Back on Murder

Chapter 2

Houston rain comes down like a jungle storm, hammering the windshield and the pavement all around. When the sky darkens and the black clouds pour out their wrath on the city, there’s always this hope at the back of my mind that the temperature will drop. But the effect is closer to emptying water onto sauna rocks. The air thickens. An insinuating heat radiates from the ground, creeping between clothes and skin.
I wait the weather out, crouching behind the wheel. At the parking lot’s edge, the George R. Brown Convention Center looms gray and ridiculous. Gray because its bright white walls suck up the surrounding gloom. Ridiculous because the building could pass for a grounded cruise ship, with red exhaust pipes trumpeting out of the roof. Blue metal latticework buttresses the eyesore.
Even my wife, Charlotte, who feels duty-bound to defend the city’s architecture in all its particulars, throws the George R. Brown under the bus, calling it a cut-rate version of a really classy building in Paris whose name I can’t pronounce.
Most weekends, the George R. Brown plays host to an assortment of gun shows and boat shows, bridal extravaganzas and expos, but today, in spite of the Labor Day weekend crush, a modest corner is set aside for the Houston Police Department, specifically Lieutenant Rick Villanueva and his intrepid band of media hounds. Of which I am one, for the time being.
Once the rain dies down to a drizzle, I shape a copy of the Chronicle into a makeshift umbrella and venture inside. No gun show today – we schedule our events so there’s no overlap – but the off-roaders of Harris County have turned up in force to ogle a glistening assortment of all-terrain vehicles. We’ll have a competing spectacle for them soon.
Our room is tucked into the far side of the building, down an escalator and through a wall of glass doors. I make my way through the roped stanchions, past a half-dozen signs flashing slogans like Green Power and Hybrid Houston, complete with a little icon marrying the old Rockets logo with a recycling triangle. A matching symbol adorns the knitted golf shirt I donned this morning for the final time. Burning it in my fire pit tonight will be a particular pleasure.
As soon as I enter, Rick Villanueva makes a beeline for me.
“You finally showed up,” he says, flashing his superbly white and insincere grill. “After that call from Hedges, I was afraid you were going to ditch me.”
“I am after today.”
He glances around, making sure the other officers on the team are keeping busy. By my watch, we have half an hour before the doors open, but there’s always a chance someone will arrive early. The prospect of a free car will motivate people like that, even if they’re accustomed to waking up at the crack of noon most Saturdays.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do, Roland?”
“I’m a homicide detective. All this” – I gesture toward the stage up front, the revolving platform with the mint green Toyota Prius, the television cameras setting up in back – “it’s not what I’m about.”
The expression on Rick’s face is boyish and grave. “We do important work on this detail, brother. We put bad guys back behind bars. If it wasn’t succeeding, do you think they’d keep it going like this?”
The last thing I want to do is argue the point. Unlike most of my friends from the old days, Rick’s still talking to me. But I’m not in the mood to hear about how essential our little charade is to the city’s well-being.
“Do we have to get into this now, Rick?”
“When else are we gonna talk? You’re unhappy, and the first I hear about it is from Hedges. You were drowning and I threw you a lifeline, buddy. This is the thanks I get?”
“It’s not like that – ”
“You’re swimming with the sharks over there, Roland. Don’t you see that? The best thing you can do for yourself is get out of Homicide, and instead you’re putting both feet back in. You really think you’re ready for that, after all you’ve been through?” He shakes his head, answering the question for me. “If you do it, I guarantee they’ll bounce you out in six months. No, sooner than that.”
“Rick –”
He raises his hands in surrender. “But hey, it’s your call, man. Just don’t say I never warned you. And don’t come crawling back.”
I have something to say, but he’s not interested. Before I can get out a word, he’s already backpedaling, already turning toward the stage. He has sound checks to run, cues to go over, warrants to review. The fact that he took time out to chastise me is a testament to how hurt he must feel. These things get him plenty of press, but not much respect within the department. If there’s one thing he’s touchy about, it’s that.
And here I am, his rehab project, throwing his kindness back in his face. I don’t feel proud or anything. But it had to be done.
