He tried, “Secure the scene, canvass witnesses.”
Which apparently were the magic words. The others scattered to do just that.
Fromm almost smiled.
So what do we have? Fromm considered the cast:
A man with a silenced Glock, Brett Abbott, a resident of a nearby suburb.
An advertising executive, Lanie Stone, whose interest in the whole big tsunami wasn’t yet known, aside from the fact Abbott had tried to kill her.
Another customer, Carlos Sanchez, who was the stupidest, bravest and luckiest man on earth, having saved the life of the fourth individual involved:
The clerk at the Quik Mart, Jamal Davis, no record or warrants. He was the only one of the living participants still handcuffed, because he alone of those participants had pumped three, possibly four, rounds of.38 special ammo into a man.
Fromm crouched beside him.
“Hey.”
The boy nodded. He was miserable.
“I’m not arresting you. Not yet. Just tell me what happened. You don’t have to. But it’ll go a long way in your favor if you do.”
“I’ll talk. I don’t mind. Okay. That white guy.” A nod to the medical examiner’s tarp covering the body. “He come here every day, the last couple days. He bought some shit. But it wasn’t like he really wanted it. I can tell. Us clerks always know. He was going to rob us. Pretending to buy some shit but really checking out the cameras and watching who come in and when. I told Mr. Friedman, he’s the owner, and he said what’s he look like?”
“And you said a white guy in a suit. And he didn’t believe you.”
“Yeah, man. That’s word. But that dude, if he comes back and jacks the store or customers? It’d be my ass Mr. Friedman’d get down on. I can’t lose this job. I’m helping out my grandmother, she got laid off. And sending money to my mother. She in rehab. Meth, you know. My brother’s doing time. It’s on me, sir. Hard to get a job pays like this. I been there for three years. I’m the manager.” This was said proudly. “I wasn’t going to let nothing happen to my store. A brother hooked me up with the piece. The thirty-eight.”
“Hurt your hand to fire it, right?”
“Like a bitch,” Jamal said, then shook his hand. “Had to convince him I was a mean-ass fucker. I’ma perp somebody, jack some wheels. Otherwise he wouldn’ta sold me shit. But, hey, I’m not givin’ up his name. That ain’t going to happen. Sir.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“I’ma go to jail?”
There were two witnesses — Carlos Sanchez and Lanie Stone — who could testify that the shooting was in defense of others, and self-defense.
The problem was the gun.
Possession of an unregistered weapon was a felony.
“So where exactly on the street did you find the gun this morning?”
“Where—?”
“Because if you found it and just held on to it so no little kid’d pick it up and hurt himself or somebody with it, and you were going to call nine-one-one and report it but you didn’t have a chance, I don’t think you’d have anything to worry about.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think so. So where’d you find it?”
“Uhm.” Jamal was looking around. “The curb?”
“Good.” Fromm noticed a man walking in long, steady strides up the street. It was someone he recognized, Michael Fisk, the top organized-crime prosecutor in the city. The man was built like the football player that Fromm believed he had been at state university.
He nodded. “Officer.”
“Prosecutor Fisk.”
Lanie Stone spotted him and walked up fast and they hugged briefly. She’d been crying.
“How are you?” he asked.
“It was terrible...” she said.
Fisk’s face was dark with regret. “I don’t know how the hell he got on to you. We screwed up. Should’ve had a better protection detail on you.” He noted Fromm was looking on with, understandably, some confusion. He said, “Ms. Stone is the key witness in a homicide prosecution we’re running against Edward Weatherby.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Money launderer for the organization. Moves cash in and out, makes it look like loans. Mrs. Stone here saw him murder a prostitute, some dispute over the price, we assume. The forensics was fifty-fifty, but she was an eyewitness. We’ve been meeting for the past two weeks to put the case together.”
He explained that he’d had her cut her hair and change her appearance as much as she could. They’d never met in his office at the DA’s but at hotels and motels around town. They’d change the meeting place every few days.
Should’ve had a better protection detail on you...
Guess so, Fromm thought.
She said, “Michael even came up with a code, so my husband wouldn’t find out.”
“He doesn’t know?”
Fisk said, “We had to keep it as quiet as possible.” He nodded at the bloodstains where the hit man’s body had been. “You can see Weatherby was going to do whatever it took to find her.” He grimaced. “I should’ve thought about Abbott. He’s one of the best. He used to work for Carelli, the East Side. But the company went under a few months ago, after old man Carelli ended up under a truck that slipped the jack. Abbott was out of work. He talked his way into Weatherby and got the job. He was good. Never thought anybody’d find you.” A nod toward Lanie, then he glanced toward Jamal. “His story?”
Fromm explained about Abbott checking out the Quik Mart. About how the clerk was worried what the guy was up to, but the owner didn’t believe him.
Fisk said, “What part of the street did he find the thirty-eight in?”
Fromm said, “The curb, I’m pretty sure.”
“Damn weapons just falling from the sky. Well, my department won’t be going after him for it.”
“Good of you.”
“Not enough heroes in this world.”
Fromm said, “Amen.”
A car was pulling up. It had been moving fast, drawing the attention of all law enforcement present.
Fromm turned to the Acura.
Two uniformed officers from the local precinct did too. One officer, a rookie, lowered his hand to his holstered weapon.
Fromm’s eyes narrowed. But Lanie Stone said, “It’s okay. It’s my husband.” To Michael, she said, “I told him.”
“Now, doesn’t matter. We can put Abbott with Weatherby. Add a few other counts. Probably even hang felony murder on him for Abbott’s death.”
A round man with thinning hair climbed out of the sedan. His face, with flushed cheeks and fear in his eyes, took in everyone.
Lanie turned toward him and stepped forward fast. They hugged hard.
“Honey,” the man said, looking around. “I got your call. What’s going on?”
Lanie introduced Fromm and Michael to Henry Stone. She took his arm and they walked to a quiet corner of the sidewalk to have their talk.
Michael Fisk wandered to the ME bus to talk to the tour doc.
Fromm helped Jamal to his feet and undid the cuffs. The young man rubbed his wrists. “Okay if I clean up my store? Mess in there.”
“Have to leave it as is for now. Crime scene’s got to process it.”
“Yeah. Like CSI.”
“That’s right. We’ll need a full statement. And I was trying to remember. You found that thirty-eight... Was by the curb, wasn’t that what you told me?”
“Yessir. The curb.”
Fromm then turned to Carlos, who was rubbing his wrists from the temporary cuffing. He’d been frisked and Fromm now gave him back the bag. It contained thousands of dollars in cash, twenties mostly.
“You understand this never looks good?”
Carlos sighed. “It’s mine, Officer. I can show you the checks from my bank where I took it out.”