Jonathon King - A Visible Darkness

He took the paperwork without a word. He was a young guy, mid-twenties, wearing a hard and uncomfortable bulletproof vest under his uniform shirt.

"You're the wrong color in the wrong place at the wrong time, Mr., uh, Freeman."

I turned my head to look more fully at him and he seemed older and dumber all at once. He said something behind the cab to his partner and then into the microphone clipped to his shoulder lapel, "Sixteen, Echo One."

"Echo One," came the response. The voice sounded familiar.

"We got a stop here off Twenty-seventh on the drug run that fits your BOLO on suspicious persons."

"Echo One responding."

The cop again said something to his partner and then began writing off my license.

"White man in the wrong place," I said, unable to keep my mouth shut. "That's a real specific BOLO, officer."

The cop stopped writing, but didn't look up.

"Freeman," he said. "Is that Jewish?"

The question was spoken, but mouthed into the air, like he was just pondering the possibility. I tightened my mouth. This time I did keep it shut, and waited for Richards to arrive.

When a dark SUV finally pulled up, I popped the handle to get out but the movement rattled the patrol cop. He was back leaning on the open door of his cruiser and fumbled his pad and reached for his holster.

"Calm down, son," I said, raising my palms. "I know these people."

"Hey, hey. Tranquilo Taylor," said the Cuban detective climbing out of the SUV's driver side.

"This man is the infamous Max Freeman," he said with a flourish. "Both a friend to, and a pain in the ass of all law enforcement."

Detective Vincente Diaz came around the truck with his junior executive smile in place and his hand extended.

"Max, Max, Max. Long time, amigo. Sherry said she had seen you and here you are, in the flesh and hip deep in the middle of another of your investigations."

He shook my hand vigorously and as usual I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or friendly.

Diaz had partnered up with Richards when she came into the detective bureau. The wiry strength in his small hands offset the pleasant, white-toothed smile.

"Hey, Max. What, fishing is no good out in the jungle? You got to come slumming in our pond?"

"I know you better, Vince," I said. "Your partner tells you everything."

He looked at me with that playful raised eyebrow.

"No, no, no. Not everything, eh?"

Richards was coming around the SUV, looking at the patrol officer.

"We got this, Taylor," she said.

"Yeah, well, I still got to take a photo for the field investigation file," he said, showing the old Polaroid he kept in the back seat.

"Believe me, Taylor," she said. "Neither your L.T. nor Chief Hammonds want to see this guy's name on an F.I. card."

The cop shrugged and facetiously muttered, "Yes, ma'am," and got back into his car, put it in gear and backed away.

"Max," Richards said, finally acknowledging me.

"Detective."

"You got something for us, or is this just a coincidence?"

"I do have some bait out. No bites yet," I said.

"Couldn't have been out there long."

"Actually, I wasn't sure where the current might take it."

"But this lovely area is a possibility?"

"Always."

Diaz was watching us, like a fan at a bad tennis match.

"You two going to go on like this for a while? Cause I'll go roust some dumpster divers or something else more productive if you want?"

Richards smiled.

While all three of us leaned against the box of my truck, Richards told me the sheriff's office had moved to step up their presence and visibility in the zone. Although detectives were rarely called to the street without a specific crime, the honchos had sent down word to have certain suspicious situations checked out.

"Like…"

"A white guy in a fancy truck sitting alone watching the busiest dope corner in the county," Diaz finished my response.

"I got to think you're off on this theory of yours, Freeman," he continued. "Our guy doing the rapes has to be some low-life just shagging girls when he can. He's got to be some zone cat and if these people would just wise up and help us out with some information, we'd have his ass sitting on Old Sparky up at Raiford."

He made sure his voice was loud enough for the handful of residents still on their front steps to hear. Two more cars started turning down the street but quickly straightened their wheels and rolled away.

"My esteemed partner believes your theory about a local acting as a hit man for the insurance companies is marginal," Richards said.

"How is some moke from in here going to hook up with that kind of scam anyway?" Diaz broke in again. "These are not your rocket scientists of crime out here. Even if your motive is right, Freeman, the two cases are in no way linked. Your guy is too smart. Maybe out-of-town work. Carlyle there would call up and spill on anybody who was out here fuckin' with his territory by bringing in more scrutiny by us," he said, pointing to the empty stool the dealer had abandoned.

"Carlyle?"

"Yeah," Diaz grinned. "The dealer. His momma probably named him so he'd grow up tough. Instead he grows up and takes on the illustrious street name Brown Man and makes it as a drug peddler just to get her back."

"You ever have a conversation with Carlyle?" I said.

"One-sided," Diaz said.

"So he's not real forthcoming with information?"

"But he'd still give up some cheap local out snuffing old ladies just to keep his trade moving."

"And nobody's got a C.I. who's close to him?"

Diaz looked around again. Some of the neighbors had wandered back into their homes, some had pulled out lawn chairs as if an early evening show was only minutes away.

"What can I say, amigo? You see these people out when the drug shop is open? No. They're afraid," he said. "Carlyle got his territory set, for now. And believe me, the last thing he wants is local trouble."

As we talked I kept cutting my eyes to Richards, caught her watching. The sun was well down but the air was still warm.

"You two done tilting at windmills for now?" she said.

Diaz shook his head.

"Hard as nails and literate too, man," he said. "You ever have a partner like this, Max?"

Richards was silent, listening for my answer.

"Hey," I finally said. "Cervantes was Hispanic. What do I know?"

The radios on both of their belts ran a simultaneous string of static and then squawked, "Fourteen, Echo One."

Diaz snatched the call, lowered the volume and walked around to the front of the truck. Richards and I stood in a quiet that seemed oddly uncomfortable.

"The skeptic," she finally said. "He only wishes he didn't care."

I grinned and looked at her. Even in the dark her eyes were showing color.

"You got something going?" she said.

"I got a long shot out," I said.

"No. I mean tonight."

"Uh, no," I said. "I mean no, not really."

"Come by later?"

"Sure," I managed.

"I'll make some coffee," she said.

"Okay partner," Diaz interrupted. "We got to hit the road."

Richards turned away and started toward the SUV and Diaz shook my hand.

"I hate to say it, Freeman, but I'll see you," he said with a grin. "Be careful, man."

Eddie slipped between two buildings and into the alley, running from the cold spot on the back of his neck.

He rounded the corner of Twenty-seventh Avenue and pushed the cart east, the loose wheel spinning maniacally, his shadow cast out in front from the last light pole. Who was the white man in the truck? And how could he see him?

Eddie liked routine, and his routine was going to hell. Mr. Harold didn't show. He couldn't get his dope. Momma wasn't talking and now a white man's eyes had looked into him and Eddie was wondering if his invisibility was also gone.