Partners

15.

Knoxel took a day off for personal leave but did not tell his wife. After dark he went to a bar and started drinking. Alone in a dark corner, he weighed his options, the most attractive of which, at that awful moment, was putting his gun to his head. He could do it. It was not uncommon in his line of work. He knew three guys in the past five years who’d done it. All the same: no pills, no ropes, no jumping off bridges. There was only one way for a cop to handle things — take the service revolver, put a bullet in the temple.

Or, he could neutralize his little China doll. He was crazy about the girl and obsessed with her. He knew she’d been seventeen and didn’t care. That was part of the package, part of the thrill. It wasn’t as though he’d been robbing her of her innocence. Why would she squeal on him and ruin his life?

The third option was the worst. Do nothing and go to trial. Tell his story with as much sincerity as possible. Brace for the shit storm when she took the stand. Then deny, deny, deny. What if the jury believed her and not him? What if the cop killer walked?

He left the bar and drove through Little Angola. Though he was a cop with a badge and a gun, he was still a white guy in jeans, and strolling through the neighborhoods was not a good idea. The Flea Market was somewhat safe if he were buying drugs, and there was a section of Crump Street where the white guys picked up hookers while the pimps kept things safe. Other than that, though, white folks stayed out of Little Angola after dark.

Knoxel parked beside a church and finished a can of beer. He used a burner to call Maynard, her pimp, but there was no answer. He left the church and weaved nonchalantly through the streets but saw nothing. He stopped at a convenience store with iron bars across the windows and bought another beer. When he finished it, he parked on the street, took out his pistol, clicked off the safety, stuck it in the right rear pocket of his jeans, and ducked into an alley behind the flophouse.

He couldn’t be seen, couldn’t leave behind witnesses. He would neutralize China, then Maynard, and if he could score clean kills and disappear into the darkness all would be well. His marriage, career, reputation — all intact.

Dahl said they couldn’t use the affidavit in court. If Jane Doe failed to show, the affidavit was inadmissible. Something to do with Mancini’s right to cross-examine the witness.

Knoxel heard voices and hid behind a wooden stairway. The gun was out of his pocket, in his hand, and all he had to do was yell “Police!” and everyone within fifty yards would scatter. He felt safe, as always, but he could not run the risk of being seen. He peeked into a ground-floor window of the flophouse and saw no one. China usually worked in a room on the second floor. Silently, he opened the door and eased inside. From this point on, he had no choice but to shoot anyone who saw him.

“Four Killed in Botched Robbery of Brothel.” These days, such a headline out of Little Angola might not even make the front page.

The dim light was suddenly gone; the room was black. Knoxel saw nothing but lifted the gun anyway. As he tried to focus, a claw hammer landed at the base of his skull.