Freaky Deaky

Chapter 22

Chris played scenes, lying in bed in that early morning half-light.

He heard himself tell Jerry Baker, "I go in the guy's swimming pool, remove an explosive device and he gives me twenty-five grand." Jerry says, "You take the device with you?" He tells Jerry, "I left it there but told him not to touch it, and I know he won't." Jerry says, "You should've taken it with you." Jerry's right; he should've. Jerry says, "But you did take the check." "Of course I took the check, for Christ sake." Jerry, thinking of all that money, thinking fast, says, "Well, there's a gray area there." He hears himself say to Jerry, "What's gray about it? It's withholding evidence, isn't it?" Jerry, with his many years of experience on the police, says, "That's a matter of interpretation. There's withholding evidence and there's holding evidence. It may be needed in the investigation, it may not be." He hears himself say to Jerry, "You don't see it as a rip?" Jerry says, "Where's the rip? The guy agreed to the price and you did the job, performed a service." Chris says, "But in receiving the check for removing evidence, isn't it evidence too?" Jerry says, "Not necessarily. The explosive device, yeah, is evidence. But now the check, that's definitely a gray area."

Chris pictured doing the scene with Wendell. "Hey, Wendell? I'd like to ask you something?" The dude lieutenant looks up from his desk. "Yeah? What?" And that was as far as the scene got. Chris asked himself why he hadn't thought of these questions yesterday, last night. He wondered if it was to avoid even thinking about it. Finally he asked himself what he believed was a key question: When does holding evidence become withholding evidence?

The answer came unexpectedly, flooding him with a sense of relief: Monday. He had the weekend to think about it, study that gray area.

Chris got up on an elbow to flip his pillow over to the cool side and paused in the half-light as he heard Greta say, "Oh, my Lord." She was lying with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't think my car was stolen."

Greta said it must have been her concussion of the brain that made her forget where she parked it. The thing was, twice before when she'd gone to the Playhouse Theater she'd parked in the same aisle on the ground floor of the building, almost in the same exact space both times. But then last Tuesday, or whenever it was, the place was jammed. She ended up parking on the third level, ran out of there with a lot on her mind having been raped and all and wanting to have Woody arrested, and then so much happened right after, ending up in the hospital. . . . She felt really dumb.

Chris said, Yeah, all that going on. He said he'd drive her to get her car. But then didn't talk much while they were having breakfast. Greta said, "I think about my car and then I think about Woody. I don't know what to do." Drinking her coffee she said, "And you're no help." She said, "You think I'm a flake, don't you?" He told her it was no big deal, people forgot where they parked their cars all the time. She said, "But what should I do about Woody?" Chris told her it was a gray area; it depended on how you looked at it. Giving her that much understanding. . . .

While thinking about the weekend, the two days giving him hope, seeing time enough in there to believe the investigation could all of a sudden be closed when he wasn't looking and he wouldn't be withholding anything. Would he?

In the Cadillac driving downtown Greta said, "Oh, God, I have to tell that guy at the precinct my car wasn't stolen. I know exactly what he's gonna say."

It gave Chris an idea. Stop by 1300 to see Wendell. Only you forgot it's Saturday, he isn't there. But whoever's on duty verifies it later on. Yeah, Mankowski was here, he was looking for Wendell.

So he told Greta he'd stop at the precinct desk and tell them the car had been returned, that's all; it just showed up. They didn't have to know she forgot where she put it. Greta said, "Thanks," without much life in it.

On the third level of the parking structure they pulled up next to her blue Ford Escort; Saturday morning not another car near it. Greta said, "Thanks for a nice time."

Chris said, "I'll see you later."

Greta held the door open. "I'm going home."

"You're coming back, aren't you?"

"I'll have to think about it."

"What's wrong?"

Greta hesitated. "You're different."

Chris said, "Wait a minute," as she got out of the Cadillac and was closing the door. "What do you mean, I'm different?" She was standing by her car now, her back to him. He pushed a button to lower the window on the passenger side. "I'm not different." She didn't turn around; she was unlocking her car. "I don't feel different." Maybe he was different, but not in the way she thought he was. She was in the car now, starting it. Christ. He got out of the Cadillac and went around to her car; she didn't lower her window. He tapped on the glass with the tip of his finger. "Ginjuh? I'm not different." She looked up at him. "Really, I'm not." She didn't seem convinced; she looked sad. Shit. "What's wrong? Tell me."

