Clockers (71 page)

The reverend took a long breath. “But anyways, after the service I came down here to this office, and I always got a million people wantin’ to see me, a million projects going, but I saw, out in the hall”—he squinted as if looking through a narrow crack in the door—“I saw Dunham out there and I thought, I
got
him, thank you Jesus, I got him, and I was so worried about him changing his mind and leaving before he had his chance to come see me—you know, to have second thoughts. But so I got all the people out of my office and I went to that door myself and I said, ‘Hey, c’mon in ‘ and he came in quiet took your seat there and I asked him ‘How’d you like the service today?’ He said, ‘Not too much,’ and I said, ‘How come?’ He said, ‘Hey, I live in the Roosevelt Houses. I got two kids and a wife, I manage a Hambone’s Man you talking about going out and taking on the giants, that’s all I
do
is take on the giants six days a week and half a day on Sunday take on giants ‘ And then he said T thought church is supposed to be a sanctuary. I come in here it’s like you telling me to go back out
there
‘ and he gave me this little laugh. But I could see the beating in his face the weight so I said ‘Well how are You doing out there with them giants?’ He said ‘Sometimes I’m winning, sometimes they’re winning ‘ and I didn’t exactly know what he was talking about. I thought maybe he was struggling with a drug problem But as soon as he said that he reached into his pocket and came out with something wrapped in foil and at first I thought was food and I was confused but then I heard that
thunk
it made and I know that
thunk
sound because I had heard if once before right on this desk about five years ago, and as; soon as I heard it I knew I had waited too long ”

The reverend paused, chewing his lips. “So then he said to me, ‘You know that guy you was talking about that got killed on Friday?’ And I just thought, My God, why did I wait? Why did I wait? I said, ‘What happened?’ and he told me how that boy had startled him walking across the lot and he shot him and … You know when something like this happens, I got to be like you, I got to be a cop. I want the truth because I don’t want no kid using me like a patsy, using me like for self-protection, making me part of his surrender package like for publicity. I don’t want to be manipulated because of my collar, you know what I’m saying? Somebody tells me they did something, I want the whys of it, I want
all
of it, I want corroboration on it, ‘cause if I get that, I’ll go the distance. But so when he told me what happened,
how
it happened, I knew right away he was lying, and as much as I wanted that kid in my church, I had no choice but to say, ‘Man, you are lying out your ass.’ But the funny thing was, I wasn’t sure which way the lying went—much worse than what he said or, well, not
less
than what he said, but…” The reverend squinted at Rocco. “You remember when you came in that day, I told you this don’t make no sense?”

“Yup.”

“That boy’s supportin’ a wife, two kids, comin’ to church, working hard as he was, then he goes and commits a crime like that and lays some see-through story on my lap. And when I told him I thought he was lyin’, he just walls up, won’t say another word about it. So I don’t know, I just don’t know. But there he was, giving it up, so I told him to pray for God’s forgiveness. I told him I would pray for him, and I did, too, right then and there, and I told him to try and forgive himself, because even if God forgives you, you ain’t getting no inner peace unless
you
forgive you.” He stopped, then pointed at Rocco. “I had a woman who came in to me once, she had stabbed her husband to death in his sleep. He’d been beating her for years, a bad guy, bad guy.”

“Otis Randall?”

“Yeah, Otis, his wife, Janelle Randall.”

“Yeah, I remember that. She beat it, though. I tell you the truth, I was glad she did.”

“The law forgave her, I believe that God forgave her, but her
dreams—
for years she had some horrible dreams, you see? So I told him, ‘You got to forgive yourself,’ and I felt uncomfortable about that because I knew he was lying to me about the circumstances, but you know you can’t lie to yourself. And then, well, finally I said to him, ‘And you got to make it right with the law.’”

“‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.’” Rocco had no idea where that came from, but the reverend snapped his fingers, gave him a heartsick but game smile.

“See, I
told
you you got some preacher in you.”

Rocco felt another blush rising. “Well, so, what did he say then? Anything?”

