A .38, through and through the mouth and out the back of the head. Slug lodged in the wall. The post-mortem stuff was done with the steel leg from an end table. No prints.”

“Anything bug you about the scene?”

Goodwin scratched his nose and put his hand back behind his head, all without opening his eyes. “Besides the almighty post-mortem beating he took?”

“Something stand out about it?”

“The killer either worked himself into a rage or started the day absolutely out of his mind to go off on the body like that. Almost certainly male, considering the strength it took to break Clay’s bones.”

“What else?”

“Not a robbery. Wallet, laptop, watch, electronics, and stereo all untouched. Service revolver holstered and on top of a dresser in the bedroom. No witnesses, no security tape. Alarm system wasn’t activated, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. His ex-wife said he forgot to turn theirs on the whole time they lived together.”

Goodwin went quiet. I gave him a minute. “Is that it?”

“Well,” he said, hesitating. “It was forced entry, like I said.” He stopped.

I looked at him, then nodded. “Gun’s in the bedroom.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Doesn’t make any sense.”

“What kind of door?”

“Standard steel frame, foam core. Nothing special.”

“How many locks?”

“Three. Chain, deadbolt, knob. All busted up good.”

“Take even a big guy a couple of tries to kick that in,” I said.

“And Clay’s going to sit on his leather couch, sipping a beer, waiting for them to get done?” Goodwin shook his head. “The door’s a put up, done after the fact. He knew the killer.”

“Neighbors report anything? The noise must’ve been terrific.”

“No. Adjacent unit was empty and the place is full of single renters who either aren’t there half the time or don’t care. None of the neighbors we interviewed even knew his name. We had to tell them the apartment number before any lightbulbs went on.”

I gestured towards the sheets. “Says he was divorced. You looking at the wife?”

“Mostly. Tamika. That woman can hold a lot of hate. Clay left her in a lurch with three little girls about six months ago. Went off to chase after something younger and sweeter.”

“She didn’t kick that door down,” I said.

“I guess you haven’t met Tamika Johnson,” he said, almost smiling. “Woman’s six-foot, two-forty. She’d make some NFL team a fine middle linebacker. But, no. We’re thinking maybe murder-for-hire.”

“And that takes a ton of legwork,” I said. “Warrants, phone records, canvassing, interviews.”

“Manpower we don’t have,” Goodwin said, spreading his hands. “Hence my eagerness to learn what you find out.”

“Hence. I like that.”

“I read it in a book somewhere. I try not to say it ’round the office. They hear me using works like that, they might bump me up to Captain.”

I grinned. I liked Goodwin. He seemed like a guy I could’ve worked with ten, twenty years. “You don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem, ah, broken up about this. Johnson have some kind of reputation around here?”

He let out a gusty sigh. “Clay had too much attitude. He was a showboat, liked to talk about all the college girls he was banging. Badmouthed his family, how he was glad to leave the wife and kids behind. Some guys liked the act, but for a lot of cops, family’s all they got, you know? They understand a divorce, separation—hell, cheating on your wife, maybe. But no one wants to hear about it all the time.”

“Anything to build on there?”

He shook his head. “No one hated him. They mostly wanted him to shut the hell up and do his job.”

I jerked a thumb at the box. “All right. Let me get lost in this stuff, see if I find anything.”

“Knock yourself out, my man,” he said, spinning in his chair so he could face his computer. “You know where to find me.”

Chapter Nineteen

I hunkered down across from Goodwin and started sifting through the box. A familiar feeling of calm washed over me. Early on in my homicide career, I used to hate this part of the process, the drudgery and tedium of going through rafts of paper, notes, and pictures. But at some point, I turned a corner. I looked forward to the task. Not just the paper-chase aspect of it, but the methodical examination of things, whether they were people or tire tracks or reams of computer printouts. A sense of calm eventually replaced the irritation and towards the end of my career I felt the most at home in the details. Maybe it was because I learned that a lot of cases got solved right here, in the box.

