Pernicious (3 page)

         
As promised, he rode his bike, Tasha tailing in the Taurus, ten blocks to a modest single-story home, where he pulled back on the handlebars and executed the perfect wheelie.

         
Tasha slowed to a crawl and wrote down the address and license numbers of the two vehicles parked at the location: a green-and-white Ford truck, parked in front on the grass, and a black late-model Monte Carlo, parked adjacent to the house, almost in the backyard.

         
Tasha radioed the information.

         
The dispatcher reported that the house and the truck belonged to a Bobby Grayson, a sixty-three-year-old African American male; no prior offenses. The Monte Carlo belonged to a Barry Grayson, aka Jenno, a twenty-six-year-old African American male with three drug convictions.
       

         
“Bingo,” Tasha said.

         
Back at the crime scene the crowd had dispersed, the body loaded in a coroner van, yellow tape removed, several uniforms milling around talking and laughing.

         
Bob was sitting on the curb eating a sandwich.

         
“Lunch?” Tasha asked.

         
“Brunch,” Bob replied between bites. “You want one? I got two.”

         
“No thanks.”

         
“You sure?”

         
“What you got?”

         
“Ham-and-cheese.”

         
“The vic, Bob.”

         
“Linda Faye. Female, late teens or early twenties. Gunshot wound in the head. Large caliber, forty-four or something close to it. Multiple contusions prior to death.”

         
“Roughed up pretty bad, huh?”

         
“Uh-huh. Then he or she, probably he, drove her here and pushed her out. Classic body-dump. Extremely difficult to investigate.” He reached inside the breast pocket of a brown suede jacket and retrieved another sandwich, unwrapped it, and chomped half in one bite. “Where you and the kid go?”

         
“Let’s go talk to a suspect.”

         
Bob stopped chewing. “What?” He stood up. “Who?”

         
“Barry Grayson. Jenno, to those who love and admire him. The kid nailed him. Let’s go.”

         
“Fantastic.”

         
As Tasha and Bob and two cruisers were approaching the house, the Monte Carlo backed out of the driveway.

         
Bob sped up and pulled in front of it, blocking the exit. The passenger door swung open, and out jumped a lanky, wide-eyed young man, who stared at them for a second, then took off in a mad run.

         
“Halt, police!” Bob shouted, exiting the car as fast as he could.

         
“Police!” Tasha yelled, knowing the man wouldn’t
 
stop.

         
“Get the driver!” shouted one of the uniforms, running ahead in hot pursuit. “I got this one!”

         
“Good luck,” Tasha called after him.

         
The driver got out with both hands raised high.

         
“Get down on the ground,” yelled the second uniform with his weapon drawn. “Now!”

         
The driver, who bore a striking resemblance to Chris Tucker, dropped face first to the ground.

         
“Gee whiz!” Bob said. “This some serious drama. If I’d known this much action would pop off, I’d never eaten that second sandwich.”

         
“Bob, I’ll bet you ten he won’t catch him,” Tasha said.

         
“Bet.”

         
After the uniform handcuffed the driver, Bob and Tasha peered inside the Monte Carlo. Dried bloodstains and small glass fragments littered the front passenger seat.

         
“Well, lookie here,” Bob said. “Looks like this window has been shot out.”

         
“What happened in this car?” Tasha asked the driver.

         
“I don’t know,” he said. “Why you asking me?”

         
“Because you were driving it,” Bob said. “Is this your car?”

         
“Yes.”

         
“Where the blood come from? Why did Jessie Owens take off like he did?”

         
“I don’t know Jessie.”

         
Bob got within inches of the man’s face, the brim of his Stetson brushing the man’s forehead. “Your friend? The guy who took off? What’s his name?”

         
“I don’t know.”

         
“Who else in the house?”

         
“Nobody but my father.”

         
“Maybe we should have a talk with him. What’s his name?”

         
A lone tear streaked down his face and dropped to his red-and-white tennis shoe. “He don’t know nothing. He’s an old man, leave him alone!”

         
“Okay,” Tasha said. “Deal true with us and we’ll pass on your dad.”

         
He stared at his tennis shoes, mulling over the proposition.

