Color of Justice (2 page)

The old woman moved slowly toward the end of the hallway. The place was quiet and she heard the soles of her sensible shoes on the just-cleaned hardwood floor. Her footfalls were lazy, sliding things, the sad, step-drag of a weary woman.

She was barely aware of her surroundings, of the house in which she had spent more than thirty years. Familiar faces, family, friends, and memories passed by her like ripples of time, hung from the white walls of her life.

Suddenly, she wasn't aware of walking. She no longer heard her feet hitting the floor. She was floating, drifting toward the staircase at the end of her path. For a moment, she thought it was over. Then just as quickly, she was back on earth, feeling gravity pull her down to the shiny floor.

She took in a sharp breath as her left foot sensed the top of the long staircase. She hesitated only a moment then continued on her way. Her next step was airy, like floating again, but it didn't last. She
felt her balance fail. The world tilted, then rushed up to her as she fell into a void.

Her body twisted and she reached for the wooden banister, feeling it for a second in her grasp. As she let go of the railing, she spun completely around and caught a glimpse of the pictures on the wall just before the first impact jolted her head. It was followed by another, then another, until they sounded like dull thunder from some far-off storm.

Her body weight fell on her fragile neck and it snapped, turning her head to its limit, then beyond. Her vision clouded and her mind filled with dark stars. Her torso landed at the base of the stairs in a heap, extremities still twitching from reflex and trauma.

She was dead.

The house was quiet again. Somewhere a clock clicked dully. The phone rang, splitting the silence, filling the place with sound….

Detective Danny Cavanaugh pushed himself out of bed as his phone rang loudly. Normally he'd be pissed about being awakened before his shift, but the phone had pulled him from the terrible dream about his mother. He'd imagined her death many times, but never had he'd seen it so vividly. He was faintly aware that he was breathing heavily and that his hand was shaking. He felt his heart pounding, pulsing blood. He steadied his hand, moved it to the phone, and picked up the receiver.

“Yeah,” he said calmly.

“Ass in gear, Cavanaugh,” said the familiar voice on the other end. “We got a tip on your boulevard shooters. Team's assembling in an hour.”

“Yes, sir,” said Danny, and hung up. He got out of bed, looking at the still neat side where his girlfriend usually slept. He pushed the last images of his mother from his head and scrambled to get his clothes.

Forty-five minutes later, Danny approached the small house just off Tireman in Detroit. The residential street was unusually narrow, making it seem almost like a path. There were five streetlamps on the way, and they had all been shot out. He knew right then they were on to the right place. Dealers did shit like that to darken their hangout. It made it easier for them to see you coming, and harder for you to see them watching you.

Danny and his partner, Erik Brown, moved carefully down the street. Two junked cars on blocks, probably stolen, sat halfway up the block. Debris lined the street and gutter, and a dead cat, frozen in death, lay on the hard ground in front of one house.

The houses that looked inhabited had a sad, desperate loneliness about them that seemed to push you away from their darkened windows and bare lawns. This is the city, Danny thought. Somewhere in this place of quiet doom were the men he was looking for.

Danny and his partner saw one of the detectives
from the command post coming their way. He was out of place, and so Danny knew something was up. He went to the man quickly.

“Wha'sup?” asked Danny. “We got a problem?” Danny was white, but the voice that came out of him sounded black, a resonant baritone with hints of Southern accents and the rhythmic timing of languages long forgotten. Danny had acquired this pattern of speech from spending his entire life in the neighborhoods of Detroit.

Those who met Danny were initially surprised to hear that sound coming from the face of the big Irishman with the reddish hair and green eyes. This detective was not shocked, he was a friend.

“I changed my position up the street,” said the detective. “Felt more comfortable. I didn't tell the boss. I didn't want it to go out over the radio.”

“Cool,” said Danny. “Just be careful. They already put one man in a box.”

The detective nodded and moved back. Danny and Erik settled their gaze back on the target house and walked on.

