The Cut

FOURTEEN

Tim McCarthy had short curly hair of ginger and gray, a freckled face deeply lined from age and the sun, and a sturdy build. He sat at a table in a nondescript bar in a large hotel on New Jersey Avenue, not too far from his Internal Affairs Bureau office, located in MPD headquarters on Indiana. He had walked over to the hotel at lunchtime to meet Spero Lucas. Lucas sat across the table from him, his Moleskine notebook and iPhone set neatly before him. Both of them were having iced teas.

“Lawrence Holley,” said Lucas.

“Goes by Larry,” said McCarthy. “Narcotics and Special Investigations. What’s your interest?”

“Just curious. He drifted into the margins of something I’m working on for a client.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“I can’t say more.”

“It’s confidential, huh?”

“Exactly.”

McCarthy laced his fingers together and rested both hands on the table. He had a serene, confident way about him, a trait seen most often in military and law-enforcement types.

“Well?” said Lucas.

“I can’t tell you anything,” said McCarthy. “I agreed to meet you as a favor to Tom Petersen.”

“So if you had something on Larry Holley…”

Smile fans appeared at the corners of McCarthy’s eyes. “That would be confidential.”

“You must have looked into him after our phone conversation.”

“Something about the last name was familiar,” said McCarthy.

“It rang a bell.”

“More like an alarm.”

“But you’re not going to tell me why.”

“No.”

“Well, then,” said Lucas amiably. McCarthy was one of those people, you looked at him and liked him. Lucas guessed no one had ever swung on this guy in a bar just for fun.

“Petersen said you served in Fallujah,” said McCarthy.

“I did. And you went in with the initial wave.”

“First Recon Battalion. I was just a chaplain.”

“Just.”

McCarthy looked Lucas over. “I heard you guys caught hell.”

“It was interesting.”

“I wish I could help you,” said McCarthy.

“I understand.”

They shook hands firmly across the table.

HE TOOK a bike ride that afternoon. He rode all the way to Lake Artemesia in Berwyn Heights, Maryland, a twenty-five-mile round trip, some of it into a headwind, on roads and the Northwest Branch trail. His idea was to lose himself in his pedaling and empty his brain to the degree that something new would come to him upon his return. He was pleasantly exhausted and ripped but no smarter after his shower. He sat in his reading chair and looked out onto the street, thinking, I have come to that part of the road that simply ends.

His eyes fluttered. He knew that he was about to drift to sleep. He thought, Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m not good enough for this job. I was a pretty good marine. I came back alive, though that was luck as much as training or skill. I protected my brothers. I killed men who were trying to kill me. But I am not much of an investigator, because I seem to have gone nowhere on this case at all.

His phone rang on the end table beside him. The light had dimmed in the room. He had been asleep for a while.

Lucas looked at the screen, showing a 301 number. He did not recognize the caller’s name.

“Yes?”

“Spero Lucas?”

“That’s right. Who’s calling?”

“My name’s Pete Gibson. I think you and I should meet.”

“What is this?”

“It’s about Holley.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Tim McCarthy. We were on the force together, way back in time.” Gibson coughed. “I’m free tonight.”

“Where?”

“You’re over in Sixteenth Street Heights…”

“How do you know that?”

“Let’s see, that’s near Colorado Avenue… Too bad Cagney’s is closed.”

“ Been closed. There’s a place up on Georgia, between Geranium and Floral, coupla doors away from the Humane Society.”

“Christ,” said Gibson. “ That joint. Give me an hour. I’m coming down from Frederick.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’m sixty,” said Gibson. “I still look like police.”

Lucas ended the call. He got up out of his chair, energized.

LEO’S HAD an oak bar going front to back, twelve stools, and several deuces and four tops. The walls held a poster advertising an old Dick Gregory concert, a signed head shot of Jackie “Moms” Mabley, a Globe poster of James Brown and the Famous Flames at the Howard, and travel posters of little white houses set against the blue of the Aegean Sea. The jukebox was filled with obscure soul singles. The place was owned by a Greek, the bald, eagle-beaked Leo, who, like Lucas’s brother, was only called Leonidas by his mother. It was a neighborhood spot that serviced all types, determined alcoholics and casual drinkers alike.