I began by skimming the items, getting a sense of what was actually in the treasure chest. As I removed each report or list or printout, I organized it, putting like with like until I had a dozen stacks filling the desk surface. I could feel Goodwin’s gaze flick over to me from time to time, gauging my work and getting the unspoken sense that he approved of what I was doing. I almost blushed. It had been more than a year since I’d worked a case. Granted, I’d been a homicide cop when Goodwin was still in high school and I shouldn’t have given a rat’s ass what he thought, but it was nice to think I’d still get a 10 for technique.

Once I had everything situated just so, I ignored all the piles and went back to the evidence list. It would’ve been better to give Johnson’s apartment a look-see, but I didn’t have that kind of time or authority. Maybe if I found a golden nugget for Goodwin, he’d let me tag along to visit the scene, but until then, this would have to do.

I grabbed a pen and forced myself to concentrate on each line of the evidence list, reading the description of the item, deciding whether it warranted more thought, then ticking it off if it didn’t. In this manner I got to know everything there was to know about Clay Johnson’s apartment. The DVDs he owned, the beer he drank, the mail he received, the North Face jacket and Timberland boots and the black Kangol cap he seemed to prefer based on the wear and tear. Riveting stuff. At the end of every page, I gave myself permission to look up and blink. On the fifth of these mini-breaks, Goodwin glanced over.

“Coffee?”

“Christ, yes,” I said. “I’m about to start in on how many pairs of underwear the guy had.”

He got up, then came back a few minutes later with two navy blue Rockville PD mugs. The coffee was steaming hot and good. My surprise must’ve showed on my face.

Goodwin grinned. “Not bad, huh?”

“What happened to the sawdust and pencil shavings?”

“I get this at a coffee roaster in Bethesda and bring it in.”

“You import your own?” I asked, incredulous.

“Life’s too short to drink bad coffee, man.”

I slurped some more and got back to reading. I really was looking at the number of pairs of skivvies Johnson owned—and t-shirts, and trousers, and belts—swimming in the relentless details, and nearly missed it. It was a fairly innocuous line.
(1) Sports jersey, maroon and gold [Redskins]
. It had come right after
(4) Dress shirts, long sleeved, blue
. But something snagged at the edge of my attention when I saw it. The list indicated that it hadn’t been brought in. No real reason to haul it from his closet to the station.

“Goodwin,” I said. “I need to see something from Johnson’s place. Any chance I could get access?”

“Have to be a real good reason. You got something solid?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I marked the line where the jersey was listed. “I need to see this.”

He glanced at the sheet. “You can’t afford your own?”

“It wouldn’t fit anyway. It’s just a hunch.”

He handed me the sheet back. “Sorry, my friend. Everything not bagged was released to Tamika Johnson.”

I pulled out my phone and punched in Tamika Johnson’s number from the phone number list on the stats sheet. She answered after three or four rings. Her voice was slow, Southern. Carolina or Georgia, maybe. I introduced myself.

“Just one question, Ms. Johnson, and then I should be out of your hair. Among Clay’s effects was a Redskins jersey. The officers here didn’t think it pertinent to the case and gave it back to you. Do you still have it?”

“Lord, that thing? Clay wore it every Sunday during the season. I hated it.”

“Can you describe it for me?”

“Well…it’s a Redskins jersey. Maroon and gold.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Does it have a number or a player’s name on it?”

She sighed. “He was so immature. Thought it was a big joke.”

“It had a number, then?”

“Yes. He had it custom-made. It had sixty-nine on the back.”

I felt a tingle run up my spine. “Any lettering?”

“No,” she said. “He used to tell people the number said it all. What a jackass.”

“Thanks for your time, Ms. Johnson,” I said, and hung up.

Goodwin poked his head over the cube wall. “Got anything?”

I thought back to a picture I had seen, one with Bob Caldwell, Danny Garcia, and a host of blurry figures in the background. A man had been working the grill, a big man, blurry and indistinct, but wearing a Redskins jersey with the number 69 on the back.

Goodwin cleared his throat, raised his eyebrows.
Well?

“I don’t know what I’ve got,” I said. And meant it.