Danny struck an imposing figure. He was six four and about two-twenty. A former marine, he kept himself in good shape. He had a disarming, friendly demeanor that belied the street swagger he'd attained over the years. He was the kind of guy who seemed like an old friend right after you met him. Danny's disarming manner masked an astute, deductive mind that never missed anything.

Danny was in his early thirties and a newly minted detective. He'd gotten the promotion after
he'd helped the feds catch the man who'd assassinated Supreme Court Justice Farrel Douglas. It was a national story, and it got him out of a nasty bind involving a police brutality charge involving a robber who'd shot Danny's girlfriend and former police partner.

Before he became a detective, Danny had carried two guns, a Glock and a Smith & Wesson .45 ACP revolver. He was ambidextrous, and so was good with either weapon, and deadly when he used both. Danny's father, a retired cop, was a big fan of old westerns, and had taught his son how to shoot using two guns when Danny was a teenager.

When Danny got his gold shield, he was forced to carry the standard-issue 9 mm. He hated this, but complied because he desperately wanted to make good on his new job.

Danny and his team's targets this night were a trio of gunmen who had shot and killed a rival dealer who worked the neighborhood on the south side of Grand Boulevard, not prime real estate but, in the drug trade, worth something. The dead dealer was shot by a Uzi sub-pistol, illegal and very lethal. Two days later, while the mayor was inspecting the new MGM Grand Casino, a police cruiser was fired on after signaling a vehicle to stop in Cass Corridor only a few miles away, same MO, same shell casings—same suspects.

That's when Detroit's Special Crimes Unit was called in. They were given a simple job: find these guys before they turned that area of the city into a graveyard, embarrassed city hall, and put a damper
on all of the big-ass, big-money development in downtown Detroit.

Earlier in the day they'd gotten a tip from a man who had to be a rival dealer, and who apparently didn't want to be the next one killed. That led the SCU to the place where they were now.

Danny stopped as he saw the vehicle that had been involved in the shootings.

“Got a triple black GMC in front of the house,” said Danny.

“Copy,” said a man's voice on Danny's radio.

Danny had been through anger management as a way of cleaning up his record as a uniformed cop. He also had to go to a shrink. The department psychologist told him that each gun was the embodiment of his divided soul, the black Glock, and the steel (white) .45. Danny thought it was bullshit, but he needed to get through the sessions to help his career, and what man really knew what he thought subconsciously.

Since he'd become a detective, Danny had adopted a new outlook on police work. Gone was the bull who'd plow through any situation, shooting first, then maybe asking questions later. Now, he was a homicide detective, a thinking man's cop. It was his job to avoid death, prevent death, not cause it. So
restraint
was the word foremost in Danny's mind as he approached the suspect house with the deadly men inside.

“I hope these muthafuckas are tired,” said Danny to Erik.

“Don't count on that shit,” said Erik. “Anybody
who'd smoke people as casually as these guys don't take downtime.”

Erik was a funny, good-natured brother who prided himself on what he called his TWA, Teeny Weenie Afro. Erik was just under six feet tall, in great shape, and considered himself to be a fairly good-looking man. He was unassuming in his manner, but you could see in his large brown eyes a mind that never stopped working.

Erik had two years more on the job than Danny. Their boss thought they were a good match, and he was right. Erik and Danny had fit together nicely right from the beginning, Danny's brooding, analytical cop to Erik's outgoing veteran.

“Second team in place,” Danny heard on his radio.

“First closing,” Danny said.

Danny had assumed a leadership position in the partnership. Erik preferred persuasion to ass-kicking. Danny, on the other hand, was always willing to put himself in harm's way. He didn't know if this really made him the leader, or a fool, but it worked, and the two men got along just fine because of it.

The cops were closing in on the suspect house. The first and second teams were detectives, and there were two teams of uniforms as backup. They were all wearing protective vests. Erik carried a riot gun. Danny carried the 9 mm, trying to rid himself of the feeling that his other hand was empty.

