The night heat had transformed these marginal blocks just off Capitol Heights into a scene from a more lawless era. Bar patrons gathered on the sidewalks, their sheer numbers forcing them into close quarters. Voices overheard in passing carried the tense pitch of latent violence, the people’s faces set in angry concentration, lit blue, yellow, red, by storefront neon. And on every block, whores, looking weary and spent, going through the motions of enticement.
Westermann and Grip were in short sleeves and straw fedoras, badges visible, clipped to their belts. It was the kind of night where you didn’t want to have to take the time to find your badge.
Morphy was home tonight with his wife.
Westermann scanned the crowds, looking for Joey Stanic. He carried a photo of Stanic in his pocket, a small guy with delicate features, almost like a girl but with a trim mustache. Difficult to picture a guy like that as a hard case, but a couple of uniforms at the station told Westermann not to take Stanic lightly; that a healthy caution was wise.
Grip walked with his arms slightly out—gunfighter style. “That body they found?”
“Yeah?”
“Souza filled me in a little. No ID. Same sores as our girl; same underweight.”
“That’s right.”
“Souza also told me where they found her.”
“He did?” Westermann bumped a heavy guy, spilling the guy’s beer on the sleeveless T-shirt stretched over his gut. The guy turned on Westermann, eyes lit with booze and rage. Westermann showed him the badge. The guy didn’t back down, kept eye contact, but didn’t press it.
Grip picked up as if nothing had happened. “Yeah. And it sounds like they found her about where I think the body must have been before she was tossed in the river.”
“If she was tossed.”
“Right. But, Lieut, I think we need to focus on the shanties. That’s two with at least one of them on their doorstep. Probably both.”
Westermann nodded thoughtfully. They continued on, concentrating on the crowd.
“What do you think?” Grip said, nodding to a couple of drunks getting surly, grabbing each others’ shirt, fists balling.
“You been drinking?” Westermann asked, catching a whiff of scotch on Grip’s breath.
“Just a nip before we headed out. We’re working late, Lieut.”
Westermann shook his head, leaving it at that. This was how he preferred to handle things, letting the men know if they crossed some line, but not dwelling on it. Move on; give them the opportunity to make adjustments themselves.
“The fight?” Grip asked.
“We start making busts, we’ll be here all night. Let’s find Stanic.”
They walked another block, people clearing out of their way, making them as cops, or at least people you didn’t mess with.
Westermann’s adrenaline was jacked; his chest tight. He talked, trying to chase off the feeling. “You know a Detective Wayne?”
“Yeah. Ed Wayne,” Grip said, still walking and peering into the crowd.
“He a friend of yours?”
“Nah, we drink at the same bar, have the same politics. He’s an asshole.”
“What about as a cop? He a good cop?”
Grip thought for a moment. “I don’t know. He’s smart enough, I guess. I don’t know …”
“Don’t know what?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got no idea how he does police work, but I know him a little and I wouldn’t be surprised if he pushes the limits sometimes.”
“Think he’s bent?”
Grip stopped. “Where are you going with this, Lieut?”
Westermann shrugged. “His name came up.”
Grip shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, he’s an asshole.”
Westermann was satisfied with this and they moved on to the next block, crowd noise vying with a guitar keening from the open door of the Checkerboard. Westermann saw two Community Negroes standing on a corner, handing out pamphlets. Passersby mostly ignored the proffered sheets, but some took them, mostly Negroes. Westermann wondered how many Community people might be out tonight.
“Shit.” Grip was focused on a spot in the distance like a hunting dog.
Westermann peered into the crowd where Grip was looking, but didn’t see anyone resembling Stanic. “You see him?”
“Yeah, pretty sure.” Grip was already moving faster, clear of the crowd and doing a half trot in the street.
Westermann followed, adrenaline kicking in. He saw Stanic—small and slender-hipped—as Grip got to him. Stanic was wearing some kind of cowboy getup—boots, yoked shirt, flat-brimmed hat. There was the boyish face and the tight mustache from the photo, and now, in person, Westermann could see two parallel vertical scars in one eyebrow. He was almost pretty.
Grip sidled up to him. “You Joey Stanic?”
“You a cop?”
“What gave it away?”
“I ain’t causing no trouble.”
“Save it. I’m not interested.”
Westermann hung a couple steps back, letting Grip work. He eyed graffiti on the wall above Stanic. BETTER DEAD THAN RED.
“What the fuck d’you want?”
“We fished a girl out of the river the other day, thought maybe you’d know her.”
“How’s that?”
“Hunch. This girl was pretty, dark hair, but real skinny. And she was sick, sores, the whole thing.”
Westermann saw Stanic giving Grip a blank face while he worked out the situation, trying to figure Grip’s angle.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to say any more until I see a lawyer.”