Commensurate with the diminished expectations I came in under, my role in the unfolding drama consists of watching. Rick dubbed the job “troubleshooting,” but a better description would be “trying to look busy.” I’m pretty good at it. Plenty of experience. Before our guests start to arrive, I take up a position near the media pit, chatting with a couple of cameramen who’ve already been briefed on the need for discretion. In theory I’d run interference if anyone actually approached the crews, but in the five shows I’ve done, that’s never happened. Hardened criminals are as docile as anyone when there’s a freebie at stake.
“This is my last one,” I say to the cameramen.
“What’s next for you, then?”
“Homicide. I’m back on murder.”
They nod, clearly impressed. But why am I showing off for a couple of strangers like this? Why the need to distance myself from what’s about to happen? It looks desperate. I wander away from them, hoping to minimize the temptation, and run straight into Sonia Decker.
I can’t stand the woman, but she took a shine to me right from the start, spotting a fellow mid-forties burnout. Unlike me, Sonia’s happy with how her career is going. She’s the ideal government employee, content just punching the clock at day’s end. Her wispy hair might be brown, might be blond. Under all that makeup, her skin might be good, might be bad. She touches too readily, knows nothing of personal space, and has a three-pack-a-day laugh.
“When I started with all this,” she confides with a cynical sneer as close to a smile as I’ve ever seen on her, “it was all sweepstakes prizes and missing inheritances. You gotta hand it to Lieutenant Rick, he’s got a sense of humor. I mean, all this green hybrid rubbish? It’s priceless. So politically correct.”
I give her a vague nod, hoping she’ll go away.
“Just look at those suckers.”
The first guests now shuffle inside, their dreamy eyes glued to the revolving Prius. Imagining themselves behind the wheel, or maybe driving the hybrid over to the nearest chop shop and cashing out. Either way, they’re hooked.
“Something for nothing.” She rubs her hands together. I’ve heard sandpaper that was smoother. “Not in this lifetime, my friends. Greed goeth before a fall.”
I’m tempted to correct her quotation, but that sort of thing just encourages Sonia. Afraid of a five-minute digression on the precise wording of the King James Bible, I keep my mouth shut. Anyway, she may be wrong about the quote, but she’s right about greed. That’s the one lesson of my cars-for-criminals experience.
If they weren’t blinded by greed, at least some of these baggy pants playas and buttoned-up cholos would take a look around. They’d start asking when random selection started favoring the predominantly male and predominantly minority population. When did chance suddenly take a turn in their favor?
They might wonder why so many of the giveaway program’s green-shirted minions sport crew cuts and ex-military stares, why they look kind of familiar, a lot like the cops who busted them in the first place. They might even recognize a few of their fellow winners as former cellmates or street competitors. They might realize that what they have in common isn’t that they’re lucky but that they all have outstanding warrants.
But they don’t. All they see – all they ever see – is the car.
“So I hear you’re leaving us,” Sonia says, and now I know why we accidentally crossed paths. I guess I was blinded, too.
“This is my last day. I’m back on the job now, working a real case. You hear about that house off West Bellfort full of dead ltc bangers?”
“Big loss,” she sniffs. “That’s yours, huh?”
“I’m working it.”
She can’t help noticing the way I hedged, which draws a sound from her lungs that might be a cough, might be a laugh. Pats me on the shoulder blade, nodding her head in an exaggerated way. “All I can say is, I wish you the best.”
“Thanks,” I say to her departing back.
The room starts filling up, then the lights dim. Onstage, a projection screen comes to life. A silver convertible – not a hybrid, but who’s counting? – threads a series of alpine turns, then an artificially enhanced blonde in a sequined sheath prances around the parked vehicle, running her hands all over its curves.
Offstage to the right, a four-piece metal band lays down a thumping beat. They’re off-duty vice cops who jam together on weekends, only too happy to provide entertainment at one of Lieutenant Rick’s gigs. The crowd gets into it, clapping their hands, shouting encouragement to the on-screen blonde. Even in the dark room, a spotlight lingers on the Prius, a concrete image of the promise that brought them here.