Lucas had spotted Pete Gibson right away when he’d come through the door. Gibson indeed looked like a cop. He had a strong jaw, a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, pinkish skin, and a clean dome shaved close on the sides. His light blue eyes were intense; his smile was white and tight. He wore neatly creased slacks and a plaid button-down shirt with a pack of Marlboro Reds in the breast pocket. Lucas guessed that the shirt’s label read Arrow or Gant.

They were seated at a deuce in the center of the room. Gibson was drinking a Bud Light straight from the neck. Lucas was working on a Heineken. An old song with a female vocalist and big production was coming from the juke, and two guys standing up at the bar were arguing loudly about the singer.

“It’s Bettye LaVette,” said one of the men, a short guy with a white-man’s Afro that looked like a Harpo wig.

“Nope,” said the other man, blond, rail thin, with a little beer hump. “It’s that chick who did the Stones song before the Stones. What the fuck is the name of that song?” It came to him and he slammed his palm down on the bar. “ ‘Time Is on My Side.’ Irma Thomas!”

“But what’s the name of this song?”

“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell ya.”

“Drink this,” said the guy in the wig.

“All the Einsteins come in here,” said Gibson, jerking his thumb in the direction of the two guys at the bar. “I used to stop in once in a while on my way home. The Greek behind the stick was a kid then.”

“When was that?” said Lucas.

“The early seventies, when I was a patrol officer in Four-D.”

“You grow up in D.C.?”

“No. I was raised over in Cheverly. You know why I picked the MPD? It paid two hundred dollars more a year than the PG County police. And in the District I could become an officer at twenty years old. They didn’t require any college then, either. I wasn’t about to sit in a classroom. I was ready.”

“So, patrol in the Fourth District,” said Lucas, trying to move it along.

“Yep. Worked K-Nine for a while after that. I was good with dogs. Then I moved over to Six-D, where the action was. They made me a sergeant. I worked patrol first, then Tact. Then I got my own investigative squad. Tim McCarthy was one of my detectives. Good guy, real good character.”

“You guys were on homicides?”

“No. We investigated crimes that were serious but not homicides. Unarmed robberies, B-Ones…”

“B-Ones?”

“Burglary Ones. Dudes who break into houses. Dangerous guys, much more serious than burglars who do warehouses and commercial properties. We also assisted the sex squad when they went after multiple offenders.” Gibson patted his breast pocket, jonesing for a smoke. “That squad I had was a good bunch. This was in the mid to late eighties. The low years. You’re too young to remember.”

“I know about it.”

“Four hundred and some homicides a year, all kinds of violent shit, a big piece of it east of the river. The Mayfair-Paradise homes alone, Christ. The Jamaicans came down here from New York, got off the train at New Carrollton, and took over the crack trade. Auto pistols, Mac-Tens, you name it. That was when the department switched over from the thirty-eight to the Glock, ’cause we couldn’t compete with the firepower on the street. Anyway, eventually I made lieutenant, got shipped off to Seven-D, and then Two. That was a cakewalk. That’s where I ended my career as an LT. Like, twelve years ago.”

“So you couldn’t have known Larry Holley.”

“You mean the kid. He was a baby when I was in uniform.”

“You said-”

“I said this was about Holley. I didn’t say anything about Larry.”

“You lost me,” said Lucas.

“First things first. McCarthy called me to say you two had a meet. But I didn’t get any information from him and he doesn’t know that we’re sitting here. I’m not gonna do anything to jam Tim up.”

“I get it.”

“I’m not here about the kid,” said Gibson. “I’m here to talk about his father. Richard Holley.”

Lucas had no idea where this was going, but Gibson had his attention. “Go on.”