There were fifteen residences on the street, and of
these, only about ten were occupied. The rest were abandoned or burned-out shells. Danny always wondered what killed peaceful homes, turning them into ghost houses, and what became of the lives that had inhabited them. He'd seen families destroyed by drugs, alcoholism, and hopelessness. Who knew which of these demons had robbed these houses of their joy.

Danny and Erik moved past an abandoned house with what was once a blue door. It was now peeled and dirty, its knocker hanging on by one screw, mocking itself. The stairs leading to the place were stone, but the middle steps were broken, caved in on themselves, a gaping maw in the ascension. For some reason, that sent a chill up Danny's back.

Next to the house with the blue door was another house, better-looking and definitely inhabited.

“First team at point,” said Danny. He exchanged a look with Erik, and they moved closer to the occupied house. Danny was going in first, and his heart was already racing. But he wasn't nervous. He was excited. This was why he'd bought the ticket to be a cop.

Danny and Erik edged up to the suspect house. The door glinted in the dim glow of the streetlight. It was matte gray and had two lines of large rivets in it. There was no guard on the front of the house, but from the looks of that door, it was reinforced steel.

“Got a big-ass steel door in front,” Danny said into his radio.

“Same back here,” came the reply.

“The windows are all boarded up,” said Danny to Erik. “Locked in tight.”

“You know what?” said Erik. “I bet them brothers ain't really up to no good. I bet they're in there just playing a nice game of bid whist or something.”

Danny smiled a little. Erik was always good for breaking tension. Danny waited for the team leader to respond. They were safely tucked away a street over. If the team couldn't get in, they'd have a standoff, and for sure, the killers inside would resist and that could get ugly.

“Stand by,” said the team leader.

“Standing by,” said Danny.

“I'm hungry,” said Erik. “We should get some of that plastic explosive the tactics guys have, blow this damned house off the face of the earth, and all go get some White Castle burgers.”

“I heard that,” said Danny. “Wish we could. Lord knows I need a rest from this shit.”

“The only good thing is, they can't see us out here through these boarded-up windows.”

This gave Danny a thought. He looked at the base of the house. Sure enough, the killers had neglected to board up the basement windows. Most of the homes in Detroit had basements, and this house was no exception. These guys were typical dealers, he thought. They spent a grand on a steel door, but left the basement vulnerable. But if they were smart, Danny thought, they wouldn't be drug dealers.

“We can get in through the basement,” said Danny. “They didn't close it off.”

“Like hell,” said Erik. “These drug boys all have attack dogs to guard the basement. That's why the basement's unprotected. You wanna get your nuts chewed off by some pit bull?”

“We don't know that,” said Danny. “Besides, I can take care of a mutt-ass dog.”

Danny called the team leader and requested permission to try it. He waited for what seemed an eternity. He knew what they were thinking. All they had to do was wait until morning, and when the men came out, the cops'd have them. The only problem with that was it would be light, and the suspects would check the area. If they saw anything that looked like a cop, all hell would break loose.

“Team one, go in,” said the team leader. “Be careful. Radio if you get in a jam. We'll come full force.”

“You crazy muthafucka,” said Erik.

“And you my partner,” said Danny. “What does that say?”

Danny and Erik moved over to the side of the house next to the abandoned one. Danny crawled to the basement window closest to the back. He figured the suspects were all in the front, so he'd have a better chance of not being heard if he stayed in the back.

Danny checked the window. It was old and filthy. He couldn't see much inside. The window was locked. It had a latch on the inside. Danny
pulled out a knife and jammed it in the opening in the base of the window. He felt the blade hit the latch. He applied more pressure, and there was a soft creaking noise as the latch gave way.

Danny pushed the window in slowly and stuck his head inside. It was dark, but he didn't see anything. He pulled out his gun and pushed himself in headfirst. Going in feetfirst would have been smarter, but he wanted to see whatever there was waiting for him inside.

Hanging inside the basement, he found it empty. Nothing but old furniture and rotting cardboard boxes.