A Witness Above (25 page)

“Stay tight to the lawyer. Anything happens, I want her protected.” He was staring at the concrete floor of Jersey's mews, patiently hosing off the waste, taking care that every little speck was rinsed away so as to avoid any potential source of disease.

“I hear you.”

“And don't try to be a hero.”

“Yes, boss.”

He didn't laugh. Jake can be such a cutup sometimes.

I pulled the truck into an end parking space and cut the engine and lights. Almost as if on cue, another set of headlights appeared and the Commonwealth's attorney's Saab purred in quietly beside me, with Priscilla at the wheel. Warren Turner sat in the passenger seat. We all stepped out.

“I'll be doing the driving,” Warren said. He was draped in a Burberry trench coat, looking like some kind of spy.

“Whatever you say,” I said.

“No weapons, right?” He made a show of patting me down, the way he'd probably seen them do on TV. Priscilla wore a chartreuse waterproof parka trimmed with some kind of imitation fur. If the ‘bangers ever got a look at her we would all be in trouble.

In the car they let me sit in front to stretch my legs while Priscilla climbed in back. Warren reached down to the floor in front of him and came up with a pair of sleeping masks, complete with elastic bands attached.

“Here, you two. Put these on.”

“You've got to be kidding,” Priscilla said.

“Jeez, Warren. Didn't know you were into kinky,” I said.

“It's either wear them or we aren't going.”

“I really am kind of partial to my sight.”

“Gang has rules. If I don't follow them, I lose their trust.”

You're about to lose more than that, I thought. I looked in the mirror at Priscilla. She said nothing more and was already beginning to slip on her own mask. I didn't like it, but we were just going to have to trust the unseen cops to stay with us. I put on the mask.

Warren threw the car into reverse, jerked us to a stop and into first gear. He accelerated across the lot and took a turn onto Main Street, then, quickly, another turn to the right, and another, then a wide sweeping turn to the left. Pretty soon I had no idea in which direction we were headed.

Priscilla finally spoke. “Could you take it a little slower please, Warren. You're going to make me sick to my stomach back here.” It was a good ploy, if that's what it was, to make it easier to track us. Warren slowed down.

“How long you been in touch with these characters?” I asked him.

“Four, five years,” he said.

“When you began talking with them, Dewayne was still part of the group?”

“That's right.”

“What's the leader's name?”

“Don't know his real name. Kids all call him Smoke.”

“Cute. You know his story?”

“He's been in jail, I know that. More than once. Red Onion the last time, I think.”

I let out a respectful whistle. “Maybe I
should
have brought a gun.”

We drove on in silence after that. Warren worked the gears as the car twisted through curves and up and down hills. We were still on wet pavement—you could hear the tires slicing through the sheets of water, the occasional popping noises when the rain mixed with sleet against the windshield. But judging from the lack of noise, no other vehicles passed us going in the opposite direction. In a funny way it reminded me of long car trips when I was young, my eyes closed, half-sleeping in the back, trying to balance the counterweight of acceleration and deceleration, swings to the left and right, the beat of the wipers metronoming against the rain. I drifted into sleep.

Vibration and the sound of stones bouncing against the undercarriage jolted me awake. We were turning onto a side road.

“You snore, man,” Warren said.

“Comes with age. We there yet?”

“Almost. Another minute or so.” A few more accelerations, a few more sharp turns of the wheel and the vehicle began to slow.

“Warren?” Priscilla said suddenly from the back. Her voice sounded anything but sleepy.

“Yeah, babe?”

“We need to talk.”

“Yeah sure, in a minute.”

“No really,” she said. “Right now. Please stop the car.”

“Well I can't just—”

“Please, Warren. Stop the car. Now.”

“Okay.” The Saab lurched to a halt. “But I don't want to keep these guys waiting.”

The wipers kept up their pace and a few big raindrops pelted the roof.

“This has got to be the end of the road,” Priscilla said.

“What?”

“I'm taking my mask off.” I heard her remove her mask and mine came off too. We were headed uphill in a steady rain on a narrow dirt track through thick woods. It was completely dark, except for our headlights. About fifty yards ahead I could make out the shadowy silhouette of a two-story house.

“What are you talking about, woman?” Warren said. “You want to get us all killed?”

