James Bell - Deadlock

“I’ll be here if you need anything,” Holden said. “Arrangements with the house, that sort of thing.”

“I appreciate it.”

“And I’ll be praying for you.”

She felt a scream welling up inside her. It did not issue, but the pressure was intense. “Why wasn’t I there?” she said suddenly. Loudly. “Why wasn’t I with her?” She wanted to grab Holden’s shirt and shake him, shame him out of his assurances, force him to join her in guilt and doubt.

Her mother was gone. There would be no more words. Ever.

Anne was starting her second espresso when she heard a knock. She looked through the peephole and saw an African American man in a sharp brown suit looking directly at her.

“Ms. Deveraux?” he said.

He must have been waiting for the light to change in the hole when she put her eye to it. She still didn’t say anything.

“Detective Markey, D.C. police,” he said. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

Police? “No,” Anne said. She watched him through the fish-eye glass.

“Are you refusing to speak to me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That is quite unusual.”

“I’m busy. Slip your card under the door. I’ll call you.”

“It concerns your boss.”

Anne paused, then thought she’d better get this over with. If he had something on Levering, she had better get it.

“Let me see the badge,” she said. Markey held his shield to the lens. Anne unlocked the door.

“Careful, aren’t you?” Markey said, stepping inside.

“You have no idea,” Anne said. “I’m in a hurry. Can you make this quick?”

“Certainly. You had a run-in with a man yesterday.”

“The homeless guy? He reported it? I can’t believe this. He was…”

“He was what, Ms. Deveraux?”

“He was approaching me in a menacing way.”

“So you maced him?”

“That’s why I carry it. Is this some major case? The guy want money?”

“The guy you took down is a street person. They call him Elijah.”

“Who does?”

“The other street people.”

“Okay, so his name’s Elijah. What do you want from me?”

Markey said, “Well, Elijah is not someone unfamiliar to us. We’ve talked to him before.”

“About?”

“Your boss.”

Anne blinked, feeling very annoyed. She’d been around cops many times, for various reasons, and usually got what she wanted from them. Now this guy thought he could play detective with her, like he was in some bad HBO movie, doing the cat-and-mouse thing. Anne did not do mouse.

“Detective,” she said, “I’ve got a full schedule. Just give me the whole thing in one gulp, and let’s get on with it.”

“Where was Senator Levering on the night of June fourteen?”

Anne felt her throat clenching. “Why?”

“Do you know where he was?”

“Senator Levering has a busy schedule.”

“You know his schedule, you probably tell him where to go and when. You troubleshoot. All the usual stuff. It wouldn’t be hard for you to check your book, or your palm thing, whatever it is you keep a calendar on.”

“Detective, I’m not inclined to check anything until I know the relevance. And what does any of this have to do with that guy on the street?”

Markey said, “You assaulted a witness.”

“Witness?”

“You remember that on June fourteenth, Justice Hollander was hit by a car?”

“Of course. Everybody knows.” Anne tried to keep her voice even.

“She was with someone right before it happened but won’t say who.”

“So? Maybe she wants to save a friend embarrassment or something.”

“Like the senator?”

Anne swallowed. “Come on.”

“About a week after it happened I got a call from the desk that somebody wanted to talk about the accident. Somebody who was probably nuts. It was a slow morning, so I took it. Turned out to be our friend Elijah. And he had a very interesting story to tell.”

“A street person,” Anne said, making it sound as ridiculous as possible.

“That’s what I was saying to myself. He said he was out by the Lincoln Memorial when he saw Senator Levering with a woman in some sort of wrestling hold, and then the woman ran off. He followed the woman. And he saw what happened.”

“Wait a minute here. Are you trying to tell me some street bozo sees Senator Levering in the dark and can identify him?”

“Who said it was dark?”

Anne put her hands on her hips. “I’m assuming.”

“I try never to do that. “

“Still, you’re taking this guy seriously? Where’s the credibility?”

“You’re right. We didn’t take him seriously. He had kind of an odd way about him, you know, that crazy kind of look.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“But then yesterday, somebody sprayed Elijah. A witness wrote down the license plate number of the person who did it. The guy in dispatch who ran the plates crossed it in the computer with Elijah, and sent it to me. So now it looks like Senator Levering’s number-one aide sprayed mace at a potential witness, one who IDed the senator. Suddenly, I’m interested again.”

This isn’t happening, Anne told herself. The potential damage was huge. “Senator Levering was not out wrestling with Justice Millicent Mannings Hollander,” she said. “That much I can tell you. But even if he was, why are the D.C. police interested? Would that be a crime?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not what this is about, is it?” Take the offensive. “It’s about some low-grade detective trying to notch a prominent politician.”

He looked at her evenly.

“I’ve seen this before,” Anne said. “You’re not kidding anybody. So why don’t you go get some real bad guys for a change?”

“You are not being very cooperative. It would help your own situation, you know.”

“I don’t think I follow you.”

“You maced a guy. That’s an assault, too.”

Anne felt frozen in place, as if a police officer had asked her to assume the position . “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m afraid I am, Ms. Deveraux,” Markey said.

“Then you can contact my lawyer. Our interview is over.”

Markey took out a pad. “Who is your lawyer?”

Anne glared at him. “You’re the detective. You find out.”

Aggie Sherman angrily shook her head. “You shouldn’t of come here.”

Charlene stood in the doorway of what could only be described as a shack. A bare yellow lightbulb on the porch gave a strange circular glow in the night. Facing Aggie Sherman through the screen door, Charlene looked past the huge mosquitoes hovering around the mesh and said, “Please. I need to say something.”

“Say nothin’. You lost us a load of money and we don’t need to hear you say any more! Now get off my porch afore somebody sees you.”

“I need you to forgive me,” Charlene said.

In the long silence that ensued, Charlene felt as much as heard the din of the cicadas in the night. What would be her fate? Thumbs-up or thumbs-down? Then Aggie Sherman wordlessly unlatched the screen door and opened it.

“Thank you,” Charlene whispered as she stepped inside.

“Just so you know,” Aggie said, “Sarah Mae’s been crying ever since we got back here.”

Charlene’s heart cracked. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sit down then.”

Charlene sat down on the sagging brown sofa. Aggie lit a cigarette and sat opposite Charlene in a faded recliner. “You like my place?” Aggie asked with bitter sarcasm.

“It reminds me a little of the place I grew up in,” Charlene said.

A look of curiosity came to Aggie’s face. “That right?”