The Shadow Man (20 page)

‘I do have some expertise, ma’am,’ Sergeant Anderson said, putting finger to forehead in mock salute.

Then the two uniformed sergeants headed into the first interrogation room. Robinson smiled at Martinez. ‘That

wasn’t a rough assignment,’ he said. ‘Okay, ready to put the fear of God and the criminal justice system into Mr Reginald I’m A Tough Guy Johnson? Let’s go.’

Robinson didn’t wait for an answer, but pushed into the room. Martinez jumped to stay close.

Reginald Johnson looked up and scowled. ‘You call my lawyer?’

‘What’s that number again, Reggie?’ Walter Robinson asked.

The pawnshop owner merely grunted a response. ‘Who she?’ he asked.

‘Why, Reggie, I’m surprised. You don’t recognize her?’

‘Never seen her before.’

‘You certain?’

‘Sure, I’m certain. Who she?’

Robinson smiled once, then he leaned forward, pushing his face close to the pawnshop owner’s, hovering over him like a parent about to strike a child. ‘Why, Reggie,’ Robinson hissed, ‘I’m sure you’ve seen her in your nightmares, ‘cause she’s the biggest trouble your sorry ass has ever seen. She’s the person who’s gonna see you do hard time, Reggie. Right up in Raiford Prison. Twenty-four-hour lockup, and I’m just sure there ain’t gonna be nobody up there as sweet as your Yolanda. In fact, you’ll be lucky if somebody doesn’t turn you into their Yolanda. You catch my drift, Reggie?’

The words seemed to force the stocky man back hard in his chair. He stole a quick glance at Espy Martinez.

‘Your worst dream, Reggie,’ Walter Robinson said.

‘I ain’t done nothing. Don’t know about no murder.’

‘Is that right?’

‘You think I ask all the folks who come through my doors where they got their shit? No way. All I do is figure

out the price and write the ticket. Don’t need to go about asking no questions.’

‘Maybe not, but you know who brought that necklace in. The one Yolanda thought was so fine that she just had to put it around her neck.’

Johnson didn’t reply for a moment. ‘I can’t be telling no police about my business. Wouldn’t have no business,’ he finally answered, rocking back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as if this statement were his final say on the entire matter.

‘Oh yes, you can,’ Robinson argued. “Cause your business is now my business, and that’s a problem.’

Johnson scowled and grew silent. Espy Martinez sat in a chair at the end of the table, watching the detective as he moved about, walking behind the suspect, leaning over him wordlessly, then stepping back, and finally pulling a chair up close to him. She watched Robinson like she would an accomplished actor on a stage. Every movement he made, every motion, every tone assigned to every word, was calculated to achieve an effect. She watched as he unsettled the pawnshop owner, skillfully undressing him of every arrogance and obstinance. She took a deep breath, fascinated, wondering when she was supposed to interject herself into the performance and doubting whether she would have any of the same skills.

Walter Robinson continued to stare at Reginald Johnson, narrowing his eyes, not wavering, until the pawnshop owner turned abruptly away, snarling an obscenity.

‘Sheeeit. Don’t know ‘bout no murder,’ he added. But there was a slight waver in his voice.

The detective let the room fill again with silence. He did not move his eyes away from the suspect. After a moment he slowly exhaled, his breath hissing into the stale room air.

‘Maybe I was wrong …’ Robinson said quietly. ‘Maybe I was wrong about you, Reggie.’

Johnson turned back, a look of surprise hitting his face at the sudden change in the detective’s attitude.

‘Maybe I was wrong. What do you think, Reggie? Was I wrong?’

‘Yeah,’ he replied eagerly. ‘You was wrong.’ Without taking his eyes off the pawnshop owner, Walter Robinson asked: ‘What do you think, Miss Martinez? You think I was wrong about Reggie here?’

Espy Martinez was uncertain for an instant as to how to reply, but finally, in as flat and cold a voice as she could manage, she said: ‘You’re never wrong, Detective.’

‘No, maybe this time I was wrong about old Reggie here.’

‘I don’t think so, Detective,’ Martinez said. ‘Am I wrong, Reggie?’ he asked again. ‘Yeah. Shit, yeah. You’re wrong.’

Robinson continued to let his gaze bore in hard at the pawnshop owner. He let false hope gather momentum in the little room.

