Shoot the Woman First (19 page)

Ferron held out his left arm. Burke could see the tracks there, just below the elbow. He tied the tubing around the upper arm, knotted it, popped a finger on the skin there.

“You've still got good veins,” Burke said. “You're young.” He sat back then, crossed his arms. “So where is he? He couldn't have gotten far. He have family around here?”

Ferron shook his head.

“A baby mama? A girlfriend?”

“Maybe. Maybe that's where he went.”

“Maybe won't cut it, Kevin. Not if you want some of this good stuff here. Is that where he was going?”

Ferron nodded.

Burke held the syringe where Ferron could see it. “A name. And an address.”

When Ferron was done talking, Burke took his wrist, gently extended the arm. He traced the point of the needle until it was atop a ridged vein, slid it in. He depressed the plunger slowly, then pulled it back a little so blood flowed into the syringe. Then he pushed the plunger all the way home, until the syringe was empty.

“There we go, son,” he said quietly. “There we go.” He took out the syringe, untied the tubing.

Ferron shuddered, closed his eyes.

Burke opened the other bindle, went through the same process again. When he had the syringe full, he took Ferron's wrist again. Ferron made a small noise but didn't open his eyes. Burke gave him the second shot in the same place, pushed the plunger home, left the needle there. Ferron shuddered again, then lay still.

Burke went to the window, moved the blinds aside, looked down. The Durango was still there.

He locked the apartment behind him, rode the elevator down, and went out the front door. He crossed the yard toward the Durango. The two men inside watched him as he neared. He went around to the driver's side, made a rolling motion with his left hand.

The driver powered down his window, looked out at him. It was the same man Burke had seen on Eight Mile. Sunglasses, dreads.

“How's it going?” Burke said. He could see his own reflection in the sunglass lenses. The driver looked down at him, didn't respond.

“You work for Marquis?” Burke said.

“Who?” the driver said.

Burke squinted, looked up and down the street. Still no one around.

“Biggest dope dealer in Wayne County, dozens of soldiers on the street, and he still comes to me to solve his problems,” Burke said. “What's that tell you?”

The driver looked at him for a long moment, said, “You need to step off.”

“If you're looking for Cordell, he's not here. And I don't think he's coming back, either. Or is it just me you're following?”

The driver looked at his partner, then back at Burke. “Get the fuck out of here, man. I ain't gonna tell you again.”

“I believe you,” Burke said. He drew the Browning from his coat and shot the driver in the temple. His head snapped to the side, blood spattered the inside of the windshield. The sunglasses landed on the dashboard.

The passenger clawed at his waistband. Burke leaned farther in the window, pushed the driver aside, pointed the gun at him. He stopped reaching, raised his hands. He was younger than the driver.

“Put your hands on the dashboard,” Burke said. “What's your name?”

The passenger looked at the gun, did as he was told. “New York.”

“New York? That your street name?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, New York. Marquis send you to follow me?”

He nodded.

“He looking for Cordell?”

“Man, I don't know shit about Cordell. Damien just told us to keep an eye on you, see where you go.”

A yellow school bus came down the street. Burke leaned casually against the Durango's door, gun below the window line. The bus passed without slowing. It was empty, no faces at the windows.

“Damien say why he put you on me?” Burke said.

“No.”

“And you never asked?”

“That ain't my nevermind.”

Burke nodded, looked through the blood-dotted windshield. The bus halted at a stop sign, turned left.

“So you're not after the money?” Burke said.

“What money?”

“The money that got took.”

“I don't know anything about that.”

Burke shook his head. “That fucking guy.”

“What guy?”

“Marquis. Always putting me in an awkward position, much as I try to help him.”

“Listen, I got no beef with you, man. Whatever's going on with you and Marquis, that's between you two.”

“That's right.” Burke raised the gun and fired twice, the noise filling the Durango. Gunsmoke drifted against the inside of the windshield, floated away.