As a testament to human gullibility, this show’s tops. Watching it long enough could turn the right sort of man into a philosopher. Not me, though. All I get is depressed. I’d rather pluck these guys off the street one by one. Fair and square, without any subterfuge. Out there, I wouldn’t pity them. I wouldn’t feel sorry for the family members they dragged along, either.
Once we’ve checked everyone through, the video stops and Rick jogs out onstage like a motivational speaker, cupping a hand to his ear for more applause. His speech changes every time, depending on what we’re supposedly giving away, but the essence is the same.
“It’s time for Houston to get moving again,” he says, “and you’re gonna be part of the solution. On behalf of all my colleagues, I want to thank you for coming out. It’s our pleasure to serve you in this way.”
From the back of the room, a group of burly, mustached men in green polos let out a cheer, clapping their hands above their heads.
“Our pleasure!” someone hoots. The crowd applauds once more.
Part of the game for Rick is to work as many ironic digs into the speech as possible. Afterward, the team will celebrate each one with a clink of beer bottles. The joke hasn’t been funny to me in a while.
It seems a couple of our guests feel the same way.
I spot their silhouettes against the stage lights, two men working their way toward the aisle, then navigating the darkness in search of an exit. A regular odd couple. One tall and broad, the other slight enough to pass for a kid. Maybe the impossibility of the giveaway suddenly dawned on them. More likely, they’re heading for the restroom. Planning to snort one moment-heightening substance or another.
As they pass me, I follow. Time for some troubleshooting.
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The side exit sign is illuminated by code. Once they find it, a ray of light shines in back of the room. By the time my hand touches the door I can see other officers heading my way, alerted by the flash. But I’m first in line.
Out in the corridor, there are two options. They can turn left and head toward the escalator, or take a right to the restrooms. I emerge into the brightness, blink my eyes a few times, then spot them huddled halfway to the exit, deep in conversation. As I approach, it’s clear they’re arguing about something.
“I told you – I seen him,” the smaller one says. There’s a sharp, panicked entreaty in his voice. He’s in a black T-shirt and skinny black jeans, accentuating his diminutive stature. Olive-skinned. Unnaturally jet-black hair.
But it’s the other guy I fixate on, because there’s something familiar about him. A white tank clings to his lean, prison-built torso, hidden by the square overshirt hanging unbuttoned from his shoulders. Crisp denim and unlaced Timberlands. It’s the face, though, the way he nods in comprehension as the smaller guy talks, pushing out his bottom lip. The white of teeth and eyes against his dark skin.
I know this man.
He looks up as I approach. The smaller one sputters into silence.
“Anything I can do to help, gentlemen?” I ask in my best approximation of a customer-service voice. “You’re missing the best part.”
“We’re just about to leave,” the smaller one says, jabbing his thumb toward the exit. “There’s this dude I don’t wanna run into – and anyway, this ain’t my thing. I’m just here for the moral support.”
The big guy holds him back. “Come on, man. Don’t bail on me like this.”
“Sir, you don’t want to miss your turn. They’ll be handing out keys in a minute.”
He’s clearly torn between his buddy and the free car, looking one way, then the other, rubbing a hand over his prickly face. Then his eyes fix on me. His expression starts to change. He raises an index finger, trying to place me.
Coleman, that’s his name.
His eyes flare. “You’re – ”
A half-dozen officers suddenly file through the door, taking up positions all around us.
“Wait a second, here,” he says, edging toward his companion and the faraway exit. His eyes dart around, looking for an opening.
Over my shoulder, the door swings shut with a whoosh. That’s the signal. We converge on him all at once, the way we do, swarming a potential threat before it can develop. Coleman’s still at the verbal stage, protesting as the illusion crashes down. No free car. No run of luck. No going home after this. By the time he gets physical, we’ve already cranked him around and pushed his face against the wall, pinning his arms back, securing his wrists with zip ties.
“This ain’t right, now,” he keeps saying. “This ain’t right.”
Meanwhile, his friend starts backing down the corridor, leaving Coleman to fend for himself. He turns to run, then sees another set of officers at the exit, cutting off his escape. That stops him. He leans against the wall, burying his face in his hands.
“It’s me, Detective,” Coleman says. “You know me.”
