Authors: Robert Ellis
“Are you asking if we sleep together?”
He smiled and nodded, grasping the wine bottle. As she thought it over, he touched off her glass and then his own.
“The other day you asked me to spy on my husband,” she said. “I think you’re enjoying these conversations.”
“I think you are, too, and I’m glad. You need to become more involved.”
Frank settled in his chair, waiting her out. The wine tasted good.
“Mel’s not like his father,” she said finally. “His father was self-made. Mel depends on me.”
“That’s why we’re talking, Juliana.”
She smiled as if facing a dare, her voice becoming low and earthy now. “We sleep in the same bed, if that’s what you’re asking. We do it in bed, on the floor, sometimes even in the car if Norman’s not driving.”
She didn’t look embarrassed. She was playing him now. Flirting.
“So there’s no truth to the rumor that there might be a problem?”
“What have you heard?” she asked.
“Just what I’m saying.”
She leaned closer and took his hand, flashing a sleepy smile. That earthy voice of hers was back.
“Personally, I like it best when we fuck in the shower, Frank. I like being on top.”
He smiled at her. “Sounds like you don’t spend much time baking cookies.”
She leaned back, pulling her hand away and laughing. He liked her.
Chapter 33
He was sitting in a fake car, lazily flipping a fake ID badge open and closed as he chewed gum and waited. Raymond had rented the sedan from Rent-A-Wreck. The badge was something that he’d brought to the job just in case. Even though he was only six blocks from that Baptist church and it would be dark in an hour, he wasn’t worried about the neighborhood or the losers who inhabited it. Raymond knew what he looked like with his hair slicked back and his raincoat on. He was playing a cop. An inner city detective in an unmarked car. Someone the people on the sidewalks would spot quickly and cross the street to avoid.
Unfortunately, Rent-A-Wreck didn’t have a suitable model with a tape player. Instead, he listened to the rain pinging off the car’s metal roof and practiced flipping the fake badge open like the detectives on his wife’s favorite TV show,
Law and Order
. There was a knack to it, he realized. Revealing the badge and then letting it sit there.
He glanced out the window and saw a homeless man pushing a shopping cart filled with garbage. The man was dressed in rags and wore a football helmet, obviously mad as he babbled at the rain.
Raymond wondered how long it would be before he could go home. Of course, Baltimore wasn’t much better. Raymond had read about the upcoming mayoral race in the
Baltimore Sun
. It didn’t look like anyone running would clean things up anytime soon. Of the twenty-seven candidates bidding for the chance, six had arrest records and three had filed for bankruptcy. In September, one candidate had gone to jail on burglary charges after she made a TV appearance and was recognized by a detective working the case. Raymond had read the article out loud to his wife from the kitchen table. Both were glad that they had chosen a home in the suburbs.
Raymond sat up, spotting the son-of-a-bitch before he was even through the door. Alan Ingrams was walking out of the Burger King like he was home free.
Only he wasn’t home free.
Raymond had figured it out the day he’d followed Frank Miles to that Baptist church. After about an hour, Frank had walked out and gone directly to the police. Did they really think that he was that stupid? Raymond had left Frank with the cops and returned to the church for another look. It took awhile, but eventually the preacher stepped outside with the kid. They got in a car and the preacher drove him home. That’s when Raymond got a decent look at his face. He recognized it from his picture in the newspaper. The one that he’d found at the library and kept in his file. Sonny Stockwell and Alan Ingrams had been best friends. Partners in crime.
But now Ingrams was also a probable witness. The kid must have seen him shoot Stockwell and talked.
The windshield was beginning to steam up. Raymond cracked open the window, watching Ingrams pass behind a bus at the corner. When the bus lumbered off and his view cleared, the kid was gone.
Raymond threw his fake badge on the seat and started the car, eyes on the bus as he quickly pulled into traffic. They were heading east, with Raymond staying a few cars back. After three or four blocks, the bus made a stop at the corner. Raymond pulled to the side and waited. When the bus drove off, he scanned the faces left behind, didn’t see Ingrams and pulled back onto the street.
He noticed the neighborhood changing. They had left the commercial buildings behind and reached a run-down residential area that Raymond couldn’t believe anyone lived in. Block after block of dilapidated row houses lying in wait for the wrecking ball.
Raymond caught up to the bus as it pulled away from the next stop. His view cleared. Alan Ingrams stood on the sidewalk, alone.
He pulled forward, rolling the passenger window down. Ingrams saw him and moved closer, leaning into the window with his eyes on the fake badge as Raymond flipped it open just like on TV. He let it sit there a beat before casually slipping it into his pocket. Then he spoke in a voice that he’d practiced before the mirror in his motel bathroom. He’d even given it a name.
Casual Joe Friday
.
“We need to talk, Alan. Not here. At the station. Better get in.”
“Talk about what?” Ingrams asked, studying his face.
“What you told Frank Miles...”
Ingrams didn’t say anything for a moment, but shook his head like he wasn’t surprised. Raymond knew that he had him. The kid thought he was a real cop.
“It was dark,” Ingrams said, almost pleading. “I didn’t see anything. It could have been anybody.”
“Come on, Alan. Get in the car. We’ll talk it over out of the rain. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and drive you home.”
He bought it. Ingrams opened the door. He was starting to get in but doing it so slowly it was almost like he had stopped. Raymond couldn’t figure out what was going on. Then he followed the kid’s eyes to the window in the rear door and saw the small sticker over the lock.
Rent-A-Wreck.
Ingrams spun around and looked at his face again. His hair. Raymond watched as the kid’s face flushed with recognition.
“Motherfucker,” Ingrams shouted.
