“Couple of guns and enough crack and heroin to get us to district court. We’re going to wrap these boys up for a while.”
“Do me a big one and get them to plead out; save me from having to be a witness, all right?”
“Well, they’re sure as hell not talking to us right now, but we’re not done with them, so I’ll let you know. We got so much on them they’ll probably plead out. What do you got going for tonight? McGuire and I are going to hit Shelly’s for drinks when we’re done here.”
“What time you looking at?”
“Around seventeen thirty.”
“Yeah, I’m good for that. Haven’t been there in a while.”
“Evening’s on me.”
“Sounds good, bro.”
“Okay, man, see you then.”
“Yeah, okay. Be safe.”
“Always,” he says, and then disconnects.
It’s been a while since I’ve done anything social. But then, I don’t know many folks I can socialize with. I have to think hard about it and all I come up with is Leslie, Albino Luna, and sometimes Stan McGuire. Luna and McGuire are the only two real friends I have left on the department. We all made detective together at 7D Vice, then got transferred to Narcotics Branch. We’d been in the shit, but even they don’t know the real story behind my early retirement. All they know is that I retired early, after seventeen years, and that I had had enough. The only ones who know the real story are the chief and a couple of his cronies.
I put the car back in drive and ease my way out of the parking space. Since I got some time, I make my way to Georgetown, see if I can spend some of this hard-earned money, maybe buy a new suit.
Seventeen
I hate DC jail. I hate everything about it, especially having to walk in, secure my belongings, and submit myself to being searched.
When I was a cop, I’d drive my cruiser into a secured area just under the guard tower. I’d lock up my weapon, clips, and handcuffs in a lockbox that looked more like a P.O. box. The COs looked in the car, sometimes even opened the dashboard, then popped open the trunk to make sure I wasn’t trying to sneak in any contraband. I’d get a quick pat-down after that, and drive the car into another gated parking lot. I’d buzz to gain entry into a prisoner-holding area. The entry door was made of heavy steel and the sound it made when it slammed shut was deafening: steel against steel in an empty concrete vault. The only way back out was when the guards sitting on the other side of scuffed-up shatterproof Plexiglas, in an office area with several monitors, buzzed you out again. I hated that trapped-in feeling, especially when I had to rely on some underpaid, overfed officer on the other side to push the button.
Walking through the front, like I have to now, is a little less claustrophobic, but still, I leave all control behind after those doors shut, even if the sound of them closing is quieter. If I ever get caught because of the shit I do, hopefully not for anything that’s gonna get me held, I might be making a trip to Canada, though more likely Mexico ’cause someone like me can get away with a lot more in Mexico.
The corrections officer escorts me to the interview room, unlocks the door to let me in. Claypole’s sitting on an old wooden chair, leaning back to rest his large bald head against the dirty white cinder block wall. His goatee has grown. He keeps it well groomed, combed to split into two ponytails with rubber bands wrapped tight at the ends. He’s a big man, taller than me by a couple of inches, and I’m six one. He’s also got me by about a hundred pounds—a prison build. Granted, I’m not in the kinda shape I used to be, but I still have some good weight and can hold my own if I have to.
He’s wearing prison-issue orange pants and a matching short-sleeve V-neck pullover with a white T-shirt underneath. Old biker tattoos cover his neck and most of the space on his arms.
He drops the chair back down on all four legs, gives me an upward nod.
“You looking beat up, Marr,” he says, and then leans forward to fold his arms on the small table.
I sit on a chair at the other end so I can face him.
“I’ll catch up on my sleep over the weekend.”
“You got some news for me?”
“No, but I’m supposed to go over all the details of your case again, maybe see if there’s something useful for trial, something we mighta missed. But we both know that’d be a waste of time, right?”
He tightens his lips, straightens himself in the chair like he’s gonna say something, but doesn’t. I realize that wasn’t a good start to the conversation, so I adjust my tone.
“Ms. Costello thinks that’s what we’re gonna do, and I’d like her to think that’s what we did do next time you two meet.”
“What’s this about, Investigator Marr?”
“I’m hoping to convince you that you’re about to really fuck things up with your life.”