Dominion (69 page)

As the organ played, the ushers dismissed the attendees row by row to walk past the closed pine box up front. As he walked by the remains of a ghetto star who’d called him his road dog, Ty whispered, “You can’t be dead, GC. You can’t be. You weren’t never gonna die. Why’d you do it? Why’d you have to play that stupid game?”

Ty felt mad at the world and mad at GC. Though it seemed blasphemy to think it, he wondered if the dude he’d been named after was the ultimate cool or the ultimate fool. He thought about Jason. He thought about how he’d spun the chamber himself, and he could have just as easily died like Jason did. He recalled the clicking sound of the firing pin. He was certain that if he ever did that again, he’d die. He felt frightened and empty.

When Ty went home, he retreated into his bedroom. He took a box out of his closet, filled with comic books. He reached down to the bottom, under all the comics, and found the nine-millimeter Taurus GC had given him. He held it in his hand, and for the first time that day, he wept.

“Clarence? Ollie. We’re in an unusual lull. Just wrapped up two cases. In light of what Mr. Kim saw— the red sweatshirts and all—Manny and I are going back to the hood to ask more questions. We’re expanding, canvassing a one-mile radius of your sister’s place. It’s a huge job, but we’ve got some time we weren’t counting on. We’ve been to homes, gas stations, liquor stores, you name it.”

“Found anything?”

“Zero. To be honest I’m not sure most of the people trust a white and a Hispanic enough to really talk to us. So I decided to split us up. Steve, one of the black detectives, agreed to join Manny for the day. I was wondering if you’d like to tag along with me. Unofficially, of course.”

“Okay. I can get out of here by two. That soon enough?”

“Perfect. How about I meet you at your house at two-thirty and we go from there? We’ll start with Taco Bell.”

“I’m Detective Ollie Chandler, homicide. This is Clarence Abernathy. He’s from the neighborhood.”

“Herb Adrianne.” The short wiry manager extended his hand. “Welcome to the world of Taco Bell.”

“I’m investigating the death of Dani Rawls.”

“Lady over on Jackson?” Herb asked. “Used to come here with her kids. Always wore bright colors. Seemed nice. That happened awhile back. What? August?”

“September 2. To be honest, Herb, the investigation needs a kick-start. I’m grasping at straws, wondering if anybody remembers anything about the night of September 2.”

“That’s been awhile. Let’s see. We were robbed August 14 and September 10. Those dates stick with me. You fill out all those forms—hard to forget.”

“I hear you,” Ollie said. “Guess I was hoping maybe you saw somebody suspicious.”

“I know the people from this hood,” Herb said, “from most the hoods ’round here. They know I know ’em. They’re welcome in my place, but I don’t put up with any nonsense. I tell ’em this ain’t Burger King—can’t have it your way. No gang signs here. You flash and you’re out. Some kids don’t like that, but most do. It’s a lot safer. Now when dudes come in from the outside, I know it’s big trouble. Turf thing.”

“Do you get many new faces?”

“Nope. New faces come in with old faces, not by themselves. Always watch the new faces close. Chances are they’re gonna start somethin’ or somebody’s gonna start on them. I even watch the cars—write ’em up if I see trouble comin’.”

“Write ’em up?”

“Yeah, scribble down their license number. Comes in handy when somebody takes a shot or steals somethin’ and hops in their car. With all the confusion, sometimes it’s too late to get the plates.”

“Where do you write down the license numbers?” Ollie asked.

“Keep a ledger book under the register.”

“Do you write down the dates?”

“Yeah, I think so. Usually.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Sure.” Herb took him back behind the register, then handed him the green-covered ledger tablet and flipped to the back. “It’s all yours. Let me get on top of my crew here and I’ll be back, okay?”

Ollie and Clarence scanned the various dates, seeing license plate numbers and notations, such as “tall,” “muscular,” “fat,” “weight lifter,” “White,” “Mexican,” “Kerby Crip,” “Rollin’60.” Obviously Herb wanted to be able to describe them to the police if they ended up perps or suspects.

The records went back over a year, nearly a dozen of them each month, covering several pages. The date wasn’t always clear, but could be roughly figured out by the dates it fell between. With Clarence peenng down over his shoulder, Ollie scanned up to the present and slowed down as he saw an extensive notation for August 14 and again on September 10, the dates of the robberies. He looked at the ten entries in between, not expecting to see September 2.

“There it is.” Clarence beat Ollie to it. “September 2—Two black males. 6′2” skinny, 5’7” stocky. Both blue jeans, black leather jackets, black caps, Jordans. Stocky guy: tough looking, shark eyes.”

“It’s followed by some words I can’t read, then a license number,” Ollie said, jotting it down: Oregon, CWR 403. “Back in a minute, Herb,” he called. Clarence followed Ollie outside while Herb waved and returned to instructing a teenage employee on how to mop up spilled coffee.

Ollie unlocked the car and reached under his seat. He took out what looked like a gigantic cell phone with a full keyboard and screen.

“What’s that?” Clarence asked.

“MDT. Mobile Data Terminal. Ties me into LEDS—Law Enforcement Data System. All the mobile units are hooked up to the mainframe in Salem. This’ll take a few minutes. Make yourself at home. If you want a snack, you can probably find some pretty good stuff in the seat cracks. This is my stakeout car. Ever seen an evidence collection kit? Got a couple under your seat. Usually keep ’em in the trunk, but it’s been leaking. Check ’em out.”

