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“Hang on. Seriously. Are you sober now?”
“Yes. And if I’m not asleep again really fast, and I mean really fucking fast, I just know a migraine will be kicking up and this time it’ll be all—”
“Tell me about this Clarence Petticoat.”
“Damn you, Buckner.” Deep breath. “Are you just gonna come over here and knock on my door if I cut you off?”
“What do you think?”
“Fine. One minute.”
“One minute,” I say.
A moment to recollect as he sighs with annoyance. I heard that a lot when we used to roll together. “I guess I never knew he was widowed. He always struck me as the playboy type. He hired me a few times to dig around on some broads he was dating. Usual kind of trim who hangs on rich men that they wouldn’t touch if they weren’t rich. Fake blonde, fake tits, decent legs, got their teeth fixed, low self-esteem and trying to make up for it now that surgery has made them pretty. He always paid on time. Was easy to work with. Didn’t like no for an answer. You know he’s a real estate guy. He’s got an office up in the Burkhardt complex off of I-50. I haven’t done anything for him in a while. There. Happy?”
“Mostly. Send me a list of the women you checked out.”
“Fine. Later.”
“Later is good for me. Thanks, Howard. Sleep tight.”
“Choke on a dick, Richard.” Click. Silence.
That’s the Howard Michigan I know. I finish cleaning the gun and shower. I take a handful of aspirin. I don’t really need it right now, but it’s going to be a long day. Might as well get the jump on whatever pain is coming.
Clevenger calls as I’m driving to breakfast.
“Hello, Graham.”
“Got some news about last night,” he says, sounding a world more tired than I feel.
“Do tell.”
“A friend in Ballistics stayed up through the night to examine the projectiles from last night. Same gun killed both Moss and Grandma.” He pauses. Shifts his tone. “Richard, the words kill and Grandma...”
“I know, buddy. I hate how ugly this is.”
Graham coughs the way men do when they’re trying to avoid sounding weak. “The two guys on the porch with Moss, I don’t remember names. One was shot in the chest. The bullet nicked an artery and a lung. Good shot. Dead. The other was ruled dead before he was shot in the thigh—flesh wound only. Seems he was struck in the head by something firm, possibly metal and punched in the face so hard it knocked his head into the railing. Cranial bleed.
“The gunner in the car was ID’d as Philip ‘Shortie’ Freeman. He’s a punk out of the northwestern end with gang affiliations and two violent felonies under his belt already. He’s nineteen. Covered in Carnivore Messiah tattoos. My detective said he took photos at the morgue and brought them to the Gang Enforcement bureau. The boys over there knew Shortie by name. Read his ink. Fuck that kid.”
“Was he your original trigger man?”
“Both the driver and the passenger are pinning everything on him. Convenient for the survivors, but I think forensics will prove it. Shortie was hit once in the back of the head by an unknown caliber as they were driving off. The bullet passed through, grazed the passenger seat headrest and exited through the front windshield. Haven’t recovered it. I’m guessing it was a .44 Magnum by how most of his head is gone.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny, my friend,” I say, pulling into a spot at a greasy spoon.
“Well, Shortie’s friends treated him with gangbanger reverence. They took him to the ER at Regional. The driver honked a few times and took off. ER security got the plate off of security video, called PD immediately. A patrolman spotted the car heading northbound. Our guys did a felony stop.”
I step inside the seat-yourself establishment and select a booth where I can watch the front door, the short order kitchen and my car. Habit.
“We recovered two Mac 10’s, both with fifty round drum barrels. No wonder he was able to spray the houses,” Clevenger says. “There was also a pile of shell casings in the floorboard. Probably from both shoots.”
“Street sweepers,” I say, scanning the menu. “I assume Collins is working this as well?”
“Yes.”
“Has he questioned them yet?”
