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The cruiser pulls up directly behind Juan Perez’s Suburban. So close, the cop’s front bumper is practically touching the Suburban’s rear bumper. The driver’s side door opens, and a plainclothes cop emerges from behind the wheel. It’s former street cop now Homicide Detective Danish. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but is there no more beautiful apparition in the world?
He plants a smile on his face. It’s the kind of smile my old man would have called a shit eating grin. The kind of grin you want to smack off someone’s face. But not a cop’s face, for obvious reasons. He’s wearing a blue blazer over tan trousers, black lace up Florsheims for footwear. His white button down fits his bulging, Golds Gym pecs snuggly and the knot on his red and black striped rep tie is tied so perfectly it looks like a clip-on. He’s freshly shaved and even his hair is parted neatly on the side and combed into place with some sort of hair gel. Clearly, the newly anointed Detective Danish is trying to make a lasting impression on the department.
His hands in his pockets, and his holstered service weapon exposed, he slowly steps towards us.
“Well, what have we here?” he says, his eyes going from Juan to me and back again. “Mr. Perez, you do realize this is an ongoing crime scene and you are presently risking the contamination of said crime scene.”
The cartel gang leader crosses his arms over his chest.
“And you are?” he asks, like he’s just playing dumb to be a prick. And he is.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Danish pulls out a dark leather pouch and reveals a shiny new gold badge.
“That’s who the fuck I am,” he says, returning the badge to his pocket.
“Well, I assume there is no law against my visiting the scene of my brother’s terrible and ghastly murders, Officer,” Juan says.
Danish raises his right arm, makes like a pistol with index finger and thumb. He aims it in the direction of the woods.
“That crime scene ribbon says otherwise,” he says. Then, shooting a glance at the three amigos who still have their hands wrapped around the grips of their weapons. “I assume your, ummm, colleagues are all registered and licensed to open-carry their pistolas.”
I almost have to laugh at the pistola comment. But I don’t so much as crack a grin.
“But of course,” Perez lies.
“How about their green cards?” Danish presses.
Juan smiles almost kindly.
“You do realize it’s not politically correct for a policeman to harass hardworking immigrants who are simply visiting the place where two loved ones were brutally murdered in cold blood, quite possibly by two white terrorists.”
Detective Danish rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know where this one is going. Defund the police and let the criminals go free. Up with Antifa, down with the Proud Boys. Welcome to New York State. I’m sure your little brothers were church going Boy Scouts who are presently seated beside the good Lord himself. But now that you’ve had your visit, I need to kindly ask you to leave. Soon the FBI will be sending a forensics team here to thoroughly go over the place and they might not appreciate running into a known drug runner while they’re at it.”
Juan’s face goes tight, losing its friendliness.
“Why, I’m surprised at you referring to myself and my coworkers in such derogatory terms. We are legitimate businessmen and import/export professionals. I personally give more than a million dollars per year to various local and federal charities including the New York State Food Bank. I resent your accusations, Detective...”
Danish reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to Juan Perez.
“Detective Danish,” Juan says, his eyes glued to the card.
The gang leader shoves the card in his jacket pocket.
“Listen, Mr. Perez,” Danish says, “I’m well aware you would like nothing more than to do some serious Van Damage to whoever killed your little brothers. In a big way, I can’t blame you one iota. But...and this is a bigger but then the caboose on my first wife...But this is a police matter now and it will be handled by the cops, both local and federal. Do I make myself clear?”
“But of course, Detective,” Perez says, that friendly, cartel public relations smile now planted back on his face. “My colleagues and I were just leaving anyway.”
The drug lord turns to me suddenly.
“Perhaps we will meet again, Mail Man,” he says.
The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I hope not, I want to say.
“I hope they find who killed your brothers,” I say.
Perez nods, turns, and heads for the Suburban, his three amigos following close behind. When he slips inside the front passenger side of the SUV and closes the door behind him, one of the amigos gets behind the wheel while the other two go for the back seat. As the last man gets in and slams the door closed, he rolls down the window and eyes Detective Danish. Raising his middle finger high, he barks, “Defund the fucking police!”
He’s laughing out loud when the Suburban starts with a roar, the tires spitting gravel as it pulls out onto the road.
