After we dropped off Steve at the nearest hospital, Barack pulled into a nondescript garage and parked in the basement, the last spot in a long line of cars. There was a thin layer of water on the cement. Either there was nowhere for it to drain, or it was so thick with motor oil and sludge that it couldn’t move.
“This is all my fault,” I said. “I’m the one who got us into this mess. I’m the one who couldn’t handle the car.”
Barack didn’t look at me. He was behind the wheel now. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Joe.”
“Am I wrong?”
“About which part?”
“Any of it,” I said.
“I shouldn’t have let you drive in the first place. The Little Beast takes some getting used to.”
“How many fields have you driven her into?”
“Zero.”
I felt a yawn coming on and covered my mouth. I was able to avoid it, but my energy was flagging. The car chase had gotten my heart rate up. Adrenaline was coursing through my body. Everything felt electric. My fingertips were tingling, abuzz with energy. And then I crashed. In more ways than one.
A boat of a car crept past us. An olive-green 1973 Cadillac Fleetwood. It stopped, then backed up into a space directly behind us. I watched over my shoulder as it flashed its headlights—once, twice. Three times.
That was the signal.
Barack and I stepped out and slipped into the backseat of the Fleetwood.
Detective Capriotti didn’t turn around.
“Thanks for meeting us,” I said. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. Should we drive somewhere…?”
“I’ve already been put on traffic duty for a week. I could be fired just for talking to you. Let alone, I didn’t know you were going to bring…him.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Dan, this is Barack. Barack, Dan.”
They shook hands between the front seats.
Neither man smiled.
“We need your help,” I said.
“I’m wondering if I haven’t helped you enough already. I told you what we found in your friend’s pockets because I thought you’d appreciate it. The lieutenant gets a call an hour ago from Finn Donnelly’s daughter, who’s all pissed off that we kept it from her. Now where do you suppose she learned about the drugs, Joe?”
“She’s family. I assumed she knew.”
“I told you she didn’t. Or are you forgetting things in your old age?”
“I thought…” My voice trailed off. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“I’m not finished. A couple of days ago, I get a call from you. Telling me I need to check up on some guy you thought might be snooping around Finn’s wife’s room. Nobody there knew anything about some minister—”
“He wasn’t a minister.”
“First he was, then he wasn’t. Do you hear yourself? This is paranoia.” He shook his head. “Then there’s this.”
Dan unfolded a paper and passed it back to me. It was a sketch of the actor Richard Gere.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“We got a call about ten thirty this morning,” Dan said. “Alvin Harrison died of an overdose. Oxy, from the looks of it.”
I tried to look shocked, but I couldn’t fool Dan.
He continued, “A neighbor described a suspicious character snooping around Alvin’s apartment. She’s one of those ladies who watches everything out her window. You know the type. Anyway, the only problem is, she’s not quite all there. Mentally, if you know what I mean. The description she gave the sketch artist was quite detailed, though.” He paused for effect. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Alvin’s death, would you?”
Barack examined the drawing, and then me.
Back and forth.
He bit his lip.
“Talk to Richard Gere,” I said, handing the paper back to Dan. “He’s from Philly. He could have been in town. You never know.”
“So this is how it’s going to be, Joe?”
“I didn’t call you to discuss Alvin Harrison,” I said. “I need to know if you know anything about the Marauders.”
“The outlaw biker gang. You want to let me know what’s going on?”
“Not particularly,” I said.
“I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with Finn Donnelly.”
“If I say it does, are you going to tell me off?”
“You want my help, I need to know where this is coming from. There’s no connection between the Marauders and your friend.”
“The Marauders aren’t involved in the drug trade?”
Dan shrugged. “I’m not a narcotics detective, but their name pops up now and again. Marijuana. Guns, I guess. The usual outlaw biker stuff.”
“And you don’t shut them down?”
“We have to pick and choose our battles, Joe. Half of this city is high on something right now. Should we just start kicking in doors without warrants? Unless they start trouble, we keep out of their business.”
“You’re saying because they’re white, you don’t hassle them,” Barack said.
“You don’t know me,” Dan snapped.
I felt a tension headache coming on. It could have been the aftereffects of the concussion. It could have had nothing to do with the concussion.
I said, “The guy I ran into at Baptist Manor the other day was part of their club. Finn wasn’t, obviously—he didn’t even own a bike—but maybe he hung with them. Maybe they’re the ones who sold him his dope.”
Dan laughed. “What are you going to do, arrest them by yourself?”
“We’re not stupid,” I said.
“Could have fooled me. These people call themselves one-percenters. As in, they’re the one percent of bikers who live outside the law. They don’t dick around, Joe. They’re a bunch of bad hombres. You can’t just walk in there and start asking questions. They’d cut you to ribbons. Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll ask around in narcotics, discreetly. Won’t let them know it’s related to Finn Donnelly, because I don’t want to catch hell with the boss. But I’ll see if there’s any heroin activity surrounding this group. If not, I want you to drop this thing. I mean it.”
“That’s not up to me. It’s the Secret Service’s investigation.”
Barack nodded slowly.
“I don’t see how heroin trafficking falls under their jurisdiction,” Dan said. “So Finn printed off a paper with your address. I get that. But if you were truly afraid for your life, you’d be in a bunker right now. Both of you. Instead, you’re driving around without a single agent in sight. What am I supposed to make of that?”
“It’s a national security—”
“Don’t feed me that bull, Joe. How long we known each other? Long enough to know each other’s tells.”
“What’s my tell?”
“If someone’s tipping their pitches, you don’t let ‘em know what their tell is. You’re a baseball man. You should know that.”
“And you should know I’m being straight with you, dammit,” I growled.
Another long pause. Then Dan said, “Write this down.”
He gave me the address of the clubhouse where the Marauders operated. He started his car and we got out without another word. It was only after we returned to our vehicle that I realized I hadn’t thanked him. My headache had come on fast and strong, and I had no time for niceties. If we made it through the weekend in one piece, I’d send him a thank-you card.