Roses Are Red

Chapter Six

I spun the steering wheel hard to my left. The Porsche skidded toward a stop, then hopped the curb with a jolting thud. Sampson and I jumped out and started to run after Cedric Montgomery.

"Stop! Police!” I yelled at him.

We shot down a narrow, twisted alley behind the small-time enforcer and all-round tough guy. Montgomery was a source of information, but he wasn't a snitch. He just knew things. He was in his early twenties; Sampson and I were both a whisker past forty. We worked out and we were still fast at least in our minds.

Montgomery could really move, though. He was a blur up ahead of us.

"He's just a sprinter, sugar," Sampson huffed. He was at my side, matching me stride for stride. "We're good for the long haul."

"Police!” I yelled again. "Why are you running, Montgomery?"

Sweat was already forming on my neck and back. The perspiration was dripping down from my hair. My eyes were burning some. But I could still run. Couldn't I?

"We can take him," I said. I accelerated, turned up my jets. It was a dare a challenge to Sampson, a game we'd been playing for years. Who can; we can.

We were actually gaining some on Montgomery. He looked back -and couldn't believe we were right behind him. Two freight trains on his tail, and there was no way for him to get off the track.

"Put it in full gear, sugar!" Sampson said. "Prepare for impact."

I gave it everything. Sampson and I were still matching steps. We were having our own private foot race, and Montgomery was the finish line.

We both hit him at the same time. He went down like a shocked wide-receiver crushed between two very fast linebackers. I was afraid he would never get up again. But Montgomery rolled a few times, moaned, and then looked at us in total amazement.

"Goddamn!" he whispered. That was all he said. Sampson and I took the compliment, then we cuffed him.

Two hours later Montgomery was talking to us at the station house on Third Street. He admitted that he had heard something about the robbery and murders over in Silver Spring. He was willing to trade information if we would look past half a dozen dime bags he had in his possession when we gang-tackled him on the street.

"I know who you lookin' for," Montgomery said, and he seemed sure of himself. "But you ain't gonna like hearin' who it is."

He was right I didn't like what he told me. Not at all.