"How is some moke from in here going to hook up with that kind of scam anyway?" Diaz broke in again. "These are not your rocket scientists of crime out here. Even if your motive is right, Freeman, the two cases are in no way linked. Your guy is too smart. Maybe out-of-town work. Carlyle there would call up and spill on anybody who was out here fuckin' with his territory by bringing in more scrutiny by us," he said, pointing to the empty stool the dealer had abandoned.
"Carlyle?"
"Yeah," Diaz grinned. "The dealer. His momma probably named him so he'd grow up tough. Instead he grows up and takes on the illustrious street name Brown Man and makes it as a drug peddler just to get her back."
"You ever have a conversation with Carlyle?" I said.
"One-sided," Diaz said.
"So he's not real forthcoming with information?"
"But he'd still give up some cheap local out snuffing old ladies just to keep his trade moving."
"And nobody's got a C.I. who's close to him?"
Diaz looked around again. Some of the neighbors had wandered back into their homes, some had pulled out lawn chairs as if an early evening show was only minutes away.
"What can I say, amigo? You see these people out when the drug shop is open? No. They're afraid," he said. "Carlyle got his territory set, for now. And believe me, the last thing he wants is local trouble."
As we talked I kept cutting my eyes to Richards, caught her watching. The sun was well down but the air was still warm.
"You two done tilting at windmills for now?" she said.
Diaz shook his head.
"Hard as nails and literate too, man," he said. "You ever have a partner like this, Max?"
Richards was silent, listening for my answer.
"Hey," I finally said. "Cervantes was Hispanic. What do I know?"
The radios on both of their belts ran a simultaneous string of static and then squawked, "Fourteen, Echo One."
Diaz snatched the call, lowered the volume and walked around to the front of the truck. Richards and I stood in a quiet that seemed oddly uncomfortable.
"The skeptic," she finally said. "He only wishes he didn't care."
I grinned and looked at her. Even in the dark her eyes were showing color.
"You got something going?" she said.
"I got a long shot out," I said.
"No. I mean tonight."
"Uh, no," I said. "I mean no, not really."
"Come by later?"
"Sure," I managed.
"I'll make some coffee," she said.
"Okay partner," Diaz interrupted. "We got to hit the road."
Richards turned away and started toward the SUV and Diaz shook my hand.
"I hate to say it, Freeman, but I'll see you," he said with a grin. "Be careful, man."
Eddie slipped between two buildings and into the alley, running from the cold spot on the back of his neck.
He rounded the corner of Twenty-seventh Avenue and pushed the cart east, the loose wheel spinning maniacally, his shadow cast out in front from the last light pole. Who was the white man in the truck? And how could he see him?
Eddie liked routine, and his routine was going to hell. Mr. Harold didn't show. He couldn't get his dope. Momma wasn't talking and now a white man's eyes had looked into him and Eddie was wondering if his invisibility was also gone.
He shrugged up into his coat. A car rolled past, the bass from its stereo rippling through him. He pushed on to Second Street and then cruised the back alley of the row, stopping at Louise's Kitchen where he found a plastic bag of bread heels hung up on a hook above the dumpster. Louise put it out there because she knew the bums would root through her garbage if she didn't make it easy for them. So she hung the bread up away from the rats. Eddie knew when the bag came out and he was surprised to see it still there. He sat on the bottom of the steps leading up into the back of the restaurant, chewing through several pieces of the bread. The smell of the alley did not register. His own odor, rising up from his collar all warm and ripe from the body heat trapped under his coat did not register. Mr. Harold, Eddie thought, an idea pulling at him.
23
When Eddie crossed over the railroad tracks, he had officially crossed over to the east side, and he knew enough to be careful on the east side. By now it was dark, but the street lamps and still-lighted windows in the business buildings pushed Eddie to the shadows. When he made his way to a spot under the Intracoastal bridge he sat there for an hour, tucked back against cold concrete. He wished he'd gotten the heroin before he tried this. He was feeling the need in his stomach. Just a single pop would do.
The smell of the river was a blend of salt and gasoline fumes and damp pilings. Above he could hear the roll of cars on the bridge surface, humming along the concrete and then singing when the tires hit the metal grating in the middle. He checked the time on the watch from deep in his pocket, left the cart and started over to the parking lot of the county jail.
He stayed close to the fence, moving from tree to tree. The east- siders thought landscaping made things look nice, so there was always a dark shadow to slip into. He scanned the lot. Most of the light glowed up off the eight-story white stone facade of the jail. But Eddie could still make out the colors and makes of the cars. The fourth row down and in between the two light poles was Mr. Harold's Caprice.
He knew that the doctor worked the middle shift and would be getting off at 11:00 P.M., plenty of time.
He found a way through the fencing, a gap left open by workers at an adjoining construction site, and moved low and slow along an inside row to the car. He peered up over the line of hoods and watched a single, twirling yellow light moving along the front sidewalk. That was the thing about those security carts, you always knew where they were.
When it disappeared, Eddie moved to the driver's-side door of the Caprice and reached into his pocket for the old tennis ball he'd brought from his cart. He turned the ball in his fingers to find the shaved side and located the small hole that he'd punched into its middle with a nail. Then he positioned the hole over the round key entrance on the door lock. Holding the seal tight with one hand, he took one more wary look around, then banged the ball with the heel of his other hand. The air from the ball rushed into the lock system hard enough to simultaneously pop up all four of the door buttons. Eddie opened the left passenger door and climbed in.
The inside smelled of cigarettes and paper. A box of files sat in the back but there was still room for Eddie behind the driver's seat. He flipped the overhead light off, locked the doors and waited, his nose twitching with the smell of stale nicotine.
Eddie was in the backseat less than an hour when he heard footsteps on the pavement. Mr. Harold fumbled with his keys and then unlocked the doors. He tossed a briefcase onto the front passenger side and was already halfway in when the smell caused his face to screw up and he felt a huge hand clamp onto his upper right arm and pull him in.
The doctor whimpered once before his eyes snapped around to Eddie's and then quickly changed from wide-open shock to a narrow questioning.
"Jesus, Eddie. What the hell are you doing here?" said Harold Marshack, his voice jumping from surprise to consternation. "Didn't I tell you not to come here?"
Eddie stared at him and for the second time in only a few hours, another man's eyes looked back. The psychiatrist could see the edge of panic there.
"Hey, it's not safe for you here, Eddie," Marshack said, his voice now going calm and pitched as if he were speaking to a child.
"You didn't come to the post office," Eddie said.
His big hand was still holding the doctor's arm, a soft grip for Eddie, painful for the recipient. Marshack again changed his voice.
"I'll admit I wasn't sure what to do, Eddie," he said, now patting the big man's hand, hoping to ease the hold.
"A man was killed, Eddie. At Ms. Thompson's. What happened, Eddie? Do you want to tell me what happened?"