He put the gun away, opened the door. A shell casing fell out onto the street. There was another in the driver's lap, a third on the floor near the gas pedal. He dropped them all in a coat pocket.

Another school bus coming toward him, this one empty as well. He kept his face averted, as if talking to someone inside the Durango. He waited for the bus to pass and turn at the corner. Then he walked back to his car.

 

EIGHTEEN

When the woman left the apartment, Burke tossed what was left of his cigarette, watched her walk the flagstone path to the parking lot. Black girl, midtwenties, straight hair cut in bangs, designer blouse and jeans. Sunlight glinted on a thick gold necklace.

Late afternoon, and he'd been parked here for an hour, watching the pale green door to apartment 105. The address Ferron had given him wasn't what he'd expected. These were garden apartments, almost all the way out to Troy. Neat lawns, flower beds. He'd come directly here, worried that Cordell might be on the move again soon. He'd parked the Impala in a visitor's spot across the lot, waited for someone to come out that door.

The woman got into a Honda Civic with a University of Michigan decal in the rear window. She started the engine, backed out of the spot. He watched her drive past. She never looked in his direction.

He waited another five minutes, to see if anyone else came out. The complex was two identical buildings linked by an outdoor staircase and breezeway. Apartment 105 opened into the common area in the center of the complex. One window faced the parking lot, shades drawn.

No telling when the woman might be back, so he had to take his chances, move fast. He got out of the car, went up the path. There was a spyhole in the door of 105. He knocked, stepped back and to the side. If Cordell was inside, he was probably armed, might be jittery and frightened enough to lose his shit, start shooting through the door.

He knocked again, louder, right hand on the Browning in his coat pocket. He tried the doorbell then, held his thumb on it, heard the buzzing inside the apartment. A series of quick stabs, then holding it down again, letting anyone inside know he wasn't going away.

Footsteps on the other side. Burke said, “Detroit Police. Open the door.”

The spyhole darkened, someone looking out.

“You need to open up,” Burke said. “Or I'm going to get the manager, have him open it.”

“What do you want?” A man's voice, muffled.

“I'm looking for Adrina Elkins.” That was the name Ferron had given him. “I'm Lieutenant Haney. I have a bench warrant for her from traffic court, Failure to appear.” He took Larry Black's sheet from his pocket, the pages folded lengthwise, held it in front of the spyhole for a moment, then put it away again.

“Traffic court?”

“That's what I said. Thirty-sixth District, City of Detroit. It's signed by Judge Rogers. Adrina needs to come out and talk to me.”

“She's not here.”

“Open the door.”

“You got some ID?”

“You want to see my badge, open this door. You're starting to piss me off. Stop screwing around.”

“She isn't here.”

“Then open the door, prove it to me.”

“Hold your badge up where I can see it.”

“Open the fucking door. I'm not having a conversation standing out here.”

More silence, then, “If I let you in and you see she isn't here, what then?”

“Then I leave this warrant with you and go home.”

“Slide it under the door.”

“You're wasting my time here, partner. The longer you make me wait, the tougher things are going to be for Adrina when I find her. You want her to spend a couple nights in County? I can arrange it.”

Silence, whoever was inside making a decision.

“Hold on.” Locks being undone, a chain sliding out of its guide. The door opened six inches, and Cordell King looked out. Older than his booking photo, but the same man. Gold-frame glasses, jeans and tie-dyed T-shirt.

Burke grinned, stepped back, and heel-kicked the door at waist height. The edge cracked into Cordell's forehead, drove him back. He stumbled, fell into a sitting position, and then Burke was inside. He pushed the door shut behind him, drew the Browning. Cordell tried to stand, and Burke kicked him in the chest, knocked him back, his glasses flying off. Burke knelt, grabbed his T-shirt, twisted it tight, socketed the muzzle of the Browning behind his right ear, pressed hard. “Give me a reason.”

Cordell stretched his arms out to the sides, showing he was unarmed. “Don't!”

“Anyone else in here?”

“What?”

