George Pelecanos (24 page)

Cort
pointed his index finger at Bellinger. "You report to me!"

Bellinger's
eyebrows went up in surprise. Cort turned and resumed jogging.

"I
promise, if you help the police, no harm will come to you," Father Dave said in
Spanish.
A sheen
of perspiration covered his forehead.
Father Dave and Cort had sprinted over together.

The
three men said nothing.

Cort
chimed in, "The police want the killer. And they wouldn't dare do anything
against you if you're..." he paused, trying to find the right word, "represented
by Father Dave."

Father
Dave put a hand on Cort's shoulder. "You can trust Cortez. He wrote that
article about the church."

At
Father Dave's request, a church secretary had typed a translation of the piece,
Xeroxed
hundreds of copies, and distributed them to
parishioners.

Michael
Jordan's eyes flashed with recognition. "You wrote that?"

"Yes."

Michael
Jordan nodded. "Okay."

Cort
said, "Good. I'll get the detective." He ambled across the street, pleased with
himself. He'd earn beaucoup chits with Homicide for hooking them up with the
key witnesses.

His
editors would suffer massive strokes,
then
fire him
for violating journalistic ethics as they dropped to the floor, if they ever
learned about half the deals he cut on the street. They had no idea. Cort knew
if he played strictly by the book, he'd end up parroting useless press
releases.

He
was halfway across the street when a stout, fiftyish man in a tight tan suit,
white shirt, brown tie, and brown loafers stepped out of the building.

Detective Rocky Piazza--two hundred and twenty pounds of grief.

Cort
stopped in his tracks and groaned.

Piazza
was built like a fire hydrant. Unfortunately, he was about as intelligent as
one. He had curly, sandy-colored hair, chubby chipmunk cheeks, and brown eyes
that were set a little too close together. Piazza's ruddy complexion turned
beet red when he was riled up. Cort knew because Piazza turned beet red every
time their paths crossed.

In
two years on the beat, Cort had encountered all of the Homicides. Most were
cordial. Some were indifferent. A few had become sources. Piazza, however, was
overtly hostile. They'd first met at a murder scene in Columbia Heights. When
Cort introduced himself, Piazza had snarled, "I know who you are. You're like a
fucking cancer."

Halfway
down the walkway, Piazza paused to say something to the crime scene techs,
then
continued toward the front gate.

Cort
thought about it. Not even Piazza was dumb enough to turn his back on three
eyeball witnesses...

He
hit the sidewalk as Piazza pulled the yellow crime scene tape over his head and
stepped through the gate. "Detective Piazza, I have something--"

Piazza
looked at Cort as if he was something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe.
"Call PIO," he grunted--the department's Public Information Office. Cop-speak
for "fuck off"; the boys in PIO worked bankers' hours.

"I
have some--"

Piazza
chested up to Cort as his face went beet red. He pointed a stubby index finger
in Cort's face, fury in his eyes.

"I
said, call PIO. I'm not talking to you, understand?" Piazza pivoted and marched
to his sedan.

Plaintively,
Cort said, "But I'm trying to help you." Piazza ignored him. As the detective
slid into the car and slammed the door shut, Cort cried out, "I've got
witnesses!"

Piazza
pulled away from the curb.

"Goddamn
moron," Cort muttered as the sedan rolled away. He looked over and saw Father
Dave turn up his palms in a "What's going on?" gesture. Michael Jordan and his
friends looked puzzled.

Slowly,
Cort walked toward them, marveling at the purity of Piazza's stupidity,
wondering what he'd tell Father Dave and the witnesses, wishing that Phil
Harrick was there.

Harrick.
He was working midnights
this week.

Cort
pulled his cell phone out of his satchel and punched in the numbers to
Harrick's pager, which he'd memorized. He put the phone to his ear and the
pager chirped. Cort punched in the number to his cell phone, punctuated it by
hitting 9-1-1,
then
sent the page as he reached Father
Dave.

