Back on Murder (3 page)
“Tomorrow morning. The big Labor Day weekend haul. But to be honest, they’re overstaffed as it is. They don’t need me.”
The hope in my voice must embarrass him, because suddenly he won’t look me in the eye. “Listen, March. I can’t get you out of it before tomorrow, but . . . let me have a talk with Rick Villanueva and see what I can do. You’ll be off the hook by Monday morning, all right? Just one more thankless task and you can start working murders again.”
“Just one more?”
He nods. “But keep in mind, this is something of a probation. If you don’t pull your weight on the investigation, if Lorenz comes to me with a problem, well . . . my hands will be tied.”
“I understand, sir. There won’t be a problem.”
“Make sure there isn’t.”
Outside, the detectives are gathering. The buzz of conversation dips as I open the door, then resumes once they realize it’s just me. I pick my way through the crowd, looking for a spot on the periphery. As I walk, I feel eyes on me. Looking up, I see Lieutenant Bascombe sending one of his eloquent glares my way. Next to him, Lorenz practices his scowl. The lieutenant’s lips move and Lorenz nods in reply. Whatever they’re saying about me, I don’t want to know.
But at least they can’t ignore me anymore.
Houston rain comes down like a jungle storm, hammering the windshield and the pavement all around. When the sky darkens and the black clouds pour out their wrath on the city, there’s always this hope at the back of my mind that the temperature will drop. But the effect is closer to emptying water onto sauna rocks. The air thickens. An insinuating heat radiates from the ground, creeping between clothes and skin.
I wait the weather out, crouching behind the wheel. At the parking lot’s edge, the George R. Brown Convention Center looms gray and ridiculous. Gray because its bright white walls suck up the surrounding gloom. Ridiculous because the building could pass for a grounded cruise ship, with red exhaust pipes trumpeting out of the roof. Blue metal latticework buttresses the eyesore.
Even my wife, Charlotte, who feels duty-bound to defend the city’s architecture in all its particulars, throws the George R. Brown under the bus, calling it a cut-rate version of a really classy building in Paris whose name I can’t pronounce.
Most weekends, the George R. Brown plays host to an assortment of gun shows and boat shows, bridal extravaganzas and expos, but today, in spite of the Labor Day weekend crush, a modest corner is set aside for the Houston Police Department, specifically Lieutenant Rick Villanueva and his intrepid band of media hounds. Of which I am one, for the time being.
Once the rain dies down to a drizzle, I shape a copy of the
Chronicle
into a makeshift umbrella and venture inside. No gun show today – we schedule our events so there’s no overlap – but the off-roaders of Harris County have turned up in force to ogle a glistening assortment of all-terrain vehicles. We’ll have a competing spectacle for them soon.
Our room is tucked into the far side of the building, down an escalator and through a wall of glass doors. I make my way through the roped stanchions, past a half-dozen signs flashing slogans like
Green
Power
and
Hybrid Houston
, complete with a little icon marrying the old Rockets logo with a recycling triangle. A matching symbol adorns the knitted golf shirt I donned this morning for the final time. Burning it in my fire pit tonight will be a particular pleasure.
As soon as I enter, Rick Villanueva makes a beeline for me.
“You finally showed up,” he says, flashing his superbly white and insincere grill. “After that call from Hedges, I was afraid you were going to ditch me.”
“I am after today.”
He glances around, making sure the other officers on the team are keeping busy. By my watch, we have half an hour before the doors open, but there’s always a chance someone will arrive early. The prospect of a free car will motivate people like that, even if they’re accustomed to waking up at the crack of noon most Saturdays.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do, Roland?”
“I’m a homicide detective. All this” – I gesture toward the stage up front, the revolving platform with the mint green Toyota Prius, the television cameras setting up in back – “it’s not what I’m about.”
The expression on Rick’s face is boyish and grave. “We do important work on this detail, brother. We put bad guys back behind bars. If it wasn’t succeeding, do you think they’d keep it going like this?”
The last thing I want to do is argue the point. Unlike most of my friends from the old days, Rick’s still talking to me. But I’m not in the mood to hear about how essential our little charade is to the city’s well-being.
“Do we have to get into this now, Rick?”
“When else are we gonna talk? You’re unhappy, and the first I hear about it is from Hedges. You were drowning and I threw you a lifeline, buddy. This is the thanks I get?”
“It’s not like that – ”
“You’re swimming with the sharks over there, Roland. Don’t you see that? The best thing you can do for yourself is get out of Homicide, and instead you’re putting both feet back in. You really think you’re ready for that, after all you’ve been through?” He shakes his head, answering the question for me. “If you do it, I guarantee they’ll bounce you out in six months. No, sooner than that.”
“Rick –”
He raises his hands in surrender. “But hey, it’s your call, man. Just don’t say I never warned you. And don’t come crawling back.”
I have something to say, but he’s not interested. Before I can get out a word, he’s already backpedaling, already turning toward the stage. He has sound checks to run, cues to go over, warrants to review. The fact that he took time out to chastise me is a testament to how hurt he must feel. These things get him plenty of press, but not much respect within the department. If there’s one thing he’s touchy about, it’s that.
And here I am, his rehab project, throwing his kindness back in his face. I don’t feel proud or anything. But it had to be done.
Commensurate with the diminished expectations I came in under, my role in the unfolding drama consists of watching. Rick dubbed the job “troubleshooting,” but a better description would be “trying to look busy.” I’m pretty good at it. Plenty of experience. Before our guests start to arrive, I take up a position near the media pit, chatting with a couple of cameramen who’ve already been briefed on the need for discretion. In theory I’d run interference if anyone actually approached the crews, but in the five shows I’ve done, that’s never happened. Hardened criminals are as docile as anyone when there’s a freebie at stake.