He screwed the muzzle into Cordell's skin. “Is there anyone else in this apartment?”

“No.”

“Lie there. Don't move.”

Burke put the Browning away, got out a pair of flexcuffs, bent Cordell's arms behind him so he was facedown on the carpet, bound his wrists. He patted him down for weapons, found none, then took out the Browning again. When he stood, he was out of breath.

He looked around the living room. A couch and coffee table, big-screen TV. A bubbling tank against one wall, bright tropical fish inside, the water lit with a blue-green glow. A corridor ran the length of the apartment to a closed door.

“Stay there,” Burke said. He went down the hallway. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom at the end. It was empty. A sliding glass door there gave onto a small redwood deck.

He went back into the living room. “You are one stupid son of a bitch, you know that?”

Cordell didn't answer. His left cheek was pressed against the carpet.

“Where did your girlfriend go?” Burke said. “When's she coming back?”

“I don't know.”

Burke knelt beside him, said, “Not too soon, I hope. Because if she comes walking through that door in the next few minutes, I'm going to shoot her in the head. How's that sound?”

Cordell twisted to look at him.

“Try again,” Burke said. “When's she coming back?”

“I'm not sure. An hour maybe. Maybe less.”

“Bad news for her if it's less.”

He searched the apartment. On the floor of the bedroom closet was a black tactical bag. He dragged it out, unzipped it. Inside were banded packs of money, two automatics, a pistol-grip shotgun, and boxes of shells. The money was in thousand-dollar packs, but there were only eight of them. He took one of the packs, went back into the living room.

“Sit up,” he said. Cordell didn't move. Burke gripped the flexcuffs, dragged him into a seated position. He knelt, slapped him lightly on the head with the money. “There better be more than eight thousand around here. For both your sakes.”

“It's all I've got.”

“You're as bad a liar as you were a thief, Cordell.” He stood. “If you make me rip this place apart, your shorty will probably come home while I'm doing it. How do you think that will end?”

Cordell let out his breath, looked at the floor.

“Time to give it up,” Burke said. “You know what I'm talking about.”

“It isn't here.”

“Where is it?”

“Storage unit. In the city.”

“There we go,” Burke said. “That's a start.” He got Cordell's glasses from the floor. There was a hairline crack at the bottom of the right lens. He fit them onto Cordell's face, pushed them up into place. “That better?”

Cordell made faces to get the glasses into position. He looked at Burke. “You work for Marquis?”

“Who's that?”

Burke went into the bedroom, put the money back in the tac bag, zipped it shut. He pulled a North Face coat off a hanger, carried both into the living room.

“How'd you find me?” Cordell said.

Burke took Ferron's license from his shirt pocket, dropped it in his lap. “That's cold, leaving a partner behind like that. Boy was in bad shape when I found him.”

“What did you do?”

“I helped him out. We had a good long talk, too. So don't try to feed me any bullshit. I'll know it's bullshit, and I'm not in the mood. Can you stand up?”

“I don't think so.”

“Come on, you can do it.”

Burke took his arm, lifted until he could get his feet under him and stand. He swayed, and Burke steadied him.

“You got a lot of stones, kid. Ripping off Marquis Johnson, not trying to run afterward. I don't know if you're brilliant or stupid. You tell me.”

He fit the coat over Cordell's shoulders, hiding the flexcuffs.

“You know what happens now, right? We go find the rest of that money you stole. And if we don't, or you give me some sort of runaround, I'll pop you, then come back and pop that sweet piece of tail you call a girlfriend. You believe me?”

Cordell nodded.

“Good,” Burke said. He picked up the tac bag, gave Cordell a push toward the door. “Let's take a ride.”

*   *   *

In the car, Cordell was silent. He looked out the window, watching the buildings go by. He was done.

“Don't look so down,” Burke said. “You may come out of all this okay after all.”

“We were supposed to go to Cali.”

“How's that?” They were on Eight Mile, headed to the address Cordell had given him. It was almost dark.