The Second Girl(16)

The bathroom light is brutal. I sit on the toilet and try to take a shit, use some of the toilet paper to blow my nose.

There’s a glob of mucus mixed with blood on the toilet paper; then blood trickles out of my left nostril. I wad up a bit of toilet paper and stuff it up my bleeding nostril, replacing it with a bit more until the bleeding stops.

No luck with taking a shit so I move to the sink, find the saline solution, and squirt it up my nostrils a couple of times until it drips out of my nose and into the sink.

I shave, then take a long, hot shower. When I return to my bedroom I check my cell again and notice a call that just came in from Davidson. I pull out some clean boxers from the top dresser drawer, sit on the edge of the bed, and give him a call.

“Was afraid you weren’t going to return my call,” he answers.

“I was in the shower. What’s up?”

“I’m at the Nickel. Can you get over here at about noon?”

“That won’t be a problem. You already got an Assistant U.S. Attorney assigned to this?”

“Yes. It’s going to district court, so I’m here waiting to paper it.”

“I’m assuming you got some arrests, then?”

“You assume correctly, my friend. We’ll talk when you get here. I’ve got a desk on the third floor now.”

I let myself chuckle. “How’d you wrangle that?”

“Me and a couple other guys from Youth Division got detailed to an FBI task force for crimes against children. The AUSA that’s assigned to work with us wanted us close so she secured some space for us in an empty office.”

“Sounds like a good gig for you. At least it gets you out of Youth Division.”

“We’ll see how long it lasts. It’s good work, though. So listen, I’ll see you when you get here. Hit me on the cell when you’re downstairs.”

“Will do. And start figuring out how you’re gonna keep me out of everything. I’m too busy to deal with witness conferences and grand juries and shit like that.”

He’s silent.

“All right?”

“Just get down here by noon, bro.” And before I can respond he says, “Later,” and disconnects.

Damn, that son of a bitch didn’t give me an answer.





Fourteen



Cops sometimes refer to the U.S. Attorney’s Office as the Nickel or Triple Nickel, ’cause the address is 555. It’s located on 4th Street, between E and F, about three blocks from Costello’s office, and I have to deal with the parking situation again.

I circle the blocks in the area until a spot opens up, maybe twenty minutes. It’s frustrating as shit because my time belongs to me now, not the department. Back when I was on the job, I wasted so much of my life in this car circling blocks. Most of the time, I’d simply give up and park somewhere illegal, put an “Official Police Business” placard on the dash, and hope for the best. It’s the damn DPW you have to worry about getting a ticket from, not cops. Having a placard rarely helped. It was always a roll of the dice.

I give up and park illegally, just like old times. I throw the placard on the dash, step out of the car, and put on my suit jacket. I’m wearing my navy blue Britches suit that I bought in Georgetown back in the day, when they were still open. It’s still a good suit, but I’m thinking with all the money I recovered I should buy myself some newer suits. I grab my overcoat from the front seat ’cause it looks like rain.

Davidson meets me in the lobby.

We shake hands and he says, “You’ve lost some weight.”

“Been eating right,” I tell him.

I show my retirement badge and ID to security and I’m given a visitor’s sticker. After I stick it on my suit jacket I place everything from my pockets, including my keys, on a metal stand and then walk through the metal detector. I’m not carrying, so it stays quiet.

We take the elevator to the third floor and then walk to a secured door off the glassed-in reception area.

We walk along a short hallway to an open area with six old wooden desks that look like they’ve recently been moved out of storage. Every desk is cluttered with files and has a desktop computer with a large screen. Only one of the desks is occupied, by a young guy, heavyset, dressed in an expensive suit. He looks up at me.

“This is my partner, Detective Curtis Hicks.”

We shake hands, then he nods and sits back in his chair.

“That’s my desk,” Davidson says, pointing to a corner spot.

He takes off his suit jacket and slides it over the back of his chair, sits, and then scoots his chair on wheels back against the wall.

“Have a seat,” he says, directing me to a chair against the wall near the corner of his desk.

He grabs a fresh memo pad off a stack of pads on his desk, pulls a nice silver pen out of his shirt pocket, and writes the date and time on the top line.

“So you’re looking…” he begins, and then pauses, with a thoughtful expression. “You’re looking a bit tired and overworked.”

“You got some nice bags under your eyes too, bub.”

“Yeah, but I’m not retired. Your days should be spent fishing, drinking good scotch, and loafing around. Instead you’re off chasing bad guys.”

“You’re forgetting—I went out at seventeen years and I was lucky to get forty percent. I gotta work.”