Mr. Paradise A Novel (12 page)

“Manny Reyes.”

“Yeah. The way it went down, Manny comes in and we approach Tyrell in the kitchen. He sees us and runs out the back to a car, his baby’s mama and his baby sitting in the front seat, like they waiting for him to get off work. Now he sees our guys, he snatches up the baby and runs around to the driver’s side, using the child as a shield, his own baby girl. You hear what I’m saying? We ganged on him fast. After, Manny said, ‘I learn something today. You can fit a Glock Forty up a guy’s nose.’ “

Delsa had called Richard last night, still at the Paradise scene, told him the girl in the chair with the old man was Chloe, not Kelly, and to house Montez for questioning about the false I.D. Delsa said last night, “But don’t tell him we know.”

Today at the Medical Examiner’s he said, “Pick up Montez when you’re finished here and I’ll see you up on five.”

Richard said, “You gonna run into Tony in the lobby.”

“How’s he know I’m on the case?”

“Must keep track of you, man, since you beat him on that wrongful death. I remember I was with Violent Crimes at the time, everybody talking about it. What was it the man was asking, thirty million?”

L
ATE
N
OVEMBER FOUR YEARS
ago at Eastland with Maureen, ten past eight driving up and down aisles in the dark, headlights looking for a parking space—one close to Hudson’s, before it became Marshall Field’s. Maureen said, “There’s one,” but Delsa had to creep behind two lanky, slow-moving guys walking up the aisle.

They turned into the open space—scruffy-looking white guys, mid-twenties—maybe to cut through to the next aisle, the parking space facing this one also open, and Maureen said, “
Move,
will you?” Out loud but for her own benefit, Maureen not the most patient woman, high on energy, worked out with weights while Delsa watched television. She reached over and blew the horn at them.

As Delsa expected, the two guys turned and stared into the headlights—at that time a black Honda Accord with 94,000 miles on it—one of the guys calling to them, “You in a hurry?”

Delsa remembered Maureen saying, “What do you bet you get a LEIN hit on both of them.” And telling her, “That’s why I wish you hadn’t blown the horn.”

She said, “You know what they’re doing, looking for a car to boost.” Then reminded him that the Honda Accord was the most frequently stolen motor vehicle in the U.S.

Delsa remembered saying if they didn’t get to Hudson’s soon it would be closed. They were here to buy her dad a couple of sweaters, one for his birthday and one for Christmas, kill two birds.

But now the guys were coming toward the car, grungy
jackets hanging open, caps on backwards, and that vacant stare that made them rockheads.

“ ‘Night of the Living Dead,’ “ Maureen said. “Let’s roll down the windows. I want to see what these assholes have to say.”

Delsa had to agree, these guys could be dirty, looking for action. He released his seat belt, zipped open his jacket and reached inside to unhook the snap on his holster, the Glock resting against his right hip, part of him. Maureen’s was in her handbag, open on her lap.

The guy who came up on Delsa’s side laid his arms on the sill and hunched over to get in Delsa’s face. He said, “You drive like a fuckin nigger.”

Delsa didn’t know what he meant and didn’t ask. He said, “You’re almost in serious trouble.” He said, “Step away from the car,” and shoved the door open in the next second, putting his shoulder into it, the top edge of the door frame hitting the guy in the face and he went down. Delsa was out of the car by the time he heard Maureen—“Frank, he’s got my bag!”—and saw the other guy running with the brown leather shoulder bag through the open parking spots and across the next aisle to the rear end of a pickup truck, headlights on him as a car approached and went by. Now the one Delsa had flattened was up and running toward the pickup. He stopped in the next aisle, looked back and yelled, “You’re fucked now, man.” Delsa was out of the car and heard Maureen—-”He’s got my gun!”—but kept his eyes on the one who’d yelled, letting Delsa know it wasn’t over. The guy was at the pickup cab now, the inside light coming on. Delsa pulled his Glock and racked the slide. The light in the cab went off as the door slammed and the guy was in the aisle again with a shotgun, pumping it with that ratchety sound as Delsa raised his Glock and took aim the way he was taught and shot the guy in the chest, sure of it, the shotgun going off at the sky as the guy dropped to the pavement. Delsa put the Glock on the other guy shoving his hand in Maureen’s bag, the hand coming out of the bag with her .40 caliber and shot him dead center and he went down. Delsa walked over with Maureen to stand looking at them as Maureen checked each one for a pulse. It was the first time he had fired his weapon at anyone. Maureen called 9-11 while he drove the Honda around to that aisle and put his headlights on the scene.