“I'm sorry, Warren. I couldn't tell you any sooner. The police know about the meeting. I gave them permission to follow us.”

“You what?” The look on the reporter's face was a mixture of uncertainty, rage, and horror.

But something was wrong. Instead of Ferrier and a group of deputies approaching the car, five or six young black men, dressed similarly, with dark sweatpants and hooded rain jackets, brandishing weapons, their mouths steaming, surrounded the car.

They jerked open all four doors.

“Out, motherfuckers!”

I was pulled to my feet. The cold hit like a fist.

“Keep your hands up.”

They spun me away from the others and patted me down.

“Hey, fellas, I'm sorry I didn't come all the way up to the house like you told me,” Warren said.

“Shut up.” The one doing the talking had a high-pitched voice and was behind and to my right, where Priscilla must have been standing. “What, man, you think we're stupid? Move.” I was shoved uphill toward the house by the barrel of a gun. I kept my eyes straight ahead. From the sounds, it was apparent the rest of the group was moving along behind.

“You fucked this thing up royal, Mr. Reporter. We don't want to be bumping titties with no state cops.”

“It wasn't me,” Warren pleaded. “I didn't know anything. I swear.”

“Just shut the fuck up.”

We were outside the building now, a grayish-white farmhouse with broken shutters and very little paint that wasn't peeling. We clambered across the porch and through the front door. Inside the air didn't feel much warmer, but at least it was dry. My hair and jacket were almost drenched.

“It's okay,” Priscilla said over my shoulder. “We'll be all right.”

“Quiet,” the high-pitched voice said.

They walked us through an open cellar door down steep steps onto a concrete floor. The basement was alight with halogen lamps, some of which were pointed at our faces. Unfinished, from what I could see, but there was a refrigerator, a couch, a television, and an expensive-looking stereo. In the background I heard the sound of a dehumidifier whirring. Behind the lights six or seven more young men sat or stood in various positions of repose around the room. Most of them wore heavy coats, expensive hiking or basketball shoes. Almost all carried handguns. Priscilla and Warren stood to my right at the bottom of the stairs.

“Okay,” a new voice said. Much deeper. It belonged to a bald, muscular mulatto with freckles like pepper dotting his face. He sat on one end of the couch, his thick leg draped over the side, not moving. Instead of sweatpants he was dressed neatly in jeans and a thick leather jacket, a bright red durag wrapped around his head. CEO garb. A nine-millimeter Browning was stuffed carelessly in his coat pocket.

He went on: “Miss Fresh Priscilla Lawyer here and Mr. Newspaper Man done dropped a shit on us.”

“Smoke,” Warren said. “I'm telling you. I didn't know anything about—”

The leader stood so we could better appreciate the size of him. Warren started to say something else, but kept quiet. The big man was staring at Priscilla.

“Miss Priscilla Thomasen,” he said. “Miss Commonwealth's attorney herself. And one fine-looking freak.” There were snickers from around the room.

The mulatto turned his gaze toward me. “But you brought the Pollock too, Warren. Nice work.”

“Smoke, you know who this dude is?” one of the others said from behind me.

“Shut the fuck up, Banjo,” the leader said. “I knows who the man is.”

He came closer, examining me, his eyes the color of steel. My hands remained at my sides.

“You told Warren you had information about Dewayne Turner's murder and Nicole Pavlicek's arrest,” Priscilla said.

He spun back toward her. “Oh, yes, ma'am,” he said loudly. “We got us some information. But all of a sudden now don't seem like the time we oughta be sharin’ it. What with no sheriff's deputies and state patrollers stuck a couple miles down the mountain …”

He saw the looks on our faces.

“That's right. Your little escorts, seems like they got themselves a little lost. …”

More snickers. Then silence. They all seemed to be examining us like specimens, like creatures of the night that had inadvertently strayed into their headlights.
Should we kill these ones or just let them go?

“What do you want?” I said.

He tilted his head in my direction again. “What do we want? The man wants to know what we want.” He squinted. “Who the fuck you talkin’ to, cracker?”

There was a noise and a minor commotion on the stairs. Everyone looked in that direction. A pair of large combat boots clomped casually down the steps, the gang members who were perched there respectfully making way for their owner. I knew almost instantly whose they were. Jake, wearing an Orioles baseball cap, came into view, smiling.