For what seems a forever long beat, Detective Danish stands there staring at the tops of his shoes, his hands jammed in his pants pockets. I haven’t got a clue what’s going through his mind, but whatever it is, it can’t be all that pleasant. After a long time, he gazes at me, purses his lips and nods.
“I know you, Mr. Jones,” he says. “But what I don’t know, is what the hell you’re doing here.”
I give him the Cliff Notes version of my story. How I was delivering a package to the Little’s Lake caretaker when I ran into Juan Perez who insisted on grilling me about what I might have witnessed on the Saturday his family was killed. It’s a lie that’s sort of not a lie.
“You sure do show up at the most interesting times,” he goes on.
I try and look happy. But I’m not.
“That’s me,” I say. “The real bad penny.” Then, as if to change the subject. “Looks like you got your wish. You’re a detective now.”
“One day I hope to be Chief of Detectives,” he says. “But in the meantime, I need to solve a murder or two. Perhaps I will solve the murder of the Perez brothers.”
Pursing my lips and scrunching my brow. “Do you have any suspects yet? Rumor is, the killings were the work of a rival gang, like El Chapo’s cartel. What’s left of it anyway.”
The cop chews on that for a long second or two.
“That would be the obvious conclusion,” he says. “But I’m not so convinced this was the work of a rival cartel. It’s too...what’s the word for it?”
“Sloppy?” I suggest.
“Sloppy isn’t what I’m going for here,” he says. “More like amateur.”
“What’s that mean, Detective?”
“It means I think the whole thing began as a misunderstanding somehow. An accident. What I mean is, assassinations by rival cartels rarely involve running one man over and then shooting another man in the head and then shooting the run over man in the face. They either involve extreme torture for days on end, or on the other hand, a sniper positioned maybe two hundred yards away.” He turns and reflects on the scene of the crime. “But this here...this is quite a different story. It’s as if it wasn’t planned, but somehow just happened, you know, spontaneously.”
“So, what’s you’re theory?” I ask.
“Theory?” he repeats. “My oh my, Mr. Jones, you sure are showing a lot of interest in this case.”
“I watch a lot of crime shows on Netflix at night,” I say. “Plus, now that I’ve met Juan Perez in the flesh, I can’t help but be inquisitive.”
Grinning, he takes a step towards me.
“Okay, whatever you say,” he says. “But as for a theory? I think whoever did this was stopped on the side of the road. Maybe he or she...and personally I believe it was a she...was approached by the Perez brothers when they pulled in behind her. Maybe Hector got out of his car, went to her, his gun in his hand and pressed the barrel against her head. Maybe he threatened to rape her. Gang rape her along with his brother. He knows she’s scared to the point of paralyzed and that she doesn’t have courage to speed away. So, he steps around the back of the car to grab his brother’s attention. And that’s when she works up the courage to flee the scene. But here’s the thing. She’s so nervous, she doesn’t put the transmission in drive, she puts it in reverse, which is why I believe it was an overly anxious woman. She guns the gas and smashes into Hector, pinning him between the two cars and probably shattering the femurs in his short legs and perhaps amputating them. She hits him so hard his gun goes flying. Panicked, she puts the car in drive and hits the gas once more, but she accidentally shifts back in reverse and runs him over this time, further fucking him up. She gets out, sees the damage and can’t believe her eyes. When she sees that Hector’s brother is bleeding from his face and head, that is judging from the blood we found on the windshield interior, she knows he’s badly injured too. But she also sees he’s aiming his pistol at her, and that he’s about to shoot her. But he’s blinded from all the blood in his eyes, so when he takes a shot, he misses by a mile. What does she do? She bends down, picks up Hector’s pistol, aims for Julio’s bloody face and blows him back to hell. Immediately after that, she shoots Hector, pointblank.”
When he pauses for a breath, I feel like my entire body is levitating. It’s like I’m living a dream. That’s how surreal this whole thing is. Detective Danish just revealed a theory that couldn’t be more spot on correct. How he came up with it, right down to deducing the driver was a woman, is a mystery to me. But it’s also pure genius. If only myself or Joanne had thought enough to collect the shell casings, he wouldn’t have figured out that three shots were fired that morning.
“Or,” he says, tossing up his hands, “it’s the sloppy work of a rival gang. One thing we do know is that the brothers were carting a whole lot of drugs with them.”
