George Pelecanos - DC Noir

Harrick. He was working midnights this week.

Cort pulled his cell phone out of his satchel and punched in the numbers to Harrick’s pager, which he’d memorized. He put the phone to his ear and the pager chirped. Cort punched in the number to his cell phone, punctuated it by hitting 9-1-1, then sent the page as he reached Father Dave.

The priest said, “Is there a problem? The officer didn’t look too happy.”

“No problem,” Cort replied, nonchalantly. “That detective has to get back to headquarters, but I just paged another investigator. One of the best on the force, and he’s bilingual.” To the workers, in Spanish: “Don’t worry, the detective’s on his way. He’s Latino, he’ll speak to you in Spanish.

Father Dave said, “Well, okay.” The workers nodded. Cort threw them a tight little smile.

Three minutes later, Cort’s cell phone rang. He stepped just out of earshot of the others. “Phil, thanks for calling back so quickly. Where are you?”

“I’m on Georgia Avenue, I’ve been working my network all night. I’m headin’ over to see my girl Darlene now. What’s up?”

Phil was a detective with NSID, the citywide Narcotics and Special Investigations Division. His network consisted of winos, dope fiends, hookers, gamblers, and street-level crack slingers, along with legitimate business owners and straight-arrow residents. His wife and five-year-old daughter were at home in Arlington.

Darlene was a slender redheaded Assistant U.S. Attorney who prosecuted gang conspiracies. She lived in Capitol Hill. Darlene was Phil’s side dish.

“I’m in Mount Pleasant, and I’ve got a situation.”

Cort explained quickly, about the murder, Father Dave and the three witnesses, and Piazza.

“Rockhead Piazza,” Phil said. “Imbecile.”

“Felony-stupid,” Cort agreed.

“They still there?”

“Yeah, Father Dave too. But I don’t think they’ll be hanging around long. I don’t think they’ll cooperate if they’re not interviewed tonight.” Cort paused, letting the idea sink in. Then, “Look, I know you’re not Homicide, but could you take their statements. They saw the killer. This could be a quick lock-up.”

Phil sighed.

Cort said, “Come on, this is a real murder. The victim and one of his buddies have gang tattoos, but they’re working guys now. This doesn’t vibe gang beef.”

Phil thought about it.

Cort said, “I’ll get good play on this one.”

Phil was Cort’s best source. Phil liked press. In a resigned tone of voice, he conceded, “All right. I’ll call over to Homicide and smooth things out with Rockhead or whoever’s running the shift. I’ll tell them I got a tip. Can you keep those witnesses there for five minutes?”

Cort looked over to Father Dave and the three witnesses and gave them a thumbs-up. The four men nodded back.

“Yeah.”

“Darlene’s been waiting up. She’s gonna be pissed.”

Phil killed the flashing cherry light on the dash of his unmarked sedan and pulled up across from the corner where Cort, Father Dave, and the three witnesses were waiting.

Cort ambled over and met him as he stepped out of the sedan.

Phil was a little taller, a little leaner, and, at forty, seven years older than Cort. His black hair was tinged with gray and thinning on top. He had thick eyebrows, brown eyes, and a neat mustache. His mother was Costa Rican, his father was Dutch, and Phil was fair-skinned.

Cort was five-foot-nine, with olive skin, brown eyes, and wavy black hair. If Phil were darker, or if Cort were lighter, they might have passed for brothers.

Phil wore white canvas Converse high-tops, faded blue jeans, a yellow polo shirt, and a thin blue nylon jacket. The get-up made him look like a suburban dad.

Cort knew otherwise; the front of the jacket covered Phil’s shoulder rig, which contained his department-issued Glock 9. The back of the jacket concealed the leather-covered metal sap and handcuffs that were always clipped to the back of his waistband. A .32 Smith & Wesson revolver was strapped to his right ankle.

“You know Father Dave?” Cort said as they crossed the street.

Of him.”

“I’ll introduce you. I told the witnesses that you aren’t interested in their immigration status.”

Cort made the introductions. Phil shook hands with everyone.

Father Dave said, in Spanish, “These gentlemen would like to help the investigation. But they don’t want to bring any legal trouble onto themselves.”

In impeccable Spanish, Phil responded, “I want to find the killer. There won’t be any problems.”

Father Dave nodded. Chicago nodded. Phil pulled a notebook and pen from his jacket.

Cort said, “Excuse me, I need to check in with the office.” He walked across the street, pulled the cell phone out of his satchel, and pretended to make a call. He didn’t want to be within earshot of Phil’s interviews. It could boomerang.

Cort had met Phil a year before, at a drug raid in the Barry Farms public housing project in Southeast. Two weeks later, Phil invited him to a drug raid in the Trinidad section of Northeast. Phil and his squad were decked out in Ninja outfits and bulletproof vests. He told Cort to stay close. Phil’s squad stormed a two-story row house. Three slingers surrendered. A fourth ran upstairs. Phil, another cop, and Cort chased him. They found him inside a bedroom, straddling a window ledge. The punk tried to worm his way off the ledge. Phil holstered his Glock, flew across the room, and grabbed his ankle; the other cop dropped his shotgun, sprinted over, and grabbed the other ankle. Cort stepped close and took notes. The punk pulled a piece from his waistband and, hanging upside down, squeezed off two shots. Wood and plaster exploded. Phil pulled his Glock and shot the punk’s one off. The slinger dropped his piece and screamed. Phil and the other cop pulled him inside. The punk’s foot spewed blood like a small geyser. Phil tied his ski mask around the toe stump. The punk spit at Phil. Phil picked up the shotgun and slammed the butt into the punk’s groin. Phil said, “Listen, Tyrone you don’t ever shoot at the po-lice.” Phil then looked up and saw Cort scribbling. He saw his fellow cop eyeballing Cort, looking real nervous. Phil braced Cort and led him into the hallway. “For the record, I fired my weapon to protect you, my partner, and myself. And that groin shot was off-the-record.” Cort snapped to the Big Picture. He could nail Phil. Write one great story. And no cop would ever talk to him again. He slipped his notebook inside his black leather jacket. “What groin shot?”

A week later, Toeless Tyrone’s public defender hit Cort with a subpoena. The P.D. wanted Cort to validate Tyrone as a civil-rights victim. The Trib’s in-house attorney stiff-armed the subpoena with a blizzard of motions. Cort sweated it for a month. A hearing was held. The judge sided with the Trib Toeless Tyrone pleaded out to a gun violation and assault on a police officer.

Cort learned a valuable lesson: Keep some distance from the story. Don’t put yourself in position to be jammed up.

Cort watched Phil wrap up his interviews. Phil would have let him listen. But suppose Gato’s defense attorney found out? He’d ask what Cort had heard. He’d ask if he knew how a narcotics man ended up on a homicide. He’d expose Cort’s role. Better not to take that chance.

Phil slipped his notebook and pen inside his jacket and shook hands with the witnesses and Father Dave. The priest accompanied the Salvadorans as they walked toward their building.

Cort ambled over to Phil. “What do you think?”

“Gotta get this lowlife motherfucker.”

Cort’s eyebrows went up. He’d never seen Phil take a case personally. “You seem ticked off.”