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“Gibbens, I think. Gibbens or Gibson or something. I don’t know. Danny, man. Danny. Lives on Holland. I know that. Holland, like where the drugs are. Get it?”
“How do I find them?”
“Blimpie. That’s how I find them. Only been to his mom’s a few times.”
“You better pack your shit and wind up somewhere on the east coast, my friend. I’ll be knocking on your door again.”
I start to walk out the door.
“Tell Cherry you’re looking for her. He might back off,” he says.
“Back off what?”
“Her. Delilah. He wants her too, you know.”
“Why is that?”
“You can’t score that shit once and let it go. And with his temper...if he finds her first and she says she ain’t got the juice to get some more...Cherry’s been in stir for what he’s done to women.”
“What good does having that much dope do? If he’s a user he’ll be set for quite some time. Or he OD’s and the problem is solved.”
“Naw, bro. Danny and Cherry got a racket goin’ on. Word on the street is they’ve been knockin’ over ATMs for capital. Trying to buy into the game. And Delilah, she showed up and dropped the mother-load in their laps. No production costs, high quality shit. Just bam! And they sell it. He ain’t gonna let it go. No way.”
“You don’t care one bit, huh?”
“Like I said. The bitch fucked me over and over. There’s some voodoo magic about her pussy. It makes you feel invincible and ten-foot-tall. But when it’s gone...it’s like withdrawal. What it leaves behind destroys a man. Believe me?”
“Your place is a shithole.” I walk out, forty bucks richer.
“I keep this place as clean as you keep your shave,” he calls after me. I’m at the door when he comes out of the room, excited. Anxious.
“Hey, make sure and tell your people I’m clean of this whole thing and...and I did a lot to help you guys out.”
“No,” I say and leave.
Let him sweat for it.
30
After the whole Jefferson Stoke thing, the brass decided to transfer me out of homicide.
There were some questions about the incident. Like I said, the SRT boys who made it into the house when the shot went off gave conflicting stories. I passed a polygraph on Stoke’s death. I’m that good.
But so did every SRT member who “saw” what happened. Each was little different. It’s the inherent problem with the bullshit polygraph. George Constanza announced it to his best buddy and all of America one night on prime time television: “Remember, Jerry, it’s not a lie if you believe it.”
The SRT boys had nothing to lose. They were honest. Belief.
If you can focus on a single dot on the wall, you can pass it. If you can keep yourself from sweating bullets, you can pass it. If you take some blood pressure meds beforehand, you can pass it. Nothing is certain anywhere, and I’ll bet my annual take-home that any polygraph examiner will be throwing the bullshit flag on me for stating that, but trust me and the countless number of other folks in jobs where they had to pass a polygraph.
You can pass it and lie your ass off.
Back to Stoke: there were five different polygraphs, five different stories, five truthful read-outs. In the end it was ruled as a suicide. That’s good; Jefferson Stoke pulled his own trigger. So it was suicide. I just focused on that. I also tiptoed around any kind of allegation that had the word “assistance” in it. It was a careful dance; but I’m a damned six-foot-two ballerina when it comes to such things.
The air cleared. Took a while, but it blew over. There were lingering crosshairs aimed at me. This wasn’t the first time IA and I ran into each other. Seems no one notices you while you’re setting records in homicide for closing cases with convictions. But as soon as a questionable death by violent means pops up—literally—in your lap all of a sudden you might not be a great cop.
A woman by the name of Cassandra Flemming worked in IA. Headhunter. Internal Affairs is a necessary branch of police departments; they keep the cops in line who take dope off of pushers and then sell it on the street themselves. They take care of the cops who help themselves to the evidence locker when no one is looking.
Flemming made it her business to sink good cops. Our breed deals with three things: tension, uncertainty and rapidly evolving circumstances. Cops make decisions in deep shit all the time. Some are better than others. Some are more costly than others. Some you can’t let get away. Some just need a slap on the wrist or further training.