My mental filing cabinet rattles, then the details flood back. Serving time for robbery up at Huntsville, Coleman found Jesus and started testifying against his former friends, including a trigger man I’d been trying to build a case against for months. My usual skepticism about jailhouse conversion was suspended, since for once the born-again felon followed up with some action. Last I’d heard, he’d gotten early release after a prosecutor and one of the prison chaplains went to bat for him with the parole board.
“I do know you,” I tell him. “What are you doing here?”
He tries to gesture with his pinioned hands. “They said they givin’ away cars in there!”
“Yeah, but not to just anyone. You don’t get one of those invitations unless there’s a warrant on you, Coleman.”
His head droops, eyes closing in defeat. The officers around him exchange a look. Then he glances up with a pleading smile. “But, Mr. March, you gotta help me. It’s true I messed up – ”
“I thought you found Jesus, Coleman.” I get a chuckle from the other cops, which is more gratifying than it should be.
“I found him,” he says, “then I kinda lost him again. But I’m on the path now, sir, and this was just the thing I needed. This car, I mean. So I can drive myself to a job.”
It’s getting hard for the other cops not to laugh.
“There aren’t any cars, boy,” one of them says.
When this sinks in, Coleman’s head drops again. He makes a keening sound and starts struggling to get free. We all press in, squeezing the fight out of him. The whole time I keep shushing him like a mother comforting her child. The less noise we make out here, the better.
The officers at the end of the corridor troop the smaller guy over to us, hands behind his back. He glares at me through wet-rimmed eyes. He can’t be much older than twenty.
“What’s your story?” I ask him.
“I ain’t done nothing. I told you I just tagged along.”
“He my ride,” Coleman says, calm again.
One of the officers hands me the kid’s wallet.
“Your name’s Francisco Rios?”
“Frank,” he says. “Can’t you just let me go?”
“Anybody have the list?”
Almost before the words are out, someone hands me a copy of the guest list. There’s a rugby scrimmage of officers in the corridor, and somehow I’ve taken the lead. It feels nice, I have to admit. I flip through the list. Francisco Rios isn’t on it.
Checking my watch, I figure they’re already processing people inside, calling manageable groups backstage while the loud music and the flashing video screen keep the rest entertained. Behind the curtain, we have a well-oiled assembly line that ends in a series of burglar-barred school buses out back. Until they’re done, we don’t want any distractions. It’s probably best to sit on Coleman and Rios for the time being.
“Let’s head down there,” I say, pointing toward the restrooms.
Coleman follows passively – not that there’s much choice the way we’re frog-marching him – but Rios digs in his heels.
“I haven’t done anything! You can’t do this!”
I leave Coleman to help grapple with the kid. In spite of his size, he’s got some fight in him. Somebody gets hold of his bound wrists, though, turning them into a rudder. Rios squeals and tries to twist free, but for all intents and purposes the struggle is over.
“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Hey, man. Listen!”
“Will you shut up?”
“I gotta show you something, all right? Just let me show you.”
He’s nothing if not amusing. I signal a halt so we can hear what he’s got to say.
“Look in my wallet,” he tells me. “In the part with the money.”
I break into a smile. “You trying to bribe me, Mr. Rios?”
“Just look. There’s a card in there. Call that number, okay? Call it and he’ll tell you to let me go.”
We’ve got nothing better to do. I take a look, and sure enough there’s a business card tucked behind a wad of crinkled Washingtons.
“Call him,” Rios says.
The card is one of ours. I run my finger over the raised emblem.
The name reads ANTONIO SALAZAR, a detective formerly assigned to the gang murder unit. Now he works on a bogus Homeland Security task force headed up by an old rival of mine. The less said about him, the better. But Salazar is all right. He’s passed a few tips my way over the years, and I’ve returned the favor once or twice. There’s a cellular number inked on the back.
I tap the card against my finger. “This is legit?”
Rios looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Just call.”
“Give him to me,” I say, grabbing his wrists. I pilot him down the hallway to the restroom door, kicking it open and shoving him through. I park him against the sink, tell him to stay there. Then I flip my phone open and make the call.
It rings a couple of times, and then a groggy Salazar picks up.
“What time is it?”