The
priest said, "Is there a problem? The officer didn't look too happy."

"No
problem," Cort replied, nonchalantly. "That detective has to get back to
headquarters, but I just paged another investigator.
One of
the best on the force, and he's bilingual."
To the workers, in Spanish:
"Don't worry, the detective's on his way. He's
Latino,
he'll speak to you in Spanish.

Father
Dave said, "Well, okay." The workers nodded. Cort threw them a tight little
smile.

Three
minutes later, Cort's cell phone rang. He stepped just out of earshot of the
others. "
Phil,
thanks for calling back so quickly.
Where are you?"

"I'm
on Georgia
Avenue,
I've been working my network all
night. I'm headin' over to see my girl Darlene now. What's up?"

Phil
was a detective with NSID, the citywide Narcotics and Special Investigations
Division. His network consisted of winos, dope fiends, hookers, gamblers, and
street-level crack slingers, along with legitimate business owners and
straightarrow residents. His wife and five-year-old daughter were at home in
Arlington.

Darlene
was a slender redheaded Assistant U.S. Attorney who prosecuted gang
conspiracies. She lived in Capitol Hill. Darlene was Phil's side dish.

"I'm
in Mount Pleasant, and I've got a situation."

Cort
explained quickly, about the murder, Father Dave and the three witnesses, and
Piazza.

"Rockhead
Piazza," Phil said.
"Imbecile."

"Felony-stupid,"
Cort agreed.

"They still there?"

"Yeah, Father Dave too.
But I don't think
they'll be hanging around long. I don't think they'll cooperate if they're not
interviewed tonight." Cort paused, letting the idea sink in. Then, "Look, I
know you're not Homicide, but could you take their statements. They saw the
killer. This could be a quick lock-up."

Phil
sighed.

Cort
said, "Come on, this is a real murder. The victim and one of his buddies have
gang tattoos, but they're working guys now. This doesn't vibe gang beef."

Phil
thought about it.

Cort
said, "I'll get good play on this one."

Phil
was Cort's best source. Phil liked press. In a resigned tone of voice, he
conceded, "All right. I'll call over to Homicide and smooth things out with
Rockhead or whoever's running the shift. I'll tell them I got a tip. Can you
keep those witnesses there for five minutes?"

Cort
looked over to Father Dave and the three witnesses and gave them a thumbs-up.
The four men nodded back.

"Yeah."

"Darlene's
been waiting up. She's gonna be pissed."

Phil
killed the flashing cherry light on the dash of his unmarked sedan and pulled
up across from the corner where Cort, Father Dave, and the three witnesses were
waiting.

Cort
ambled over and met him as he stepped out of the sedan.

Phil
was a little taller, a little leaner, and, at forty, seven years older than
Cort. His black hair was tinged with gray and thinning on top. He had thick
eyebrows, brown eyes, and a neat mustache. His mother was Costa Rican, his
father was Dutch, and Phil was fair-skinned.

Cort
was five-foot-nine, with olive skin, brown eyes, and wavy black hair. If Phil
were darker, or if Cort were lighter, they might have passed for brothers.

Phil
wore white canvas Converse high-tops, faded blue jeans, a yellow polo shirt,
and a thin blue nylon jacket. The get-up made him look like a suburban dad.

Cort
knew otherwise; the front of the jacket covered Phil's shoulder rig, which
contained his department-issued Glock 9. The back of the jacket concealed the
leather-covered metal sap and handcuffs that were always clipped to the back of
his waistband. A .32 Smith & Wesson revolver was strapped to his right
ankle.

"You
know Father Dave?" Cort said as they crossed the treet.

Of him."

"I'll
introduce you. I told the witnesses that you aren't interested in their
immigration status."

Cort
made the introductions. Phil shook hands with everyone.

Father
Dave said, in Spanish, "These gentlemen would like to help the investigation.
But they don't want to bring any legal trouble onto themselves."

In
impeccable Spanish, Phil responded, "I want to find the killer. There won't be
any problems."

