Shoot the Woman First (11 page)

“No need.”

“I do, though. How did things go this time?”

“Not good.”

“Not worth it?”

“The money end was fine. Too much drama getting it, though.”

“What kind of drama?”

“The worst kind.”

“Law?”

She shook her head.

“Someone got greedy,” he said.

“Amateurs. One of them was on the string. He had a partner we didn't know about. Work went fine. They made their play during the count. The partner was holed up in the house we were using. We walked right into it.”

“You get hurt?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“It was a four-man string. I knew two of them, had worked with them before. They both went down. I got out of there with my split, but it was a close thing.”

“Then I was right to be worried. Any fallout? Anything you need to worry about going forward?”

“I don't think so. I think it's over.”

“I see.” He looked out over the water.

“Go on,” she said. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever it is you're going to say.”

He shrugged. “I'm an old man, lives in a home. Who cares what I think? All my life I minded my own business. Why stop now?”

“I respect you, Jimmy. You know that. If there's something you want to say to me, you should say it.”

He puffed on the cigar, not looking at her. “That thing with Benny Roth. The money from the airport job. That went well, didn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Biggest take-home in a while?”

“Ever.”

“Then why'd you go out again so soon?”

She watched plovers walking along the wave line, pecking at the sand. A gull landed, chased them away, flew off with something in its beak.

“Like I said.” He let out smoke. “None of my business.”

“It's not that. I'm just not sure what the answer is.”

“You have a home now. A real one. Some money put away, too, I'd think. And more set aside for emergencies.”

“I do.” Along with bank accounts and investments, she had cash in safe deposit boxes up and down the East Coast, under different names.

“Then why take unnecessary risks? Why do the work when you don't need the money?”

“You can't always control it,” she said. “Sometimes it comes up when you don't need it. Other times, you need it bad, it's nowhere to be found. You have to take it as it comes.”

“You believe that?”

She took out her sunglasses. “I don't know.”

“The money's supposed to be a means to an end, not the end itself. You keep doing it just to do it—whether you need to or not—it'll go bad. I've seen it happen. Unless you're telling me you're in it for the thrill, happy to stick a gun in some liquor store clerk's face, clean out the register.”

She shook her head.

“Then what?” he said.

“Best I can put it is, early on, I never had much of anything. Always on the move, ripping and running. Bad days. Wayne changed all that. Then suddenly I was on my own again, had to start over without him. So I built something new, worked hard at it. And then I lost it all.”

“I remember.”

“I had to start from scratch. And there's no telling when that could happen again. A couple bad breaks in a row, I could end up back where I was, with nothing. I need to earn while I can, enough to keep me going if things go bad.”

“There's no score worth dying for.”

“I know that.”

“You should be on an island somewhere, someplace warm, spending your money slowly. Enjoying life before it's too late. That's what I should have done. Too many years, all I was focused on was the next dollar. I look back now, I realize how foolish I was.”

“You did what you had to do.”

“That's what I told myself back then, yeah. But now I see the big picture. You can always go out and find some more money somewhere. It's time that runs out. And you can't get it back.”

“I know.”

“Tell me, though, this other thing. You sure it's over?”

“For now. Though it's hard to accept.”

“How so?”

“Two men died back there. Men I trusted, who trusted me. And a couple of amateurs walked away with half the money.”

“Nothing you can do about that now.”

“I could go back there, find them. Kill them.”

“But there's no percentage in that, is there?” he said.

“No, there isn't.”

“Keep that in mind.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the water. Then he said, “Before, when I said ‘You're back,' you said, ‘For a little while.' What's that mean?”

“I need to make another trip soon. But it shouldn't take long.”

He looked at her.

“It's not what you're thinking,” she said. “Just something I need to do.”

“It's not work.”

“No,” she said. “Just a debt I have to pay.”

 

ELEVEN

At 10:00
A.M.
, Burke was parked outside a Coney Island on Eight Mile, nursing hot coffee from a white Styrofoam cup. It was chasing away the headache from the Four Roses the night before but burning a hole in his stomach.

Rico's Crown Vic pulled into the lot, backed into a spot two cars away. Burke unlocked his passenger door. Rico got in, said, “You buying breakfast?” He wore a long leather coat over a suit, had a diamond stud in his left ear, a gleaming Chopard watch on his wrist.

Burke held up his cup. “I'll go coffee. Breakfast will have to be on the taxpayers.”

“Cheap motherfucker.” Burke had left a pack of Newports on the dash. Rico picked it up, shook one out.

“Help yourself,” Burke said.

Rico tossed the pack back on the dash, took out a lighter and got the cigarette going.

“They don't let you smoke in city cars anymore,” Rico said. “You believe that shit? They fine you if maintenance smells smoke, find butts in the ashtray. If I want to light up, I have to pull over, get out. Pain in the ass in the winter. I roll up on a crime scene, first thing I do is get those smokes out.”

Burke took a pint of Maker's Mark from his coat pocket, said, “Here, hit this. Still your brand, right?”

“Little early in the day for that shit, isn't it?”

Burke started to put it back, and Rico said, “Hold up. Give it here.”

Burke handed it over. “What you got for me?”

Rico unscrewed the cap. “What you got for
me
?” He drank from the bottle.

Burke took a white business envelope from his pocket, put it on the dash alongside the cigarettes. “Two hundred in there. For starters.”

Rico put the cap back on, slipped the bottle in his pocket. “Man, you are eager, aren't you?”

“Eager enough.”

Rico picked up the envelope and looked inside, thumbed bills.

“Like I said, it's a start,” Burke said.

“Much appreciated.” Rico slipped the envelope into an inside coat pocket. From another, he took a narrow spiral notebook with a brown cover. “Few things for you. Not a lot yet.”

