Shoot the Woman First Page 9
Burke took a pint of Maker’s Mark from his coat pocket, said, “Here, hit this. Still your brand, right?”
“Little early in the day for that shit, isn’t it?”
Burke started to put it back, and Rico said, “Hold up. Give it here.”
Burke handed it over. “What you got for me?”
Rico unscrewed the cap. “What you got for me?” He drank from the bottle.
Burke took a white business envelope from his pocket, put it on the dash alongside the cigarettes. “Two hundred in there. For starters.”
Rico put the cap back on, slipped the bottle in his pocket. “Man, you are eager, aren’t you?”
“Eager enough.”
Rico picked up the envelope and looked inside, thumbed bills.
“Like I said, it’s a start,” Burke said.
“Much appreciated.” Rico slipped the envelope into an inside coat pocket. From another, he took a narrow spiral notebook with a brown cover. “Few things for you. Not a lot yet.”
“Let’s hear it.” Burke set his coffee on the dash, got out a cigarette.
“Terrence ain’t been in yet today. Had a doctor’s appointment or something. Left his business all over the place, though, as usual.”
“Affirmative Action at its best.” Burke lit the cigarette.
“Hey, I can say that shit. You can’t.” Rico opened the notebook. “I wrote down what I could. He ran plates on all the vehicles at the scene. Or had someone do it for him. He got that far at least.”
“How many vehicles involved?”
“Three at the scene. An SUV, a Chevy pickup, and a VW Jetta. There was a collision between the truck and the SUV. No one stuck around to exchange information. Brother popping off with an AK might have had something to do with that.”
“Willie Freeman,” Burke said.
“So you know some of this already.”
“Just a little.”
“Who is he? Who’s he work for?”
“No idea. Just heard the name.”
“Expect me to believe that?”
“What about the vehicles?”
“The pickup, a Silverado, was stolen two days ago from Royal Oak. The SUV, an Armada, is registered to a grandmother in Westside who’s seventy years old. Doubt she gets much use out of it.”
“No surprise there. What about the Jetta?”
“Same deal. Registered to a Geraldo Rivera in Highland Park.”
“Geraldo Rivera? No shit. You call his network?”
“Would have. Except this one’s twenty-two years old, and his address is bogus, as in no such.”
“I heard there were weapons left behind,” Burke said.
“A shottie and two handguns in the Armada, plus the AK our man Willie was waving around. Serial numbers on all of them. I guess Terrence’ll run them when he gets around to it. AK was the only one fired.”
“And how’s Mr. Freeman?”
“He’s still at Detroit Receiving. GSW to hip and shoulder. Had surgery last night. He’ll live, but he isn’t saying much.”
“He have a sheet?”
“Nothing major. Possession with intent. A couple weapons beefs. No serious time.”
“What’d he tell Terrence?”
“Same old. Shot by unidentified assailants in a drive-by. Don’t know who. Don’t know why. Says one of them dropped the AK, he picked it up, returned fire. Says he doesn’t know anything about the Armada, it was parked there when he came walking along. But I’m betting his fingerprints are all over it.”
“A stand-up guy. I may need to talk to him.”
“Terrence didn’t get much, and he was holding a gun charge over him for the AK. What makes you think he’ll talk to you?”
“My personality. He the only one got dropped?”
“On scene, at least. Nothing from any hospitals. If one of the other shooters got hit, his homies took him with them.”
“What kind of brass on the ground?”
“Seven-six-two casings, from the AK. Some 5.56 from another rifle.”
“AR-15,” Burke said.
“Maybe. Shotgun shells, too, 12-gauge buck and deer slugs.”
“They came to play.”
“Not to mention the smoke grenades. But maybe you heard about that, too?”
Burke smiled, sipped coffee. “Like I said. Just a little.”
“All I got right now. I’ll holler at you if I find out anything else. You want me to talk to Terrence?”
“No. Better off without him, I think.”
“Let me get one of those butts for later.”
“Take the pack. How are things at Beaubien Street these days?”
“Lots of empty desks,” Rico said. “Phones ringing, nobody answering. Last round of early outs hurt us bad. You miss the job?”
“Not for a minute.”
“You been doing okay, though, ain’t you? Out there on your own.”
“I get by.”
“You still do work for Marquis?”
“Now and then. Not much lately.”
“Never liked that motherfucker.”
“You took his money, too, back in the day.”
“When I had to.”
“No one put a gun to your head. And look at it this way, people will always do dope. And somebody will always be around to sell it to them. Better Marquis than some other asshole leaving bodies everywhere.”
“Marquis’s left his share. But let me ask you this. Why is this lame-ass drive-by giving you such a hard-on? What’s the interest?”
“Violence against my city is violence against me.”
Rico gave a short laugh. “Ever a time you actually felt that way?”
“First day on the job. For two hours, maybe. Maybe three.”
“That long?”
“Couldn’t help it,” Burke said. “I’m a romantic.”
* * *
When Burke got off the elevator, there was a uniformed patrolman leaning against the counter at the nurses’ station. Young black guy, but already overweight, a roll of fat spilling over his belt. He nodded at Burke, cocked his head down the hall.
