City Primeval

13

NORBERT BRYL SAID, “You didn’t question him in the room?”

“Nobody was here by then. I sat right where you’re sitting, he was over at Jerry’s desk.”

Hunter said, “Jesus, I better check the drawers.”

Bryl said, “What’ve you got that he’d want?” And swivelled back to Raymond Cruz. “So how’d you get to the nine people?”

The phone rang. Hunter said, “Take that, will you, Maureen? Act like you’re the secretary.”

Maureen, at her desk next to the file-room door, said, “Sure,” and picked up the phone. “Squad Seven, Sergeant Downey-”

Wendell Robinson entered with a young black male wearing a T-shirt and a wool watchcap, motioned him into the file room to wait and closed the door. “Another boyfriend of Liselle Taylor. Says he believes Alfonso killed her, and if we can get his traffic tickets tore up-like three hundred dollars’ worth and a suspended license-he’ll tell us things so we’ll believe it too.”

“Tell him what the food’s like across the street,” Hunter said.

“He’s been there. Probably likes the food.”

Raymond said, “Before you go in-what’d Clement say to you, something about having a black friend?”

“He said one of my best friends,” Wendell answered. “I said what’s his name? He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Yeah-” Raymond, thoughtful, looked from his desk to Hunter. “He mention a friend to you?”

Hunter said, “How could that asshole have a friend?” But then squinted, closing one eye. “Wait a minute. He did say something. He wouldn’t sign the rights sheet and he said, yeah, he said he had a friend who wouldn’t sign it either and nothing happened to him.”

“The Wrecking Crew,” Raymond said, “they ever use a black driver?”

No one answered him.

“Then before the Wrecking Crew. You see what I’m getting at? He knows a black guy who was brought in here. The black guy wouldn’t say anything about whatever it was. Which could be the reason Mansell thinks of him as a friend. Why, because the black guy wouldn’t talk? A matter of principle? No, because the black guy wouldn’t talk about Mansell. How’s that sound?”

“That’s not bad,” Bryl said. “Let me go consult the great computer, see what it says.”

Raymond said, “Check with Art Blaney in Robbery. He’s got a memory better than a computer. Ask him if he recalls a black guy that ever ran with Mansell.”

Bryl went out. A uniformed officer stood holding the door open. He said, “Judge Guy was shot four times with a .38, right?”

Hunter looked up. “Five times.”

“Shit,” the uniformed officer said, “I went and played four-three-eight.”

The door swung closed.

Hunter said, “Probably boxed it, too, the dumb shit.”

Raymond said, “He tells me he’s killed nine people. I say, oh, in Detroit?”

The door swung open. A black officer in shirtsleeves, wearing a .44 magnum revolver in a white shoulder rig, came in with a stack of papers, licked his thumb, took off the top sheet and said, “Who wants it? Schedule for the play-offs, nine-thirty, Softball City. Homicide versus Sex Crimes.”

The door swung closed.

Maureen hung up the phone. “MCMU. Mansell and Sandy Stanton just left 1300 Lafayette in a cab.”

Inspector Herzog listened with his hands clasped as though in prayer, fingers pressed together, pointing straight up.

“He’s telling me he’s killed nine people,” Raymond said, “without going into detail, two there, seven here, and I’m trying to get him to be a little more specific. With the Wrecking Crew? He says no. Well, we know he performed the triple on St. Marys and that was with the Crew. So what he meant was none of the others. But he was with somebody. He said the guy was along but didn’t do anything.”

“This is the black guy?” Herzog asked.

“He didn’t say he was black,” Raymond said. “He only told me another guy was along. But he told Wendell he had a black friend. See, first he keeps throwing ‘nigger’ in Wendell’s face, then he tells him, ‘One of my best friends is a nigger.’ He tells Jerry he’s got a friend who was questioned here and refused to say a word or even sign the rights sheet. He tells me a guy was with him when he killed some people and now we put the pieces together and Norb consults the computer, checking out Mansell in depth, all his arrests for whatever, all the times he was picked up on suspicion, brought in for questioning, to see if he’s got a black guy in his past anywhere.”

Raymond’s gaze moved to the window framing Herzog’s mane of gray hair. He could see the top floors of the highrise in the near distance.

