Walter Mosley - The Long Fall

“Sergeant Bonilla is the newest addition to midtown Homicide,” Carson said. “She’s hoping to make you her first collar.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I got a thick neck.”

Bonilla smiled in a way that I didn’t quite get. But one thing was for sure—she wasn’t intimidated by me.

“You know, that’s always howÖre— I thought it should be,” I opined.

“What’s that, Mr. McGill?” Bonilla asked. Her voice was pleasant and throaty.

“A man should always be introduced to his executioner. That way there’s nothing shadowy or sinister about the deed. If the government is gonna kill you, everything should be aboveboard and nothing kept secret.”

There was that smile again.

“Willie Sanderson’s still in a coma,” Kitteridge said, throwing my philosophical line of reasoning off track.

“What you should be saying is that he’s still dead,” I said, “with little hope left for his resurrection.”

“This coma might become a permanent condition,” Carson said as a retort and in preparation for some other kind of attack.

Bonilla’s stare was starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

“We’d like to know what you can give us on Mr. Sanderson,” she said.

“The first time I met the man was at the wrong end of his big fist,” I told her. “I was a fool not to check the monitor before going out. I’ll probably be that same fool again someday soon.”

I was going out of my way trying to be witty. Maybe I had a concussion or something.

“Sanderson has a long history of violence,” Carson put in. There was a definite competitive tone to his voice. “From assault and battery all the way to intent to commit murder and manslaughter. The doctors say that he has some kind of chemical imbalance. It’s a condition that I can’t even pronounce which causes a state of mind that the lawyers and scientists say make up a valid claim for insanity. He can’t help it if he’s off his meds. But our doctors tell us that he’s been on the right drug for at least the last thirty days.”

It was a nice little speech that didn’t seem to require a reply, so I leaned back and nodded.

“Now it’s your turn to give,” Carson prompted.

I hunched my shoulders and consciously kept from looking in Bonilla’s direction.

“We have a record of you flying to Albany recently,” she said in spite of my cold shoulder.

The shiver bounced back and went through me.

“So?”

“You know,” Kitteridge said.

“How did you find out about my flight?”

“We’re not gonna debate the constitutionality of the Patriot Act, LT,” KÛiotiv itteridge instructed. “What were you doing in Albany?”

When your opponent has the edge on you it’s best to go on the offensive.

“Excuse me for being cautious,” I said, “but I’m the victim of an assault, not a suspect in a murder, as far as I know. I haven’t killed anybody but still I’m being interrogated by a homicide detective. So before I answer any questions, please put these pieces together for me.”

“Sanderson murdered Roger Brown,” Bonilla said. “His skin was found under the slain man’s fingernails.”

“And a business card with your fingerprint on it,” Carson tag-teamed, “with Roger’s adolescent nickname scrawled at the bottom, was in Brown’s pocket. You visited Frank Tork a few days before he was killed in the same fashion that Brown was. Sanderson then came after you. You see the pattern?”

I was waiting for the three-minute bell but I knew it was not to come.

“Ambrose Thurman,” I said.

“Who?” the police said in unison.

“About a month ago a guy named Ambrose Thurman called me. He said he wanted to hire me to find someone and would front me twenty-five hundred dollars for the legwork. He wanted to meet at the Crenshaw. I needed to keep up on my grocery bills and expected him to pay for the drinks.”

“Who is he?” Bonilla asked.

I took out my wallet and handed over the fake card Norman Fell had pawned off on me.

“Said he was an Albany detective working for a client up that way.”

The sergeant studied the yellow card and handed it over to Carson.

“He was looking for four guys,” I said and gave their nicknames. “I asked around the East Village, came up with their names, and turned them over. I visited Frankie in the can just to make sure he was who I thought he was. Same with Brown, only I never got to meet him. I left that card with the receptionist. That’s it.”

“You went up to meet this Thurman in Albany?” Bonilla asked.

“No, he came down here.”

“So what were you doing in Albany?” Her repetition of the city’s name set my teeth on edge.

“I saw that Frank Tork had been murdered. That bothered me, so I went up there to ask him what was up.”

“Why didn’t you call?” Carson asked.

“I did. Phone was disconnected.”

“What did he say?”

“There was no Ambrose Thurman in Albany. It was a sham.”

The two cops sat there, digesting my story. The card was a good touch. It had worked for Fell, maybe it would do the same for me.

“You think maybe this Sanderson guy was working with Thurman?” I asked after a respectable span of silence.

“I think maybe you know more than you’re saying.”

“I never heard of Sanderson. I wasn’t looking for him. I wanted to get the lowdown from Thurman before coming to you. But when he turned out to be a shadow, I got worried that he’d set me up. I guess I was right, only he was planning to kill me, not get me accused of the crimes.”

Carson was looking into my eyes so he knew I was lying, but he couldn’t figure out about what exactly.

“Do I know you, Sergeant?” I asked the homicide cop, partly to avoid Carson’s stare.

“I used to be in vice,” she said, smiling enigmatically. “Had a snitch named Dolores Devine back then.”

Dolores Devine, one of my many guilty victims. She’d set up half a dozen prominent men for prostitution stings with the feds and the NYPD. The wife of one of those men wanted revenge and was willing to pay. I found out that Dolores smuggled H for a man in Newark now and again. All I did was drop a dime, or maybe it was a quarter.

“Never heard of her,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Friend of yours?”

“We’ll check out your story, Mr. McGill,” she replied, getting to her feet. “Let’s hope that you’re more innocent than Dolores was.”

Ê€„

27

The police love it when a suspect, or just somebody they don’t like, is feeling uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter if that person of interest is innocent and doesn’t deserve the abuse. They don’t drop by and apologize the week after the case is cracked and somebody else is proven guilty. Their job is to make people like me feel nauseous and angst-ridden.

The police deal in ulcers and heart attacks, nonspecific neuroses and straight-out paranoia.

That’s why I learned the Buddhist practice of meditation.

After the representatives of the NYPD left my premises I sat me down in the office chair and took in a long slow breath while counting the number “one.” I exhaled, considering the numeral “two,” and went on in that fashion until I made it to “ten.” I started at “one” again, many times, until the counting fell away and all that wasÞng left was a kind of bliss that lasted a little more than half an hour.

I could have gone on like that for much longer but the buzzer sounded again. Rather than shock I felt only a mental nudge. I’d become a brightly colored carp resting in a chilly corner of a shallow Japanese pond. I breathed in through my mouth and looked down into my hall monitors.