The two were brothers, convicted car-jackers on lifetime probation, six months in violation for not reporting, high school dropouts . . . “So the boys could find work and support their mom while their old man was doing mandatory life,” Anthony Paradiso Jr., representing the mom, told the press. He had filed a wrongful death suit in civil court against the City of Detroit, the police department and Frank Delsa, asking thirty million in restitution. Tony’s argument: Delsa’s action was overly aggressive, irresponsible in the excessive use of deadly force. Aside to the press Tony said, “It’s okay to kill two young boys trying to jack an old Honda? Ninety thousand miles on it?”

Civil court reviewed Tony’s suit and threw it out. A board of police executives looked at evidence prepared by Central Affairs, determined that Delsa had gone by the book and returned him to active duty. The department psychologist said
that Delsa’s reaction was positive, he wished he hadn’t had to fire his weapon. He did express some relief that the two he shot were “white guys” and there was no chance of it becoming a “racial thing.”

B
OTH OF THE WIDE,
curving benches in the Medical Examiner’s lobby were done in a bright blue fabric within a bright yellow wood frame—that Delsa thought of, for some reason, as high school colors. He could imagine a banner on the wall that said “Home of the Fighting Pathologists.” He saw Tony Paradiso right away:

Tony occupying a section of the closer bench, arm extended along the backrest, Tony at ease, comfortable, a guy who was pleased with the way he looked, wore expensive suits and boots with a heel that would get him up to five-ten; a guy who could tuck a dinner napkin in his collar with a certain flair and get away with it. Delsa ran into him at Randy’s after the wrongful death suit was thrown out and Tony bought the lunch. He had personalities to fit the occasion, able to soothe the wives and mothers of the dead, scream in the face of an opposing witness. Delsa thought he overacted and didn’t care for his type, but got a kick out of watching him show off in court and didn’t mind talking to him. Tony was a lawyer, so you had to accept the fact he was opinionated and full of shit. Delsa had never thought of him as a prick, though he probably was if you got to know him. He was a high-priced defender, fifty-three, with dark hair carefully combed and a big ass.

He saw Delsa and said, “Frank, come here, will you? Help me out.” But didn’t get up. Delsa walked over. Tony said, “They won’t let me see Dad.” A solemn tone but hope in his eyes looking up at Delsa.

“I guess the viewing room’s in use.”

“Bunch of Mexicans. Who’s dead?”

“Guy named Zorro, with one of the posses.”

“Never heard of him. Was it a cop pop?”

Delsa shook his head. “Nothing there for you.”

Tony said, “Is that resentment I hear? You still holding a grudge against me?”

Delsa said, “I never did.”

Tony said, “Frank, it wasn’t personal, I explained that to you after. We could’ve settled, the city pays out a few bucks, it wouldn’t of cost you a dime.”

“You didn’t offer me a cut.”

“Come on, you know I don’t do that. The only reason I thought you were quick on the trigger, you weren’t gonna let that asshole shoot you with your wife’s gun. But I didn’t bring that up, did I? Listen, I was sorry to hear about your loss, Frank. Now I’ve lost Dad, and they won’t let me in to see him.”

“You don’t want to right now,” Delsa said, “they’re doing a post.”

“What I’m saying, I’m not gonna identify him looking at that fucking TV, I want to
see
him. You have to sit on the floor in there to see the goddamn screen. Boxes of Kleenex all over the room. Go near the door you hear those fucking beaners in there carrying on—a very emotional people, Frank. They give you anything to go on?”

“Not yet. Harris’s on it.”

“I saw him last night. He said you were there but left. How do you see it, home invasion?”

“For the time being. Tony, there were two young women in the house. What I need to know, which one was your dad’s girlfriend.”

“The one sitting with him, Chloe. Wasn’t it?”

“You assume that.”

“It wasn’t Chloe?”

“She was identified as Kelly Barr. By Montez.”

“Nobody told me that,” Tony said. “Kelly Barr? I never heard of her.” He said, “Wait a minute—Chloe’s alive?”

Delsa told him no, it was Chloe in the chair. He said, “Montez made a mistake,” and watched Tony frown at him.