“Incidentally, Clement and Sandy, about an hour ago they took a cab out to the Tel-Twelve Mall. They went inside, MCMU lost them.”

“They’re not using the Buick,” Herzog said. “How come?”

“I think he cleaned it up,” Raymond said, “doesn’t want to touch it again.”

“Maybe you should’ve picked it up yesterday.”

“Well, as I mentioned to you,” Raymond said, “it was a judgment call. MCMU followed Sandy around, they’re pretty sure she didn’t dump anything. And if they hadn’t followed her, then Mr. Sweety wouldn’t be the important man he is today.”

“Who’s Mr. Sweety?”

“You remember yesterday Sandy went to a place on Kercheval, Sweety’s Lounge?”

Herzog nodded. “Came out with a guy and went in the house next door.”

“Came out with Mr. Sweety and went to his house,” Raymond said. “It’s where he lives.”

“I think you said yesterday the guy’s black.”

“Yes, and according to the sheets on Mansell, so is a guy by the name of Marcus Sweeton who did some work with Clement back when he first came here and before he joined the Wrecking Crew. Sweeton’s had two convictions-one probation, two years on a gun charge and I guess he’s not looking forward to that third fall, because he’s been pure ever since, now operates Sweety’s Lounge.”

“How’d he get a liquor license?”

“It’s in his brother’s name. Sweeton says he’s only a bartender; but he runs the place and lives next door with his girlfriend, Anita. The brother works out at Chrysler Mound Road. So we know Marcus is the original Mr. Sweety of Sweety’s Lounge. Art Blaney remembers him-”

“What do we need a computer for with Blaney?” Herzog said.

“That’s what I said to Norb. Art looks up at the ceiling, it’s like he wrote some notes up there. What do you want to know? Marcus Sweeton, a.k.a. the Dark Mark, Sweetwater, a couple more and Mr. Sweety. He makes about fifteen grand a year from the bar and another twenty-five or thirty from drugs, nothing worth busting, little neighborhood store.”

“This is how he stays pure,” Herzog said.

“Well, it’s relative,” Raymond said. “Pure compared to going in someplace with a gun. Art says Mansell used him as a bird dog. Mr. Sweety would go in a dope house-very friendly type of guy-sit around and chat a while, pass out some angel dust, tell a few jokes-that’s the way they worked. Get ’em laid back on the dust, then Clement comes in and takes ’em off easy-all these clowns sitting around grinning at him.”

“How many times can you do that?” Herzog said.

“In this town?” Raymond said. “You put all the dope stores on a computer the printout would reach down the hall, down the stairs, out onto Beaubien-”

“I get the picture,” Herzog said. “So now you’ve got a possible witness to one or more of these nine killings Mansell claims he did. Are you trying to tie in Mr. Sweety to Judge Guy and Adele Simpson?”

“Not necessarily,” Raymond said. “See, the original idea, find out who this old buddy is, tie him in to Mansell as an accessory and get him to cop on one of the earlier murders. Just in case we don’t get Mansell on the current one, the judge and Adele. I thought, ah, use a lead Mansell himself gave us and doesn’t even know it. Bring him in and watch his mouth fall open.”

“I’m not gonna hold up my vacation on that happening,” Herzog said.

“No, I said that was the original idea,” Raymond said. “But now-what is this? Mansell shoots the judge and Adele and the next day Sandy Stanton goes to see the old buddy, Mr. Sweety. What’s going on here?”

“So you are trying to tie him in.”

“Yeah, but not necessarily in the way I think you mean.”

“I’m not sure I know what I mean,” Herzog said.

“Look at it this way,” Raymond said. “If Mansell was hired to do the judge and then he hired Mr. Sweety to drive for him-”

“Then why didn’t Sweety get a car?”

“That’s the first question. The next one-since Mansell knows we’ve made the Buick, would he tell Sandy to drive over to Mr. Sweety’s house in it the next day?”

“I don’t know,” Herzog said, “would he?”

“Or-did Sandy go over there on her own?”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you ask her.”

“I’m going to,” Raymond said, “soon as she gets home.”

“But then she tells Mansell and he’ll know you’re onto Mr. Sweety. How do you get around that?”

“It’s a game, isn’t it?” Raymond said. “Nothing but a game… Why don’t I just go find Clement and shoot him?”

Herzog said, “That’s the best idea I’ve heard yet.”