“Richard came on the force during that hiring binge, when the Feds mandated that the MPD bring on police in numbers because of the crack wars and the homicides. Some of those people turned out to be good police. Some of them were plain unqualified. They must not have background-checked Richard Holley too good, ’cause he was a real cumsack. Came up with some drug dealers west of North Capitol and south of Florida, down around O and N, the area around Hanover Place. First time I heard about Holley, a sergeant from Vice came into my office and made some inquiries. Holley was a patrolman at the time. This guy had suspicions that Holley was pointing out vice officers when he was off duty to his little knothead buddies from the neighborhood. After that I had my eye on him.”

Lucas had opened his notebook and was taking notes. Gibson stopped talking and watched him.

Lucas looked up. “You mind?”

“That’s fine. One thing you should know: I hear Richard goes by Ricardo now. He might even have legally changed his name. You know why? He’s a P-hound. Real liberal in that way, celebrates diversity and all that shit. Likes all the women, any kind of color he can get, long as it’s pink inside. Asshole probably thinks he can score more Spanish pussy with a name like Ricardo. I mean, he’s black, allegedly, but he doesn’t look like any black guy I ever saw. Weird-lookin dude. With that fucked-up poof of hair he had, and his long nose. The guys used to call him Rooster.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t like that.”

“Yeah, but fuck what he didn’t like.” Gibson killed his beer, caught the eye of the bar’s sole waitress, and put up two fingers in the air. “One night Holley was Ten Ninety-nine in a patrol car over by Forty-second and Dix, near Fort Mahan Park.” Gibson looked at Lucas’s notebook. “Ten Ninety-nine means he was riding alone.”

“I know what it means.”

“This is what Holley told the investigators: He pulled over to speak to a young man who was sitting on a bench and looked suspicious. Holley exited his vehicle and approached the subject. At that time, he said, he spotted narcotics and ancillary narcotic materials on or around the bench and ordered the subject to stand. Holley said that there was a flash of light and extreme pain in his hip and he knew he had been shot. He went down, the subject stood and fired twice more, Holley returned fire, and the subject fled.”

“Holley was okay?”

“The round went in his side and came out his ass, but it did some permanent damage. At the scene, Mobile Crime recovered a vial of rock, an empty pint of Bacardi and a plastic cup, tinfoil, match pads, and a napkin.”

“You got a good memory.”

“I know. A daylight search of the area recovered a Charter Arms five-shot thirty-eight with partially shaved numbers, two live rounds, and one spent round lying under the hammer. The assault weapon. Holley said that he had an extended mag in his service weapon. Twenty rounds, one live in the chamber. But when the techs checked out his weapon, it was fully loaded. No expended casings were found at the scene.”

“So the suspect fired and only one round took effect in Holley. Holley never returned fire like he said. Why would he make up that story when it could be easily checked?”

Gibson shrugged. “To make it more dramatic. To say he had more guts than he did. Or maybe because he’s a professional fucking liar.”

“Did they find the shooter?”

“I’m getting to that. I volunteered the services of my squad. Even though Holley was an asshole, he was still police, and when you shoot a police officer it’s a hot case. We wanted it.”

The waitress arrived, placed two beers on the table, and picked up the empties.

“Thank you, darlin,” said Gibson. He showed her his white teeth. When he looked back at Lucas he had lost the smile. “Fingerprints found on the objects at the scene were unusable, and the ATF search on the weapon was negative on account of the shave. Holley met with an MPD artist, and a composite drawing was made of the suspect. Holley said the shooter had a strong body odor, so we distributed the drawing to the area homeless shelters. The media, TV and the papers, they got it as a crime-of-the-week, which meant it was heavily publicized. I’d like to tell you that it was keen detective work that made the case, but as usual we were hoping for someone to come forward with information. The first tip we got was bullshit. A source said a dude she knew had bragged about shooting a police, but when we busted in his door in those homes down around Half Street, it was nothing but a pipe pad. We did find a nine-millimeter in the oven, but there was no link to this particular crime. Then, sixteen days after the event, we got a Crime Solvers tip that a guy named Curtis Dickerson had done the shooting. The source said Dickerson was staying in a crib down in Potomac Gardens. We do a little research, he’s got hard priors, we get a photo, show an array of photos to Holley, he pops Dickerson out of the array. That night, me, Tim McCarthy, and this other detective, Ballard, we go to Dickerson’s apartment. Dickerson’s not there. We stake out the place from the parking lot; Dickerson doesn’t show. It’s late; we go home, plan to return with some heavy hitters.”

