Favors and Lies (8 page)

—

Dan parked his car on the west side of Idaho Street and walked across the wide expanse of sidewalk in front of Police Headquarters for District 2. The squat two-story building, with its plain red brick exterior, looked more like a school than a law enforcement establishment. Dan pushed through the large front doors and showed his ID to the white officer on crutches sitting behind the glass, manning the main security booth. Dan glanced through the thick translucent glass at the officer's bandaged ankle and wondered how the one-legged officer was going to keep the criminals in while keeping criminals out.

“I'm here to see Officer Nguyen.”

“Detective Nguyen?”

“Yes.”

The officer gave Dan a more focused, measuring stare. “Did you have an appointment?”

“Nothing concrete. I said I would stop by. He was working on a case involving some family members. I tried to reach him on the way over but he didn't answer.”

“Have a seat,” the hobbled officer said, leaning over in his stool and swiping the receiver off the phone next to him. Dan sat down in the small waiting area, wedging himself in between a man hiding under a hoodie and an inoperable TV sitting on a corner table.

Moments later, Officer Crutches tapped on the glass and Dan approached the security booth for the second time.

“Detective Wallace will be with you in a moment.”

“I was here for Detective Nguyen.”

“I heard you. Detective Nguyen isn't here. Detective Wallace is. Here he comes now,” the officer said, nodding in the direction of the other side of the room.

A heavy-set black male came bounding down the stairs and Officer Crutches pointed at Dan as if he were picking a fish out of a Chinese restaurant aquarium.

The officer extended his hand. “Detective Wallace.”

“Good afternoon, Detective. I'm trying to reach Detective Nick Nguyen. He was working on a case involving my relatives. We were supposed to talk today.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“Last night. Around eight or so.” Dan felt the stare from Officer Crutches and noticed the red eyes and irritation of his newfound police detective acquaintance. His gut told him something was wrong. The detective confirmed his suspicion.

“Mr. Lord. Detective Nguyen was killed in the line of duty.”

Dan recognized the emotion of a man in mourning. “I'm very sorry to hear that. I recently lost some people dear to me as well.”

“Detective Nguyen was a good man.”

“He seemed like it. I only met him a couple of times.”

“I trained him. Worked with him. He was like my little brother. My Asian brother.”

“I am truly sorry. What happened? An accident? He seemed like he was in good health.”

“In the line of duty. That's the statement for now. Found him last night. Waiting for reports. Was on the news earlier today.”

“I was away from the TV.” Dan started the next sentence, stopped, and then started again. “I don't want to sound impersonal, but what's the protocol on cases he was working?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Type of case. Why don't you come upstairs and let's see what we've got.”

Dan followed Detective Wallace up one flight of stairs and on the turn in the landing he heard the detective's knees creak. Dan estimated the detective's age at just over fifty, the few gray hairs more of a spoiler than the lines in his face.

On the second floor, Wallace led him through the maze of old wooden desks and chairs. He motioned for Dan to sit in an empty chair next to his desk. “Have a seat, don't touch anything, and I'll be right back.”

—

Detective Wallace put his grieving in check as he walked through the cubicles and desks of the Robbery and Homicide Division. The floor was poignantly subdued, the normal chatter silenced by reflection. Detective Wallace sat his large black frame at Nguyen's desk and shook his head at the pile of papers. A stack of folders twenty high teetered precariously on the corner of the desk. Opened personal mail littered the workspace—a bill from the gas company on top of one from GEICO. A desktop calendar was hidden beneath the pile. A half-finished Diet Coke stood in front of the computer monitor. Detective Wallace reached for the stack of folders and flipped through the tabs until he eyed one simply labeled “Lord.”

The detective looked at the report printed from the police system computer. He read quickly and tried to interpret the highlights of the case as seen through his colleague's eyes. In every word he saw fingerprints of his own tutelage, the deceased his protégé, his friend.

