Blood Line (14 page)

“Damn it, Elizabeth, that’s not what I meant—ouch!”

Sitting up quickly had twisted the soreness, and she winced with him. “Lie back.” Then, “What I’m saying, Gabe, is that I want you to be open with me. I don’t want to be protected or sheltered or any of those other clichés that men use to define women. I’m an adult, I’ve looked after myself for a long time, and I’ve even raised a son. I don’t need to be sheltered from the world.”

“The next time I know somebody’s going to shoot me, Elizabeth, I’ll tell you.”

“Please do!”

Something had been aired but not resolved, and Wager still wasn’t sure what it was. These days, women seemed to go around looking for insult, eager to jump on the slightest phrase or careless word as if every man was in some way guilty of attacking them. But this brief spat hadn’t been the same as fighting with Lorraine; his ex-wife’s anger had come from hatred and jealousy—she had been jealous of his job, of the time it took away from her, of the attention and dedication it required from Wager. And her hatred of his work and what it cost had transferred to him. And, he now realized, he had returned that hatred; he had been jealous of his job, too—and perhaps still was. But Elizabeth wasn’t Lorraine; she didn’t need to make him less a cop or try to come between him and his job—she had one of her own. Wager understood now that he had not wished to share with Lorraine because he felt threatened by her constant worry and the way she had used that worry to suck at him. Elizabeth wasn’t a vampire. She was concerned, but she also had her own role and strength separate from Wager’s. And the reason for her anger was different, too; there was a substance to it that Wager sensed more than understood: He had carelessly indicated that he took her for granted and that pissed her off. Just as it would have if she had said it to him, and he valued that sense of self-worth and pride in her. “I’m sorry.”

“Does it hurt very much?”

This time he remembered not to shake his head. “No … well, yeah, sometimes. It’ll be worse tomorrow and then start getting better.” He asked, “How’d you find out about this?”

“Someone from the Homicide office called—a clerk, I think.”

Again, the soreness stopped Wager from nodding. As required by regulations, he’d left Elizabeth’s number as one of the places he could be reached when he was off duty; he’d have to thank Esther for looking after him.

“Have you called your mother yet?” asked Elizabeth.

“No. Why?”

She was genuinely surprised. “Because you’ve just been shot, Gabe!”

And so was he. “But I’m not hurt that bad and I’m not going to be here that long. There’s nothing to get all upset about.”

“You’re going to let your mother learn about it from the newspapers …? Don’t you think that’s just a little bit callous? Don’t you think she might be just a little upset to find out about it that way?”

It really hadn’t crossed his mind that his mother would be worried about him, because he wasn’t worried about himself. But once again Elizabeth was right—she was right a lot of times when it came to dealing with people. “OK, I’ll call.”

She handed him the telephone. “Now.”

It was after ten by the time the doctor had examined Wager and told him how to care for the wound and when to report back for a follow-up. Then all the paperwork had to be filled out and signed. The duty stenographer had called twice to clarify unintelligible passages on the tape. They had been made toward the end of the interview last night when Wager was slipping into drugged sleep. One was in answer to a question about the description of the assailant: No, Wager could not describe him. The gunflashes had blinded him and the chaos of the moment disoriented him. The second question had to do with where he thought his rounds had gone. He vaguely remembered that his answer last night had been “Who in the shit knows?” but by then his voice was so slurred that the words were indistinct. This morning, he simply said, “Unobserved.”

Attorney Dewing had called, too. She said it was because she heard he’d been shot, but Wager guessed it was to find out if the Neeley case, along with her client, was still alive. “I talked with Lieutenant Maholtz earlier this morning. He says he never heard of Nelda Stinney and that they didn’t find any witnesses to the Neeley shoot-out at all.”

“So how did Neeley’s lawyer find her?”

“Apparently, Heisterman went over to the apartment house and knocked on the doors. Stinney answered.”

“She didn’t see what she says she saw!”

“OK—I know. And we can attack it as a memory recalled a year after the incident and under suggestive questioning. But Stinney also said that she was so afraid after the shooting that she didn’t answer the door when someone knocked. Unfortunately, Maholtz said that he thought the shooting looked open and shut—self-defense against an armed attacker. As a result, they only canvassed the area for witnesses one time and that was the night of the incident. So it is possible he missed her.”