The leader's demeanor suddenly changed. “Mr. Toeron-to,” he said. “What it be?”

The master falconer walked casually up to the young man and they lightly slapped palms. His .45 was holstered neatly beneath his open jacket. No one tried to take it from him. Priscilla and Warren stared, wide-eyed.

Jake turned to us. “Understand you folks got a little problem here.”

“You know these people?” Priscilla said.

“Been around enough to know them.”

“But you aren't, uh, associated with them, are you?”

He smiled. “No. Let's just say we've developed a healthy respect for one another.”

“Let me get the headline, here, Mr. Toronto,” Smoke said. “You cool with these people?”

Jake nodded. The dehumidifier clicked off. You could hear a pin drop in the room, but the tension suddenly vanished.

“Thas all right then,” the leader said. “We chilled out. Ain't got no reason to dis you, Toronto.” He and Jake bumped fists this time.

“Seems to me,” Jake said, looking around the room, “all anyone really needs here is an exchange of info. The whiskers down the road are going to be tied up awhile. Looks like a couple trees happened to fall across the road in their path.”

The gangsters all chuckled. Smoke ambled back to his couch and sat down.

“How about it?” Priscilla said. “You fellas know anything about Dewayne Turner's murder?”

“I know it ain't been one of us who wasted him,” Smoke said, looking at his fingernails. Bored.

“He quit your gang, didn't he?”

Smoke shrugged. “Dewayne, he got Jesus. But he wasn't about to do nothin’ to us.”

“He used to deal for you, didn't he?” I asked.

He looked at me and nodded almost imperceptibly. “We made some bank.”

“You know his swing man?”

“Don't know ‘im.”

“The name Morelli mean anything to you?”

He shook his head.

“Don't you use the same connections as Dewayne?”

“Un-uh. That way Dewayne could be cool just zonin’ out.”

“Someone might not like losing the business,” I said.

He shrugged. “You look for ‘em, they be plenty of dudes around.”

“What about my daughter, Nicole Pavlicek? She was arrested carrying a load of flake.”

“Don't know nothin’ about that,” the leader said.

“You mean someone could drop that much coke into your neighborhood and you fellas wouldn't care?”

“Didn't say we didn't care, Irish,” he said. “All I say was we don't know nothin’ about it… you so interested in Dewayne and how he was connected why don't you go and talk wid the sheriff. He the one been talkin’ to Dewayne's man.”

“How do you know that?”

“
‘Cause he busted one of my chicos this mornin’, boy who run lookout sometimes. They didn't have nothin’ on him so they couldn't hold him. But he say the sheriff braggin’ he already know who kilt Dewayne. Somethin’ to do wid the swing man.”

I glanced at Priscilla who gave me a look that said she knew nothing about it.

“Whoever was supplying Dewayne either killed him or knows who did it?” I said.

“You stupid? Ain't that what I just say?”

From outside, still some distance away, a police siren's faint
whoop-whoop
filtered down to the basement.

“Uh-oh. Reinforcements,” Jake said. “Time we disappeared.” Smoke was already moving. Around the room the gang scrambled into motion, unplugging equipment, picking up anything of value. Most were already pounding up the stairs.

“One thing, Mr. Toe-ron-to?” Smoke said.

“Yeah?”

“You find out who did Dewayne, I'll nine ‘em for you myself, you want. No charge.”

Jake raised his eyebrows at me. “Thanks, Smoke. We'll keep that in mind.”

The leader shot us a freckled smile before snatching a stereo speaker and turning to follow his troops up the stairs.

“Are you people insane?” Ferrier said, standing in the middle of the cellar.

He and about twenty cops had surrounded and secured the farmhouse while Jake, Priscilla, Warren, and I remained in the room. It took some convincing for them to realize they had lost their intended targets.

“Who's this character?” He pointed at Toronto, who was now seated with one combat boot draped over an arm on the couch where Smoke had so recently reclined.

“Agent Ferrier,” I said. “Meet Jake Toronto, former NYPD detective and my former partner.”

“Jesus H. Christ.” He swiped his fingers through his remaining hair. “Just what we need.”