Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Darwin pulled his wallet out of his suit jacket, flipped it open. “Darwin Conklin, at your service.” He showed his license, then handed the policeman a white business card. “I’m a real estate broker. Just got a call from the office. I really have to go.”

The policeman stared at the business card as though it were written in Mayan hieroglyphs. The nametag on his chest said Hanson. “This is you?”

“That’s right. Officer…please?”

The policeman flicked the card, handed it back. “We’re supposed to check all the bystanders, Mr. Conklin. Standard procedure. My sergeant’s a stickler, but it seems like a waste of time to me too.” He was tall and pink and dim, his long, bony face covered with a sparse blond beard. His hand still rested on his pistol. Typical rookie. Handguns had strictly been prohibited under the new Bill of Rights, having one a capital offense for anyone other than police. Baby cops always took delight and comfort in their firepower, like religious pilgrims clutching chips from the thighbone of a saint, assuming they were protected from evil.

Darwin smiled.

“So you’re in the neighborhood because you have a house to sell?”

“I make regular sweeps of these upscale neighborhoods for my clients.”

“Terrible business in that two-story over there. The Warriq place. I bet you’d have a hard time selling that one. Not if what my sergeant told me is true.”

“Yes…well, real estate can be a challenge.”

“My sergeant was puking all over his shoes. I’d call that more than a challenge.”

Darwin watched the cab pull away from the curb, then back into a driveway. “Are we done, Officer? I really am in a hurry.”

“Do you handle condos?” asked the policeman. “I’m living with my folks and it’s driving me crazy. My mom’s a great cook and everything, but still…”

Darwin offered the card again. “Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

The policeman ignored the card. “I’m just looking for a one-bedroom. Catholic area is fine. I got no problem with fish-eaters.” He grinned his big white teeth. “Their women can be a lot of fun too, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Darwin, watching the cab disappear down the street. He compacted his frustration into a tiny ball of ice and tucked it into his heart. It would be safe there. Home at absolute zero. He patted the policeman on the shoulder. A muscular boy. Probably took all kinds of extra self-defense courses and hit the gym like a metronome, sweating out the tension. “Officer Hanson, is it? We really should get together and go over my listings. Give me your address. I’m sure I’ve got something in your price range.”

“Hey, I’d really like that.” The policeman grinned again. “A healthy growing cop has no business living at home. How about tonight? My shift is over at four.”

Darwin watched Rakkim and the fat cop walking around toward the back of the house, Rakkim striding along, leading the way. Mr. Take Charge. “Tomorrow would be better. I’ve got plans for this evening.”

“Thanks again for dragging me into your crime scene, buddy.” Colarusso belted down his drink. “Man calls me away from a nice, clean burglary investigation to check out a couple of poor bastards with mix-and-match heads, I just feel a surge of gratitude. I didn’t even know you were still talking with Redbeard. Chief of detectives himself gave me the word. I never seen him so impressed with me.” He rapped his empty glass on the bar. “One more time, Padre.”

The Catholic priest sidled over from the other end of the bar, refilled Colarusso’s glass with fortified wine. He blessed the wine with two fingers, looked at Rakkim.

Rakkim shook his head. He waited until the priest had retreated down the bar, back to the argument over the greatest baseball team of all time with three retired cops who kept threatening each other with bodily harm. “I owe you, Anthony.”

“Yeah, but not enough to tell me what this is really all about.”

“I’ve told you as much as I can.”

“As much as you want.” Colarusso shook his head. “Forget it. I only met Sarah a couple times, but I liked her. You say she’s in trouble, that’s good enough for me.” He rubbed his bulbous nose. “Still, I see R U Having Fun Yet? written in blood on a crime scene wall, I got to think the killings were supposed to send you a sign. Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong.”

“Well, that’s good news. Thought I was losing my finely honed cop instincts, and where would law enforcement be without them?” Colarusso belched, dug a big hand into the bowl of stale peanuts on the bar, the overflow bouncing across the polished hickory.

“I thought you were supposed to eat Communion wafers with wine,” said Rakkim.

“Don’t fuck with my religion, okay?” Colarusso tossed the peanuts into his mouth one at a time, rapid-fire. “No pork chops, no Scotch whiskey, no dogs, no rock and roll, no titty bars,” he muttered, chewing noisily. “Ain’t there anything you people are in favor of?”

“Don’t blame me, I voted for all of the above.”

“You’re a lousy Muslim.”

“That I am.”

Colarusso nodded. “That’s okay. I’m a lousy Catholic.”

Rakkim took a swallow of wine. Terrible stuff. Colarusso had brought him to a Catholic church in Seattle whose basement doubled as an after-hours cop bar. Colarusso said after the crime scene he needed a drink, and he didn’t want to go to the Zone for it, he wanted to be around his own kind. Rakkim needed a drink himself, and even though this Communion juice was swill, he liked the quiet and the company. Rakkim might not be the first Muslim allowed into the basement, but from the looks he got, he might as well have been. Colarusso had introduced him to the dozen or so cops standing at the bar, said he vouched for him, and anyone who had a problem with it could say so. The cops went back to their wine and the priest set them up.

“You sure the surveillance team swept the whole house?” said Rakkim.

“Twice. Just like I told you. If there was a bug there, they would have found it. I called in pest control too, made sure the story don’t make the news, just like you wanted.”

“Good. Have them sweep it again tomorrow.”

Colarusso had been annoyed with Rakkim for disturbing the crime scene, but he knew Rakkim had his reasons. Seeing Marian laid out on her bed, discreetly dressed, the Qur’an in her hands…Colarusso had understood.

“This is one crazy case.” Colarusso gestured with his drink. “I say, you want to kill somebody, go ahead and do it. That’s your business and mine is catching your ass, but propping people up on the couch with their heads all jumbled? Who does something like that?” He shifted his bulk, his gray suit bagged out and stained with a week’s worth of handheld lunches. “I’m not lightweight, you know me. I’ve seen things that would make your eyes pop out like Wile E. Coyote.”

“Who’s Wile E. Coyote?”

Colarusso shook his head. “I feel old.” He grabbed some peanuts off the bar. “I put in a call to Major Crimes, asked if there was another thrill-kill gang in operation. You remember those huffers we had last year?”

“Glue sniffers, right?”

“Glue, gasoline, turpentine, you name it. They’d hit some nice neighborhood, kick in the back door, and butcher everyone inside. Fast and sloppy. We’d find ears in the refrigerator, bodies crammed up the chimney…but today seemed worse.”

“There was intelligence at work today.”

“There was something at work.” Colarusso drank half his glass of wine, his face going slack. “I just want to find the crew who did it.”