“Marcus, I’m on my way down.”
“Fine. But I called for Denice. She in?”
“Right here.”
“Put her on.”
Clay tapped a pencil on the counter. “Denice? I’m fine. Listen, I got a question for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“The other night, when that cop Tutt was in the street talkin’ to you and Rogers and Monroe, did you happen to see Tutt’s partner, Kevin Murphy?”
“Yes,” said Denice. “He was in the market for most of it, but he came out after. Kind of calmed everyone down. He was real nice—”
“Why you didn’t tell me this before, Neecie?”
“You didn’t ask. Why you gettin’ so upset, Marcus?”
“Never mind that. Thanks. That’s all, I guess... all I need to know.”
Clay cradled the receiver. He looked at Karras.
“Call Donna,” said Clay.
“She’s probably not back from work.”
“Then leave a message on her machine. Tell her not to let anyone into that apartment of hers, no matter who it is.”
“Anyone?” said Karras, who saw something shadow Clay’s face.
“That’s right. Not even cops.”
“So this is about Tutt,” said Karras.
“Not just Tutt.” Clay looked down at the floor and shook his head. “Murphy.”
Twenty-Seven
Kevin Murphy stood on the open-air third-floor stairwell of Donna Morgan’s apartment building, looking at the north-south traffic on Georgia Avenue, stroking his mustache. He checked his watch: She’d be here any minute now if she was coming straight from work. When he raised his head, he saw an early model rust-pocked red RX-7 roll across the parking lot and swing into a space in front of Donna’s unit.
Murphy leaned back against the bricks. He watched Donna lock her car and move up onto the sidewalk, stepping light, nice pins coming out of a short black skirt, black stockings matching the black of her rock-star hair. Not a bad-looking woman. Sure, the odometer had turned on her long ago — no one except a blind man would ever call her a girl again — but she was fine in a scarred-leather, tough-running-to-hard kind of way. He was going to have to come up on her real sudden now, and maybe, if he was lucky, this tough girl might not freak.
Murphy started down the stairs of the unit like he belonged there, chin up, giving her a friendly smile, neither flirty nor threatening, getting close enough to smell her now as she stepped up onto her landing. She had her keys in her fist, holding one of them point out, returning his smile cordially as she made her way around him to her apartment door, number 21.
Murphy glanced out to the lot and caught hold of Donna’s arm as she passed. He pressed a finger into the pressure spot behind her elbow joint, not enough to give her great pain but enough to let her know he could. He placed his other hand across her mouth.
She bucked beneath him as he pushed her toward her door.
“Don’t panic, Donna,” he said softly, his lips close to her ear. “Let’s just get inside.”
She nodded. He pulled his finger away from the nerves bundled at her elbow and saw the muscles of her face relax. He kept his palm sealed over her mouth, watching her key hand, making sure she didn’t try to take out one of his eyes.
She fumbled with the keys.
“Quick,” said Murphy. “I’m not playin’.”
A moment later they were in the apartment, and Murphy closed the door behind him. Donna flattened herself against the foyer wall.
Murphy reached into his jacket.
“No,” said Donna.
Murphy produced his badge and held it in front of her face. “I’m a police officer. Here to help you, Donna. You and Eddie.”
Donna blinked rapidly. “Where’s Eddie?”
“Never mind that. Where’s the money?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t let’s waste too much time on this, Donna. I need to see the money, right now.”
Donna was frozen to the wall. She wanted to move. She didn’t want to show fear. But she couldn’t move.
“Donna!” yelled Murphy, her name echoing in the apartment.
His voice moved her off the wall. Murphy followed her through the living room. Donna saw the red light blinking on her answering machine as she passed. She stopped at her open bedroom door, felt a quiver in her knees.
Don’t go in there with him. Don’t. Anybody can buy a phony badge—
Murphy put the flat of his hand to her shoulders, gently moved her through the doorway. In the bedroom, Donna turned to face him.
“The money,” he said.
Donna found the pillowcase in her closet and handed it to Murphy. He placed it on Donna’s bed and reached inside. He pulled out a stack of bills held together by a rubber band, counted it, pulled another stack, counted that one. He studied Donna, tears breaking from her eyes and rolling down her face.
“What, you think I’m stealin’ your dreams?”
Donna shook her head. “It’s not that. I’m thinking of Eddie.”
“Good. Who you should be thinkin’ of. Now, he’s alive. But the ones who took him, they really put it to him. And you know what? He never did give up your name. Led those boys right off your trail.” Murphy thought of Wanda, lying flat on their bed. “You find someone who loves you that much, keeps lovin’ you in the face of all that pain, you oughtta hold onto him, understand?”
“Eddie did that?” said Donna.
“Yeah,” said Murphy, dropping the two stacks of banded bills to the bed.
“I... I want him back.”
“Gonna bring him back, Donna.” Murphy pointed his chin toward the money. “There’s five thousand there. You and Eddie need to take it and leave town. Everything’s about to blow up, hear? And the ones he took off, they won’t forget.”
“You taking the rest of it?” said Donna, ashamed she had asked the question as soon as the words had tumbled sloppily from her mouth. Ashamed at first, and then afraid.
Murphy stood straight, strengthening his grip on the pillowcase, his mouth set tight. He stepped forward, stopping a foot shy of Donna.
Donna’s shoulders began to shake. Her eyes were swollen with fear and drunk with confusion. Murphy raised his hand to wipe the tears from her face. Donna recoiled, stumbling back to the bedroom wall.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she said.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” said Murphy, tilting his head in a funny way. “I’m a cop.”
Clay, Karras, and Tate stood at the window, watched a canary yellow Lincoln with suicide doors come to a stop across U Street. Al Adamson, shaved bald, with a closely trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses, got out of the car and crossed the street. Karras noticed the cut of Adamson’s biceps beneath his black sport jacket.
“Al’s lookin’ serious,” said Karras.
“Yes,” said Clay.
“See he still works on those Continentals.”
“His specialty.”
“That,” said Karras, “and fuckin’ people up.”
“Feels like we got an edge, now, doesn’t it?” said Clay. “Just knowin’ he’s on our side.”
Tate let Adamson in the front door. Adamson shook Tate’s hand, then gave Clay a handshake that the two of them had invented back in their unit.
“Good seein’ you, man.”
“Good to see you.”
Adamson nodded at Karras, a light in his eyes. “Long time, Karras. Where your Hawaiian shirt at?”
“Has been a long time,” said Karras.
“Ya’ll heard the radio?” said Adamson.
“What?” said Tate.