Burke went past, the uni following him. When they were out of sight of the nurses, Burke said, “Darius, right? Don’t think we’ve met. How you doing?”
“Doing a’right.” Thumbs in his belt, waiting.
At the far end of the hall, a door was ajar, a yellow plastic chair outside.
“That him?” Burke said.
Darius nodded. Burke took out a folded fifty-dollar bill, held it waist high between two fingers.
Darius looked at it. “Rico said a hundred.”
“Did he?”
“Could lose my job over this.”
“You got nothing to worry about.” Leaving the bill out there.
Darius shook his head.
Burke got out another fifty, folded it over the first. Darius took the money, put it in his shirt pocket. “How much time you need?”
“Twenty minutes,” Burke said. “Half hour at most. Need some privacy, though.”
“Can’t be no trouble.”
“Won’t be.”
Darius looked down to the nurses’ station, then back at him. “You used to be on the job, huh?”
“I was.”
“Half hour?”
“Tops.”
Darius nodded, went back down the hall.
It was a private room. A black man with patches of gray in his hair was propped up in the bed, right arm in a sling. He was watching a TV mounted high on the wall.
Burke closed the door behind him, said, “Willie Freeman. Just the man I’m looking for.”
Freeman turned to look at him. “Who are you?” He had monitor wires running inside his hospital gown, an IV tube in his left wrist.
“You’re looking pretty good for a man just got shot,” Burke said. “How you feeling?”
“I already talked to a detective.”
“I know. Lieutenant Haney, right? Funny, everybody thinks I lo
ok like a cop. Why is that?”
“What you want?” His gown was loose, and Burke could see the bulk of the bandage on his right shoulder.
“My name’s Frank Burke.” He pulled a plastic chair closer to the bed, sat. “That mean anything to you?”
“Should it?” He looked toward the door.
“He’s not out there,” Burke said. “He’s taking a break.” He looked up at the screen. “What are you watching there? Sanford and Son reruns?”
“I asked what you want.”
“You’re older than most of Marquis’s boys. Must mean you’re higher on the food chain, right? How’s the shoulder? You right-handed?”
Freeman watched him, didn’t answer.
“I got shot once,” Burke said. “In the stomach. It was back in ’91, when shit was going crazy here with all the crack. I was lucky, it was just a .22. Cheap street gun. Still hurt like a mother, though. Guy who shot me was named Baby-Boy Roberts. You ever hear of him?”
Freeman shook his head.
“Worked for the Chambers Brothers,” Burke said. “Actually, he worked for somebody worked for the Chambers Brothers. I’m sure they had no idea who he was.”
“Don’t know the man.”
“It was a straight buy-and-bust, undercover. When Baby-Boy saw what the deal was, he pulled out this piece-of-shit revolver, goddamn thing held together by electrician’s tape, and started blasting. He got me with the first one, the next two missed. Couldn’t shoot for shit, lucky for me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Then I put a .38 steel jacket in his left eye, blew the back of his head all over a brick wall.”
“Why you telling me this?”
“So we get to know each other a little. Find our common ground.”
“Man, I don’t know who the fuck you are. And I got nothing to say to you.”
Burke took out his cell, tossed it on the bed. “I got Marquis on speed dial. You want to talk to him?”
Freeman looked at the phone.
“Who do you think gave me your name, dickwag?” Burke said. “Stop wasting my time.”
“I don’t know what you talking about.”
“You talk to Damien already? He been by here?”
“Damien who?”
Burke picked up the phone, put it back in his pocket. Freeman looked back up at the screen. Burke reached over, took the television remote from his lap.
“Hey, what you doing—”
Burke found the button, and the screen went dark. “I need your undivided attention here, Willie, or we’re going to get off on the wrong foot.”
He put the remote on the bedside stand, out of Freeman’s reach. “I’ll ask again. Damien been here?”
“Who’s that?”
“Careful how you play this, Willie. I admire you. You’re a good man. Loyal. Hell, Marquis should give you a bonus for catching those hot ones, being the only one with the balls to grab some iron, return fire.”
He looked at Freeman’s IV setup, two clear bags hanging from a J-shaped pole above the monitor.
“What they got you on? Demerol drip? Antibiotics, too, right? Good shit, Demerol. You’ll need a lot of it in the next couple weeks. Private doctor, too, and a physical therapist. Not to mention a lawyer. Marquis gonna pay for all that?”
“I don’t need any lawyer.”
“You will. I’ve got friends at Beaubien Street, and word is they’re putting a charge on you for the AK. You’re looking at a mandatory ten years there.”
“I ain’t taking no charge. I was the one got shot.”
“Won’t make any difference. You were the one with the weapon. And aside from Detroit PD, you’ll have Marquis to worry about.”
“Why?”
“Because it was a setup, right? Only way it makes sense. That’s what I told him.”
“Wasn’t no setup.”
He looked past Burke to the door.