         
“Your name?” Tasha asked.

         
“Barry Grayson,” he mumbled.

         
“Your partner?”

         
“Paul Richardson. Everybody calls him Babyboy. He’s the one who shot her…I was just in the car…riding.”

         
Bob shook his head. “Okay.” To Tasha: “Take him in. I’ll stay here and secure the car.”

         
Tasha read Barry the Miranda rights, then led him to the backseat.

         
“Why you arresting me?” Barry wailed. “I didn’t do nothing. I just told you who shot her.”

         
Tasha slammed the door, drowning him out.

         
“Look,” Bob said, pointing.

         
The first uniform walking back, empty-handed, head down.

         
“Pay me now or pay me later,” Tasha said.

         
“Tash, you mind if I bought you lunch, instead?”

         
“Red Lobster?”

         
“No. I was thinking you’d like something fancy. Popeyes.”

         
“Okay. Let’s see, I’ll take a four-piece dark, a large order of mashed potatoes, corn-on-the-cob, a medium-sized coke, a large order of Spanish rice, a small order of beans and rice, an apple pie…and…uh…a jalapeno pepper.”

         
Bob pulled out his wallet and took out a ten. “Here you go.”

         
Barry Grayson started crying when Tasha pulled the Taurus into the station’s parking lot. Tears streamed down his sunk-in cheeks and he made a gurgling noise, which gave Tasha the creeps.

         
Tasha wanted to tell him to shut up. When she opened the door for him, he fell to the ground in a knot.

         
“I’m not wrestling with you,” she told him. “When you feel like standing up and going inside, let me know. I’ll be standing over here smoking a cigarette.”

         
Barry struggled to his feet. “I don’t wanna to go to prison! Babyboy shot her--I didn’t!”

         
“Who said anything about prison? If your story stands true, you’ll be back on the street in no time.”

         
“Really?”

         
Tasha led him to an interrogation room and unlocked the cuffs. “Tell the truth you’ll have less to remember,” and left him there.

         
Twenty minutes later, Bob came in with the runner. “Got him,” he said.

         
“Bob, you actually caught him?”

         
“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t have caught him if he spotted me. A K-nine unit found him hiding under a porch.”
   
Bob escorted the suspect to an interrogation room next door to Barry Grayson.

         
“Well, what we got?” Tasha asked.

         
Bob smiled. “A forty-four semi-automatic found in the glove compartment. Blood on the seat, door, floorboard, which I’m sure the DNA will match the vic. The ballistic report, I’m also sure, will match the gun. We need to peg the shooter. My guy says your guy is.”

         
“My guy insists your guy shot her.”

         
“Figures. Which one you want to take?”

         
“I like my guy. He’s real sentimental, started crying when we drove up.”

         
“My guy did the same, got the backseat all wet and sticky.”

         
Tasha returned to the interrogation room, where Barry Grayson was looking out the barred window.
  
“Freedom,” Tasha said, taking a seat.

         
“Can I go now?” Barry asked.

         
“We’ll see. Let’s clear a few things up, okay?”

         
Barry sat down. “I didn’t get a chance to feed my dog. He’s probably hungry.”

         
“Okay, Barry, you’ve been read your rights and you understand them, don’t you?”

         
Barry nodded.

         
“I need you to sign this.” Tasha slid a sheet of paper toward him and he signed it without reading. “I need you to tell me what happened today with you and your partner, Paul Richardson.”

         
“Well, I got out of bed at--”

         
“Hold up. No need to tell me about your dog or what you had for breakfast, okay? Just the part about you and Paul. How you guys met up today? How you guys met with whatsherface?”

         
“Babyboy, I mean, Paul, called me early, said he just got his income tax refund. See, he don’t have a car, so he needed me to chauffeur him around. I picked him up at…I wanna say one o’clock, but it could’ve been two.

         
“We picked up a couple chips and smoked them in the car. Babyboy said, ‘Yo, let’s pick up a freak, get a eight ball and go to my place.’ I didn’t have anything else to do I said okay.” He stopped, rubbed his throat. “Can I have some water?”

         
“Sure.” Returning with two Styrofoam cups of water, Tasha said, “Was Paul referring to your place or his?”