Superbia 3 Read online

  "I can't. We're working, and we might be late."

  "Come afterwards. I don't care how late it is."

  "I don't know."

  "Please, Dez. Even if it's just for a little bit."

  He sighed and said, "I'll call you, okay? If it's not too late, I'll stop by."

  "Okay, great," she said, breathing with relief. "I'll go home then, I promise. Be careful tonight, please."

  "Aren't you going to the hospital?"

  "Sure. Call me, okay?"

  "All right."

  "I mean it."

  "I said I will call," he said impatiently.

  She stopped on the way home and picked up two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon and enough Chinese takeout to feed Dez if he was hungry. She stuffed the remaining bags of heroin into an envelope in her car and slid it behind her seat, leaving it there so it wasn't in her apartment. If it wasn't in her immediate reach, she wouldn't think about it, she decided.

  That evening she opened the blinds on her windows and cleaned her entire apartment. She stayed busy scrubbing the floor and not thinking about heroin. By making sure all the cards and letters he'd ever given her were taped to the refrigerator and doorway arches and not thinking about heroin. Not in the slightest.

  She checked her phone and scrubbed and vacuumed and wiped and folded laundry and watched the sun go down and the solar powered lights of the parking lot come on and she absolutely did not think about heroin. At 9:30, she thought, They'll be contacting the target soon.

  She stripped out of her clothes and jumped in the shower, standing under the powerful jets to let it massage her neck and shoulders. When she got out of the shower, she checked her phone again. No missed calls or texts.

  She turned on the television and fiddled with her laptop, trying to pass the time, but every movie seemed to be about love and all of the clothing websites reminded her of things she wanted to wear for Dez. Thoughts of him scraped against her mind like the steel edges of a cheese grater and she went into her Facebook account and searched through her photographs. Dez would never allow her to friend him (because of his wife, who was inherently jealous of Aprille because she was so beautiful, he said) but there were dozens of pictures from various conferences and seminars and parties they'd attended together that showed the two of them. Not together, she thought. Despite the late night sneaking back and forth from each other's rooms and the way they'd suspiciously show up late to after-hours functions. It was a game they all played. The, "Where were you two?" questions from their group and the "I was asleep in my room, I don't know where he was" answers she'd reply with, but always with a slight, mischievous smile.

  Dez's facebook was locked down with privacy, but his wife's not as much. Aprille searched through the woman's available pictures, hating her more with every click. She studied portions of their house in the background of each photograph, until she could walk through Dez's living room and kitchen in her mind.

  She clicked the woman's homepage and saw a recent status update with a heart that read: "Share this if you have a wonderful husband."

  Aprille cried out in outrage and tossed her laptop, sending it across the room with a sharp snap of its plastic case. She pressed both her fists to her face and screamed, "He's not yours, you fucking cunt!"

  A foot stomped on the floor of the apartment above hers in response, the age old method of telling a noisy neighbor to shut up. Aprille called out, "Oh, fuck yourself," before she curled up on the couch clutching her stomach.

  At 11:30 she told herself the unit was probably still working, especially if the target was the kind who didn't show up on time. Her stomach was like a cauldron of bubbling acid, but it didn't matter. She was going to wait for Dez because he was going to show and if he saw she was high, he wouldn't want anything to do with her. That's why I'm perfect for him, she thought. I understand things like this in ways his wife can't.

  At 12:30 she sent him a text: Just checking on u. Almost done?

  At 1:15: I've got food here if u r hungry hun

  At 2 AM, she ran out of her apartment and snatched the dope bags from her car and ran with them back inside. It was that or drive back down to his house to see if he'd gone home and fallen asleep without calling her, but that would be desperate and probably make her feel pathetic.

  Chapter Three

  Reynaldo knocked on the detectives' office door and said, "Good morning. You got a minute?"

  Frank rubbed his eyes and kicked his feet down from his desk onto the floor, "Yeah. Come in. I was just closing my eyes for a minute. Long night."

  Reynaldo looked at the empty space on the wall where a large faded rectangle of paint framed the former resting place of an evidence poster. Instead, a small framed picture of a grumpy-looking detective hung on the wall under a metallic placard that read, Detective Victor Ajax. Reynaldo nodded at the wall and said, "What happened to your penis?"

  "It's evidence, and the DA's office needed it for an appeal."

  "Well, I hope they take good care of it."

  "Don’t worry. The DA's office knows how to handle a big, black penis. Let me tell you. So what's up?"

  "Did you read what I sent you about the heroin overdose yesterday?"

  Frank nodded. "Jessie Pincher, yeah? I arrested him a few years ago for stealing loose change out of cars. He was doing two hundred cars a night, easy."