The reverend looked at Rocco and shrugged. “He says to me, ‘Do with me what I got coming, Reverend. That’s why I’m here.’”

***

Back in the office a good four hours before his shift was due to begin, Rocco found the ballistics report on the gun that Victor had surrendered. The ejection markings on the cartridges recovered from the scene matched the markings on cartridges ejected in a test firing from the same Browning 9 mm automatic—which meant the gun was the gun. Rocco felt relieved: at least he hadn’t locked up the kid with the wrong weapon. But now he had to figure out how and when the real shooter had passed the gun to Victor. Maybe in a day or so he’d be ready to pay another visit to Strike.

Rocco took up the subpoenaed phone log from Rudy’s and began calling the numbers, hoping that one of them would somehow tie Strike in tighter. The first number on the list was in the O’Brien Houses—no one home. The second was to a pay phone on JFK. Rocco talked to a drunk who kept calling him Chucky. The third was to Newark, a little kid answering, then dropping the receiver, letting it hang and swing against a wall. And the fourth was that thirty-five minute call to Victor’s home.

Putting down the phone log, Rocco fought off a baffling surge of anger and tried to collect his thoughts. He had been so focused on Strike lately, so pumped to nail him, that he hadn’t thought much about Victor’s role in all this. He had no trouble believing that the kid was innocent, but he was also a liar. Rocco still wasn’t sure what was behind Victor’s surrender. He didn’t think it was a promise of cash, so it had to be either a threat from his brother that was worse than possible jail time or some demented vision of self-sacrifice. But whatever the motives, Victor Dunham had used both Rocco and the reverend as unwitting co-conspirators in the obstruction of justice, and Rocco deeply resented being played for a jerk.

For a hot minute Rocco considered dropping the entire investigation. No one in the squad was even asking about it anymore, while he could think of little else—the classic mission syndrome. But then he thought of all the goggle-eyed nights he usually spent in here, all the spacy dinners, and then thought of how much this job had brought him back to himself during the past week. He picked up the log, found the kid’s home number and reached for the phone, thinking, Victor Dunham might have used him, but to be honest, he was using the kid right back.

Rocco rode up in the elevator of 41 Dumont with a dying woman. She was thirty or thirty-five, emaciated and with glazed eyes, wearing
a
Bart Simpson T-shirt and hugging a carton of cigarettes. Her little daughter, beside her, stared at the boxed cake Rocco held out from his hip like a helmet. He debated with himself about whether to crack the seal and give this orphan-to-be a treat. But he didn’t think walking in on Victor’s mother with a used gift would go unnoticed. She had been both wary and incurious when he called her from the office and attempted to seduce her into letting him come by. He had promised “good news and no questions,” but she put him off, telling him she was busy and that he could just give her the news over the phone. In the end he had bluffed her out, telling her it was official business, as if she had no say about whom she admitted into her home.

When she opened the door, Victor’s mother gazed at him as if he was a bill collector. Rocco was again stunned by her buggy eyes. Struggling to recover his beefeater smile, he held out the box of chocolate cake. She ignored the gift, and Rocco was stuck standing there, waiting for her to step back so he could come in.

“Where’s the kids?” He put some disappointment into his voice, showed her the cake again. “I hope you’re not on a diet or nothing.”

Rocco was a firm believer in chocolate cake. Sponge cake, crumb cake and various pastries all had their fans and detractors, but he had never met a resident of the projects who could resist chocolate cake, and there was nothing like sitting down at someone’s table over food to get them relaxed and talking. But Victor’s mother seemed unmoved by the offering, barely glancing at it. She headed for the kitchen, leaving him standing in the middle of the living room alone.

The apartment was spotless and silent, the late afternoon sun giving the walls a glow, the air redolent with the chemical fruitiness of some kind of room spray, the only sign of disarray a big sprawl of coins on the dining room table, maybe fifty dollars’ worth of silver and pennies.

“So how’s Victor doing?” Rocco called as he went to the photo cabinet and picked up a framed studio portrait of a heavyset thirtyish man. He was dressed in soul style from the late sixties or early seventies, with a high Afro, mustache and sideburns, and a floral print shirt with long collar points lying over a solid brown vest. Rocco assumed he was Strike and Victor’s father.

