J Bertrand - Back on Murder

“No, but think of it,” Ordway says. “Why did he do it here? There’s gotta be a reason. It could be anything, I guess. Maybe he grew up in one of those houses over there, or maybe he was on his way somewhere important and decided to pull over and get it done with.”

Lorenz gives a dismissive snort. “Or it has nothing to do with the place. He’s drinking, he’s depressed, whatever, and so he’s just driving around aimlessly. What matters isn’t where he’s going on the road; it’s where he’s going in his head. And when he gets there” – he points a finger at his temple, cocks his thumb back – “pop. End of story.”

I leave them to theorize in peace.

The captain has long since departed the scene, so I offer Bascombe, who’s conferring with the crime-scene technicians, a ride back downtown. He declines, saying he’ll tag along with one of the guys and leave me to it. I’m relieved. I need some time alone to think through my plan of attack. Since they were close colleagues, I’ll have to talk with both Keller and Salazar, but before I do that, I want some kind of leverage. Otherwise they’re going to give me the same story they previewed for the captain.

There are only two places I think of to get what I need. Bridger’s autopsy findings, which at the most optimistic estimate won’t be available until late in the day, and Thomson’s art studio. If he had anything worth hiding, maybe that’s where he’d have left it. The keys rattle in my pocket, begging to be used.

And then Brad Templeton calls. I’d forgotten all about my commitment to him, and my first impulse is to dodge. But the man’s a bloodhound in his own right, and it’s just possible I can put him to work. Like I said, I don’t think everything should be left to the police. Sometimes a private citizen needs to step up.

“What do you know about an hpd officer named Reginald Keller? He runs some kind of Homeland Security-related squad downtown.”

“Never heard of him,” Templeton says. “Should I have?”

“I want you to do me a favor, Brad. Take a look at this guy and see what you find. My contact in Internal Affairs leads me to believe he’s the subject of ongoing investigations, which means there’s a story there for you.”

“Not the one I’m after, though.”

“Think of it as something extra. My captain’s put me back to work, so there’s nothing I can do for you at the moment on the other thing – ”

“You’re off the task force?”

“I’m keeping a hand in,” I say, not wanting him to wriggle off the hook. “Do this for me and you’ll not only get the IAD story but I’ll give you what you need on Hannah Mayhew, too. It’s a twofer. You can’t beat that.”

The wheels are turning on Templeton’s end of the line and I know better than to keep talking. After some audible groans and sighs, he finally relents. I repeat Keller’s name and give him Salazar, too, along with everything I know about Comprehensive Risk Assessment. By the time he’s finished writing, there’s an energetic note in his voice.

“You’re gonna follow up on this, right?” I ask.

I hear his pen rat-tat-tatting against the receiver. “You take care of me, man, and I’ll take care of you.”

“Deal.”

On the way over, I try Cavallo’s phone, hoping to make my apologies for ditching the task force. Not that I’d had a choice, not really, but I didn’t want her thinking I was ungrateful, especially for the good advice last night.

It’s not Cavallo I’m abandoning, though. It’s Hannah.

Detectives are reassigned all the time. I took a shot at the Mayhew case and struck out. I did what I could for the girl, and now it’s up to Cavallo. That’s the logic, anyway. Only this isn’t about logic. I’m turning my back on the girl. Moving on. Like it never mattered in the first place. Like it was just another job. The phone rings, Cavallo doesn’t answer, and in my mind the luminescent face of Hannah Mayhew starts to dim.

I leave a message and hang up.

The address is on Morgan Street, a couple of blocks north of Westheimer between Montrose and Bagby, a tight-packed warren of blocks where newly built modernist houses and condos sit cheek by jowl with run-down duplexes and wood-paneled apartment blocks. The sidewalks disappear and reappear, some patches of road pristine and others as fissured as a polar ice cap of concrete. Hipsters and homeless mingle on the block, shiny Volvos and Mini Coopers parallel parking alongside aging rust buckets.

The place I’m looking for is a two-story redbrick affair with tattered awnings over the ground-floor windows. Seventy-five years ago it could have been a factory or a warehouse, but now it has that long-abandoned look, with grass growing up through the sidewalks and the wood-trimmed window splintered with rot. The signs of occupation are slight, the sort of markers left by squatters rather than developers. The original front door, approached by a short flight of cracked steps, has been replaced by a glass commercial entrance with hand-painted lettering announcing the morga n st. café & art collective. Near the handle, a series of adhesive credit cards assure the cash-strapped of a ready welcome, and a taped-in sign indicates free Wi-Fi.

Inside, the impression is better. Glossy concrete floors, zinc-topped café tables and aluminum chairs giving off a dull sheen under the track lights. The corners house overstuffed leather chairs, most of them occupied, and a series of rickety bookshelves bursting with fat paperbacks. As I make my way to the counter, a tooled mahogany buttress reclaimed from some old building – possibly this one – repurposed without being restored, no doubt intentionally, several students glance up from their laptops, making me as the Man.

A large square table, another refugee from bygone days, hosts a half-dozen middle-aged ladies crowned in various stages of blond, each of them clutching a copy of the same book. They pause in mid-discussion, turning to watch me pass. Judging by the volume of ink on skin, the multiple piercings, they’re doing their best to keep up with their daughters.

Over the counter, the menu’s inscribed in chalk on four large blackboards suspended from the rafters. I missed my morning coffee, so the first order of business is testing the house blend. The girl on duty is short and lithe, upholstered in nubby fabric from the developing world, dreadlocks tied back, a stack of tribal bangles protecting her wrists. But her glasses say ARMANI on the side.

The coffee is better than good. After two gulps I’m seeing the world with new eyes. My elbow on the counter, I scan the room, realizing I’m one of only three men present. Everyone else is female and white, affecting an affluent version of grunge. The girl behind the counter hovers a few feet off, seeming uncertain how to deal with my lingering presence.

“You have some studios here, is that right?”

She raises a pierced eyebrow, like she wasn’t expecting someone in a jacket and tie to know about the studio space, or even art in general.

“Umm,” she says. “Yeah.” Her ringed thumb indicates a set of double doors to the right of the counter. They’re painted the same matte black as the walls, so they blend in nicely apart from the crack of light running between them. “There aren’t any shows or anything today, though. And the studios are actually private.”

“Nothing is actually private.” I slide a card across the counter, then finish the last of the coffee.

She holds the card close, staring at the words through her designer glasses. It’s a while before she processes the significance.

“You’re a cop?”

“I’m a homicide detective.” I dangle the keys to Thomson’s studio, a long silver door key and a shorter brass one that looks like it might fit a padlock. “I need to take a look inside.”