The Stones Cry Out (6 page)

“Well, I think he followed Holmes in. I mean, why else go into an empty factory."

He waited. Then: "But."

"But he didn't tell anyone he was in pursuit? Why? If he followed Holmes in, it had to be for breaking and entering."

His eyes were the color of cold tar.

"The questions are a pain, I get it. But explain it to me so that it makes sense, okay?"

"Mike would take care of it himself."

"He was a cowboy?"

"No, he had no problem working with people. But we only had four guys out there on crowd control, with six hundred angry people. Mike wouldn't haul somebody else into his problem. We’re detectives. That's how we work. Get things done instead of filing paper."

I ignored the dig at the Bureau. Every cop knew we were one long food chain of government approval, even for the most minute movements.

"And what about the roof?" I asked. "What happened up there?"

"You want me to guess. I don't guess."

"Try it one time."

Detective Greene's face remained unreadable. He was probably very good at his job.

"My gut feeling," he said finally. "Nothing more. You got that?"

"Loud and clear."

"After that guy broke into the building, I think Mike chased him. And I think that guy figured Mike wouldn't run all the way to the roof."

"Why not?"

"He wasn't in the best shape. After he quit SWAT, he got heavy."

"But he chased him to the roof."

"Right." He took a deep breath, blowing it out through the mustache. "That was Mike. He wouldn't let things go."

"So they run to the roof and..."

"And the perp runs as far as he can go. To the corner of the roof. Can't go any farther. That's when he turns to fight. You know this Hamal dude was a boxer--you know that?"

I nodded.

"Probably thought he could take him down. But that wouldn't work. Not with Mike.” Another sigh. "And what happened, you know, it happened."

"Only I don't know what happened. That's why I'm here. I don't know."

"So you’re asking me?"

I ignored that dig, too. "According to the ME's report, Detective Falcon never drew his gun. It was still in his holster."

"We all make mistakes. Long run up those stairs, lack of oxygen to the brain."

I pretended to write that down and didn't look up as I asked the next question. "Can you think of anyone who wanted Detective Falcon dead?"

There was a long silence, and when I did look up Detective Greene had thrown his head back. The laughter rumbled up through his throat before bouncing off the concrete blocks.

"Girl," he said, wiping his eyes. "How long you been in Richmond?"

"Why?"

"We're the grave diggers! You want to know who wanted Mike dead? I’ll tell you. Every guy who thought he got away with murder."

A hard object lodged somewhere near the base of my throat. "You two worked….cold cases."

He brushed more tears from his eyes. "Right here, tales from the crypt."

That information was not part of my file on Detective Falcon. "I thought he was a vice cop."

"Vice, yeah. And I'm homicide. But we run the cold case unit. By ourselves."

"Since when?"

"About two years ago. We made bets on who could solve more of the old cases. But a crazy thing happened. We solved them. And people started calling up the department." He raised his voice, sounding like a woman. "'What about my auntie? How come you ain't looking into her murder?' People started to complain so much that management finally told us to take the gig full-time. They even gave us this nice office." He smirked. "But that was before we had 'manpower shortages.' If we tried starting this now, forget it."

I tried to control my voice, but didn’t succeed. "Judge David Harmon."

"Who?"

I repeated the name.

"Nobody’s taken it to court yet. You know something?"

I shook my head. No way could I say my dad’s name again, and suddenly the detective's face changed. The brittle surface cracked, revealing something softer beneath.

“Friend. Or relative?"

"Father."

He waited three beats. Four. At five, I started counting the second-hand movement of the clock on the wall. The color of his eyes shifted from cold tar to warm peat. He pointed at a row of metal file cabinets. Gray, stretching from one side of the room to the other.

"See those? About two hundred cold cases. People are killing faster than we can keep up."

I wrote some words in my notebook, although they had no connection to anything.

"If we had ten guys," he continued, "we still wouldn't catch up. I keep telling management, 'How’re we supposed to do this when you make us stand around the Two-Street Festival tagging people for open beer bottles?'"

I wanted him to stop, quit giving me the reasons. "You two worked together?"

"Only when invited. Which was never."

"What case was he working on?"

"You mean before that thug killed him?" He didn’t wait for a reply. “Remember the Dubois twins?"

Everyone in Richmond did. Marvin and Martin Dubois had controlled city crime for nearly a decade. Brutal, ruthless, charismatic, they were finally prosecuted for a murder that stuck and sent to death row. But Marvin—known as V—later died inside Mecklenburg Prison, choked to death by another inmate.

Martin -- known as T -- was executed this summer.

"Don't tell me," I said.

"A cold case is a cold case."

"You’re telling me Detective Falcon was looking for Marvin's killer? A creep takes out another creep, and that's the cold case he picks?"

He gave a weak shrug.

I couldn’t let it go.

"Your file cabinets are crammed with victims, but Detective Falcon wants to find out which con took out a confirmed sociopath?"

He opened his hands, some kind of supplication.

"No.” I shook my head. “I need better than that.”

"Look, all I know is that when T got his date for the death house, Mike went to interview him. It's not like we can interview the guy after they execute him. And it was Mike's case, not mine. I just told you we didn't --"

"Any notes?"

"What?"

"Did he leave any notes?"

"We don't file paper every time somebody says hello."

Another dig. And maybe I deserved it, picking on his dead partner. "I'm sorry. It's just --"

"I get it, don’t apologize."

I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. It felt personal now, and that was wrong. "Any notes?"

"I'll look around."

I tried to gauge the sincerity. Maybe it was there, maybe not.