Father
Dave nodded. Chicago nodded. Phil pulled a notebook and pen from his jacket.

Cort
said, "Excuse me, I need to check in with the office." He walked across the
street, pulled the cell phone out of his satchel, and pretended to make a call.
He didn't want to be within earshot of Phil's interviews. It could boomerang.

Cort
had met Phil a year before, at a drug raid in the Barry Farms public housing
project in Southeast. Two weeks later, Phil invited him to a drug raid in the
Trinidad section of Northeast. Phil and his squad were decked out in Ninja
outfits and bulletproof vests. He told Cort to stay close. Phil's squad stormed
a two-story row house. Three slingers surrendered. A fourth ran upstairs. Phil,
another cop, and Cort chased him. They found him inside a bedroom, straddling a
window ledge. The punk tried to worm his way off the ledge. Phil holstered his
Glock, flew across the room, and grabbed his ankle; the other cop dropped his
shotgun, sprinted over, and grabbed the other ankle. Cort stepped close and
took notes. The punk pulled a piece from his waistband and, hanging upside
down, squeezed off two shots. Wood and plaster exploded. Phil pulled his Glock
and shot the punk's oe off. The slinger dropped his piece and screamed. Phil
and the other cop pulled him inside. The punk's foot spewed blood like a small
geyser. Phil tied his ski mask around the toe stump. The punk spit at Phil.
Phil picked up the shotgun and slammed the butt into the punk's groin. Phil
said, "Listen, Tyrone you don't ever shoot at the po-lice." Phil then looked up
and saw Cort scribbling. He saw his fellow cop eyeballing Cort, looking real
nervous. Phil braced Cort and led him into the hallway. "For the record, I
fired my weapon to protect you, my partner, and myself. And that groin shot was
off-the-record." Cort snapped to the Big Picture. He could nail Phil. Write one
great story. And no cop would ever talk to him again. He slipped his notebook
inside his black leather jacket. "What groin shot?"

A
week later, Toeless Tyrone's public defender hit Cort with a subpoena. The P.D.
wanted Cort to validate Tyrone as a civil-rights victim. The Trib's in-house
attorney stiff-armed the subpoena with a blizzard of motions. Cort sweated it
for a month. A hearing was held. The judge sided with the Trib Toeless Tyrone
pleaded out to a gun violation and assault on a police officer.

Cort
learned a valuable lesson: Keep some distance from the story. Don't put
yourself in position to be jammed up.

Cort
watched Phil wrap up his interviews. Phil would have let him listen. But
suppose Gato's defense attorney found out? He'd ask what Cort had heard. He'd
ask if he knew how a narcotics man ended up on a homicide. He'd expose Cort's
role. Better not to take that chance.

Phil
slipped his notebook and pen inside his jacket and shook hands with the
witnesses and Father Dave. The priest accompanied the Salvadorans as they
walked toward their building.

Cort
ambled over to Phil. "What do you think?"

"Gotta get this lowlife motherfucker."

Cort's
eyebrows went up. He'd never seen Phil take a case personally. "You seem ticked
off."

"I
am. I don't think this is a gang beef. These guys seem straight. Gato knows
they can't retaliate because they're undocumented. He's a parasite, victimizing
his own people. I've got more respect for a hit man. A hitter knows someone
might come back."

Cort
licked his upper lip. "Do you have to hand this off to Rockhead?"

"Nah,
Rockhead won't care, so long as he gets credit for the clearance."

"What
now?"

Phil
turned and pointed at Don Juan's Restaurant. "Our boy makes a regular pickup
every Monday from a waitress at Don Juan's. Always shows between 7 and 7:30.
I'll talk to the waitress and stake out the place. Nail him there."

"Okay
if I hang out inside Don Juan's tomorrow?"

"It's
a public place."

"One more thing.
If you get him--" Phil shot
Cort a look. "I mean, when you get him, could you play up the coyote angle in
the charging document?"