J Bertrand - Back on Murder

He’s clearly torn between his buddy and the free car, looking one way, then the other, rubbing a hand over his prickly face. Then his eyes fix on me. His expression starts to change. He raises an index finger, trying to place me.

Coleman, that’s his name.

His eyes flare. “You’re – ”

A half-dozen officers suddenly file through the door, taking up positions all around us.

“Wait a second, here,” he says, edging toward his companion and the faraway exit. His eyes dart around, looking for an opening.

Over my shoulder, the door swings shut with a whoosh. That’s the signal. We converge on him all at once, the way we do, swarming a potential threat before it can develop. Coleman’s still at the verbal stage, protesting as the illusion crashes down. No free car. No run of luck. No going home after this. By the time he gets physical, we’ve already cranked him around and pushed his face against the wall, pinning his arms back, securing his wrists with zip ties.

“This ain’t right, now,” he keeps saying. “This ain’t right.”

Meanwhile, his friend starts backing down the corridor, leaving Coleman to fend for himself. He turns to run, then sees another set of officers at the exit, cutting off his escape. That stops him. He leans against the wall, burying his face in his hands.

“It’s me, Detective,” Coleman says. “You know me.”

My mental filing cabinet rattles, then the details flood back. Serving time for robbery up at Huntsville, Coleman found Jesus and started testifying against his former friends, including a trigger man I’d been trying to build a case against for months. My usual skepticism about jailhouse conversion was suspended, since for once the born-again felon followed up with some action. Last I’d heard, he’d gotten early release after a prosecutor and one of the prison chaplains went to bat for him with the parole board.

“I do know you,” I tell him. “What are you doing here?”

He tries to gesture with his pinioned hands. “They said they givin’ away cars in there!”

“Yeah, but not to just anyone. You don’t get one of those invitations unless there’s a warrant on you, Coleman.”

His head droops, eyes closing in defeat. The officers around him exchange a look. Then he glances up with a pleading smile. “But, Mr. March, you gotta help me. It’s true I messed up – ”

“I thought you found Jesus, Coleman.” I get a chuckle from the other cops, which is more gratifying than it should be.

“I found him,” he says, “then I kinda lost him again. But I’m on the path now, sir, and this was just the thing I needed. This car, I mean. So I can drive myself to a job.”

It’s getting hard for the other cops not to laugh.

“There aren’t any cars, boy,” one of them says.

When this sinks in, Coleman’s head drops again. He makes a keening sound and starts struggling to get free. We all press in, squeezing the fight out of him. The whole time I keep shushing him like a mother comforting her child. The less noise we make out here, the better.

The officers at the end of the corridor troop the smaller guy over to us, hands behind his back. He glares at me through wet-rimmed eyes. He can’t be much older than twenty.

“What’s your story?” I ask him.

“I ain’t done nothing. I told you I just tagged along.”

“He my ride,” Coleman says, calm again.

One of the officers hands me the kid’s wallet.

“Your name’s Francisco Rios?”

“Frank,” he says. “Can’t you just let me go?”

“Anybody have the list?”

Almost before the words are out, someone hands me a copy of the guest list. There’s a rugby scrimmage of officers in the corridor, and somehow I’ve taken the lead. It feels nice, I have to admit. I flip through the list. Francisco Rios isn’t on it.

Checking my watch, I figure they’re already processing people inside, calling manageable groups backstage while the loud music and the flashing video screen keep the rest entertained. Behind the curtain, we have a well-oiled assembly line that ends in a series of burglar-barred school buses out back. Until they’re done, we don’t want any distractions. It’s probably best to sit on Coleman and Rios for the time being.

“Let’s head down there,” I say, pointing toward the restrooms.

Coleman follows passively – not that there’s much choice the way we’re frog-marching him – but Rios digs in his heels.

“I haven’t done anything! You can’t do this!”

I leave Coleman to help grapple with the kid. In spite of his size, he’s got some fight in him. Somebody gets hold of his bound wrists, though, turning them into a rudder. Rios squeals and tries to twist free, but for all intents and purposes the struggle is over.

“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Hey, man. Listen!”

“Will you shut up?”

“I gotta show you something, all right? Just let me show you.”

He’s nothing if not amusing. I signal a halt so we can hear what he’s got to say.

“Look in my wallet,” he tells me. “In the part with the money.”

I break into a smile. “You trying to bribe me, Mr. Rios?”

“Just look. There’s a card in there. Call that number, okay? Call it and he’ll tell you to let me go.”

We’ve got nothing better to do. I take a look, and sure enough there’s a business card tucked behind a wad of crinkled Washingtons.

“Call him,” Rios says.

The card is one of ours. I run my finger over the raised emblem.

The name reads ANTONIO SALAZAR, a detective formerly assigned to the gang murder unit. Now he works on a bogus Homeland Security task force headed up by an old rival of mine. The less said about him, the better. But Salazar is all right. He’s passed a few tips my way over the years, and I’ve returned the favor once or twice. There’s a cellular number inked on the back.

I tap the card against my finger. “This is legit?”

Rios looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Just call.”

“Give him to me,” I say, grabbing his wrists. I pilot him down the hallway to the restroom door, kicking it open and shoving him through. I park him against the sink, tell him to stay there. Then I flip my phone open and make the call.

It rings a couple of times, and then a groggy Salazar picks up.

“What time is it?”

I check my watch. “Noonish. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Long night.” He runs a tap, then makes a jowly sound like a dog shaking itself dry. “Anyway, March, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’ve got a Hispanic male here, about a hundred and fifty soaking wet. Age – ” I consult the license – “twenty-one. Name of Francisco Rios, goes by Frank. That ring any bells on your end?”

I hear a cigarette lighter flick to life, then a long exhale.

“Yeah,” he says. “Frank’s one of my irregulars.”

In the old days, people used to say that whenever a trigger was pulled between the Loop and Beltway 8, Tony Salazar knew who was guilty before the bullet even struck. He had a knack for recruiting informants. Instead of investigating murders, he’d work the phones for half an hour and come back with a name. Usually the right one.

“So what do you want me to do? We rounded him up at the George R. Brown – ”

“Cars-for-criminals?” He chuckles in a way I don’t like. “I thought he was clean.”

“I haven’t run him, but he’s not on our list.”

Salazar starts making so much sound he could work as a foley artist for the movies. Bare feet slapping tile, newspaper wrinkling, even what I’m guessing is a half-empty coffee carafe being slotted back onto the burner. All the while he hums a frenetic tune, like he’s sorting something out in his head, and having a hard time.