Joel Goldman - Shakedown

I stopped on the sidewalk in front of Latrell’s house. The dogs had quieted, the low hum of late-season cicadas filling the void. A third of the moon hung in the sky, cool light on a cool night, the seasons shifting from summer to fall, an easy passage marked by hard dying.

The house next door to his would have blocked Latrell’s view to the north, making it impossible for him to have seen the?eeing man. Though he had told Ammara Iverson that he was asleep at the time the murders were committed, he would have been awakened by the sirens, as was everyone else in the neighborhood. Someone should have seen the man. I hoped that the follow-up canvassing had produced a witness that made him real.

My hope triggered another memory, one of omission, the kind that made me instinctively distrust every eyewitness I’d ever interrogated. I was looking for evidence of someone who may have committed the murders or been a witness to them; someone who might have seen Oleta Phillips standing beneath the tree, her hands bunched around bundles of twenty-dollar bills; someone who may have killed her for what she’d seen, not for the money she held. There was possibly no one more important to the investigation of these crimes and yet I hadn’t breathed a word of his possible existence to my squad.

I knew all the excuses and explanations. People get so excited or traumatized by a crime that they often forget details, not knowing what they know until they have time for re?ection or until a skilled interrogator walks them through the moment frame by frame. Even then, such recovered memories are often tainted by time, bias, or the witnesses’ own suggestibility.

I was one of those people the night of the murders, not only a witness to the mysterious?eeing man but a participant in my own sideline drama of shakes, shudders, and convulsions. My memory could be real or it could be pure confabulation. It meant nothing by itself, though it could lead to everything.

Not all leads are created equal. They are appraised based on the credibility of the source. At the moment, I had less credibility than a politician swearing he did not have sex with that woman. The surest way to make certain my lead about the?eeing man was ignored was to tell my squad what I thought I might have seen.

I started to walk back to my car when I heard a muf?ed, high-pitched bark, more like a burst of rapid-fire yaps. The front door to Latrell’s house was open, a splash of light marking Ruby’s swift?ight down the front steps to where I stood. She planted her front paws on my leg, her tail wagging fast enough to fall off, her joy at seeing me expressed in the puddle she deposited at my feet.

I scratched behind her ears and hoisted her to eye level. She rewarded me with a lick on my cheek and a playful swipe at my nose. I put her down and she immediately rolled on her back, legs spread so I could rub her belly.

“She act like she’s your dog.”

I’d been so preoccupied with the dog and Latrell had been so quiet in his approach that I didn’t realize he was there until he spoke. He was a half a head shorter than me, round-shouldered, and soft, just as he’d appeared on TV.

Despite his innocuous looks and the clean pass Ammara had given him, I knew better than to dismiss him as a suspect. Most murder victims know their killer. Neighbors always qualify. He lived close enough to Marcellus to have shot everyone and gone home before Ammara rang his doorbell. If anything, his easy innocence should give me pause. I’d learned that lesson with Kevin’s killer.

“We met the other night. I found her hiding under Marcellus Pearson’s bed.”

“You a cop?”

“Jack Davis. FBI.”

“Lemme see some ID.”

“I’m not here on official business.”

“You’re standing out here in front of my house tellin’ me you’re FBI. Show me some ID.”

He was asking, polite, not demanding, more curious than defensive. I showed him my driver’s license.

He handed it back to me. “That’s not an FBI ID.”

“I’m taking some time off.”

“They take your ID when you go on vacation?”

Same tone. Just trying to understand. No offense intended or taken. I started to shake, so I bent down to pet the dog, hoping to break the rhythm or distract Latrell’s attention. Neither worked.

“Why you shaking?”

I stood, letting the spasm pass, taking a breath. “I don’t know.”

“That why you don’t have your FBI ID anymore?”

I tried half a smile. “Yeah. Hard to catch the bad guys when I shake.”

“But you say you were here the other night?”

I wasn’t certain how I’d lost control of the situation, letting him question me, but I didn’t mind. He’d already been interviewed, maybe more than once. He’d want to ask his

own questions before he’d consider answering any of mine.

“I was.”

“Hey, were you the guy in the backyard?”

I nodded.

“At first, I thought you musta been the one that did it, the way the cops surrounded you. Then I saw how one of them helped you and the rest of them just stood there. Didn’t look like they was arresting you or nothing.”

“You saw all that?”

“Watched from my kitchen, out the back window. One of them walked you out like there was something wrong with you. All them dead bodies make you start shaking?”

I shook my head and smiled again. “Nope. But that’s when the people I work with caught me shaking.”

Latrell laughed. “I guess that’s how come you on vacation and don’t have any FBI ID.”

“You’re right about that.”

“So what you doing outside my house?”

“I was looking for this dog, for Ruby. I got worried that she didn’t have anyone to take care of her. Looks like I was wrong.”

“Couldn’t leave her on the street. Them Dobermans and rottweilers eat her for breakfast if they get half a chance.”

“Well, you did the right thing, taking her in.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, looking at me, then at the dog.

“You want her?”

I did. Not only because Kate had told me to get a dog, at least until Friday, and not because I was living alone in a house too big and empty for one person. I pictured Keyshon playing with the dog. Then I imagined Kevin playing with a dog we never had. Ruby linked those images, softened them for me. Still, I couldn’t take the dog from Latrell.

“She’s yours. You’re taking care of her.”

“Only ‘cause no one else would. I keep a neat house. That is not a neat dog. Wasn’t raised right. Not her fault. You take her.”

He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, both looking like they’d just been pressed. I noticed his yard for the first time. Even in the dark, I could see that it was neatly mowed, the grass next to the sidewalk and steps cleanly edged. A row of close-cropped shrubs ran beneath the front windows, concrete?owerpots filled and blooming atop the stairs leading to his door.

“You keep a nice-looking place. You own or rent?”

Latrell stood a couple of inches taller. “It’s mine.”

“Good for you. How long have you owned it?”

“A while.”

“You’re pretty young to have been able to buy a house.”

“My momma left me some money.”

I studied his empty face. If there were another story hidden beneath it, someone else would have to dig it up.

“Any idea who owns Marcellus’s house?”

He shook his head. “Not my business.”

Ruby jumped up, bracing herself against my leg again.

“You’re sure you don’t want to keep her?” I asked him.

“I didn’t want nothing to happen to her, but I can’t have a dog messing up my house. You don’t take her, I got to do something with her.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”