Millhoff and his partner are back in the sergeant’s office, writing up an affidavit in support of an arrest warrant for Rodney Biggs, aka Little Monster. Millhoff’s doing a write-up on the computer. Hernandez and Davidson’s partner went to pick up pizza. The only reason I’m still here is I’m waiting to hear about the officer and the result of the canvass being done for Miriam Gregory.
My phone battery’s burned out.
“What time you got?” I ask Davidson, sitting in the cubicle beside me.
“Almost fifteen thirty,” Davidson advises. “How you doing over there?”
“I’m good.”
Millhoff and his partner walk in.
“They found the shooter’s car,” Caine says. “In an alley off Wiltberger, behind the old Howard Theatre. It was still burning when fireboard got there.”
“Damn,” is all Davidson says.
“Well, you knew that was going to happen, right?” I say.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Millhoff says. “Needless to say, we probably won’t find shit out of that vehicle.”
“You gotta ask why there, though?” Millhoff’s partner asks. “They have a bad history with the crew at Seventh and T.”
“That’s probably why they chose that spot, then,” I say.
The rear door opens, and in comes the chief himself, along with his sidekick Wightman. I’m starting to wonder why I didn’t get the hell out of here while I still had the chance.
Davidson stands.
Wightman motions with his head for the three of them to come over. They obey and walk behind the last row of cubicles and toward the television that’s secured to the corner wall.
The only parts of them I can make out are their heads.
A few minutes later, they all break up. Wightman and the chief both exit the way they came in, not giving me a passing glance.
Millhoff, his partner, and Davidson walk back.
“The officer didn’t make it,” Millhoff says.
“Damn, I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“What’s up with you and Wightman? He wants us to charge your ass for the concealed weapon,” Millhoff says.
“We got some bad history. Not even worth saying more than that. And what the fuck does he think you can charge me with, anyway? I’m authorized to carry my weapon under HR218. The permits are all up to date. I even got an extra license to carry as a PI, through Security Officer Management. Or maybe you got destruction of property for me having to smash out the windowpane at the Ritz?”
The only thing Wightman might try to screw me on is my right to carry, but I’ll worry about that when and if it happens.
“Marr, even though you’re working for a defense attorney, I still consider you one of us. But what the fuck’s with that? Do some consulting work or something. Why a defense attorney?”
“There’s history there, too, but it’s good history. My pension’s worth shit, so I have to work. And you know I’m not the only retired cop doing that kind of work.”
“All I’m saying is Wightman’s got it out for you, so you need to tread lightly.”
“I’m used to walking that way, brother. And I’m really sorry about Tommy.”
“You knew his name?” Davidson asks.
“Yeah, we talked a bit after he got shot.”
“Anything I need to know?” Millhoff asks.
“Only that he was a good officer.”
I know I should be pissed at the officer. He’s the reason I lost Miriam. But I still can’t give him up, because I don’t know the full story. It might be a good story, too. So I’ll allow him some honor in death and all the ceremony that’ll soon come with it.
I don’t think I’ll be staying for that pizza, though.
Sixty-five
My car’s a bullet-riddled mess. Both the passenger’s and the driver’s side windows are blown out. I stopped counting how many bullet holes the body and the front windshield sustained. And then there’s the interior. I notified my insurance company and had it towed to the dealership I bought it from. I’m carless, but that’s going to have to change, ’cause I need a car to work this case through.
I hoof it back home. It’s a straight shot to my house from the Third District, maybe a fifteen-, twenty-minute walk.
First thing I do when I get there is plug my phone in to get a charge. After that, I grab some gauze, antibiotic cream, medical tape, and alcohol out of a medical kit I keep in the kitchen. I return to the living room and turn on the television for the four o’clock news. The shooting is the top item. Every fucking local channel. They got another Amber Alert out for Miriam, something that was already done months ago, but because of the shooting, her photo is all over the place. I’m hoping the cops find her. It’ll make it easier on me. I never wanted to work this shit in the first place.