“Yeah?”
“You’re in the parking lot,” he said.
“Southeast corner.”
“I’ll drive around.”
A minute later when I saw his Mercedes make the corner, I flashed my lights once. He started my way, and I got out and stood in the lot while he backed into a spot. He joined me, dressed in a conservative dark suit complete with a carefully knotted tie.
“M-Max. You are not l-looking well,” Billy said, readjusting his usual greeting while taking my measure from head to foot.
“Yeah, funny how that happens,” I said as I shook his extended hand.
Following his lead, we started walking toward the front entrance.
“I sp-spoke to Assistant Chief Hammonds, who has graciously agreed to m-meet with us.”
“Pretty high up the food chain for a leaving the scene and a handful of moving violations,” I said. Billy stared straight ahead and kept walking.
“I w-would not be m-much of a lawyer if I didn’t have c-connections, Max.”
“Yeah. And how much info did you promise to feed him if he agreed to handle this?”
“I believe the ch-chief has followed your c-career, M-Max: the abducted children, the serial killer, the b-bodies in the Glades. He is a m-man who knows the value of information. In a s-situation like this, you do not deal with clerks.”
I looked at the side of Billy’s face, and I believe he felt my look on his skin.
“I know how elitist that s-sounds, Max. B-But I am trying to keep you out of jail.”
“How much do we tell him?”
“You tell him nothing,” Billy said. “I w-will do the talking.”
After we emptied our pockets of all metal objects, cell phones, and foil-wrapped chewing gum, we walked through a metal detector and were directed to a Plexiglas enclosure we used to call a fishbowl. After Billy told the officer inside of our appointment with Chief Hammonds, she made a call to confirm, and then took our driver’s licenses through a slotted drawer akin to a bank teller’s. Then she directed us, one at a time, to stand before a camera to have our photos taken.
I shook my head. I knew from previous experience that there were no prisoners housed in this building, and if there were any criminals inside, they were most likely being interviewed with a half a dozen detectives surrounding them-but hell, yes, safety first.
While the aide printed out photo ID visitor’s badges, I looked up from the marble inlaid floor to the eight-story atrium, the ceiling soaring up into a grand dome. Like Fort Knox with a gilded courthouse decor, I thought. The security consultants had watched too many reruns of Assault on Precinct 13 and the planners studied too much Roman Architecture 101.
Finally, we were given a fifth-floor room number and directed through a now unlocked pair of heavy glass doors to the elevator.
“You’ve been here before, right?” I said to Billy.
“N-Not on a traffic violation.”
“Not to the fifth floor.”
“N-Not on a traffic violation,” Billy repeated.
When the elevator doors opened, we were met by a thin man in civilian dress: oxford shirt, tie, suit pants, and polished loafers.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Meyers.”
No hand was offered, by either Meyers or us.
“Chief Hammonds will see you in his office,” Meyers said as we followed him through a slight maze of beige-colored hallways and through two doors, before our guide stopped in front of an office and rapped lightly on the door.
“Come,” was the answer from the other side. The voice and phrase made me think of Sean Connery in a submarine movie. Meyers opened the door and let us pass first. The room was small, with a big desk that took up most of the space. The dominating presence of the man standing behind it seemed to take up the rest.
“Chief,” Billy said, reaching across the desk and shaking the man’s hand, which enveloped Billy’s like a catcher’s mitt, “this is M-Max Freeman, sir. I believe you’ve met.”
Hammonds had been a couple of ranks lower when we’d crossed paths in the past. He’d been the lead on Sherry’s case involving the abducted children. During that investigation, Hammonds had used me as bait to finally draw out the killer. I didn’t hold the tactic against him. He’d done what he thought he needed to do to stop a serial killer.
I extended my hand without reservation. The chief was as tall as me, but a good fifty pounds heavier. And even though I couldn’t see his legs below the desktop, my guess was that the majority of his weight was in his barrel chest and draft horse butt.
“Mr. Freeman,” he said, taking my hand. I doubted that the chief shook the hands of most criminals turning themselves in. “It’s been a while.”
I simply nodded. Usually, I like occupying the upper ground, but in this instance I was in the position of depending on others to decide my fate. With a wave of his huge paw, the chief directed us to two chairs flanking his desk. The detective sergeant remained standing behind us. When I glanced over my shoulder, it looked suspiciously as if he were guarding the door to block any escape-which made me nervous. Hammonds knew of my background as a Philadelphia cop, and hence realized that putting a desk between us and a man behind me would set any cop’s teeth on edge.
Once we were seated, he wasted no time.
“Gentlemen, after Mr. Manchester’s call, I did some checking. Traffic enforcement does indeed have several digital photographs of what is being described as a three-vehicle chase being executed through heavy evening traffic, and causing multiple rear-end collisions as other innocent drivers were forced to take defensive measures to avoid those vehicles,” Hammonds said, glancing down at a sheaf of paper in front of him, but mostly holding my eyes.
“We then have reports from our patrol officers on what appears to have been the terminus of that chase in the fourteen hundred block of Southwest Forty-fifth Court, where one of said vehicles was disabled, and upon arrival of several squad cars, abandoned. Foot pursuit of at least four individuals resulted in the arrest of three. The fourth is still in the wind, but I’m confident we’ll find him.”
No doubt of that, I thought. Hammonds was an old bull, a cop who looked the part of a warrior who started in the street and then worked his way up the line, learning political tricks along the way to reach up into the ranks where a less ambitious officer would never tread, nor care to. He made no attempt to cover his gray hair, nearly white, in fact, at the temples. His jowls hung loose, and he had a way of keeping his massive hands clasped in front of him on the desk. He didn’t flex or point, and didn’t use his hands to talk for him or with him. They lay instead in a pile before him, their size and potential enough to catch and keep your eye. I thought of sleeping dogs and the time-honored warning not to rouse them.
“Also included in the report, gentlemen, is the confiscation of, uh, let me see…” he hesitated for maximum effect, “three submachine guns, one being an AK, which we don’t often see out on the streets; two large caliber handguns concealed in draw holsters mounted under the seats; and in a false compartment behind the glove box, a substantial amount of cocaine.
“Those now in custody account for a long rap sheet for drug-related arrests, including sales and distribution, and the requisite add-ons such as aggravated assault, robbery, and resisting arrest. One of them is particularly well known as a past enforcer for a drug crew, which, to our knowledge, has not been active for more than five years. The crimes these three have committed are from the past, gentlemen. They’ve been lying low, or have been engaging in activities that we haven’t caught up with yet. But the weapons found at the scene are disturbing, as is a box officers found in the trunk of their disabled car, which contained a substantial amount of prescription drugs, including amphetamines and steroids.”