Sons of the City (16 page)

Things would have been a lot simpler if I could have just started showing mug shots of detectives to Ronald. But sergeants, particularly inconsequential patrol sergeants, didn’t have access to the photos. You either had to have a very good friend in Photo Ident, which I didn’t, or approval from a commander. I didn’t have that, either.

It also would have been helpful if Ronald could have at least given me decent descriptions of the two detectives. But describing “white guys” wasn’t exactly his forte.

“You all look alike,” he said, when I pressed him for details such as height, weight, and hair color. “You’re all just plain vanilla scoops, sittin’ in a bowl, if you know what I mean.”

It had occurred to me that maybe Ronald’s two mystery men were actually Nick and Steve—maybe they had swung by the crackhouse before they went on duty, just to see if they could get a quick pinch. But Ronald said he knew who Nick and Steve were. They were the ones always pounding on his door, saying Open up.

One thing I knew, I couldn’t tell anyone else in the Department about Ronald. Something this big could never be kept a secret, and I didn’t want Ronald’s two detectives tracking down him and Gail for “questioning.”

So for now, until I checked out Ronald’s story, I was on my own. With no mug shots, no descriptions other than vanilla ice cream, my only option was to start showing Ronald detectives in person.

Part of me couldn’t accept the possibility that cops had something to do with Steve’s death. If it was a crackhead, or the black Mafia, that was at least understandable, you were dealing with the enemy. But cops didn’t kill cops, it just didn’t happen. I knew one thing—if I found out who they were, I’d be judge, jury, and executioner. They could have their fucking trial at the funeral home.

There was no question, at least as far as I was concerned, where we should start looking. And so the day after I found Ronald in the crackhouse, he and I sat in my Blazer watching the entrance of OC headquarters on Arch Street.

The unit worked out of an old, three-story brick building about four blocks from Police Headquarters, with nothing on it to indicate it had anything to do with the police. It was almost like the building itself was undercover, but what gave it away was what always gave us away—the Plymouth Gran Furys. There were five of them, all black or brown, sitting in the small parking lot to one side and along the curb out front.

Most of the guys in the unit left work about five, and we were there fifteen minutes early. I had told Lieutenant Bowman I’d be coming in late, and that someone else would have to handle roll call. He was pissed, but I got off the phone before he could tell me exactly how pissed he was.

I couldn’t decide which was stranger, doing a stakeout of my old unit, or doing it with a crackhead. And Ronald wasn’t even your ordinary crackhead.

“Don’t you got pictures of all the cops?” he asked, as we watched the building’s entrance. “Why don’t I just go through them?”

“Well, we don’t have photos of everybody.”

“Just show me the pictures you do got.”

“It’s a little complicated.”

“You can’t get ‘em, can you?” said Ronald.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have that authority, do you?”

For some reason, I couldn’t lie to Ronald.

At exactly five, the first detective came out. Stan “The Man Who Won’t Retire” Allen. Stan had thick gray hair and a matching thick gray mustache, and from a distance could look imposing. But up close, you could see that his eyes were weak, and rheumy, and beaten. He already had thirty-five years on the job, far more than the number needed for retirement. But had he left, his ex-wife would have been awarded part of his pension. And Stan vowed that he would die on the job before that ever happened.

So Stan kept coming in to work, though he had long ago stopped actually doing any work. I knew there was no way he was at that crackhouse—the last time Stan had been on the street, disco was still big. I wasn’t even going to bother asking Ronald about him, but Ronald volunteered anyway.

“Not that guy,” he said.

During the next few minutes, Ronald said the same thing about Mike LaShane, Pete Caruso, and a young cop I didn’t know.

He even said it about Norman Carter.

“But he’s black,” I pointed out.

“That’s why I said he’s not the guy.”

I tried not to admit to myself that I was really just waiting for one person, that out of every cop in the city, there was really only one I wanted Ronald to see. I was so busy telling myself to be fair, not to jump to conclusions, that Lenny Lanier was out the door before I realized it.

“Not that guy,” Ronald said right away.

“Take a good look,” I said. “Are you absolutely sure?”