He returned the photo to its niche as Victor’s mother came back into the living room with one dessert plate, one fork and one napkin, no coffee, and set them down on the small dining table. Taking a seat in front of the mountain of coins, she nodded for Rocco to sit and started sliding quarters into a red ten-dollar coin sleeve, making up change rolls for the bank.

Rocco felt like a horse’s ass, eating his own cake in this lady’s house, but he had no choice. In fact, he had to admire the move, her ability to throw him off guard with his own props.

“Tips?” He nodded to the mountain of money.

“Uh-huh.” She refused to look at him, her nimble fingers flashing, her upper body rising and falling with the effort to draw breath. She had a scooped-out look to her that Rocco hadn’t noticed before, a slight coat-hook curve from her shoulder blades to the nape of her neck.

“Where do you work?”

“Restaurant.”

Rocco sighed and put down the fork. “Look, here’s my problem. I’m the guy who took Victor’s confession. And I got everything cold except the motive. I can’t figure out
why
Victor would do this,
why
he’d throw his life away. I spoke to everybody I could about him—the reverend from First Baptist, the Hambone’s people, the people he worked for in New York, you name it. Everybody said the same thing. He’s the finest kid they ever knew, the absolute finest.”

“So what’s this
good
news?” She spoke to her furious fingers, asking the question quick and low as if it might earn her a blow.

“Welp, I’ve been thinking, and you know what?” He paused, trying to get her to look at him for this. “I don’t think he killed this guy. I just don’t think he did it.”

He got no reaction. Nothing, just the fingers flashing silver, that tortured look of concentration. Rocco hesitated, completely thrown. He had thought that at least she would make eye contact, if not jump right out of her seat, give it a few hallelujahs.

“And, ah, I think that the person who
did
kill this guy is still out there, running around free, and…” Rocco faltered, confused. “Is there anything you could tell me, any way you could help me on this?” He waited: still nothing. “I mean, tell me what
you
think. Because I know he didn’t do it, just like
you
know he didn’t do it.”

She gave him a fast, fuming shrug, then went back to the coins.

“See, my problem is, it’s easy to take credit for the solve right now, but I’m not interested in arresting the wrong man. I clear a hell of a lot of cases, and I don’t need this. What I want to do is arrest the
real
killer, and if I can do that, Victor is a free man.
That’s
the good news.”

She rose from the table, a half-dozen coin rolls standing open-ended in a tiny skyline. Rocco watched her as she walked across the room, opened a drawer and took out an inhaler. Turning her back, she took two quick pulls, hunching her shoulders each time.

“Can I ask you something?” Rocco waited for her to turn around so he could read her face. “When he called here Friday night, what did you talk about?”

“He didn’t call here Friday night.” She gave him her back again, puttering around in the open drawer.

“Well, I just happened to go over some phone records from a bar across the street from the incident, and somebody called up this house from there at about nine-thirty, talked for like a half hour, and I just assumed it was Victor.”

“Nope.” She made busy movements with her hands in the drawer as if folding a pile of napkins.

“OK,” Rocco said, reading the lie. “So who
did
call, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t know. I was working.”

“So who would’ve—”

“I don’t know. I was out.”

“Would ShaRon—”

“Maybe.”

She said it quickly, the word bitten off, and again Rocco knew she was lying. ShaRon hadn’t talked to Victor that night. Remembering her mute immobility during his first visit here, Rocco doubted that ShaRon and Victor talked much at all anymore. No, Victor had spent thirty-five minutes talking to this lady right here. But what the hell had they talked about? What does she know?

Rocco tried to think on his feet, recalling how Thumper described going toe-to-toe with her a year ago. Maybe she’s protecting Strike, the prodigal son, protecting him the same as Victor was protecting him.

“Did your son ever see a psychiatrist?” Rocco asked gently.

“No.” She returned to the table, to her coin work.

“Is there any reason why your son would take the blame for anybody else? Someone he was close to? Someone he felt responsible for?”