The Second Girl(73)

“We weren’t up to anything.”

“If I had anything to confess to, you’d be my first choice.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. There’s an interview room right there if you want to step in,” she says.

“It’s not cozy enough. And I think you know I had nothing to do with that kid’s death.”

Before she can answer, Davidson, Millhoff, and their partners walk back over. Millhoff is carrying a folder.

Millhoff and Davidson roll up a couple of chairs and sit.

“McGuire and Luna put together a couple of photo arrays,” Millhoff tells me. “Do I have to go through the whole spiel, or can you just look at the photos?”

“I’ve given the ‘spiel’ enough times to still have it. Just lemme see what you got.”

He hands me an eight-by-ten printout from Live Scan. It has three rows of nine PDID photos. It doesn’t take more than a second before I point to the fourth photo on the second row.

“That’s Little Monster. He’s the shooter,” I say with certainty.

He hands me another sheet with photos that are possibilities for Playboy. I look it over, but don’t see him.

“No,” I say. “He’s young. Maybe there’s a juvie photo on file.”

“We’ll look into that,” Davidson says.

“Or maybe he’s a lucky one and hasn’t been arrested yet,” I add. “You find his Lexus and have some good tac officers sit on it, he’ll show. That car’s his baby.”

“We’ll look into everything,” Millhoff says. “We get something, then we might have some more to show you.”

“I’ll be around.”

I hate to say it, but I’m glad they don’t know who he is. I want that little f*ck Playboy to myself. He doesn’t know that I know about his prized shiny Lexus. Seventeenth and Euclid is hot now, so he’ll go to another spot they have. And yet again, I’m in a race with my former colleagues.





Sixty-four



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 f*ck 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 f*ck’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.”