Ronald squinted at Lanier. “Damn, that’s one ugly white man,” he said. “I would have remembered
him.”

I was disappointed, I wanted to leave. Still, we waited a while longer, and when Doc came out I held my breath. But Ronald hadn’t seen him before. He also didn’t recognize any of the next four detectives we saw, which didn’t surprise me, considering that the first three were black, and the fourth was a white woman, Laura Fielding.

After another half hour, I was ready to go, I didn’t want to do this anymore. We were looking in the wrong place, I knew that. I also knew that taking Ronald around, trying to do this by myself, wasn’t going to work. Those two detectives might not have even been detectives at all. They could have been off-duty cops, or patrol officers on a plainclothes detail. There were too many units, too many people, too many possibilities.

I did know one person, though, who could pull those mug shots, who definitely had the authority. And I didn’t think he would turn me down.

A
t nine the next morning, I called Police Headquarters and asked for the Commissioner’s office. They transferred me upstairs, to a female corporal.

“This is Sergeant North from the Twentieth. I’d like to talk to the Commissioner.”

“Hold on.”

A minute later, her sergeant came on the phone, and I repeated my request.

“Something I can help you with?” he asked.

“No, thanks, I need to talk to him directly.” “Hold on.”

This time I had to wait three minutes before the next person picked up.

“Yeah, Sergeant, this is Lieutenant Franklin, what can I do for you?”

“Well, Lieutenant, you can get the Commissioner on the line for me.”

“What’s this in reference to?”

“It’s in reference to a conversation I want to have with him.”

“Hold on.”

“No, don’t put me on hold.” Too late. I sat there for another three minutes.

Finally, I heard another voice. “Captain Lazzaro.”

I’d never been to the Commissioner’s office, but I wondered how many people worked there. It couldn’t be that big.

“Captain, this is Sergeant North from the Twentieth.”

“Yeah, Sergeant, how you doin'?”

“Not too good, Captain. I’ve just spoken to a corporal, a sergeant, a lieutenant and now you, no offense. I’d like to talk to the Commissioner about something. Is he in?”

“Not right now. Does he know who you are?”

“I’m sure he’ll remember me, I was his son’s supervisor. Could you give him a message that I’d like to talk to him?”

“He’s going to want to know what it’s about.”

“It’s about his son. I can’t say any more, it’s confidential.”

“All right, I’ll pass along the message. I can’t promise anything.”

I gave him my pager number and told him thanks. “Hey,” he said cheerfully, “that’s what we’re here for.”

T
hat day was Westmount Sidewalk Sale Day, an extravaganza of fun and festivities for the whole family. Actually, it was just a big sales promotion for the eight-block stretch of the Locust Street business district. There were balloons tied to parking meters, banners stretched high across the street, the whole works. Most stores had tables out front with merchandise and hand-lettered sale signs.

A few of the side streets were closed down to make room for live music and food vendors. You could take a break from your shopping and get a meatball sandwich on a hoagie roll, and stand there dodging the dripping tomato sauce while you listened to a Mummers string band.

I swung by Locust in my patrol car a little after two, and decided to get out and take a walk past the sidewalk sales. I still hadn’t heard from the Commissioner, and I was a little nervous being the one to break the news that cops might have been involved in his son’s death.

When I crossed over 78th Street, I hesitated. This was the block with Angela’s—and I had decided it would be better to stay out of Michelle’s way.

As I was about to turn around and head back, my eye caught a beige Toyota Corolla parked at the curb about thirty feet ahead of me. Something about it wasn’t right.

I looked more closely. Two black guys in the front seat. That wasn’t unusual, there were plenty of black shoppers on the street. But just the way these two guys moved their heads, the way they looked around, my radar was going crazy.

I was still on the corner, and I got on my radio and called in the license tag. It took less than a minute for the dispatcher to get back on the air. The Toyota had been reported stolen from Center City that morning.

When I told the dispatcher the car was occupied, she didn’t even have to ask someone to back me up. Cars started calling in, saying they were on their way. It was a dangerous situation, and everyone knew it.

