Author's Note: In honor of Brain Cancer Awareness month, which starts in two weeks, this chapter features an appearance by my late husband (whom I am naming after his dad here, and whom I did indeed banish outdoors if he wanted to smoke.) The photo is Bob at target practice, after brain surgery, which is why he looks a little haggard. The speech difficulties are typical of someone who's had a brain lesion and radiation to the left temporal lobe. Please remember all families struggling against brain tumors in May, and support brain cancer research by donating to the American Brain Tumor Association. Their web address is www.abta.org. Thank you!
***
Aside from his first few weeks back after rehab, John had never chosen to take the elevator up to the squad. Rubbing his eyes and yawning in the elevator the next morning, he understood he was seriously tired. Time was when he could do two back-to-back all night stakeouts and fit in a roll in the hay, and not feel this wiped out. Was this what thirty was going to be like?
On his way down the hall he noticed Mike, far down at the other end, loitering near the stairwell door, obviously waiting for him. John walked over and kept his voice down.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself." Mike pointed to his watch and hissed, "Where've you been? I've been hanging around out here trying not to attract attention for fifteen minutes."
John glanced down at his own watch. So much for his resolution to arrive half an hour early for each shift. "Sorry, man. Late night. What's up?"
"What's not up, is more like it. We got some serious problems here. Marian's bank account has not been touched. Either Clay whacked her, or he's funneling money to her on the sly somehow. How could she disappear for the better part of a week, and not need money?"
John glanced down the corridor. James and Newsome, who had worked overnight, loitered inside the squad room door as Savonn pushed his way in. Must have been a slow night.
"I was thinking about that myself," he whispered. "I drove out last night to pick up my tape and listened on the way home, and this guy doesn't say a word about his escort service at home anymore, even when he's talking on his cell phone. And, of course, no calls from Marian."
Mike blew out a frustrated breath. "This guy knows he's bugged."
"I was thinking that, too. I wasn't worried about it because I was sure Marian would hit up an ATM. I don't know how he found it. I was damned careful. But he talked about the escort business all the time before, with Marian. We've got to find another angle here."
Mike's eyes met his. "I think you better start watching your back."
John raised his eyebrows.
"This guy whacked Pride, and he almost killed you. What if they were working together—not that we want to think that, but what if they were? What hood whacks a successful police contact, if they have a good arrangement going?"
John's first sleep-fogged thought was, that made a good argument that Pride and Clay were not working together.
"Johnny, come on," said Mike. "Last time a police matter went sour for this guy, if that's what happened, two cops got shot. I'm not looking to have that happen again."
"How would he know who bugged him? But let's say he did. We know this guy uses a hitter, right? Nothing Hampton PD had on him indicated Clay was a sharpshooter. If he's planning to hit me, then that guy would be in town, because we know Clay isn't. That's what we should be looking at."
"Then you haven't noticed a tail these past few days, I take it."
"Wasn't looking for one," said John. "But, even if I don't see one, I know where to check for a guy."
***
Evergreen Condominiums sweltered under the early August sun. John drove up the hill past carefully tended flower beds, pulled into a visitor space, and sat wondering who to approach: the older blond lady walking her Yorkie around the complex, or—John squinted and moved his head to peer between the trees at the parking spaces several yards away. A red Mustang convertible was parked there with the top down, and yes, an elderly man wearing a straw hat was sitting in it.
John got out and walked around the corner. The strident tones of Rush Limbaugh floated over from the Mustang, along with the scent of cigar smoke. The man turned to watch him approach, taking a puff and holding the cigar between his fingers.
John walked up, pulled his blazer aside to display his badge, and extended his hand for a shake. "Detective John Robin, Richmond Police Department. How are you today, sir?"
"Earl Everette," said the man. He shook John's hand and then reached to turn down Rush. "What's the haps?" He stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. He had a jovial smile, kind eyes, and a mustache, but the skin around his eyes reminded John of wrinkled, tanned leather, especially his left eye.
"I'm out here trying to follow up some leads on a case we're working on," said John. "Are you out here a lot, with the top down, smoking like this?"