Grip looked back a Westermann, putting his all into a can-you-believe-this-asshole look. He turned back to Stanic. “You think you’re under arrest here? You’re not under arrest, I’m just asking you a question.”
“If you’re not arresting me, you can take a walk.” Stanic squinted at Westermann and his voice changed from brash to genuinely curious. “I know you from somewhere?”
Westermann reddened, caught off guard.
Grip got up into Stanic’s face and spoke quietly. “Keep with the program, pal. I just asked you a question. I’m waiting on an answer.” Grip pulled away.
Stanic made eye contact with Westermann. “I thought he was going to kiss me there.”
From behind, Westermann could see Grip’s shoulders tense. He stepped in, putting a hand on Grip’s shoulder. To Stanic, Westermann said, “Let’s take a walk.”
Stanic laughed, his chin raised to Westermann in a provocation.
Westermann smiled. “You going to make me work for this?”
Stanic smiled back at Westermann. “ ‘You going to make me work for this?’ ” Stanic mocked. “I’m paid up. You want to talk to me, work it out with Riordon and Mossberg, they work this block. Now take a walk, you’ve wasted enough of my time.”
Westermann turned away, trying to keep his cool. The mob scene on the street gave them some camouflage, nobody much paying attention to the three men facing off. But on the periphery, maybe twenty feet away, he saw two men watching. Something about them …
Facing Stanic again, Westermann said, “Okay, I’ve changed my mind, punk. We’re arresting you.”
Stanic squinted at him. “For what?”
“Suspicion of murder.”
“You’re crazy,” Stanic said, smile still in place, but the confidence ebbing from his posture.
“Turn around.”
Grip came forward, cuffs out. He pushed Stanic hard into the wall, kicked his feet apart, and kneed him in the groin from behind. Stanic’s body sagged a little, but he didn’t make any noise and even turned his head, forcing his grimace into a half smile. A flash exploded and all three men turned to the source. Westermann took a better look at the two men and now recognized Art Deyna and his cameraman. The cameraman got off another shot as they stood there. Grip looked to Westermann.
Westermann said, “I’ll handle it.”
While Grip cuffed and frisked Stanic, Westermann strode over to Deyna.
Deyna smiled. “Lieutenant, good to see you again.”
“What are you doing here?”
Deyna raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself. “Me? The question here is why you’re pulling a pimp roust. This isn’t your usual beat.”
Westermann shook his head.
Deyna said, “I don’t want to keep you from anything, Lieutenant. We’ve got our story and our photos. But I would like the chance to meet. Soon.”
Westermann stared at Deyna for a moment, then walked away.
Deyna called after him, “This story isn’t going away, Lieutenant. You want to give me your side, you call me.”
Westermann ignored him, but thought, What story?
Grip had Stanic by the back of the collar, pushing him into the wall. Grip gave Westermann a questioning look. Westermann frowned and shook his head. With a rough yank, Grip pulled Stanic from the wall to face Westermann.
Stanic, still queasy from the knee to the groin, said, “It’s like I’ve been telling him, I’m paid up. Talk to Mossberg. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Grip said, “Shut up.” They’d finally attracted attention, a small crowd eyeballing the action. Stanic kept his stare hard, working on his rep.
They walked Stanic off the block and down a residential street.
“Where the fuck you taking me?” Stanic asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe nowhere,” Grip said. “Why don’t you make life easier on yourself, you dumb asshole.”
Stanic didn’t like this answer. “You say you found a body in the river?”
Westermann blinked. He couldn’t get Deyna out of his mind, trying to figure out why he was here, what it meant. He wasn’t focused on what he was doing, feeling his arms push Stanic hard in the back. Stanic, unable to pad his fall with his arms behind his back, fell hard on his face.
“Shit.”
“You feel like talking now?”
“The girl, she had sores on her?” Stanic’s voice was up an octave in panic.
Westermann lifted Stanic’s chin off the street with the toe of his boot.
He saw Grip looking over, worried for once. Westermann knew he wasn’t a natural with the hard stuff; had no sense for it. He knew Grip had seen this before, Westermann either going too soft or, like now, going too hard; or at least too hard for out here in the middle of the street.
“Lieut, there’s people watching out from their windows.”
Westermann pulled his foot from under Stanic’s chin, which dropped to the pavement. Grip walked over.
“You got a name for us?” Grip asked.
“Lenore.”
“Lenore got a last name?”
“I don’t know. Lenore. It’s probably not even her real name. Shit. But it must have been her, all sick and with those sores. Haven’t seen her in a few days.”
The girl, moonlit, turning slowly in the current as she floats downstream.
Lenore, moonlit, gently turning in the current as she floats downstream.
Grip knelt down so that his face was closer to Stanic’s. He noticed the blood running from Stanic’s nose and lips. “Lenore got a place?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’m going to help you up and then you’re going to take us there. Got it? Or the lieut gets another pop at you.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Stanic said, resigned. “I’ll take you there.”