Vicky and Conner Lord. Vicky Lord found dead by her brother-in-law, Dan Lord. Cause of death an apparent suicide by hanging. Her son, Conner, was found dead the next morning from an apparent heroin overdose under the L'Enfant Promenade
.

Wallace reread the last sentence and cursed. He read the sentence a third time and felt his face go flush. He peeked out from behind the folder and watched from across the room as Dan sat in the chair next to the detective's desk, looking up at the wall of information posted by the Robbery and Homicide division. Wallace stared intently at Dan as his visitor gazed at the wanted posters and framed accolades for exemplary detective work.
Cool as a cucumber
, Wallace thought.

Wallace turned his attention back to the report and read the half-dozen sticky notes pasted and taped to the inside cover of the manila folder.
Waiting for toxicology
. An arrow pointed downward. Written on the folder itself was Dan Lord's home, business, and cell phone number, in addition to his work address in Alexandria. Next to his name, circled in red ink, were two short handwritten sentences: “
Possible Suspect. Phone records missing
.” Detective Wallace paused and again glanced over at Dan before turning his attention back to the folder. “
Be careful
” and “
Military or martial arts bac
k
ground”
were scribbled at the bottom of the folder, both followed by large exclamation points.

“Uh-Oh,” Wallace mumbled. He removed the computer printout from the manila folder and shoved it into a new empty folder, leaving the handwritten notes and Post-it opinions behind. He looked over the sea of desks and chairs and watched as Dan now sat motionless.
Be careful
. . .

Detective Wallace pushed himself out of the chair and stopped at the small refrigerator on the wall near the water fountain. He retrieved two bottles of water and weaved his way back to Dan, who was now eyeing Wallace.

“Water?” Detective Wallace asked, holding the bottle in front of Dan as he sat at his desk.

“Thanks,” Dan replied. He took the bottle from the detective's massive hand, opened it, and drank half in two large gulps.

“I found a folder on Detective Nguyen's desk.” Wallace opened the sanitized, abbreviated version of the folder and went over the highlights of the case. “Vicky and Conner Lord. A suicide and a drug overdose.”

“Correct, but incorrect. Anything else?”

“That's it. A few of the other details, it seems, were provided by you. We are still waiting for toxicology. Do you have anything else to add?”

Dan looked at Detective Wallace's desk. “I am wondering if you have Detective Nguyen's notebook?”

“What notebook?”

Dan pointed at the notebook on Detective Wallace's desk. “His detective notebook. He took notes like he was a court reporter. And his notebook was the exact same as yours. Same blue cover with red trim. I don't imagine that is coincidence. Probably bought in bulk. Or purchased at the same time. Maybe a gift you both received.”

Nguyen's written words again flashed across Detective Wallace's eyes.
Be careful.

“We haven't found his notebook. Or his badge. His service weapon was found on scene. The magazine was full. We haven't determined if he kept one in the chamber, and if he did, whether or not it had been fired. We also located the likely murder weapon.”

“Any suspects?”

“We are running ballistics and forensics.”

“I hope you find him.”

“Oh, we will. I will. If it is the last thing I do. Nick was like a brother to me.”

“An Asian brother. I was listening, Detective.”

“Can I get your contact information?”

“Isn't it in the file?” Dan asked.

Suspicious
, Wallace thought. “Just being thorough.”

“Give me a piece of paper and I'll write my contact info for you.”

Detective Wallace handed Dan a piece of paper and a pen. As he wrote, Dan continued to talk. “Detective, I'm sure you're grieving, on top of being busy with all the shit this city has to offer, but I also lost two family members. And at the risk of sounding unsympathetic, there are things you need to know. I have reason to believe my sister-in-law and nephew probably died in manners inconsistent with the findings to date. Things just don't add up.”

“Like what?”

“Religion, upbringing, financial security. Other things.”

“Mr. Lord, I get it. No one wants to think that a family member killed themselves or died of a drug overdose. It makes us feel as if we failed them. I see it every day.”