“You’re saying Maholtz did a half-assed job so now my career’s on the line.”

“It is if Stinney’s story holds up.”

“She’s lying.”

“Why would she?”

It was a good question, and Wager didn’t know. But by God somebody should find out. Nor did he know why any cop from Boulder, of all places, would be put in charge of something as important as a shooting team—especially the team investigating Wager’s shooting. Bunch of feel-good community workers up there who wouldn’t know real crime if it bit them in the ass! “Heisterman was the name of Neeley’s lawyer at his original trial—I remembered that this morning. Has to be the same Heisterman.”

Dewing agreed. “Be hard to find two with that name. But that means he practices both criminal and civil law.”

“So?”

“Nothing—it’s just unusual, that’s all. Especially if he’s established. Specialty practice is where most of the money is nowadays.”

“Money’s what he’s going for wherever it is—a contingency fee out of the settlement.” Wager added, “What the hell’s he got to lose except a little time?”

“A lot, if he knows his witness is perjured, Detective Wager. A hell of a lot.” Then she admitted, “But he could always say he didn’t know.”

Wager caught a cab home and was on the telephone as soon as he got there. His first call was to his insurance company to report the damage and to get authorization to rent a replacement car, and his second call was to the rental company they recommended. The third was to Walt Adamo’s home. His wife hesitantly said she didn’t know if he was awake yet, but a few seconds later a rusty voice croaked, “Hello?”

“It’s Gabe. Did you have anybody sitting on Big Ron Tipton last night?”

“You OK, Gabe? I heard you went down last night—you OK?”

“Yeah, fine. Nothing serious. Big Ron—was he under surveillance last night between ten and twelve?”

The line was silent while Adamo thought. “I asked Schuyler to swing by Big Ron’s house a couple times. I don’t know if he saw him or not.”

Schuyler was one of the patrolmen who had been in District Two for almost fifteen years. He was also one of the officers who had responded to Wager’s call for help last night. “Nobody else? I saw Schuyler last night—he was coming off some big traffic accident. Bitching about spending half his tour directing traffic.”

“Nobody. Like I told you, Gabe, we don’t have enough manpower to take on too much extra right now. You just wanted some high-profile stuff anyway, right? I mean that’s all I can come up with for a while.”

“No problem, Walt. Just wanted to check out the possibility.” And that meant Big Ron could have been the one behind the MP-5. Tired of Wager hassling him, quick-tempered and mean, and dumb enough to prove to the rest of the ’hood that nobody dissed the Big Ron.

“Say, uh, Gabe.” Adamo’s voice dropped to a private murmur. “If you need some help with Big Ron—you know, the shooting and all, you just let me know, OK?”

“If I find out it was him, I may do that, Walt. Thanks.”

“You got it—anytime.”

Wager shrugged carefully into his jacket, surprised once again at how many times a trapezius muscle was used. He might be on medical leave, but all that meant was he could postpone the routine paperwork for a couple of days.

The woman who answered the door was just as happy to see Wager as she had been the last time. “What you want now?” The odor of something frying drifted out with her.

“Need to talk to your little boy, Mrs. Tipton.”

“He ain’t here.”

Wager gingerly tucked his badge case away in his vest pocket. “I’m going to put out a warrant on him if I can’t find him in the next hour, Mrs. Tipton. He’s wanted for questioning about a shooting last night.”

“For a what?”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“He didn’t shoot nobody! How come you always coming round saying he shot somebody? He didn’t shoot nobody!”

“Do you know where he is or not?”

Her lips clapped shut, and she stared hotly at him. “Jus’ a minute.” The heels of her slippers smacked their way back into the odor, and Wager heard her voice mumble a one-sided conversation. Then the smacking came back. “He over at a friend’s house. He say he meet you at Curtis Park. You know where that firehouse is at? He say he meet you across from there.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

It was midday, overcast, and hot, and the tired patches of grass and sand in the park were almost empty of people. Wager pulled his rental into the no-parking stretch of curb near the firehouse and waited. Fresh graffiti had been sprayed over fresh paint on the wall of the station, a conflict of red and blue scrawls and symbols that had been crossed out, superimposed, added, in the continuing struggle between taggers. About chest high, a large pair of black circles with dots in the center mimicked a pair of staring eyes, and beneath, where the nose should be, were the spread wings of what might have been an eagle, but it looked like a buzzard or maybe an odd mustache. Probably the Aguilas, and the eyes meant that it was their territory and they were watching it. But it wouldn’t be long before some other gang, new or established, drew an
X
through it and sprayed their own markings. In a way, it was like dogs and fireplugs.

