George Pelecanos: The Night Gardener

A watch was put on Tyree's apartment in Washington Highlands until a search warrant came through. Ramone put the Corolla's plate numbers out on the patrol sheets, along with a description of Tyree. He then visited Raymond Pace on his job site. Pace did not seem particularly moved by the news of Taylor's death, and indeed appeared to be as rough a customer as the sister had described. But Pace's foreman and a couple of his coworkers alibied him completely. In any case, the videotape seemed to tell the tale. William Tyree looked right for the murder.

By midnight, Tyree had not turned up. Ramone and Willis had been on the eight-to-four and collected much overtime that day. They went home to their families and returned the following morning at 8:00 a.m. Shortly thereafter, a patrolman made the plates of the Corolla on a Southeast street and radioed in the location.

The Corolla was parked near Oxon Run Park, in a pocket of known drug activity, sellers and users alike. An older resident of the block walked up to Ramone and Willis, standing with uniforms who were dusting the Corolla's door handles for prints, and asked if they were looking for the man who had parked the car. Ramone said they were.

'He went in that apartment house right over there,' said the man, pointing a crooked finger at a brick unit set on the rise of the street. 'Buncha people in and out all the time, ain't got no business bein there.'

'They using heroin?' said Ramone, trying to determine the type of drug personalities he would encounter in the building.

The resident shook his head. 'The pipe.'

Ramone, Willis, and several uniforms went into the apartment house with unsnapped holsters. They did not draw their guns. Tyree was up on a second-floor landing, standing in a gray cloud with two other smoke hounds.

'William Tyree?' said Ramone, producing a pair of bracelets as he climbed the stairs.

Upon seeing the police officers and hearing his name, Tyree extended his hands, touching them together at the wrist. He was cuffed without incident. In his pockets they found Jacqueline Taylor's car keys and wallet.

Everything had been easy, even the arrest.

In the backroom office of Lieutenant Maurice Roberts, a young, respected boss at the VCB, Ramone and Green sat on a couch, leaning over a phone on a plastic table. The speaker had been activated. Through it, Assistant U.S. Attorney Ira Littleton made redundant points about the arrest and interrogation. Ramone and Green had been practicing Littleton's theories back when Littleton was watching Saturday-morning cartoons in his pajamas. Most homicide detectives had good relationships with the prosecutors in the U.S. Attorney's office. It was a necessity that they interact cordially, of course, but beyond the required spirit of cooperation, genuine friendships were often forged. Littleton, young, relatively inexperienced, and insecure, was not one of the attorneys the detectives respected or considered a friend.

'I'd prefer an explicit, full confession,' said Littleton, 'rather than a simple admission that he was wearing bloody clothes yesterday.'

'Right,' said Ramone and Green, nearly in unison.

'We don't have enough to hold him for the murder charge,' said Littleton.

'We can charge him for the theft of the automobile right now,' said Ramone. 'Also, possession of stolen property on the wallet and its contents. That's enough to hold him.'

'But I want the murder charge,' said Littleton.

'Copy,' said Bo Green, looking at Ramone, making a stroking motion with his fist in front of his crotch. Ramone put his thumb an inch away from his forefinger, indicating the probable length of Littleton's prick.

'Get the confession,' said Littleton. 'And swab him for DNA.'

'Not a problem,' said Ramone.

'Will he consent to a blood sample?'

'He did,' said Green. 'And we took it.'

'Was he high when you arrested him?'

'He appeared to be.'

'That'll show up in his blood.'

'Right.'

'Any marks on him, anything like that?'

'A scratch on his face,' said Ramone. 'He says he doesn't remember how he got it.'

'His DNA will be under her fingernails,' said Littleton. 'How much you wanna bet?'

'I'm not a gambling man,' said Ramone.

'It's almost a slam dunk. Let's take it to the finish line.'

'Well, he's cooperated with every aspect of the investigation so far. Waived his right to an attorney as well. Only thing he hasn't done is come right out and say he killed her. But he will.'

'Okay. We recover that Safeway bag yet?'

'Gene Hornsby's on it,' said Ramone.

'Hornsby's a good man,' said Littleton.

Ramone rolled his eyes.

'God, I hope the garbagemen haven't picked up the trash yet,' said Littleton.

'Me, too,' said Ramone before he stuck his tongue out at the phone. Bo Green was still lazily jacking his fist.

'We want a win, fellas,' said Littleton.

'Yes!' said Green, idly wondering but not really caring if he was being too emphatic in his response. 'Anything else?'

'Call me when you get that confession.'

'We will,' said Ramone, and he killed the button to the speakerphone.

'You hear that?' said Green. 'Littleton said Gene Hornsby was a good man. Said it kinda tender, like. Almost sounded like he was sweet on Gene.'

'Gene ain't gonna appreciate that,' said Ramone.

'Yeah, Gene got a problem with that homosexuality thing.'

'You sayin Littleton's an ass ranger?'

'I don't know, Gus. You got a better sense of that than I do. Some might say a sixth sense.'

'I'm tryin to work over here,' said Lieutenant Roberts, staring at the paperwork on his desk. 'Y'all mind?'

Ramone and Green got up off the couch.

'Ready?' said Ramone.

Green nodded. 'Soon as I get my man a Mountain Dew.'

Two men sat at a bar, drinking slowly from bottles. The day was warm, and the front door had been opened to cool the space and air it out. Beenie Man toasted from the house stereo, and a man and a woman danced lazily in the center of the room.

'Say that name again?' said Conrad Gaskins.

'Red Fury,' said Romeo Brock. He dragged off a Kool cigarette and let the smoke out slow.

'That ain't too common a name.'

'Wasn't his given name,' said Brock. 'Red was what he got called in the street, you know, 'cause of his light skin. Fury was on account of the car.'

'He drove a Mopar?'

'His woman did. Had personalized plates with her name on 'em, said "Coco."'

'All right, what happened?'

'Lotta shit. But I was thinking on this one murder he did. Red shot this dude dead in a carryout on Fourteenth Street, place called the House of Soul. Coco was waitin on him outside in the car. Red comes walkin out slow, the gun still in his hand. He gets in the passenger side real calm, and Coco pulls out the space and drives off like she just taking a Sunday cruise. Neither of them was moving too fast, is what people say. It was like nothing special had gone down.'

'Ain't too smart, leavin off a murder with a car got personal plates.'

'This man didn't care about that. Shit, he wanted folks to know who he was.'

'Was it a Sport Fury?'

Brock nodded. 'Red over white. Seventy-one, had those hidden headlights. Auto on the tree, V-eight, four-barrel carb. Faster than a motherfucker, too.'

'Why they not call him Red Plymouth?'

'Red Fury sounds better,' said Brock. 'Red Plymouth don't ring out the same way.'

Romeo Brock drank the shoulders off a cold bottle of Red Stripe. A loaded revolver sat snugly inside the belt line of his slacks under a red shirt worn tails out. An ice pick, corked at the tip, was taped to his calf.

The business was owned by East African immigrants and located on a soon-to-be-reconstructed stretch of Florida Avenue, east of 7th, in LeDroit Park. An Ethiopian flag was painted on the sign out front, and Haile Selassie's framed image hung beside the wall of liquor behind the stick. The bar, called Hannibal's by the locals because that was the night tender's name, catered to Jamaicans, mostly, which appealed to Brock. His mother, who worked as a maid in a hotel up by the District line, had been born and raised in Kingston. Brock called himself Jamaican but had never set foot on the island. He was as American as folding money and war.