“This is my last one,” I say to the cameramen.
“What’s next for you, then?”
“Homicide. I’m back on murder.”
They nod, clearly impressed. But why am I showing off for a couple of strangers like this? Why the need to distance myself from what’s about to happen? It looks desperate. I wander away from them, hoping to minimize the temptation, and run straight into Sonia Decker.
I can’t stand the woman, but she took a shine to me right from the start, spotting a fellow mid-forties burnout. Unlike me, Sonia’s happy with how her career is going. She’s the ideal government employee, content just punching the clock at day’s end. Her wispy hair might be brown, might be blond. Under all that makeup, her skin might be good, might be bad. She touches too readily, knows nothing of personal space, and has a three-pack-a-day laugh.
“When I started with all this,” she confides with a cynical sneer as close to a smile as I’ve ever seen on her, “it was all sweepstakes prizes and missing inheritances. You gotta hand it to Lieutenant Rick, he’s got a sense of humor. I mean, all this green hybrid rubbish? It’s priceless. So politically correct.”
I give her a vague nod, hoping she’ll go away.
“Just look at those suckers.”
The first guests now shuffle inside, their dreamy eyes glued to the revolving Prius. Imagining themselves behind the wheel, or maybe driving the hybrid over to the nearest chop shop and cashing out. Either way, they’re hooked.
“Something for nothing.” She rubs her hands together. I’ve heard sandpaper that was smoother. “Not in this lifetime, my friends. Greed goeth before a fall.”
I’m tempted to correct her quotation, but that sort of thing just encourages Sonia. Afraid of a five-minute digression on the precise wording of the King James Bible, I keep my mouth shut. Anyway, she may be wrong about the quote, but she’s right about greed. That’s the one lesson of my cars-for-criminals experience.
If they weren’t blinded by greed, at least some of these baggy pants playas and buttoned-up cholos would take a look around. They’d start asking when random selection started favoring the predominantly male and predominantly minority population. When did chance suddenly take a turn in their favor?
They might wonder why so many of the giveaway program’s green-shirted minions sport crew cuts and ex-military stares, why they look kind of familiar, a lot like the cops who busted them in the first place. They might even recognize a few of their fellow winners as former cellmates or street competitors. They might realize that what they have in common isn’t that they’re lucky but that they all have outstanding warrants.
But they don’t. All they see – all they ever see – is the car.
“So I hear you’re leaving us,” Sonia says, and now I know why we accidentally crossed paths. I guess I was blinded, too.
“This is my last day. I’m back on the job now, working a real case. You hear about that house off West Bellfort full of dead ltc bangers?”
“Big loss,” she sniffs. “That’s yours, huh?”
“I’m working it.”
She can’t help noticing the way I hedged, which draws a sound from her lungs that might be a cough, might be a laugh. Pats me on the shoulder blade, nodding her head in an exaggerated way. “All I can say is, I wish you the best.”
“Thanks,” I say to her departing back.
The room starts filling up, then the lights dim. Onstage, a projection screen comes to life. A silver convertible – not a hybrid, but who’s counting? – threads a series of alpine turns, then an artificially enhanced blonde in a sequined sheath prances around the parked vehicle, running her hands all over its curves.
Offstage to the right, a four-piece metal band lays down a thumping beat. They’re off-duty vice cops who jam together on weekends, only too happy to provide entertainment at one of Lieutenant Rick’s gigs. The crowd gets into it, clapping their hands, shouting encouragement to the on-screen blonde. Even in the dark room, a spotlight lingers on the Prius, a concrete image of the promise that brought them here.
As a testament to human gullibility, this show’s tops. Watching it long enough could turn the right sort of man into a philosopher. Not me, though. All I get is depressed. I’d rather pluck these guys off the street one by one. Fair and square, without any subterfuge. Out there, I wouldn’t pity them. I wouldn’t feel sorry for the family members they dragged along, either.
Once we’ve checked everyone through, the video stops and Rick jogs out onstage like a motivational speaker, cupping a hand to his ear for more applause. His speech changes every time, depending on what we’re supposedly giving away, but the essence is the same.
“It’s time for Houston to get moving again,” he says, “and you’re gonna be part of the solution. On behalf of all my colleagues, I want to thank you for coming out. It’s our pleasure to serve you in this way.”
From the back of the room, a group of burly, mustached men in green polos let out a cheer, clapping their hands above their heads.
“Our pleasure!” someone hoots. The crowd applauds once more.
Part of the game for Rick is to work as many ironic digs into the speech as possible. Afterward, the team will celebrate each one with a clink of beer bottles. The joke hasn’t been funny to me in a while.
It seems a couple of our guests feel the same way.
I spot their silhouettes against the stage lights, two men working their way toward the aisle, then navigating the darkness in search of an exit. A regular odd couple. One tall and broad, the other slight enough to pass for a kid. Maybe the impossibility of the giveaway suddenly dawned on them. More likely, they’re heading for the restroom. Planning to snort one moment-heightening substance or another.
As they pass me, I follow. Time for some troubleshooting.
The side exit sign is illuminated by code. Once they find it, a ray of light shines in back of the room. By the time my hand touches the door I can see other officers heading my way, alerted by the flash. But I’m first in line.
Out in the corridor, there are two options. They can turn left and head toward the escalator, or take a right to the restrooms. I emerge into the brightness, blink my eyes a few times, then spot them huddled halfway to the exit, deep in conversation. As I approach, it’s clear they’re arguing about something.
“I told you – I seen him,” the smaller one says. There’s a sharp, panicked entreaty in his voice. He’s in a black T-shirt and skinny black jeans, accentuating his diminutive stature. Olive-skinned. Unnaturally jet-black hair.