‘All this time, I was thinking Reggie here, all he did was take a little bit of stolen goods from the wrong man. And you know, Miss Martinez…’ He frowned at Reginald Johnson. ‘You know, maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe there weren’t no other person, showing up at the Helping Hand late Tuesday last, all eager and anxious and breathing hard and sweating a bit too much and ready to make a deal, any deal, right Reg? No, maybe there weren’t no other man at all. Maybe I was all wrong about that Reggie He hesitated one instant, just letting the words burrow into the pawnshop owner’s confusion, before continuing. ” .. No, Reggie. Maybe there weren’t no other man at

all. Maybe keeping that Yolanda in those fine clothes and driving that fine car and buying all that fine furniture for that fine new house, well, maybe you figured you better work a little bit harder. Maybe you figured you had to put a little bit more cash in the old register. So maybe, Reggie, you didn’t need no other man at all. No sir. No, you just took that old G-75 bus right on out to Miami Beach, and you just started doing all those breakins. Did pretty good at it, right Reggie? Until that old woman Tuesday last, she wakes up and then you got a problem, huh, Reg? A real problem. So you killed her, right, Reggie? That how it happened?’

Robinson suddenly jabbed a finger into the pawnshop owner’s face. ‘You killed her, you sonofabitch!’

Reginald Johnson looked wildly at the detective, recoiling in fear. ‘I didn’t kill nobody! I told you! Don’t know nothing about no murder!’

Robinson suddenly reached across the table and grabbed Johnson’s hands. He forced them onto the table surface with a resounding slap, turning the palms up.

‘You’re strong, Reg. Got nice big hands. Didn’t have no problem at all choking that little old lady, did you? Did

you!’

‘Don’t know nothing about no murder, no old lady!’

He tried to pull his hands back, but the detective held them on the table, pulling Johnson forward, off balance, staring again, harsher.

In the silence that grew in that instant, Espy Martinez felt a heat pour through her body. The words seemed to come from someone else, not her, but she heard them reverberate in the small room.

‘Receiving stolen goods, two to five. That’s gonna be easy time, medium security. Then comes burglary, five to ten. That’s getting a bit more serious, but, time off for

good behavior, maybe only do three years. But then you jump up to assault. Now you’re in real trouble, Reggie. Jesus, the state attorney, she just hates it when old folks get assaulted. So that’ll bring you ten to fifteen. And maybe the judge’s gonna think hard about retaining jurisdiction on the case, cut that parole board right out of the situation. So no good behavior on that one

Espy Martinez paused, gathering her breath. She saw the pawnshop owner struggling at the far end of the table. It was as if all the words and numbers added up to so many knots around his chest. She continued, lower, harsher, oddly aware that in some clear, unfamiliar spot within her, she was distinctly enjoying herself.

‘… But then you really hit the big time, Reggie. Accessory to first-degree murder, fifteen to life. But nobody gets the fifteen, Reggie. Especially when the victim is a little old lady. Everybody gets life, up in Raiford. Not a nice place. Not a nice place at all…’

She looked coldly at him.

‘And then we’re right to the end of the line: first-degree murder. Well, you know what that buys in this state, Reggie. Two thousand two hundred volts of electricity.’

She made a gun shape with her hand and added: ‘Zap. You’re history.’

Johnson, hands still held on the tabletop by the detective, tried to swivel in his chair toward Martinez.

‘What you talking about! Death penalty! I told you I ain’t done no murder!’

Espy Martinez leaned forward. ‘I got enough to make a case, Reggie. More than enough. Doesn’t make any difference, though, how much evidence I have …’

‘What you mean?’ the pawnshop owner asked desperately.

‘Little old lady. Never hurt no one. What do you think,

Reggie? What do you think a bunch of nice white middle-class Miamians are gonna say when they see you come walking into that courtroom? All black and angry and tough. You think they’re gonna care whether we got any evidence at all? No way. Not after I get up and tell all those white folks that it was you strangled the life out of her. That it was your fingers wrapped around her throat, choking her until she was dead! All they’re gonna think about is that it could have been their mother, or their aunt Mabel. You think after they hear that, they’re gonna give a damn if we have any evidence? They’re just gonna want to see your sorry ass disappear. So, what do you think that nice white jury’s gonna say?’

‘I didn’t!’

‘Guilty. Guilty as charged.’

She hesitated, watching the words slap the pawnshop owner like punches.