We exchanged cards in place of good-bye and I walked down the hall of yellow tile, heading for the police chief's office to perform diplomatic duty. At the front desk, the policewoman said the chief would be ready in ten minutes. Which meant twenty.

Near the entrance a small waiting room had more of the sulfuric tiles, only these were brightened by sunshine leaking through the high transoms above the door. The sunlight also fell on an elderly black man, sleeping on the plastic chair.

Detective Greene's card was still in my hand, the paper edges curling from the moisture in my palm. As I was putting it away, I read his name again. He used a middle name for his first. J. Nathan Greene. J probably stood for some southern schoolyard horror. Junius. Jairus. I was sliding the card into my notebook when I saw the embossed lettering on the back. Words printed in blue. I ran my fingertips over the raised letters, taking in their bumpy relief.

To the living, we owe respect.

To the dead, we owe justice.

Hamal Holmes’ gym was located on Second Street, between Leigh and Marshall. When I stepped out of the K-Car, a rank odor rose from hot sidewalk. Quickly I fed quarters into the meter, trying to ignore the smells of baked garbage and urine, and crossed the street. But a young guy was staggering toward me, his eyes like pools of blood. When he opened his hand, I dropped the rest of my change into his palm, knowing full well where the money would go, but also certain that nobody’s belly ever got filled by my self-righteousness. He stumbled away with not so much as a thank you.

I looked for a sign to the gym but there was nothing except a steel door matching the address I had. I opened it, climbed a flight of narrow wooden stairs, and follow the rhythmic sound of skipping ropes. Slapping leather. Grunting.

Most of the large room was filled by a boxing ring where two black men were sparring. Or one was. The smaller of the two dangled on the braided nylon rope, shifting his head trying to duck his opponent's punches.

On the other side of the room, a group of younger boys pounded speed bags and skipped the ropes. Talcum dust hazed the air which had the rank scent of male perspiration.

I looked around, hoping to find somebody in charge, and caught the eye of an elderly white man. He was leaning on the boxing ring’s padded base but pushed himself off and shuffled toward me. Stooped as a vulture, his gray cotton sweats hung from his bony shoulders.

He barely glanced at my Bureau ID.

"Name's Ray Frey,” he said.

His voice sounded like rusty chains dragged over gravel. He continued watching the ring, where the heavy fighter was still pummeling the smaller guy. "Hey, Mel! Watch his left!"

"Are you the gym’s manager?" I asked.

"Last week, manager. This week, owner – Mel, what did I say? His left! What's it gonna take, him rearranging your brain?" He looked over, running his eyes over my face. "Owner by default, you could call it."

He turned back to the ring as the smaller boxer swung. It was a wild roundhouse, and it missed. He immediately covered his head with both gloves, preparing for punishment. The big fighter’s lips peeled over his mouthpiece. Smiling. Savoring the inevitable pain.

I said, “How is it being the sudden owner?"

Ray Frey shrugged. The bony shoulders stabbed the sweats like wire hangers. "Not like I won the lottery. Ain't exactly a profitable business we got here."

I’d seen the tax returns. The gym had never declared a profit. "I always thought there was money in boxing."

"For good ones, yeah. But this place—" he tossed a nod toward the boys skipping rope—"this place is a glorified Boys Club. None of their moms can even buy milk, or they won't buy it. Either way she ain't shelling out for boxing lessons. Everybody here’s on scholarship. Gets expensive."

"You helped Mr. Holmes run the gym?"

He gave a short sharp bark. "Child, I've been running this gym since before you were born. Hamal started out as
my
pet project."

"So how did he become owner?"

"Guy could’ve owned the world, if he'd done it right."

"What’s that mean?"

"I mean he had the potential to be number one in the world."

"As a boxer?"

"Cruiser weight, not heavyweight." He straightened, almost prideful. “I got a contract from Don King, back in my office." He paused. "You know who Don King is?"

"With the wild hair?"

"Right. He offered six figures."

"Wow."

"Uh-huh. Wow. Hamal was ranked number five. In the world. Then he sunk like a lead belt."

"What happened?"

"Up and left, that's what happened. Disappeared. I woke up one day, and he was gone. I had a Don King contract that could've saved everybody. But Hamal took off."

"He came back, obviously."

"Yeah, he came back." Ray Frey's voice was suddenly weary. "But a fighter can't do that. You gotta keep the momentum. We tried training again, but he wasn't the same. Never broke top twenty again. Whole thing was over. Done. Kaputt."

“Where did he disappear to?”

But Ray Frey started yelling at the ring.

"Mel! You ain't got the sense God stuck in a jackrabbit. Ronnie, go ahead. Knock his block off. What do I care? Take his whole head off!"

The big fighter -- Ronnie, I presumed—grinned demonically. He stepped toward the small fighter named Mel and threw punches so rapid I saw only a blur of red leather. Mel staggered back. His long-sleeved shirt was drenched with sweat and what little strength remained was spent feebly raising his glove. It was a gesture of pure surrender, and somehow more heartbreaking than the beating itself.

Ronnie kept hitting. The creepy smile never faded.

"All right!" Ray Frey waved his skinny arms. "All right! Ronnie, stop! You're gonna kill him."

For good measure, Ronnie threw one more punch.

“You make me sick.” Ray Frey spat on the floor. "Both of you. Get outta here."

Ronnie slipped through the ropes, graceful as a dancer. He was shirtless, his deltoids rippling as he pulled at the laces of his gloves with his teeth. Tossing aside the headgear, he jogged to the speed bags.