Ollie typed in OR, CWR 403, and some other information. Clarence looked in the first kit. He examined the scissors, wire cutters, tweezers, pliers, knives, syringes, and a vast array of other tools, pens, paper, plastic evidence bags, a flashlight, and measuring tape. Two cameras and lenses filled another kit—one a 35 mm Nikon, the other a Polaroid for the quickies. Next was a compact video camera case. Another kit contained plaster casting, silicone rubber putty, dust and dirt hardener, oil coater, and other materials to make casts and molds. The final kit was marked, “Document evidence collection.” It had transparent protective covers and paper envelopes, tweezers, and a magnifying glass. Looking over all this, for the first time in his life Clarence thought it might be kind of fun to be a cop, at least a detective.

Clarence looked at Ollie’s MDT. “I’ve never seen one of these. The ones in cop cars are bigger, aren’t they?”

“Detectives carry the smaller units,” Ollie said. “You don’t want the full-size computer terminals. Not conducive to undercover work. The MDT gets you everything you need. While it’s processing, let’s get back to Herb.”

As they walked inside, Herb moved toward them, straightening a few salt and pepper shakers along the way. He pointed back at the young boy mopping the floor. “He’s gonna be a good employee. Nobody taught him how to clean. Well, he’s gonna learn here. You know, for kids today, it’s all about ‘cool’ and ‘party.’ With ‘cool’ you look good rather than be good. It’s all image, no character. ‘Party’ is do what you want, when you want. Sounds great to them, but all it creates is chaos. These kids don’t know how to blush anymore. They don’t know the rules. They don’t have any guardrails to keep them from going off the cliff. We’ve got to rebuild the guardrails. Well, this is just Taco Bell, gentlemen, but it’s
my
turf and in here we’ve got guardrails. In here my kids learn how to work and show respect.”

Clarence noted the look of pride and accomplishment in Herb’s eyes.

“Found an entry the day of the murder,” Ollie said.

“Question, Herb,” Clarence said. “You give exact figures for how tall the dudes are. How can you be so sure?”

“Take a good look at the door,” Herb said, smiling broadly. Clarence looked at the door and saw the colorful lettering and red-marked design. Suddenly he realized what the red marks really were.

“A height chart,” Clarence said, noticing a 6 and a 5 and one-inch increments above and below each, with wider marks at quarters and halves, like on rulers.

“Yeah. Got the idea from the 7-Eleven. The crook walks out the door, you just watch him, and you’ve got his height. All we need is a scale on the floor, and we’d have their weight too.”

“How about a trap door?” Ollie asked. “You could push a button and drop out the bottom as they head out.”

“Now you’re talkin’.” Herb laughed.

“There’s no time indicated in your book,” Ollie said. “You wouldn’t know when these guys were here?”

“Well, maybe I can narrow it down,” Herb said. “Got a calendar?” Ollie opened his schedule book and found one. “Okay, September 2, that was a Saturday? I only work a half day Saturdays, seven to midnight. Had to be after seven and before midnight. That help?”

“Yeah. Okay, do you remember these guys? One tall, the other short and muscular, Levis, Air Jordans? Black jackets?”

Herb looked down at his own description. “Fits a lot of dudes. Hold on. ‘Shark eyes’? Yeah, it’s comin’ back. They looked mean, especially the shorter one. Like they’d been around the block a couple thousand times. Yeah. Thought trouble was comin’ for sure.”

“What are these words here I can’t read?” Clarence pointed, and Herb looked closer.

“Silver Lexus,” Herb said. “Sure. It’s all comin’ back. A ’95 or ’96, I think, all tricked out, those fancy wide tires with those gold zenith wire wheels, the ones that cost a couple of months’ rent.”

“People have been killed over wheels like that,” Ollie said. “A couple dozen at least in California last year. What else?”

“Slammed down. Lower than a snake’s belly. Cragared down to the max.”

“Hydraulics?”

“Maybe.”

“Neon lights?”

“Not sure. Don’t think so. Big money though. Figured these brothas didn’t win the lottery. Had to be drugs, and drugs always mean trouble. Fancy black jackets. Gold chains, the whole deal. They just sat there pickin’ at their food, seems like an hour. Thought maybe they were waitin’ for a drug deal.”

“Any gang indicators?”

“Nothing. That was strange too. No visible tattoos—of course they had these black jackets, kept them on even though we keep it plenty warm in here. Plain black baseball caps. The type you buy and put an insignia on, except they hadn’t yet. No hand signs, no rags, no colors.”

“You talk to either of them?” Ollie asked.

“I came over and asked if there was anything else I could get ’em. Nice way of saying, ‘I’m watchin’ you.’ Gave me that cocky look, like, ‘We own the place.’ Decided to give ’em a few more minutes before I kicked their rears out. Next thing I know, they ghosted. Saw ’em leavin’ in time to check their height. Still didn’t trust ’em.”

“That all?”

“No. Somethin’ else. See, mostly girls work that shift. I usually send the guys out back to the dumpster, but when it’s girls, I take out the trash myself. I remember I did that night because there was that silver Lexus parked by the dumpster, big as you please. Same two dudes, like an hour later. They’d just driven to the back. They were on my turf two hours. Like they were waitin’ or casin’ the place. Kind of spooked me.”