"You're different," Greta said.

"How am I different?"

"I don't know, but you are."

She drove off.

Chris locked his dad's car and walked the two blocks to 1300.

Squad Seven's door, Room 500, was straight across the hall from the elevators. Chris walked in, stopped and wanted to turn around and walk out. Saturday morning, and it looked like a convention going on, a gang of people, cops and suspects, or else witnesses. The head homicide cop himself, Inspector Raymond Cruz, was stroking his mustache as he stood talking to Wendell, seated at his desk. A detective by the name of Hunter was taking a Polaroid shot of a good-looking young black woman, stylish enough to be a Supreme, sitting half turned in a desk chair, her arm hanging behind it, long slender fingers heavy with rings. The squad's executive sergeant, Norb Bryl, stood by the Norelco coffeemaker with a young black dude in a cream-colored suit and sunglasses. Two uniformed evidence techs lounged against a desk with grocery-store sacks bearing red tags. All this activity. . . .

And now Wendell was looking this way and the stylish black woman was looking up past her shoulder at Raymond Cruz going by in his narrow navy suit, top cop and he looked it, his down-curved bandit mustache giving him a solemn expression. His eyes moved and he said, "Chris, how's it going?" Chris hesitated. By the time he said, "Not too bad," the inspector was out the door.

Now Wendell was coming. Chris didn't move, getting ready for him. Wendell stopped by the door to the interrogation room and said, "I can't talk to you now." Chris wanted to go over and hug him, but gave him an easy shrug instead and said, "No problem." He turned to leave and heard Wendell say, "Wait. Come here a minute." So he had to go over to Wendell standing with his hand on the door, Wendell in shirtsleeves but his paisley tie knotted up there tight. He said, "These are Booker's people," keeping his voice low. "His houseman over there with Bryl, his lady, Moselle, and we got his bodyguard in here, Juicy Mouth. You know him?"

"He wasn't around," Chris said.

"That's what he tells me. But if Juicy didn't put the bomb in the chair he knows who did."

Chris said, "This hasn't got anything to do with . . ."

Wendell was shaking his head. "Doesn't seem like the least connection."

"What about Skip?"

"Skip Gibbs, worked for the film company. You were right. All we got so far, he turned in his rental car. We left off checking with airlines for the moment and got back on Booker."

Chris felt he had to keep going. "Anybody watching Robin?"

"She's not that good a suspect yet. I don't have the people to sit around in cars."

"I read her notebook. In capital letters she says she's gonna take Mark Ricks for everything she can get."

"And you see the date on the book, seventeen years ago."

"I know, but it was on her desk and she didn't want us to see it. She had it out, not stuck away somewhere."

Wendell said, "I understand what you're saying. I like it, even if it isn't any kind of evidence would hold up. But I have to let Robin sit while I tend to this one."

Chris said in a hurry, because he had to say it right now, get it out, "There's something else I want to talk to you about."

He kept staring at Wendell, the lieutenant's hand on the doorknob, about to enter, but staring back at him now, a change in his expression, his eyes. Wendell said, "You're not working for me."

"I know that."

"You might, sometime, but you're not now."

Chris didn't say anything.

"I don't want to hear a question I don't have an answer to. Or I don't want to know anything I'd have trouble explaining where I found it out. You understand?"

Chris nodded.

"Think about it and we'll talk Monday. All right?"

Chris said, "Whatever you say," sounding a little disappointed but dying to get out of there. He turned to go and Wendell touched his arm.

"Wait, take a minute. See if you think this guy knows anything about bombs."

Juicy Mouth sat hunched over, arms resting on thick knees, eyes raised to them coming in: a young black guy with a build, shoulders stretching his silky jacket. He seemed to fill half of this narrow pink room that was no bigger than a walk-in closet. Next to him was a small wooden table, a tin ashtray on it full of old cigarette butts. Wendell said, "Juicy, this is Sergeant Mankowski, the last person on this earth to see Booker alive."

Chris had a feeling Juicy didn't give a shit, the way he yawned and leaned back against the wall, the pink surface stained from heads resting against it. Chris didn't notice anything unusual about the guy's mouth.

"I've been telling Juicy," Wendell said, "if he didn't actually set the bomb maybe we could lighten up on him, take it down to accessory."