I can’t help but picture all those drugs and money laid out on my dining room table, and how my son came really close to seeing it all.
“So, if that’s the case,” I say, “whoever did the killings is going to keep the cash and sell the drugs. Or what do they call it nowadays? Product.”
He nods. “You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing, Mr. Jones. For a mailman, you’re a regular amateur gumshoe.”
“It’s like I told you,” I say. “I watch a lot of cop shows. I read some crime novels from time to time too. I like that Michael Connolly guy a lot. He’s the best.”
“Never heard of him,” he says. “But then, I don’t have much time to read.”
That’s when something strange happens. His body goes sort of stiff. He squints, like he’s focusing in on my face. And he is. He pulls out his smartphone, lays it flat in the palm of his hand so I can plainly see what he’s up to. Using the tip of his index finger, he opens an app. It’s his photos app. He brings up the FBI Wanted poster. He stares at the poster, then back at me, and back to the poster again. He chuckles.
“You know, I’ll be damned, Mr. Jones,” he says. “But I knew I recognized the likeness in this picture. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”
My stomach cramps, and my heart is once again pumping hard in my chest.
“What likeness is that?” I ask.
“The FBI issued a wanted poster for the couple who are suspected of killing the Perez brothers just this morning. It’s based on the observations of a guy who was riding his motorcycle past the crime scene. Apparently, he slowed down to get a look at a man and woman who, in his opinion, might have been moving a body into the woods. I was personally involved in interviewing him at the APD. Guy claims to have a photographic memory. APD and FBI really lucked out.”
“You don’t say,” I say.
He closes the app and shoves the phone back in his pocket.
“Oh well,” he says. “Obviously the guy in the picture can’t be you. You don’t fit the bill for a gangland killer. I can only suppose your wife doesn’t either.”
I’m trying to smile, and trying to act nonchalant about the whole thing.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “My wife is blind as a bat. She hates the sight of blood. Plus, she’s honest to a fault. She would never take money that didn’t belong to her. If she even comes upon a dollar lying on the sidewalk...just one single dollar bill...she either gives it to a homeless man or makes sure she saves it for the church poor box. Also, she volunteers at the library.”
“We need more people like her in our community,” Danish says. Then, “Well, I’d better get back to serving and protecting. The FBI will be here any minute and I don’t want to be here when they arrive. They hate it when local cops are looking over their shoulders. Bunch of federal swamp snobs, you ask me.”
“Have a good one,” I say, relieved that he’s ending our little conversation.
He starts towards his still idling cruiser. For a time I watch him walking, his muscular body robotic in its gait. But as I begin making my way back to my mail truck, I hear him call out my name. A start in my heart, I stop in my tracks, and about-face.
“Yes, Detective?” I say. “What is it?”
He does this thing where he touches his forehead with the tips of his fingers, like Columbo used to do on TV back in the 70’s when an important thought popped into his head.
“I never mentioned anything about money.”
“Excuse me, Detective Danish?”
“You said your wife would never take any money that didn’t belong to her. Not even a dollar. That she would give it to a bum or deposit it in the poor box at church.”
As he stares not at me, but into me, that curious half grin, half smirk painting his face, I feel a slow electric burn start at the tip of my toes and run all the way up into my brain.
“I don’t understand,” I say. But I know exactly what he’s getting at, and I could kick myself in the nuts for being so talkative with the cop.
He says, “I never said anything about the Perez Brothers hauling any cash. I only mentioned drugs. But you immediately brought up money that didn’t belong to you, or your wife.”
“I did?” I say stupidly. “Oh yeah, I guess I did. It just sort of came out.”
“You go with that,” he says with a wink. “Maybe there’s something to it, or maybe it’s just one of those things, like a co-inki-dink. Capice, Mr. Jones?”
I swallow something that tastes like an overly bitter pill.
“Capice,” I say.
He opens his cruiser door, slips back behind the wheel, guns the gas, and pulls out onto the road. He offers me a friendly wave as he whizzes past me. I go to my mail truck, get in, and start up the engine. As I throw the gear into first and slowly pull a U-turn, I realize I’ve got to get ahead of this Most Wanted thing a lot quicker than I thought. Which means it’s time I called in an anonymous tip to the police.