Linwood Barclay: Bad Guys

I shrugged. “Sounds worth going. Even to get a feature out of it. But I don’t think I’m in the market to buy anything. Sarah was pretty adamant this morning. It’s just not in the budget.”

“Let’s just go, then. I’ve been, even when I wasn’t looking for a car, bought one, sold it a week later for five thou more. It’s just after lunch. I’ll pick you up.”

We sat for a few minutes quietly, watching cars go past Brentwood’s in both directions. The store window lights had been dimmed by half, casting soft shadows on half a dozen headless mannequins decked out in expensive menswear. “That where you get your stuff?” I asked. Lawrence was dressed in a pair of black slacks, a dark silk shirt, and a black sports jacket that I guessed cost more than everything I had in my closet at home.

“Sometimes. Brentwood promised me a new suit if I find out who’s been hitting his store, but now, after last night, I don’t know. It’s hard to feel we’ve been doing our job very well.”

“You got anyone else helping you, now that Miles is…” I hesitated, “gone?”

“No. Thing is, they’re not going to be hitting Maxwell’s now. Next most likely target is here.”

“Why aren’t the cops out here, too? After what happened last night?”

“They promised to take a run by, step up patrols. Speak of the devil.” A city police car approached, slowed as it went past Brentwood’s, then kept going. “But they haven’t got enough people to stake out every place that might get hit. So that’s why you and I are sitting here.”

Moments after the police car had disappeared, a red, lowered Honda Accord coupe with a set of flashy after-market wheels slowed as it drove by the store. The windows were tinted, making it impossible to make out who or how many were inside. “Anything?” I said.

Lawrence looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. Maybe. But we’re really looking for a truck or SUV. Maybe this guy’s a lookout, cases the place, then calls his buds. Can’t even see with the dark windows.” The Accord moved on. “Looked like just one guy, but I couldn’t be sure. It’s easy enough to remember, with the chrome rims, so if we see it again, might be worth checking out.” He had a notepad on his lap and scribbled something down.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The Honda’s license plate,” he said. The guy was quick. I hadn’t even thought to look at the plate.

That reminded me to dig out my own reporter’s notepad, make a few notes. I scribbled “red Honda” and “waiting” and “doughnuts.”

“So, you were a cop,” I said.

Lawrence nodded. “Went on my own about three years ago, still have plenty of friends on the force. They send work my way, help me out when I need a license plate ID, that kind of thing, which I’ll be asking them for in the morning.”

“Why’d you leave?”

Lawrence kept looking out through the windshield, chewing on a bit of double chocolate, never taking his eyes off the scene in front of Brentwood’s. “Oh, I don’t know. Differences of opinion, I guess.” He paused. “Hello.”

A big black SUV rolled past us. The windows were even darker than those on the Honda, and looked as black as the doors and fenders.

“That’s one of those whaddya-call-thems,” I said.

“An Annihilator,” Lawrence said. “They used them in the army, then regular folk wanted to get them. So they gussied them up with power steering, CD players, air bags, and now soccer moms can drop their kids off in something that could be used to launch surface-to-air missiles. Fucking ridiculous.”

The Annihilator slowed as it passed on the opposite side of the street, in front of Brentwood’s. Lawrence’s entire body seemed to tense. He turned off Erroll and wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. I felt a tingle work its way through me, like I’d put a toe into ice water.

The towering sport utility vehicle inched ahead a bit more, then the brake lights went off, and the Annihilator continued up the street.

“Interesting,” said Lawrence.

“I thought you said they wouldn’t come back tonight,” I said.

“I might have made a mistake. It was bound to happen eventually.”

Suddenly I thought of the license plate. “Did you get the plate number?” I asked.

“It had one of those opaque covers over it,” Lawrence said. “Couldn’t make it out. Maybe, if it comes around again.”

I had a sip of my coffee, made a couple more notes. “Red Honda,” Lawrence said. “Coming this way. Can’t see the wheels, not sure whether it’s the same one. Come here.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Just come here,” he said, pulling me toward him and slipping his arms around me in an embrace. His cheek was pressed up against mine, his lips just to the side of my own. He felt warm, and there was a scent of aftershave. Hesitantly at first, I raised my right arm and slipped it around his shoulder.

As the Honda drove by, Lawrence casually moved his head around to give it a better look. Even with Lawrence’s head pressed up against mine, I could see that this car had simple hubcaps.

“Not our car,” Lawrence said, freeing me from his embrace and leaning back up against his window. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get fresh. I was afraid, had it been the same car, he was going to make us. Two guys sitting in a car at night, that’s a surveillance. Two guys going at it, well, that’s something else. And congratulations on not freaking out.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Not to worry,” he said. “You’re not my type anyway.”

I gave that a moment. “What do you mean, I’m not your type?”

Lawrence glanced over. “I’m just saying, if you were gay, you wouldn’t be the kind of guy I’d go for.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Nothing personal,” Lawrence said.

“Of course not,” I said. As if it could be anything but.

“You could dress a little better,” he said.

We were both quiet for a moment. There was no traffic on the street. “So, let me try again,” I said. “Why’d you leave the force?”

Lawrence breathed out, sounded tired. “This isn’t for your feature.”

I slipped my pen through the metal spiral at the top of my notepad. “Go ahead.”

“I’d made detective about eight, nine years ago, I guess, and towards the end, last year or so, I was partnered with this guy, Steve Trimble, the guy you met last night. Okay guy, knew him back when we were both in uniform. Married, had a kid who must be in college by now. Didn’t seem to have any hang-ups working with a guy who was not only black, but gay.”

“The rest of the department, they knew?”

“I’m not keeping any secrets, man. This is who I am. You don’t like it, you can kiss my ass. Trimble seemed okay with it, we got along well, I got to know his wife, I’d go over to his place sometimes, hang out.

“We got a call one night. We’re plainclothes now, detectives, and we’re working some case, can’t remember what, but a call comes over, some sounds of gunfire in the west end, the warehouse district. We were a block away, I guess, so I thought maybe we should just take a stroll by, and Steve thinks okay, why not. So we turn off from this street of row houses, which is probably where the call came from, someone hearing shots, and we’re driving nice and slow, windows down, looking and listening for anything suspicious. And the thing is, it could be nothing, you know? Some old lady, hears a car backfire, she calls 911.

“We’re driving down between these two big industrial buildings when suddenly this car comes screaming around the corner ahead of us, one of these low-slung rice machine jobs with the dark-tinted windows, and Steve slides a flashing red light onto the roof, pulls across the street to block his way. Might be nothing, right, but it is suspicious, so few cars down there, this one appearing out of nowhere.