Juicy said, "You gonna have to let me out any minute now. That's light enough."

"Sergeant Mankowski," Wendell said, "was the bomb man there that time. Talked to Booker, heard his last words. . . ."

What were they? Chris seemed to recall Booker saying, "Where you motherfuckers going?" Something like that. And saw Juicy Mouth looking at him, his head still pressed to the wall, Juicy saying, "Is that right? If you the bomb man, how come you didn't take the bomb out from under him?"

Chris didn't see anything especially juicy about the guy's mouth, even when he spoke.

"The question was how to get to it," Chris said. "Ten sticks of--what was it, sixty percent? Rigged to some kind of electronic pressure sensor. Where would you learn to put something like that together?"

No reaction. He wasn't sure Juicy was even listening. But then the guy said, "You right there with him, with Booker? Looking to see what you had?"

"I cut into the seat cushion," Chris said, "but couldn't get to the works from the front."

"You right there, but you didn't get blown to shit like Booker did?"

"I stepped outside for a minute."

"You did, huh? I stepped out to get some pizza," Juicy said. "What'd you step out for?"

"We told him don't move, we'll be right back," Chris said, and felt dumb, this big street kid turning it around on him. The kid wearing five hundred dollars worth of clothes, a Rolex watch. . . .

"Step outside and let the man get blown up by hisself," Juicy said. "Yeah, well, if it don't mean shit to you and it don't mean shit to me, why we even talking about it?"

"I still have to sit on you," Wendell said. "Anybody it says on their sheet kills people, been known to, that makes him a suspect."

"Look on the sheet again, man. No convictions."

"You did people for Booker, didn't you? Shot 'em in the back of the head, left 'em out at Metro?"

"Man, this is a bomb," Juicy said. "You know I didn't fool with no bomb."

"Yeah, but you next to whatever one of the Italians put it there. Once I find out which one, then I can let 'em know it was you told me. See, then I won't have to worry about you no more, you'll be gone."

Juicy said, "Shit. Can't trust nobody, can you?"

Wendell said, "It's nothing personal. It don't mean I think you're an asshole, anything like that, you understand? Hey, show Sergeant Mankowski why they call you Juicy Mouth. Go on."

Juicy looked up. He said, "Check it out," and Chris thought the sole of a shoe was coming out of the guy's mouth, a big gray tongue that filled his lips from corner to corner, Chris looking at it wondering how the tongue could even fit in the guy's mouth.

"Put it back," Wendell said.

Chris stared, Juicy grinning at him now, until Wendell touched Chris's arm and they left the room, Wendell closing the door after them.

"Can you see him on the playground when he was little," Wendell said, "showing that ugly thing to the other kids?"

"He's proud of it," Chris said.

"It's what I'm saying. He's like a little kid and we playing with him, take him in there and shoot the shit. We know he helped do Booker, there's no other way it could've been done." They stood by the door to the pink interrogation room, the stylish girl at Hunter's desk watching them over her shoulder, her hand with the rings swinging idly behind her chair. "All these ones here," Wendell said, "they got their game going, living on the edge. Booker's houseman, his bodyguard, his lady, the one got him to sit in the chair. . . . We get a feel for that kind of action, huh? Know when to step outside, so to speak, let them do their own kind of freaky deaky. You remember that sexy dance? Was about ten years ago. Man, we had people shooting each other over it--two homicides I know of come to mind. You freaky deak with somebody else's woman you could get seriously hurt."

"Or you could get lucky," Chris said.

Wendell smiled. He said, "All in how you look at it, huh?" and put his hand on Chris's shoulder. "The inspector likes your style, babe. You ever move back to the city. . . . Anyway, I'll see you Monday."