“What’re you talking about? He knows her, picks her up, takes her to the house.”

Delsa said, “How well did you know her?”

“Me? I kept checking Dad’s will,” Tony said, “waiting for her name to show up on a codicil. That’s how well I knew her.”

“You figured she had to be after his money.”

“Frank, she was a whore.”

“Your dad knew it, didn’t he?”

“She walks in the house taking off her clothes—sure, he knew it. Found her on the Internet under pussy. He liked her—why wouldn’t he? She helped him get his eighty-four-year-old rocks off, if that’s possible. But that didn’t qualify her for his will.”

“Did he ever propose adding her name?”

“No, but I saw it coming. I was seriously thinking about
getting power of attorney. He was losing it, Frank, the early stages of Alzheimer’s fucking with his judgment. He was already giving her five grand a week that I knew of.”

“Maybe he had another way of taking care of her,” Delsa said, “after he’s gone.”

“What good’s it do her? She’s gone, too.”

That wasn’t the point. Delsa said, “What if it was already set up? Say, an account in her name?” And saw six, seven, eight people filing out of the viewing room, each of the three women holding a handkerchief to her face. He watched Harris approach one of the men, an older Hispanic.

“If he left her anything,” Tony said, “I don’t know about it.”

“You mentioned your dad got Chloe off the Internet. He knew how to use a computer?”

Tony thought a moment and said, “You’re right, it must’ve been Montez got her for him. It’s what he was there for, get Dad anything he wanted. Dad planned on leaving Montez the house, but then my daughter Allegra thought it would be fun to live in the city, so Dad put it in his will. She gets the house, but now I don’t know. Her husband wants to move to California and buy a winery. I can’t keep up with him, John Tintinalli. Right now, he’s selling bull semen on the Internet, acts as a broker. They sell it to dairy farmers who impregnate their cows every year to keep the milk flowing. Yeah, John represents a number of Grand Champion bulls, Attila, Big Daddy, some others.”

Delsa had to ask, “How does he get the semen?”

“As I understand it,” Tony said, “they use an artificial cow’s
vagina and get the bull to ejaculate into it. Or they give him a hand job or stick an electric rod up his ass. There’re different ways. You’d have to talk to John about it.”

Delsa had trouble picturing the second method. He said, “So your dad and Montez got along.”

“Yeah, fine. Dad would sometimes refer to him as his pet nigger. He was not only the boss, he was the white boss. You know, that generation, he still thought of Montez as colored. He was definitely not in the old man’s will, but they’d play games with each other. Dad would mellow after a few drinks, start talking like all men were created equal, and Montez would hustle him saying, ‘Yes, suh, Mr. Paradise.’ Dad loved that Mr. Paradise shit. Now Lloyd, Lloyd was even better at it.”

“He didn’t tell us much. Said he was asleep.”

“ ’Cause Uncle Lloyd’s smarter than Montez, he keeps his mouth shut. ‘No, suh, don’t know nothin’ about that.’ “

“Why’d your dad have him around?”

“I just told you, Lloyd doesn’t know, hear or see anything. Even scratches his head on cue. And he’s not a bad cook. Worked as a sous chef at Randy’s after he got out of the joint.”

“What was he down for?”

“I thought you were the ace investigator.”

“I haven’t seen his sheet.”

“Lloyd was into armed robbery, big time. Took part in a payroll heist and got finked out. Lloyd in his prime, Montez’d be working for him. What I want to know is, why Montez said it was the other girl, with Dad.”

“I’ll get into that with him.”

“The other girl was still around, after?”

“Yeah, in the house.”

“He could see she’s not Chloe, right?”

“Good point,” Delsa said. “I’ll ask him.”

And got out of there.

THIRTEEN

MONTEZ SAT IN THIS ROOM NO BIGGER
than a closet, a wood table the size of half a desk, two straight chairs facing each other, no window, pink walls with nothing written on them. Montez was thinking that if brothers had sat in here and over time made to wait like he was, there ought to be things written on the walls, names like Shank, Bolo, “V-Dawg was here.” Inscriptions like “F-1”: for Family First. “SMV,” same as a tat the Seven Mile-Van Dyke gang wore on their arms. Could even be swastikas and “White Power” shit written there by Aryan Nation assholes. The walls were clean, Montez decided, ’cause nobody brought anything to write with in here. Coming into 1300 there were brothers coming out carrying their shoelaces.