“And?”

“We should’ve stayed.”

“What happened?”

“The next day, we come back with a no-knock warrant. We didn’t have to use a battering ram ’cause the door had already been busted in. Dickerson’s inside, shot to death, facedown on his bed. One in the back of the head.”

“You think what?”

“Holley somehow got hold of Dickerson’s address. I think he killed him or had him executed by his neighborhood buddies. Holley ID’d Dickerson’s corpse as the shooter. Homicide caught the Dickerson case, but it was never closed.”

“Holley stayed on the force?”

“No. That bullet gave him a limp. He retired soon after all this went down. Shitbird gets a sixty-six-and-two-thirds disability, tax free, for the rest of his life. God, that eats me up.”

“You don’t mind my sayin so, you still seem pretty jacked up about all this.”

“I made a mistake on that case, and I don’t like that. More to the point, I don’t like dirty police. I’m not talking about small stuff. This guy was all the way wrong. The fact that he wore a uniform and got away with what he did…”

Gibson’s voice trailed off. He and Lucas took long swigs of beer.

“What about the son?” said Lucas. “Larry.”

“I don’t know much about him. There was a rumor that Richard’s kid had joined the force. I heard he looks just like his old man. Other than that, not a thing. What’s your interest in him?”

“I can’t say for sure.”

Gibson coughed into his fist. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Honestly, I don’t have enough information to even talk about it. He kinda drifted into something I was working on.”

“McCarthy said you do investigative work for an attorney.”

“I’m solo on this one.”

“And you can’t tell me what it’s about.”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

Gibson sat back. “You think Larry Holley is connected to your case.”

“In some way.”

“You gonna shadow him?”

“That would be a start.”

“Tailing a police officer on duty’s a stupid game.”

“I don’t know any other way.”

“It’s better to look at him off the clock.”

“How would I find him?”

“Not a problem,” said Gibson. “I’ve got someone inside who can get me the information you need.”

“Obliged,” said Lucas. “Maybe I could get some current intel on the father as well.”

“I’ll get you that, too. It’s a lead pipe cinch the father and son are sleeping in the same rotten bed.” Gibson got up out of his chair. “I gotta have a smoke. You comin?”

Lucas followed him through the dark room. The music dimmed to nothing as the front door closed behind them. They stood on the sidewalk, facing Georgia, in front of the bar’s plate glass window. Traffic rolled by, north- and southbound, but it was quieter out here than inside and pleasantly cool. Gibson flipped opened his hardpack lid and offered a cigarette to Lucas, who declined with a short wave of his hand. Gibson lit his smoke with a Zippo he produced from his slacks. He took that first good long drag and exhaled slowly.

“I used to like driving up Georgia Avenue,” said Gibson. “Coming up it after I got off shift. All the neon liquor store signs. Beautiful.”

“You were on nights, mostly?”

“I really loved working midnights. No brass to deal with. In those hours, just police and criminals were out on the street. The game was pure.” Gibson turned his head and looked at Lucas. “I wish I knew what the fuck you were into.”

“I wish I could tell you,” said Lucas.

Gibson double-dragged on his Red and squinted against the smoke. “I got nothin going on right now. Nothin. Get it?”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You know, when I was tellin you that story in there… I think I got an erection.”

“Every cloud has a silver lining.”

“I miss those years. Odd to say it, but I never had so much fun in my life. I got up every morning and I couldn’t wait to go to work. Does that make any sense?”

“It does,” said Lucas.

“Gimme your phone number,” said Gibson.

Lucas did it. Gibson gave him his.