Chris waited less than a minute for an elevator, took the stairs to seven and hurried down the hall to Sex Crimes. The squad room was dim, lights off, no one here. He found Greta's Preliminary Complaint Report in the desk with the blue flowers, picked up the phone and dialed her number. He'd filled out her PCR only four days ago; it seemed more like four weeks. After five rings Greta's voice came on: "Hi, you've reached Ginger Jones, but she isn't here right now, doggone it." Chris thinking, Jesus Christ. "If you want, you can leave a message right after you hear the beep. 'Bye now." Chris waited for the beep and when he heard it he still waited. Finally he said, "Greta? I haven't changed one bit," and hung up. That was all he could say to a machine. He'd try her again later. But now he didn't know what to do. He sat down to think about it, looking at the blue flowers, a case file, a stack of PCR forms, a worn three-ring binder with DOWNEY written on it, and realized this was Maureen's desk. Well, he'd only been here two days officially, in and out. He looked at notes written neatly on a yellow legal pad, saw the name ROBIN ABBOTT and her phone number, her address on Canfield, and another phone number and address with MOTHER written after it, then a dash and the name MARILYN. Below this Maureen had written B.H. POLICE and a number. B.H. for Bloomfield Hills, where Maureen had said the mother lived.

Chris got up and went over to his own desk piled with case folders, looked at the typed list of Sex Crimes squad members beneath the plastic cover of the desk pad and phoned Maureen. They said hi and Chris asked her if she'd ever got hold of Robin's mother.

"I tried all day yesterday."

"How come, Maureen?"

"Remember Robin saying she kept all those books and newspapers at her mom's? I wondered if she kept any other stuff there, since Wendell didn't find anything."

"But you haven't talked to her, the mom."

"I got a busy signal for about ten minutes, then no answer after that," Maureen said, "so I called the Bloomfield Hills police. They said the mother was away on a trip."

"But somebody was on the phone."

"I told them that. They said it was probably the maid, or maybe painters, rug cleaners, you know."

"Are they gonna check?"

"They said they'd look into it. Why, what're you up to?"

"Not a thing. You tell Wendell you called and got a busy signal?"

"Yeah, but he didn't seem too excited."

"That's all you can do, Maureen."

"Have you talked to him?"

"He's busy. There a lot of people killing each other."

She said, "Where are you?"

"I'm not sure," Chris said, "but if I find out I'll let you know."

He went back to Maureen's desk, dialed Robin's number and listened to four rings before she answered: her voice softer than Maureen's, sounding bored as she said hello.

"Robin? It's Skip."

There was a silence.

Chris said, "What's the matter?"

Now a long pause before she said, "Who is this?"

"I just told you, it's Skip."

She hung up.

Chris waited about twenty seconds and dialed Robin's number again. The line was busy. He looked at Maureen's notes, dialed Robin's mother's number, got a busy signal and continued to listen to it, telling himself it didn't mean it was Skip. Telling himself the hell it didn't. It was, it was Skip. During the next couple of minutes he dialed Robin's number five times before it finally rang and she answered.

"Hi. This is Chris Mankowski."

He waited. See if she remembered him. Picturing her in that dingy room with the zingy red design painted on the wall, Robin trying to think fast, get it together, wanting to sound cool when she came on.

She said, "You just called, didn't you?" With the bored tone.

"And you hung up on me," Chris said. "I tried to call you back, but I guess you were talking to Skip."

There was a silence.

"Hang up and call Donnell this time. If he hasn't already told you about me, ask him. Mankowski?"

She said, "I know who you are, but that's about it. You're either a cop or a two-bit hustler and I don't know why I'm even talking to you."

"I'll drop around and tell you," Chris said, "in about an hour."

"I won't be here. I have to see a lawyer."

"That's not a bad idea."

There was a pause before Robin said, "Well, if you're going to be downtown later. . . ."

"How about Galligan's?"

She said, "No, I'll meet you at Hart Plaza about six," and hung up.

Chris waited, dialed her number and got a busy signal. He copied phone numbers and addresses, Greta's, Robin's and her mother's, on a sheet of notepaper and put it in his coat pocket. When he dialed Robin's number again the line was still busy.

He couldn't think of why she wanted to meet him outside and not in a bar. There was not much doubt Skip would be with her. He didn't know Skip, if Skip was mean and nasty or what. He believed Skip was the type--judging from the way he put a bomb together--who didn't give a shit and would let you know it. Skip and Juicy Mouth.

Chris left Sex Crimes and went down to six, to Firearms and Explosives, his old hangout. He had turned in his police .38 along with his shield and I.D. The gun his dad had given him, the Glock 17 auto, was still here in a locked cabinet. He filled the magazine with 9-millimeter rounds, remembering the St. Antoine Clinic doctor trying to make something out of it, asking him if he liked guns and getting into all that shit about spiders. Spiders, Jesus, who worried about spiders.