Wager spotted the large figure in his rearview mirror. Big Ron was wearing stained dungarees cut off roughly at mid-calf, bright red sneakers and matching baseball cap, a shirt of some kind of tan color that sagged loosely to hide his belt and pockets and any weapons or contraband he might tote. This time Wager got out of the car and rested his hand on his weapon. The waddling figure neither paused nor hurried but walked steadily toward Wager until he stopped a couple of arms’ lengths away. His shadow was a wide circle of black at his feet.

“Mama says you want to talk.”

“Tell me where you were last night Ron. At ten minutes after eleven. And don’t try to jerk me around.”

The eyes slowly blinked three or four times before he asked, “What for?”

“Because you need an alibi.”

“Alibi. What for I need a alibi?”

“Because I think you were shooting at me.” Wager added, “And it better be a goddamned good alibi.”

The wide face clouded and the eyes blinked again. “I wasn’t shooting at nobody, last night.”

He made it sound like an exception to his usual behavior. Wager opened the car’s rear door. “You want to volunteer to ride with me down to headquarters, or you want me to send a patrol car after you?”

“You arresting me? What for?”

“I’m inviting you to answer some questions. You threatened me a few weeks ago, remember? And last night I was shot at. Are you coming with me or do you want me to call a patrol car?” He tapped the radio riding on his hip. The gesture also revealed the pistol stuck in his belt. Wager hadn’t placed it there for intimidation; a strap on his shoulder holster rubbed across his wound. But the bulging, dark eyes rested on the pistol thoughtfully for a long moment before the pumpkin-sized head nodded.

It wasn’t technically an arrest yet or at least Wager could claim that the man cooperated with his request to come to the station for questioning. So no official paperwork was needed. Big Ron’s flesh spilled over the sides of the heavy chair in the interview room, and his torso dwarfed the metal table bolted to the floor. Wager, his back against the silver of the large two-way mirror that shielded the viewing room on the other side, watched Doty unpack items from his kit. The lab man had told Wager that the results would be chancy—you weren’t supposed to test flesh for gunshot residue more than six hours after a shooting. For one thing, the trace evidence could wear off in that time; for another, the suspect might have washed his hands. Wager said he didn’t think Big Ron ever washed anything, and that it was worth a chance.

Big Ron had denied that he was anywhere near the east side of the city last night and that at the time Wager was being shot at, he, Big Ron, had been over with some of his bros at an apartment on Welton Street having a party. He could prove it, too, if Wager would just call over there and ask anybody, and then he could cut out all this cheap shit of hassling somebody who hadn’t done nothing to nobody. Following people around. Come banging on peopleses’ doors all hours. Say people been shooting people they don’t even know. Making people afraid to even be seen talking to him.

“If you didn’t fire a weapon last night, then you won’t mind having your hands tested for residue, right?”

“My what for what?”

“Your hands. Run a test on them to find out if you’ve fired a weapon recently. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, right, Ron?” He added, “It won’t hurt.”

He had sat, eyes blinking as thoughts worked their way across his mind and Wager waited. Finally, “You don’t find nothing, you quit fuckin’ around with me, right?”

“Sure,” Wager lied.

“Then let’s do it.”

Doty sprinkled a little talcum on his own hands and slipped into a pair of disposable rubber gloves. Then he unscrewed the cap of a brown bottle labeled Dilute Nitric Acid (5%) and stirred a couple of cotton swabs in the contents. He stroked the swabs along the back of Tipton’s broad hand, running out of moisture and having to wet a third swab. “Damn big hands.” Then placed the swabs in a plastic Baggie, and, with a marking pencil, labeled, initialed, and dated the bag. Then, following the same careful procedure of identification, he used new swabs to stroke the palm of that hand and the back and palm of the left hand. Next, he dipped another swab into the nitric acid solution and placed it in its own Baggie labeled Control Swab. In another Baggie, resting in the metal tool box that served as his portable office, was one of the shell casings that Landrum had picked up early this morning at the shooting scene. It, too, had a swab. “OK, Gabe. Be about a half hour.”