"Yeah," said Everette. "Wife won't let me smoke in the house. Says it ruins the, uh..." He thought a minute, then made a swiping motion back and forth as if he were holding a paintbrush.
"Paint?" John guessed.
Everette pointed with an index finger. "Paint," he said. "Yeah, that's right. The paint."
John glanced behind. The woman with the Yorkie had completed her circuit and disappeared into one of the buildings several yards down. John wondered if he had picked the right resident to interview. If the guy had Alzheimer's or something, he wasn't a reliable informant.
John turned back to the old man. "Ever see any suspicious activity out here?"
"Yeah," said Everette, "over there!" and he pointed to where the woman had just gone inside. "Guy in that building is selling dope out of his apartment."
Clay's building. Things were looking a little brighter. "How do you know that?"
"We have a parking space in front of that building," said Everette, "and there's always somebody in it. My sister—no! My mother—no! My ... shit."
John raised his eyebrows and ventured forth with a guess. "Wife?"
"Yeah, that's right. My wife parks there, and she always has to park over there instead." He pointed in the opposite direction, at a wooden privacy fence all the way at the other end of the complex.
"That's quite a walk," said John.
"Yeah, especially if it's raining or you got ..." Everette trailed off for a minute, then finished with, "Stuff." He held his arms out to indicate packages.
"How do you know it's drugs?" said John.
"People pull in there, different car every time, and they only stay five or ten minutes. You don't have to be too smart to figure out what's going on."
"You ever tell anyone, or inform the police?"
"Told the building supervisor a couple of times. Nothing ever gets done about it, though. I told the guy who lives there, too."
"Oh, yeah?" John stopped himself from leaning over with interest. "Who's that?"
"Big guy. Burly guy with a lot of beef, you know?" Everette raised his hands to indicate big shoulders. "Blond mop of hair. Young guy. I told him I knew he was selling drugs in there, and I didn't care, but he needed to keep his customers out of our space or I was gonna call the police. It's been better since then."
"You know his name?"
"No, no name."
"Who've you seen in there lately?"
"Just one guy in there lately," said Everette. "Come to think of it, maybe the dope sales have stopped, because there's just this one guy this week. Little shrimpy guy." Everette raised his hand about five feet off the ground. "Balder than I am. Kind of young guy. Drives a ..."
Everette trailed off again. He held his hands out and outlined a boxy shape in the air in front of him. "A truck? No. A ... truck. No! Shit. Why am I having so much trouble today?"
John wasn't really sure what he should say. "Do you feel overheated, sir? It is pretty hot out."
Everette took his hat off and showed John his left profile. His hairline ended abruptly behind his left ear. Over his ear, a smattering of fine fuzz did little to conceal a huge surgical scar that made a big upside-down horseshoe over his left ear.
Everette pointed to it. "They took out a big piece of my brain," he said. "Amazing I'm still walking around. I have trouble with words. They call it ay-faze-ij." He tried it again. "Ah-faze-ij. No! Ay-faze-ij. Oh, forget it."
John thought he had heard the word before. He tried to pull it out of the air. "Aphasia?" he guessed.
Everette pointed again. "That's it! Aphasia! You mix up names of things. I'm doing terrible today, sorry."
"I don't think you're doing terrible," John said. "I can understand you pretty well. You were trying to tell me the name of a vehicle."
"Yeah," said Everette. He made the outlining motion again. "Big long thing. A truck. But it's not a truck! Damn it!"
"A Jeep?"
"No, not a Jeep. Big black thing. It's a rental car. Long. High. Seats lots of people. It's a ... it's a Dodge ..."
John guessed again. He felt like he was playing Twenty Questions. "Minivan?"
"That's it! Minivan. It's a Grand ..."
"Caravan?"
"That's what it is. Black Dodge Grand Caravan. Rental car, starts with an E."
"Enterprise," said John.
"That's it. Enterprise. Dodge, Grand, Caravan, minivan," said Everette slowly, as if he were trying to commit the words to memory. "I gotta try to write that down."
"You're pretty observant," said John. ""Thanks for your help."
Everette smiled. "I used to be a detective," he said. "Twenty-five, thirty years."
"Really? What department?"
"Private," said Everette. "No department. Had my own business. Long time."