“Let's hear it.” Burke set his coffee on the dash, got out a cigarette.

“Terrence ain't been in yet today. Had a doctor's appointment or something. Left his business all over the place, though, as usual.”

“Affirmative Action at its best.” Burke lit the cigarette.

“Hey, I can say that shit. You can't.” Rico opened the notebook. “I wrote down what I could. He ran plates on all the vehicles at the scene. Or had someone do it for him. He got that far at least.”

“How many vehicles involved?”

“Three at the scene. An SUV, a Chevy pickup, and a VW Jetta. There was a collision between the truck and the SUV. No one stuck around to exchange information. Brother popping off with an AK might have had something to do with that.”

“Willie Freeman,” Burke said.

“So you know some of this already.”

“Just a little.”

“Who is he? Who's he work for?”

“No idea. Just heard the name.”

“Expect me to believe that?”

“What about the vehicles?”

“The pickup, a Silverado, was stolen two days ago from Royal Oak. The SUV, an Armada, is registered to a grandmother in Westside who's seventy years old. Doubt she gets much use out of it.”

“No surprise there. What about the Jetta?”

“Same deal. Registered to a Geraldo Rivera in Highland Park.”

“Geraldo Rivera? No shit. You call his network?”

“Would have. Except this one's twenty-two years old, and his address is bogus, as in no such.”

“I heard there were weapons left behind,” Burke said.

“A shottie and two handguns in the Armada, plus the AK our man Willie was waving around. Serial numbers on all of them. I guess Terrence'll run them when he gets around to it. AK was the only one fired.”

“And how's Mr. Freeman?”

“He's still at Detroit Receiving. GSW to hip and shoulder. Had surgery last night. He'll live, but he isn't saying much.”

“He have a sheet?”

“Nothing major. Possession with intent. A couple weapons beefs. No serious time.”

“What'd he tell Terrence?”

“Same old. Shot by unidentified assailants in a drive-by. Don't know who. Don't know why. Says one of them dropped the AK, he picked it up, returned fire. Says he doesn't know anything about the Armada, it was parked there when he came walking along. But I'm betting his fingerprints are all over it.”

“A stand-up guy. I may need to talk to him.”

“Terrence didn't get much, and he was holding a gun charge over him for the AK. What makes you think he'll talk to you?”

“My personality. He the only one got dropped?”

“On scene, at least. Nothing from any hospitals. If one of the other shooters got hit, his homies took him with them.”

“What kind of brass on the ground?”

“Seven-six-two casings, from the AK. Some 5.56 from another rifle.”

“AR-15,” Burke said.

“Maybe. Shotgun shells, too, 12-gauge buck and deer slugs.”

“They came to play.”

“Not to mention the smoke grenades. But maybe you heard about that, too?”

Burke smiled, sipped coffee. “Like I said. Just a little.”

“All I got right now. I'll holler at you if I find out anything else. You want me to talk to Terrence?”

“No. Better off without him, I think.”

“Let me get one of those butts for later.”

“Take the pack. How are things at Beaubien Street these days?”

“Lots of empty desks,” Rico said. “Phones ringing, nobody answering. Last round of early outs hurt us bad. You miss the job?”

“Not for a minute.”

“You been doing okay, though, ain't you? Out there on your own.”

“I get by.”

“You still do work for Marquis?”

“Now and then. Not much lately.”

“Never liked that motherfucker.”

“You took his money, too, back in the day.”

“When I had to.”

“No one put a gun to your head. And look at it this way, people will always do dope. And somebody will always be around to sell it to them. Better Marquis than some other asshole leaving bodies everywhere.”

“Marquis's left his share. But let me ask you this. Why is this lame-ass drive-by giving you such a hard-on? What's the interest?”

“Violence against my city is violence against me.”

Rico gave a short laugh. “Ever a time you actually felt that way?”

“First day on the job. For two hours, maybe. Maybe three.”

“That long?”

“Couldn't help it,” Burke said. “I'm a romantic.”

*   *   *

When Burke got off the elevator, there was a uniformed patrolman leaning against the counter at the nurses' station. Young black guy, but already overweight, a roll of fat spilling over his belt. He nodded at Burke, cocked his head down the hall.

Burke went past, the uni following him. When they were out of sight of the nurses, Burke said, “Darius, right? Don't think we've met. How you doing?”

“Doing a'right.” Thumbs in his belt, waiting.

At the far end of the hall, a door was ajar, a yellow plastic chair outside.

“That him?” Burke said.

Darius nodded. Burke took out a folded fifty-dollar bill, held it waist high between two fingers.

Darius looked at it. “Rico said a hundred.”

“Did he?”

“Could lose my job over this.”

“You got nothing to worry about.” Leaving the bill out there.

Darius shook his head.

Burke got out another fifty, folded it over the first. Darius took the money, put it in his shirt pocket. “How much time you need?”

“Twenty minutes,” Burke said. “Half hour at most. Need some privacy, though.”

“Can't be no trouble.”

“Won't be.”

Darius looked down to the nurses' station, then back at him. “You used to be on the job, huh?”

“I was.”

“Half hour?”

“Tops.”

Darius nodded, went back down the hall.

It was a private room. A black man with patches of gray in his hair was propped up in the bed, right arm in a sling. He was watching a TV mounted high on the wall.

Burke closed the door behind him, said, “Willie Freeman. Just the man I'm looking for.”

Freeman turned to look at him. “Who are you?” He had monitor wires running inside his hospital gown, an IV tube in his left wrist.

“You're looking pretty good for a man just got shot,” Burke said. “How you feeling?”

“I already talked to a detective.”

“I know. Lieutenant Haney, right? Funny, everybody thinks I look like a cop. Why is that?”

“What you want?” His gown was loose, and Burke could see the bulk of the bandage on his right shoulder.