Raymond spit his gum out the window, watching Ingrams bolt across the street and down an alley all pumped up and scared shitless. He knew that he couldn’t follow him on foot. Besides, they were in a fucking war zone. A white guy chasing a black guy would stand out.
He jerked the car forward, snapping the passenger door shut and screeching his tires. He made a U-turn and raced down the street until he reached the next alley.
It was a high-speed blur moving in slow motion. Raymond bounced over the potholes, bulldozing trash cans out of the way and skidding to a stop. A narrow street ran behind the row houses. He waited, the car idling. After a moment, he saw Ingrams passing the street at the other end, still in a full sprint.
Raymond hit the gas, rocketing down the alley. At the next side street, he made a sharp right, racing to beat Ingrams to the corner. Then he jammed on the brakes, grabbed his nightstick and jumped out in the pouring rain.
The street was narrow, lined by the back doors of row houses on both sides. It was getting dark and none of the windows were lighted. Raymond guessed that the buildings had been abandoned and he would be safe. Spotting an empty trash can on its side, he looked through a series of broken windows and saw Ingrams running toward him. The kid was crying and looked panic stricken.
And Raymond was ready for him. He lifted the trash can over his head and heaved it, watching it skid across the alley and chop Ingrams down at the knees. The kid tumbled onto the pavement, saw him spring forward and let out a shriek.
Raymond swung the nightstick down. Ingrams was trying to get off the ground, taking the hits as he reached out for the nightstick and missed. Blow after blow with the kid’s hands and feet moving wildly through the air. Raymond got him in the teeth. The shrieking stopped after that, and Raymond wondered how much the kid had actually seen the night he shot his friend in the schoolyard. Where could he have been hiding? It didn’t matter anymore. Ingrams had recognized him and tried to run away.
Raymond shivered at the thought, swinging the nightstick down even harder. He realized that Ingrams could have ruined his life. One mistake and he could have lost everything that he’d worked so hard for. But he’d kept his eyes open. He’d shown follow through. He’d figured it out and caught his mistake.
His mistake finally stopped moving. Home free.
There was a scent in the air that Raymond couldn’t place. He stood up, his eyes dancing over the body as he caught his breath in the rain. It smelled like food. Dinner. French fries, he realized. Alan Ingrams worked at a Burger King.
Raymond sunk to his knees and tossed the nightstick on the ground. Then he reached into his raincoat and pulled out a knife with a ten-inch blade. It was dark. Images flashed through his head. Moving to Baltimore. His eldest son making the football team. That new Volvo wagon he had promised his wife for Christmas.
He lifted the knife and plunged it down. Blood splattered all over the cinder block wall, his raincoat and face. He did it again, ignoring the spray. Then again and again. His mind was rolling now. It was his turn to seize the day.
Chapter 34
The doorbell rang, followed by pounding.
Frank ran downstairs in a pair of sweat pants, parted the curtain and saw Randolph and Grimes standing on his front porch in the dark. He switched on the light and opened the door.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“About ten,” Randolph said in a low voice. “You alone?”
He nodded. “What’s it look like?”
The detectives entered the house, their faces pale. Frank noticed that the smile Grimes usually wore was no longer there. He followed their hollow eyes as they checked the living room and looked toward the kitchen. After a moment, Randolph turned to him.
“You need to get dressed,” he said. “Alan Ingrams is dead.”
Frank didn’t say anything. He rushed upstairs into the bedroom, threw on his clothes, and bolted out the door.
He found the detectives waiting for him on the porch, their car idling in the drive. They climbed in with Randolph taking his usual place behind the wheel. As they backed onto the street, Grimes eyed the cars parked at the curb. Then Randolph hit the gas.
The rain had stopped, but the roads remained glazed. No one said anything for ten minutes. Then five minutes more as they pressed through the ghetto and turned down a narrow alley. The houses were dark, but Frank could see the work lights set up by the police as they approached the crime scene.
Randolph pulled to a stop a half block off. They got out of the car and started walking toward the lights. As they passed cops and crime scene techs, Frank noticed that their faces had the same hollow look he’d seen Randolph and Grimes wearing. When Woody had been murdered, that look hadn’t been there and he wondered what was different now.
The coroner’s van was in the alley on the other side of the crime scene. The body had already been bagged. Passing beneath the lights as they walked toward the gurney, Frank lowered his eyes to the ground and suddenly realized that the pavement wasn’t wet from the rain. It was blood. He jerked his head up, trying to catch his breath as he smelled it. His eyes moved to the cinder block wall. Blood was everywhere.
They finally reached the coroner’s van. Randolph slipped on a pair of latex gloves, unzipped the body bag and pulled it open. Grimes flipped on his flashlight, pointing it inside the bag. Frank looked at the body and cringed. Someone had blotted out the wounds with multicolored spray paint.
“He was stabbed forty-seven times,” Grimes whispered.
Randolph cleared his throat, holding the bag open. “They painted his face out pretty good, but if you look hard enough...is this the kid you talked to, Frank?”
Frank examined the face. Beneath the paint and oozing blood was the kid that he’d met in Doc Neilmarker’s office. It was Alan Ingrams, the boy who saw the man with spiked gray hair. Frank nodded at Randolph and turned away.
“If you guys think kids did this, you’re full of shit.”
Randolph zipped up the bag and approached him. “Tell us about Ozzie Olson.”
He turned and looked at them carefully.
“We checked that phone number,” Grimes said.
“The call your partner made,” Randolph said. “Metro Legal is Ozzie Olson. Olson got picked up on a DUI a block from your office the night Woody and Stockwell were murdered. You got any idea why your partner would be talking to Ozzie Olson?”