“This is different,” Dan said, folding the paper and placing it on the detective's desk.

Detective Wallace spoke from the same detective rulebook that Detective Nguyen quoted from. “I can only work with evidence. I'll follow it where it leads. I promise to keep you in the loop. But the priority around here is going to be finding Detective Nguyen's killer. After that, his cases will be examined and reassigned according to need. Homicides will be examined first. Robberies next. Suicides and drug overdoses are down the list.”

Dan Lord shook his head. “Then I guess I will have to find the truth myself.”

“Mr. Lord, where were you last night around ten o'clock?”

“I was at Good Time Charlie.”

“You with anyone?”

“Mr. Good Time himself.”

“Well, Mr. Lord, I'll be in touch.”

Dan stood and Detective Wallace mirrored his movement. “I'll let you know if I find anything,” Wallace said.

“Thanks. I'll do the same. Expect me to call first.”

The detective watched as Dan headed to the stairs and waved as he disappeared downward. As Dan hit the front door, the detective yanked opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a box of evidence gloves and a quick seal evidence bag. He dumped the pens from a coffee mug pen holder and poured the contents of the water bottle Dan Lord had touched into the mug. With gloved hands he carefully placed the empty water bottle into the evidence bag and sealed it closed.

Detective Wallace snatched the bag and propelled his oversized frame to the basement evidence collection area. The young, brown-haired forensic technician on duty snapped to attention when the seasoned detective barged into the room, nearly hyperventilating.

“Stop whatever you are doing and run the prints on this water bottle. There is nothing more important. I'll be upstairs at my desk. If I'm not there, act like a detective and find me.”

Sweat appeared on the young man's brow, his twenty-something appearance suddenly looking more childlike. “Sure thing, Sarge. I should have something in an hour.”

“No breaks, no emails, nothing until you give me an answer.”

—

Sergeant Detective Wallace knocked on his captain's door and waited. Wallace looked through the glass as the captain paced around his desk, phone to his ear. The captain looked as if he had aged since earlier that morning, since he broke the news of Nguyen's death to the department. His gray hair looked more white. The lines on his face deeper.

The captain finished his phone call, cradled the receiver, and waved Detective Wallace in.

“I heard you at this morning's meeting, but I want to be assigned to Nick's case.”

“I know you do and no you can't. You are too close. It is too personal.”

“Captain, he was my partner.”

“Exactly. And when emotions get involved, protocol has a way of being forgotten.”

“Captain . . .”

“How long have we known each other, Earl?” the captain asked, using Detective Wallace's first name.

“Twenty years.”

“Two decades. A long time.”

“Too long to be treated like this.”

“How many times since I've been captain have I let an officer or detective work a case they were involved in, or had family members involved in?”

“None.”

“That is correct. None. And I am not starting now. Dietz and Noyes are the lead detectives on Nguyen's case. Support them anyway that you can. But I expect the support to be passive. Passive. Do you understand?”

“But I may have found something important. Nguyen was working on a case involving an apparent suicide and an overdose. One of the deceased was found in the same location Nguyen was.”

“Great. Turn the evidence over to Dietz and Noyes.”

Detective Wallace stood in silence.

“Understood?” the captain asked.

“Yes, sir.”

—

Forty minutes later, Detective Wallace was at his desk, spinning an unopened pack of cigarettes. The cessation battle was raging and for the morning, Detective Wallace was victorious. When the phone on the desk rang, he pounced.

“Sarge, there are no prints on the bottle.”

“You mean they don't show up in the system?”

“No, I mean there are no prints on the bottle at all.”

Wallace cursed, stringing together a set of expletives colorful enough to garner attention from half of the detectives on duty. He finished the blush-generating outburst with a more mild,
“Son of a bitch!
” Spittle gathered in the corner of his lips.

“How can that be?” he gasped, almost foaming at the mouth.