I check my watch. “Noonish. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“Long night.” He runs a tap, then makes a jowly sound like a dog shaking itself dry. “Anyway, March, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve got a Hispanic male here, about a hundred and fifty soaking wet. Age – ” I consult the license – “twenty-one. Name of Francisco Rios, goes by Frank. That ring any bells on your end?”
I hear a cigarette lighter flick to life, then a long exhale.
“Yeah,” he says. “Frank’s one of my irregulars.”
In the old days, people used to say that whenever a trigger was pulled between the Loop and Beltway 8, Tony Salazar knew who was guilty before the bullet even struck. He had a knack for recruiting informants. Instead of investigating murders, he’d work the phones for half an hour and come back with a name. Usually the right one.
“So what do you want me to do? We rounded him up at the George R. Brown – ”
“Cars-for-criminals?” He chuckles in a way I don’t like. “I thought he was clean.”
“I haven’t run him, but he’s not on our list.”
Salazar starts making so much sound he could work as a foley artist for the movies. Bare feet slapping tile, newspaper wrinkling, even what I’m guessing is a half-empty coffee carafe being slotted back onto the burner. All the while he hums a frenetic tune, like he’s sorting something out in his head, and having a hard time.
“Tony, you still there?”
“I’m thinking,” he says. “The thing is, I need to talk to this guy.”
“I can hold on to him.” I glance at Rios, who’s hanging on every word. An involuntary shiver runs through him.
“Really? I could be down there in, like, fifteen maybe thirty.”
“Just meet us downtown,” I say. “I’ll have him transported and you can spring him when – ”
“No, no, no. Don’t worry about it.”
“You sure? It’s no trouble.”
He rubs the stubble on his chin for me, so I can hear the friction. “Do me a favor, okay? Cut him loose and tell him to call me as soon as he’s out. Put a scare in him, too. If my phone doesn’t ring, I’m gonna look him up. You tell him that.”
I palm the phone and repeat the message to Rios, whose relief quickly dissipates.
“Matter of fact,” Salazar says into my hand, “go ahead and put him on the line.”
I put the phone against the kid’s ear. After a minute or so, the tinny rumble of Salazar’s voice comes to a halt, and Rios lets out a subservient grunt. Remembering the fight he showed out in the corridor, though, I imagine this attitude won’t last once the zip ties come off his wrists. If Salazar gets his call back, I’ll be surprised.
Not my problem. I take the phone back, get through some final chitchat, then end the call.
“Turn around,” I tell Rios, then I fish a lockback knife out of my pocket and slice the restraints off. “Next time, just so you know, don’t flash the card in front of anybody. Pulling it out like that in front of Coleman, you basically blew your cover.”
I slip Salazar’s card back, then hand him the wallet.
As soon as we emerge into the corridor, Coleman proves the wisdom of my advice. He gets a funny look, seeing I’ve freed his buddy’s hands, then his eyes follow the kid’s progress, crazier with each step. When Rios passes him, he springs for the kid. It takes six men to hold him back.
“Frank!” he shouts. “Frank! Why they lettin’ you go, man? Why? ’Cause you workin’ for ’em, that it?”
Rios keeps walking, shows a little swagger.
“I’m tellin’! You hear me? I’m tellin’, man! Everybody gonna know. You dead! You hear me? Frank! You dead!”
Sonia pops through the side door, a finger over her lips. “You wanna keep it quiet down there? We’re trying to arrest some folks in here.”
“You heard the lady,” I tell Coleman. “Anyway, you’ve got your own problems to worry about.”
The big man deflates as my reminder takes effect. He hangs between the officers, letting his weight drag him down. Finally they release him to the floor, where he curls up, ducking his head between his knees. From the jerk of his shoulders I think he’s starting to cry.
That’s the last thing I want to see. I head back to the door, where Sonia’s waiting, and pause before going inside.
“It’s just getting good in here,” she whispers.
With a glance back at Coleman, I pull at my golf shirt, stripping it over my head while straightening the white tee underneath.
“You know what? I’m done.”
I hand Sonia the shirt.
She hisses my name a few times, but like Rios I just keep walking.
With a swagger in my step. It’s nice to have some for a change.