George Pelecanos - The Night Gardener

'Anything?' said Cook.

'He's gotta come outta there soon.'

Using Cook's binoculars, Holiday had scoped Officer Grady Dunne pulling into the lot in car number 461 and watched him, in full uniform, walk into the station's back entrance. He was a six footer, lean and pale, blond and sharp featured. There was a practiced, military-issue confidence in his straight posture and step. He had not stopped to talk to his fellow officers who were hanging around at the shift change, shooting the shit and haggling over the most coveted cruisers.

'You see Detective Ramone?' said Cook.

'Yeah, I saw him.'

'He update you on the Johnson case?'

'We talked about it.' Holiday hesitated for a moment. 'Nothing concrete yet.'

The silence from the radio told Holiday that Cook knew this was a lie.

Two young men walked by Holiday's car. They wore shorts reaching to their calves, the edges deliberately frayed. The sleeves on one of the boys' T-shirts had been cut into strips and braided, the braids ending in tiny balls. There was a character drawn in glitter on the front of the shirt. The faces of the young men were identical. One of them smiled at Holiday as they passed. Holiday believed that despite his black suit and car, they had tagged him as some kind of police. That pleased him.

In the Marquis, T.C. Cook wiped sweat off his forehead. He had been feeling a little dizzy. He wasn't used to working, is all it was. The anticipation of the chase had ticked up his blood.

'Doc?'

'Yes.'

'It's hot in this damn car. I'm sweatin, man.'

'Drink some water,' said Holiday.

He looked through the binoculars as the blond man came out of the station's rear door and walked toward a late-model deep green Ford Explorer. Dunne wore an oversize polo shirt out over jeans and wheat-colored work boots. Department regulations required officers to wear their gun at all times, even off duty. From the size of the shirt, Holiday assumed that Dunne's Glock was holstered at the small of his back.

'Get ready, Sarge. He's in his car and he's about to pull out.'

'Right.'

'If he goes north, I'll let you take point. Keep your cell on, in case these radios fail.'

'Got it, young man.'

'He's on Peabody,' said Holiday. 'He's coming up to Georgia.'

'Copy.'

As the Explorer turned right and headed up Georgia Avenue, Holiday said, 'You.'

They followed Dunne up the avenue. Cook kept himself back behind several cars but stayed on the Explorer, blowing yellows and one red light to do so. Holiday's mission was to keep Cook's Marquis in sight and in that way trust that Dunne was not far ahead. By radio, Holiday learned that Cook was on it.

Dunne crossed over the District line into downtown Silver Spring, a virtual canyon of growing congestion consisting of tall buildings, chain restaurants, new lamp-posts fashioned to appear antique, a brick street, and other town-center affectations. Dunne turned right on Elsworth and then hung a left into a parking garage.

'What should I do?' said Cook, holding the two-way in front of his mouth.

'Park on the street and relax,' said Holiday. 'I'll take it now and get back to you.'

Holiday passed Cook, pulling into a space on Elsworth, and drove into the garage. He took a ticket at the gate and went up a ramp, going level to level until he saw the Explorer pulling into a space high in the structure. Holiday parked and watched Dunne as he got out of the Ford and went to a concrete bridge that ran between the garage and a newly constructed hotel.

To Holiday, hotels were for women and alcohol. He waited for ten minutes and then put on his chauffeur's cap and walked the footbridge, taking the same path as Dunne.

Holiday entered the hotel. The garage entrance led to a hall and a business office and then gave to an open area with a reception desk, sitting area, and bar. Dunne was at the bar, a glass of something clear before him. He was obviously alone, though there were others seated at the stick. Dunne's back was to Holiday, and so he moved with confidence to the sitting area nearby and took a cushioned chair near a small table holding magazines. It would not be unusual for a driver to be here, waiting on a client to come down from his or her room. Holiday opened a magazine and kept an eye on Dunne.

He's drinking vodka, thought Holiday.

It's got no smell. But it does. And it shows on you, too. You're sitting in a bland hotel bar because you're that kind of police. You've got no friends, other than your fellow cops, and you're not too sure about them. No family and no home to speak of. An apartment, but that doesn't count. You're alone when you're not riding your district. You've got nowhere to go. You're lost.

'Is everything all right, sir?' said a young man with a hotel name tag pinned to his chest. He had come up on Holiday and was standing before him with his fingers laced together.

'I'm waiting on a client,' said Holiday.

'Would you like to use our desk phone to call him?'

'He'll be along.'

Dunne finished his drink quickly, ordered another, and started in on it with intent. He had not turned around. With the exception of the bartender, he had not tried to make conversation with any of the people around him.

From across the room, Holiday waited and watched.

'Where your cousin at?' said Chantel Richards.

'Conrad's gone,' said Romeo Brock. 'He ain't comin back.'

'Why?'

Brock tucked in the tails of his shirt.

Chantel had come from work and found Brock in the bedroom at the back of the house. He was buttoning his red rayon shirt, standing by the dresser as she walked inside. His gun was atop the dresser, along with a box of bullets, a pack of Kools, matches, a cell. Beside the dresser were the two Gucci suitcases. The one on the right held fifty thousand dollars. The one on the left held Chantel's clothes.

'Why he leave, Romeo?'

'He thinks we gonna have some trouble,' said Brock. 'He might be right.'

'What kind of trouble?'

'The kind involves men and guns. But look, we gonna be fine.'

'I didn't sign up for this,' said Chantel.

'Sure you did,' said Brock. 'When you walked out of Fat Tommy's with me you bought a ticket for the full ride. But it's gonna be a good one, and we ain't even started yet. You know who Red and Coco was, don't you?'

'No.'

'Well, that story's too long to tell. But I know you heard of Bonnie and Clyde.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Woman stood by her man, didn't she? They lived right and took no one's shit.'

'But they died in the end, Romeo.'

'It's how they rode on the way there.' Romeo walked over to Chantel and kissed her soft lips. 'Can't no one kill me, girl. Not till I made my rep. My name's gonna ring out strong before anything happens to me.'

'I'm scared.'

'Don't be.' Brock stepped back. 'I'm gonna go make a call, and then I'm gonna sit out there in the living room. You lock the door behind me and don't worry about a thing. We straight?'

'Yes, Romeo.'

'That's my girl. My very own Coco.'

He took his cigarettes, matches, and cell off the dresser and stashed them in various pockets. He picked up the Colt and the brick of ammunition and walked from the room.

Chantel thumbed in the push-lock on the doorknob and turned on the bedside clock radio, set on KYS. If she was going to cry, she didn't want Romeo to hear it. She had a seat on the edge of the bed. She laced her fingers together and rubbed one thumb over the other, and looked out the window to the small backyard bordered by a forest of maple, oak, and pine. If she could find the backbone, she'd run into those woods. But her courage didn't come, and she stayed in place, rubbing at her hands.

Gus Ramone sat in Leo's, drinking a Beck's, his notebook on the bar. It was unusual for him to go anywhere but back to his family after work. He liked this place and the off-beat neighborhood crowd. That was part of why he'd come. The other part was, he just didn't feel like going home. He knew he'd have to talk to Diego. But he wasn't ready to tell him about Asa just yet.