The Second Girl(71)

No blood that I can see along Miriam’s running trail or her hiding spot at the curb. That’s a good sign.

Sirens are closer.

There’s a cab on Euclid and 17th. I notice the driver on his cell phone. When he sees me over the cop, he makes a quick turn onto 17th and speeds north.

No one else is around. They know enough.

The officer doesn’t look so good now. His eyes are glazed over, and with every short breath a deep-throated gurgling sound.

“Miriam got away from me,” I say.

“Miriam?” he asks with effort, like what the f*ck am I talking about?

“The young girl I was holding on to. The reason you were here. Is there another place she might stay?”

The cruisers are very close. The sound of the sirens seems to fold around us.

“Where would she go, Tommy? Let me get her. Take her home. You know they’re gonna kill her.”

“University,” is all he says.

“What do you mean? What university?”

He mumbles something unintelligible again.

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

He takes in another short breath then, “Don’t tell…please,” almost like a little kid pleading with a friend.

“Where can I find the girl, Tommy? A safe house?”

“Please,” he says one more time.

“I got you, brother. I’m not gonna say shit. What university?”

Cruisers are speeding up Euclid from 16th against the one-way sign.

Loud sirens, the sweetest sound in the world right now for him, but not for me, ’cause he didn’t give me shit.

Officers roll onto the scene from all directions, blocking off the whole area around us.

“Your boys are here now. You’re gonna be okay.”





Sixty-two



I’m sitting on a chair with roller wheels at an empty cubicle in the 3D detectives’ office. The only thing I got with me is my backpack. My Volvo’s still on the scene. Knowing what I got on me and inside my backpack makes me more than a little paranoid, but I wasn’t about to leave it in my car ’cause that’d give them an excuse to search it. I’m not a suspect so unless I do or say something stupid they won’t even think about it. A crime-scene tech had to take my weapon, though, see if I shot it.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in here. Last time was when we worked a case with a couple of district detectives and we used the office to stage for a search warrant we were about to execute.

This office still stinks.

The interior was recently remodeled, but even the new carpet, fresh paint, and fancy cubicles can’t remove the human depravity this place has managed over the years. You can lose the stains, but the odor still remains. It’ll always be preserved in this structure, and now, my sinus membranes. The only thing this renovation has accomplished is to add a sickening sheen to an already foul place.

The two officers who took the report have left. I’m not only a witness, but a victim. I’ve never been a reported victim of anything before. I’ve been shot at before, but never reported it. I’ve been shot at on the job, too, even stabbed once, straight through my love handle on my left side. “Victim” is a term given to someone who never had to take an oath. A soldier can’t be a victim, and neither can a cop. Regrettably, I’m no longer a cop, so I’m now a reported victim of assault with intent to kill.

A couple of homicide detectives questioned me afterward. I know one of them. Tim Millhoff. He’s a good dude. Almost twenty-five years on the job. He told me they were on it because the officer, Tommy, is at MedStar in critical condition.

I told them exactly how it went down but left out a couple of things. I’m honoring the officer’s request and didn’t give up how I saw him entering the brothel and not exit for a while, and then how Miriam called him out by first name. I told them about the “university,” but made it sound like it was something I learned earlier, from a source on the street.

If Tommy didn’t get himself shot, I’m sure he could’ve argued that he had a complaint on the row house from an anonymous neighbor, and so he had to check it out. No, I didn’t go there. I simply said he must’ve been nearby because he got there quickly. Probably because it was close to checkoff and he was just sitting in his parked vehicle. I said he was doing his job, but it went down so fast he couldn’t react quickly enough. He paid the price for his dirty deeds. Why make him pay more?

As far as Miriam calling him out by first name, if I were him I’d simply say that it’s my beat and I know all the people on my beat. I know better, though, and maybe he asked me not to tell ’cause he knew I did.

I also advised Millhoff that Little Monster was the shooter, even though I wasn’t completely certain. But from what little bit I can remember, I’m confident now that he was.

Millhoff asked me to stand by. He said Davidson and the agents he works with are on their way.

A couple of young plainclothes officers enter to talk to Millhoff and his partner. They’re standing a couple of cubicles behind me, near a door that leads to a hallway and the Vice office. The skinny one with red hair says something about the Ritz. Millhoff looks my way and then walks over.

“They’re from Vice. The whole unit canvassed the shit out of the Ritz. Knocked on every door and even got a couple of other good witnesses who saw it go down from their apartment windows. Uniformed officers did the same along Seventeenth and Euclid. All in all we got some witnesses who can verify most of your story. There is this thing about you dragging the girl to try to get her in your car and then pulling your weapon out at a crowd that gathered at Seventeenth and Euclid.”