Using pedestrians as cover, I got a little closer. The two guys in the car were looking at Angela’s, across the street and a few doors down. And I saw why: Mickey Bravelli was sitting at the table by the window, getting a manicure.

I had to move fast. I really didn’t care about Bravelli—if these guys whacked him, I’d give them a standing ovation. But sitting across from him, giving him the manicure, was Michelle. I stepped into the entryway of a clothing store and got back on my radio.

“This is 20-C-Charlie, expedite backup. The two suspects in the Toyota may be armed.”

When I looked back, Bravelli wasn’t in the window anymore. The table was empty. How could that be? I had only looked away for a few seconds. I could hear the Toyota’s engine starting.

I clicked my radio mike. “This is 20-C-Charlie, put out an assist, 7-8 and Locust.”

I pulled out my gun and started running toward the Toyota. Bravelli was already coming out of Angela’s front door, and as he did, the Toyota pulled out into the street.

It was too late, I couldn’t stop it. As the Toyota passed in front of Angela’s, the driver pointed a machine pistol out the window and started firing at Bravelli. Bullets shattered the glass door behind him and peppered the wall, and I was praying none would find Michelle’s window.

Goop burst out of the fruit store and onto the sidewalk, he had a gun in his hand, and now he was firing at the Toyota as it picked up speed.

Usually when there’s a drive-by shooting, it’s the passenger who does the shooting. In this case, though, Angela’s was on the driver’s side, so he had to do double duty, driving and shooting at the same time. Which was pretty stupid, considering that Locust was two-way—and the car could have just as easily approached Angela’s from the opposite direction.

And the Toyota’s driver proved conclusively that he couldn’t steer and shoot at the same time. He was trying to fire back at Goop, but he was veering too far to the left, and he just drove the car across the oncoming lane and then up onto the sidewalk. The car glanced off a light pole and gently spun around and backed into a store window, as if that had been the driver’s intention. The sidewalk was crowded, but the car missed everyone—people dodged out of its way gracefully, almost unconcerned, like they were practicing some new kind of dance.

I ran into the street, toward the Toyota, my gun in the air. I caught a glimpse of Bravelli, dazed but unhurt, and Michelle’s window, intact. I didn’t see her anywhere.

Goop had begun jogging toward the car as well, but when he saw me he slowed, and I gave him a look that said, Stay right the fuck where you are. He stopped short and lowered his gun, waiting to see what was going to happen.

There was a loud whoop-whoop of a siren right behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, it was Randy Trover and Dave Larkin. The Toyota was facing out toward the street, and the driver was trying to get it unstuck from the store window.

But they saw me coming at them, saw Randy and Dave’s car, and they bailed out. In a moment, they were sprinting down the street away from me. I was running after them, hoping Randy and Dave might be able to catch them in their car. But traffic was stopped in both directions, they were locked in tight, and Randy and Dave had to jump out and join the pursuit on foot.

As I passed the smashed Toyota I saw, on the ground, the driver’s gun—it was a TEC-9, a 9mm machine pistol.

I couldn’t believe how fast the two guys were. When they reached the cross street, 77th, the one who had been the driver disappeared around the corner to the left. The passenger cut across the street to the right, heading down 77th in the opposite direction. I yelled for Randy and Dave to go after him, I’d get the driver.

When I reached the corner, and swung to the left, I realized I wasn’t the only one in this foot pursuit. There were five or six young white guys running behind me. “Get ‘em!” they were yelling. “He shot Mickey Bravelli!”

For a moment I wondered whether they meant me. But they were focused on the black man in the baggy green shorts, running ahead of us down the middle of 77th.

“Stay back!” I yelled at two young guys to my left. One of them had long, flowing blond hair, like a rock star, but his face was hard and when he looked back at me his eyes were full of menace.

He ran past me, and pulled in front, like he was getting ahead of me in traffic. He was wearing shorts, and on the back of his calves were tattoos of giant eyes, one on each leg, as dangerous looking as his real ones. And they were looking up, right at me, as I ran.

One by one, the others passed me as well. I had on my gun belt, my nightstick, my bulletproof vest, my hard shoes, they just powered by me in their shorts and sneakers and strange tattoos.