‘And the judge? Reggie, what do you think that white middle-class judge’s gonna do? Somebody who needs all those people to vote for him come next election day?’

‘I’m telling you, I didn’t do nothing!’

‘All those white folks, Reggie. What do you think?’

Again silence gripped the room.

Espy Martinez took a deep breath and pointed at Reginald Johnson. ‘Zap,’ she said again. ‘Goodbye, Reggie.’

Walter Robinson finally let go of the pawnshop owner’s

arms.

Martinez rose. She looked down at Reginald Johnson with as haughty a glance as she could manage.

‘Detective, you keep this piece of shit company. I think I’ll go talk some more to Yolanda. She and I, well, we get along a whole lot better, and if I’m gonna make somebody a nice deal, the kind of deal where they get to go on home

at night and pick up their life again, well, I’m thinking maybe I’d rather it be that pretty young woman. And I just know that Sergeant Lion-man’d rather have me cut her some slack, rather than this piece of shit…’

‘You can’t give Yolanda no deal! She don’t know nothing!’

‘You’d be surprised what that gal has picked up, Reggie. Why, she’s just filled with all sorts of information.’

‘She don’t know…’

‘But she’ll be the one to walk.’ She said this flatly, nastily.

Walter Robinson smiled and nodded. He was having trouble keeping himself from bursting into applause. Reginald Johnson seemed to calculate quickly in a panic, then he blurted:

‘I didn’t know where the shit came from! Man calls me up, middle of the night, wants me to meet him at the store make a deal, well, I didn’t know! Didn’t ask no questions! Just went on down, met him outside, he was waiting, like. That’s the truth! Didn’t know about no murder.’

‘Who, Reggie?’ Walter Robinson asked.

‘I tell you who, you got to promise—’

‘Who! Goddamn it! I’m not promising you anything, sack of shit! Who?’ Robinson screamed into the pawn broker’s face.

Reginald Johnson twisted in the seat a final time, like a man trapped beneath a wave, trying to find the surface. Then he slumped forward and said:

“Man’s name is Leroy Jefferson.’

‘He a junkie?’

Man likes a pipe, I’m told.’

‘He a regular customer of yours?’

‘He been in pretty regular last month or so.’

‘He got a street name?’

‘Yeah. They calls him Hightops because he always wearing those fancy basketball shoes.’

‘Where’s Hightops live?’

‘King Apartments. Number thirteen, I think.’

‘Unlucky number,’ Walter Robinson said, rising from the table, leaving the pawnshop owner with his head in his hands.

At very nearly the same moment that Walter Robinson and Espy Martinez emerged from the interrogation room with the name of the man they believed had killed Sophie Millstein, Simon Winter was sitting down in a stiff-backed chair across the desk from a young homicide detective named Richards, who seemed unable to decide between acting politely toward the older man or impatient with his questions.

‘Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Detective,’ Winter began.

‘It’s a closed case, Mr Winter. I had to get the file back from records.’

‘I appreciate your taking the time.’

‘Yeah, well, no big deal, but I don’t exactly get your interest in this guy’s death.’

Winter decided to lie. ‘Well, Stein was related to me - a distant relative - through marriage. And you know how hard it is for people who haven’t seen someone in years to accept the fact of his death, much less a suicide. So because I was down here, I got assigned the task of checking it out - even though it’s been months. You know how some people are. Kvetching, disbelieving. Never letting things just go, and finally getting around to asking

someone to go ask some questions

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Families. Sometimes they can be—’

‘A major pain. Sure. I got you.’

‘There you go,’ Winter said with a flagrant shrug.

This falsehood seemed to placate any of Richards’s inconvenient anger at having his day interrupted by a curious old man.

‘Yeah. I guess. Well, anyway, closed case, Mr Winter. Pretty much cut and dried. One shot. Left a note. Not much for us to do, except tidy up and cart out the body. No big mystery.’

‘You were there at the scene?’

‘Yeah. My case. Just a matter of collecting the documents and filing a report. I don’t really remember it all too much.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘Cleaning lady, I think I remember. Maybe twenty-four hours postmortem. It’s in my summary.’

The young man shoved a brown accordion file across the desk toward Simon Winter. ‘Have a look at it. It wasn’t anything special or out of the ordinary. You gonna be able to handle the photographs, Mr Winter? They aren’t too pleasant.’