Chapter Twenty

I left Rockville after another couple hours. Goodwin hadn’t pressed me for info, even though he knew I’d seen something. I promised him I’d share whatever I could, when I could. He accepted that and I’d headed out. But since I was on the north side of DC and there were still a few hours of daylight, it made sense to take a swing at Okonjo’s case. The file said he’d been shot in the parking lot of a bar called Rudy’s on Rockville Pike.

The Pike was a never-ending strip mall that ran in a gentle curve north-northwest from DC until it hit the city of Rockville like the last link on the end of a chain. The mattress discounters, restaurants, fabric stores, and nail shops went back two or three blocks on either side of the Pike, some buried so deep in the sea of retail it was a miracle any of them stayed in business.

Rudy’s pool hall propped up the end of a row of these shops on Broadwood Drive, a lower rent location than front and center on the Pike. At three in the afternoon, the neon beer signs were just dull green and orange tubes hanging in the window and five empty parking spots out of seven told me how busy it would be. Four more store fronts—a Chinese restaurant, an Asian grocer, a taco carryout joint, and a convenience store—made up the rest of the strip, which stared directly across Broadwood at a nearly identical lineup of stores. Which, in turn, were cookie-cutter examples of any commercial strip in a two-mile radius. It made me wonder if buildings ever got depressed or suffered from identity crises.

I parked and walked into Rudy’s. It was open but just barely. A TV game show flashing dollar signs and beach vacations kept the only waitress mesmerized at the far end of the bar, while a bartender—biting his lip while he concentrated—changed the handles on the beer taps. A dozen pool tables took up one side of the large room, their felt tops scarred and ripped. Sconces and billiard lamps gave off a muddy light, relieved by the occasional blinding offer from the TV. The place stank of bleach and beer, the signature off-hours odor of bars the world over.

I went up and introduced myself to the bartender. He was a chubby, balding guy in his early thirties. Green polo shirt over a t-shirt, jeans, and a name tag that said “Teddy.” His hands looked clumsy and swollen as he spun the tap handles. I told him I was there to talk.

“You mind if I keep working?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said.

“What are you looking for, exactly?”

“A cop was killed here a while back. Isaac Okonjo, a Montgomery County sheriff.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “God, that was shitty. We had to close down for a week, then the place was deserted for another couple days after that. I almost didn’t make rent.”

“For what it’s worth, he was in worse shape.”

He bit his lower lip as he concentrated on getting the last tap off. “Sorry. That was a lousy thing to say. You just think about how things affect you, y’know?”

“It’s natural,” I said, trying to stay agreeable. “What can you tell me about him?”

“The cop?” He shrugged. “Not much. I never saw him before.” He called over to the waitress. “Nance, do you remember that guy, the black cop, that got killed here a few weeks ago?”

The waitress tore herself away from the latest talk show. Her gaze was unfocused, like she had to concentrate after watching the tube. “Huh? The cop? Yeah, that was sad.”

She came down from the end of the bar. She was in her twenties, with frizzy blond hair pulled back in a pony tail and she had on a green polo like Teddy’s, but with a black half apron across her hips. As she came up to me, she pushed out a pink bubble of gum, then cracked it. “You a cop, too?”

“Was,” I said, turning my attention to her. “I’m looking into the shooting for a friend.”

“They catch the guy who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“We talked to the police that night, but I don’t think I helped much. I was inside the whole time and didn’t see a thing.”

“Well, maybe you noticed something that you didn’t realize was important at the time,” I said. “You never know what could help. You might have something buried deep that could crack the case open.”

“You think?” she said, getting excited. “That would be cool.”

“So, you working the night he was killed?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he a regular?”

“No, never saw him before,” she said. “I only remember him because he made this big entrance, walking through the door with his arms spread and said ‘My people!’ in this big, booming voice like some African king. He seemed like a funny guy. Wanted to get to know everyone at once.”

“Did he come in with anyone? Have any friends here?”

Nance thought about it. “I don’t remember any. He hung around the pool tables. He was a terrible shot and didn’t mind losing, so people wanted to play him. He got chummy, buying drinks and stuff, but that’s about it.”