John reached into his pocket. "Let me give you my card," he said. "If you can get a license plate, that would be fantastic. Give me a call."
Everette squinted at it and tucked it into the one breast pocket of his old ratty T-shirt. "Will do," he said.
"Thanks." John paused. "So how's your health these days? You have a stroke?"
"No," said Everette. "It's brain cancer. Worst one you can have, they say. Half the people diagnosed the same time I was are already ..." he fumbled. He raised both hands over his head and made a pushing up motion with flat palms. "Pushing up pictures. No! Not pictures."
"Daisies?"
"Flowers! Yeah. But I'm still here and up to no good. Can't work anymore, though, 'cause I sleep too much and I don't read too well anymore. I can copy down a license plate and read slow, though."
John put his hand out and Everette shook hands again. "Well, good luck to you, sir. I'll say a prayer for you."
"Thanks. Glad to help out. OK place if the dopers don't take over."
John pointed around the complex, his hand down and close to the car, hidden from prying eyes. "You might see me around here," he said. "I guess I don't have to tell you not to let on. Trying to blend in, you know. Hey—" he spotted a hanging visitor's tag on Everette's rear view mirror. "Mind if I borrow that?"
"No prob," said Everette. "But give it back. Things cost twenty-five bucks." He plucked it off the mirror and held it out.
"Will do," said John. He read it and slipped it into his back pocket. "I see you're in unit ..." He squinted. "3949 B. I have your name and address. I'll be sure to get it back to you. You have a good afternoon."
John wiped sweat from his brow and turned to head back to the car. No sense going over to Enterprise. If the guy was Clay's hitter, he was sure any information on rental forms would be fraudulent. Behind him, Rush Limbaugh started talking again, and a puff of cigar smoke followed John around the corner.
***
Lizzie wasn't home to know whether John came home or not. He had an idea then, and drove home to call Enterprise. He'd rent a car himself.
Enterprise drove out to pick him up. When they got to the office, John showed his badge. Enterprise had three black Dodge Grand Caravans, all rented out currently, all to men, but no one had used Clay's Chesterfield address to rent one. John copied down all the information he could get on them anyway.
He hoped he could do what he had to do next before he needed to be back at the squad, but there was no guarantee. There was the additional problem of Clay's condo being in Chesterfield, but John needed Clay's houseguest to be picked up by Richmond police.
He drove to a McDonald's up the hill and around the corner from Clay's, got a quick bite, then drove back to Evergreen Condominiums. He slipped the parking tag from his pocket and hung it on his rear view mirror, then backed into a visitor spot as close to Clay's building as he could get. Clay's assigned parking space stood empty.
John cranked the seat back and lay down. Heat and humidity crept into the rental car, forcing him to crack the windows. He'd get eaten by mosquitoes, but at least he'd be able to hear cars coming in, even if he did fall asleep. He didn't think he would, though. The bright orange lights in the parking lot after dark would see to that.
This whole thing bothered him. He had never been the kind of cop who broke into cars, who broke into homes, who planted bugs, who planted evidence, and he worried about getting caught. Lately he'd wake from sleep, in the throes of a dream about getting cuffed by IAD, fired, herded into a courtroom as Clay innocently described how he'd discovered that this bad cop had broken into his million-dollar beach house. After he'd put her off two or three times when he woke up, Lizzie had learned to just wrap her arms and legs around him and not ask questions.
And what would happen to Lizzie if he did get caught? She seemed to be doing better lately, but if he got busted somehow and canned, was Lizzie at a point where she could pay the bills on her own? He was beginning to lose hope for Ma, but Lizzie could be on the brink of an amazing opportunity if she could just grab the wheel and manage things.
He tried to calm his nerves by imagining how well she'd do. How could they turn down looks and a smile like hers? He could see her on the cover of Style Weekly: "Local Model Goes Hollywood," and the image made him smile.
He called her while he lay there, letting her know he was on a stakeout and wouldn't be home until early morning. Lizzie said she had a meeting with her new acting teacher, and if he wasn't home pretty early, they might miss each other.
Then, after a while, waiting for a black minivan that never came, John dozed off.