“Nobody’s coming in here until I let them,” Burke said. “It’s just you and me, William. Now, Marquis gave me a list of seven names. You, the two boys in the Armada, and four others who knew about the drop-off. Not counting Damien. You were the easiest to find, so here I am.”
“I got nothing to say.”
“Let me show you something. Just for the sake of argument.” He leaned forward, took the leather slapjack from his back pocket. “Ever see one of these?”
Freeman looked at it.
“This thing belongs in a museum now, but when I first joined the department, all the old-timers carried these.” He tapped the thick end on the bed rail, made it clang and vibrate. “Those old guys really knew how to use these, especially up close. All that lead shot sewn into the business end. Just a flick of the wrist”—he slapped it against the bed rail again, harder this time—“and they could really put the hurt on you. Crack a skull. Break an elbow or knee, no problem.”
“What about it?”
“Well, we can have a civil conversation here, or it can go the other way, too. I can put a pillow over your face, start whaling on that shoulder.” He nodded at the bandage. “In five seconds I’ll fuck up what it took those doctors five hours to fix. You’ll be jacking off with your left hand for the rest of your life.”
Freeman tried to sit up straighter, his face tightened with pain.
“You know I mean it,” Burke said.
“Ain’t no need to talk like that.” The fear in him now.
“Willie, let’s get some things straight. You’re a piece of shit, works for a dope dealer. We both know that. I spent twenty-five years dealing with pieces of shit like you. That was my job. So let’s back up a little. You talk to Damien?”
Freeman shifted his arm in the sling. “Yeah, he was here.”
“When?”
“This afternoon. Right after they moved me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I thought you said you were working for Marquis?”
“I’m not working for anyone. What did you tell him?”
“Just what I saw.”
“And what was that?”
“How much you hear?”
“Enough that if you try to feed me a line of crap, I’ll know it. How many of them were there?”
Freeman drew a deep breath, let it out. “Four. At least. One drove the truck that hit us. There were three more in the van. Two of them came out, did the drop car. Driver stayed inside the whole time. I never saw him.”
“But you saw the others?”
“They wore masks.”
“They white, black?”
“Couldn’t tell.”
“You’re leaving something out.”
Freeman looked away. Burke brought the chair closer, put the slapjack away.
“You know what Damien’s doing right now?” he said. “He’s talking to the others on that list, trying to find out what happened. And some of them, to save their own asses, are going to point the finger at you. Now, Damien doesn’t have to worry about you. He knows where you are, that you aren’t going anywhere. He’ll take his time. And when he finds out what he wants, he’ll be back to take care of business.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But I do. Now tell me, when all that lead was flying, you hit anyone?”
He inched higher in the bed. “Just one.”
“Kill him?”
“I thought so, at first, ’cause it was a clean shot, and she went down fast. But the other two helped her into the van. Looked like she was moving okay by then.”
“She?”
“Yeah, I think.”
“What’s that mean, you ‘think’?”
“From the shape of her, way she ran, I’d say a woman.”
“Try again.”
“You asked me what I saw.”
Burke frowned. “That’s some sad bullshit you’re trying to put over on me.” He took the slapjack from his pocket again.
“Hold up. That’s no bullshit.”
“You tell Damien this?”
“Let me ask you,” Burke said. “How many women you know in D-Town, gangsta bitches, run with a slick crew like that?”
“Man, I don’t know.”
“How about none?” He rested the slapjack on his leg. “What did those boys with you see?”
“They didn’t see shit. That truck came out of nowhere, knocked us all on our asses. Then came the smoke, someone popping caps outside. Those boys stayed on the floor the whole time. After I went down, they piled out of there, hauled ass. Left all their shit behind.”
“Left you behind, too. How much money was in the Jetta?”
“Not my business what was in there.”
He put the slapjack away, thought it through. Damien already one step ahead of him. Marquis playing them against each other, waiting to see who got to the money first. Smart.
“The crew that took you down knew too much,” Burke said. “Odds are someone on that list gave it up. That’s what Marquis will think, true or not. Maybe he’ll decide it was you.”
“Don’t say shit like that.”
“It’s the truth, Willie. This train’s rolling. You want to get out in front of it, or run over and dragged behind? Your choice.”
“Marquis and I go back a long way.”
“Doesn’t matter. This is business. He’ll whack all of you just to be sure. You’ll end up in a vacant on the East Side, two in the head, courtesy of his brother. Even if you’re in County, waiting trial, he’ll get to you. Have someone throw your ass over the tier with an extension cord around your neck. You know I’m right.”
Freeman shook his head, looked away.
“Here’s my advice,” Burke said. “Get out of Detroit. Soon as you can. Jump bail if you have to, whatever. Just get away. Even if he doesn’t find out who took his money, Marquis will tie up the loose ends, make an example out of all of you.”
“What you want from me?”
Burke took the calfskin card holder from his inside pocket, slipped out a card. It read INVESTIGATIONS, CORPORATE/PERSONAL, and in smaller type, FRANCIS X. BURKE. No phone number or address. He turned it over, took out a silver pen, wrote his cell number on the back.
“Might be you could save me some time,” he said. “Take the heat off yourself as well. And there’s money in it for you.”