Joel Goldman - Shakedown

“Teach me to read micro expressions,” I told her.

“Good morning. I had a lovely time last night and I appreciate that you thanked me for me buying dinner, although I expected more than a good-night kiss in the parking lot for my investment.”

It had been an awkward moment when I walked Kate to her car. She leaned into me, hands behind my neck pulling me toward her, and kissed me, her mouth open and urgent. Joy and I had been married twenty-eight years and had dated two years before that. I hadn’t kissed another woman like that since I was a teenager. Even though my marriage was over and I’d fantasized about being with Kate, she caught me by surprise. My re?exive fidelity to my future former wife made me clumsier than when I groped Sue Ellen Thorpe in a darkened hallway during a junior high school dance. I mumbled something about being tired and went home alone.

“Give me another chance. I start slow but I finish strong.”

“Good to know. Maybe we can even harness your shaking for a higher and better use somewhere besides the IHOP parking lot. Now what were you saying about micro expressions?”

I’d appreciated her directness the first time we’d had lunch, when she told me that it didn’t matter what we wanted, we couldn’t have it, not then. Things were different now and her frank sexual banter was another reminder that it was time for me to move on. I didn’t know if she’d been like this when she was married. I didn’t know anything about the relationships she may have had since she was divorced five years ago. I only knew that I wanted her and that, by some unlikely alignment of the planets, she wanted me.

I tried to remember whether I had ever felt that way about Joy, believed that I must have, but couldn’t summon the memories. We’d driven our love for each other into the ground, leaving it cold and hard.

“I want to go to the college of facial knowledge.”

“Classes start this weekend. They run Friday night to Monday morning.”

“How about an advance session? I’m having dinner tonight with Wendy and Colby Hudson. If he?ares his nostrils, I need to know whether he’s lying or just has allergies.”

“You want to learn how to read micro expressions by tonight? What are you, drunk? This isn’t some parlor trick you can learn to do in one easy lesson. Could you teach me how to kick in a door, plant a wiretap, or work undercover before lunch?”

“Not a chance.”

“Exactly. So stop being stupid. I’m offering you a weekend of personal instruction and you’re about to blow it, big-time.”

“Personal instruction?”

“Very personal.”

“So today is not a good day for a quickie course?” I asked, finally getting into the?ow.

“Today, no, but hold onto that option. I do have another idea, which happens to be a good one. I’ll join you for dinner and interpret afterward.”

I was never good at waiting, letting a case come to me, depending on a drug dealer, embezzler, or terrorist to do me a favor by screwing up. I got in my car, a two-year-old Chevy Impala, and drove back to Marcellus’s neighborhood. There was a chance that my squad would be canvassing the neighborhood again and following up on leads. I didn’t want to put any of them in a tough spot, forcing them to report to Troy that I had been nosing around. I decided to tour the surrounding blocks first for any sign of my people. If the streets were empty, I’d take a shot at the neighbors.

A KCK patrol car and an unmarked Crown Victoria were parked in front of a house three blocks to the west of where Keyshon, his father, mother, and the Winston brothers had been killed. Two uniformed cops were milling around in the front yard. I slowed down when I saw Marty Grisnik standing on the sidewalk talking to a heavyset black man nearly as tall as he was. Grisnik glanced at me and then barked something to one of his officers, who?agged me down, motioning me to the curb.

Grisnik walked slowly to my car. He bent down, his broad frame cutting off the sun and the cool morning breeze coming through my open window.

“You lost?” he asked me.

“If I was, I’m found.”

Grisnik examined the length of my car, running his hand across the paint. “Not much of a ride for an FBI agent.”

“It’s paid for.”

“Good thing, too. Last time I saw you, I wouldn’t have given much for your chances of getting a car loan. You doing all right?”

“No complaints that count.”

“I hear they put you on the shelf.”

“Just temporary.”

“That why no one over there can remember your name when I called looking for you? Had to talk to someone in human resources just to find out that you were on leave. After your performance the other night, it wasn’t hard to figure out what happened.”

The law-enforcement community is a small one, smaller since 9/11. We were all told to put aside the petty jealousies and resentments that fed the stereotypes local cops and feds had of each other and learn to play nice. For the most part, we had succeeded. One of the unintended consequences of those closer relationships and better communications was that it was harder than ever to keep a secret.

“Out of sight, out of mind. You didn’t have your officer?ag me down to inquire about my health. What do you want?”

“Do me a favor, get out of the car. I’m too old to stay bent over like this. I stay down here much longer and my officers will need a crowbar to get me to stand up straight.”

Grisnik stepped back, giving me room to open the car door. Up close, he wasn’t old. He was a powerhouse, a point he made by putting me in his shadow.

“When you asked for my help with your fugitive warrant, you didn’t want to tell me what was going down,” he said. “I got that. I didn’t like it, but I got it. But you gave me your word that your case, whatever it was, wouldn’t blow up. Next thing I know, five people are dead. That’s not blown up. That’s a goddamn explosion.”

“We had no way of knowing that was going to happen.”

He started to jab his finger at me. I blocked him with my palm, firmly pushing his hand away, letting him know that he couldn’t treat me like a suspect or a rookie cop, no matter how angry he was. He took a breath, keeping his voice low, his words clipped.

“That doesn’t mean squat to me or the people who are dead. Three men, a woman, and a child were murdered in my city. I take that personally.”

“You could have shut Marcellus Pearson down any time you wanted. If you had done your job, he and the Winston brothers would be in jail. Jalise Williams and her son would be alive. I don’t have to listen to you blame me for what happened to them.”

My chin bobbed, my voice trembled, and my eyes squeezed shut as I finished my self-defense. Grisnik gave me some room, letting me settle. I waved my hand.

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m not going to foam at the mouth.”

“Good. That’s what happens to a dog with rabies. Back when I was on patrol, I had to shoot a rabid dog one time to keep him off a little kid. Tore me up to shoot that dog. I’d feel almost as bad if I had to shoot you.”

“I’m touched. So why didn’t you bust Marcellus?”

“I work Robbery and Homicide, not drugs. Our drug squad did bust him, more than once. Sometimes the house was clean, like he knew we were coming. Other times, we had problems with the arrests. Prosecutor wouldn’t take the case or the judge would throw out the evidence.”

“That’s why we went after him and why I couldn’t bring you into the loop.”

“I know that. What I don’t get is why the FBI doesn’t want my help catching whoever killed those people.”

“Troy Clark told you he didn’t want your help?”

” ‘Course he didn’t tell me that. Said the exact opposite. Told me how he’d be leaning on me all the way. Then when I offered to send one of my detectives over to work with him, he said he’d get back to me. Hasn’t happened.”