  "He won't trouble you with that again," Reynaldo said. "So what do you think of my plan to arrest the supplier? In the Crimes Code, Drug Delivery Resulting in Death is a murder charge. Will you help me get the criminal complaint together? Man, I don't think anybody here has ever filed murder charges in their first two years on The Job. Not even Detective Ajax did that, right? It's a first, right?"

  The kid looked so eager that Frank almost didn't have the heart to voice his next question. He nodded and said, "I read everything you sent me while I was sitting in the hospital, and you've got a lot of great stuff, but there's one thing I didn't see. Did you collect the wax baggies of heroin on the floor?"

  "No. Was I supposed to? They were empty."

  "I know," Frank said. "They also probably would have had the supplier's fingerprints on them. That would be a key piece of physical evidence in a murder trial. More than a few text messages anyway."

  Reynaldo's face flashed with indignation, "But I have the text messages."

  "Can you prove Moses is the one who sent them? Can you prove beyond a reasonable doubt that nobody else had his phone, or that Moses actually gave him the drugs?"

  "It's obvious, though. Moses gave him the drugs that killed him."

  "It might be obvious, and it might be true, but if you can't prove it in court, it's useless, Rey-Rey. That's the difference between a seasoned investigator and one of these ignorant dickheads running around losing cases. You file the ones you can win and don't take chances. Make sense?"

  Reynaldo's shoulders slumped in his seat and he nodded quietly, "I understand."

  Frank smacked the table with his hand to break the mood and said, "Hey, lighten up. Moses doesn't know that. We'll drag his ass in here and see how he holds up under the hot lights. If we get a confession, it might change the game."

  "You mean I could file the murder charge?"

  "Even if not, we might get something good out of him. Goddamn, Rey-Rey, once the FBI hears about you, they're gonna make you National Director or something. You'll be J. Edgar Guadalupe Santo Domingo Rodriguez in no time."

  Reynaldo laughed and pushed up from his chair, "You want me to get him in for the interview?"

  "That's a complicated job. You think you can do it? You can't scare him, or he'll show up with an attorney. And you can't tell him what it's about or he'll never show."

  "I keep him in the dark and feed him shit like a mushroom, right?"

  "Exactly. Did you watch the movie yet?"

  "No. I haven't had time."

  "God damn it, Reynaldo. The Departed is mandatory viewing for all undercover operatives. The next time I see you, yo
u'd better be able to recite the whole movie, line for line. Otherwise, I'm revoking your status as S.J.N.E.P.O.A.D."

  Reynaldo scrunched up his face trying to remember, "Special…Junior…"

  "Special Junior Not-Even-Promoted-or-Assigned-Detective. Christ, you don't even know that yet either?"

  "I'll drag him in here one way or the other, boss."

  "Go get 'em, tiger," Frank said. He watched Reynaldo hurry out the door and chuckled lightly to himself until he happened to catch the framed picture on the wall from the corner of his eye. Vic's grumpy face stared back at him, perpetually unimpressed no matter what Frank did. "Don't even look at me like that. I never gave you that much of a hard time and you know it," Frank said.

  The phone on Frank's desk rang, lighting up a small box on his computer screen that read Township Supervisor's Phone. He picked it up and said, "I'm not interested."

  "Sorry?" the voice on the other end said.

  "I'm just letting you know I'm not interested in being Chief, or Acting Chief, or whatever you guys come up with. Jim is going to pull through, he's the right guy for the job, and I'm not sticking it to him while he's recovering."

  "Oh. Okay. That's actually not why I was calling."

  "It isn't?"

  "This is Mister Frederick, from the Township. Can you let all the guys in the department know that there's a mandatory meeting tomorrow morning at noon?"

  "Mandatory says who?" Frank said.

  "The Township Supervisors. I'll be attending along with Mister Jones."

  Frank detested people who referred to themselves or other people as "Mister." It was like they were forcing you to refer to them by an honorific. For that matter, he hated people who referred to themselves as Chief, Captain, Lieutenant, Sergeant, General, Doctor, and Professor as well. Chief, not surprisingly, was the one he hated most of all. "Are you paying us for this?"

  "It's already been approved with your PBA."

  Frank tapped the phone against the side of his head, the gears of his brain grinding up the bullshit of the conversation to try and strain any nuggets of truth that might be found.

  "Are you still there?" Frederick said.

  "I'm here," he finally said. "Mandatory meeting, twelve hundred hours. I'll have to see who's around and let them know."

  There was a pause. "Mandatory means everybody, no exceptions, Frank."

  "No kidding," Frank said. "But since it's the day before, I'll have to see if everyone is available."

  "Just make it happen," was the last thing Frederick said before the line went dead.

  Frank looked at his receiver and shook his head before he hung up. "I know that dude did not just talk to me like that," he said to himself. "Keep that up and I'll make it my job in life to lock up every single person you know, dickwad."

  The phone rang again, this time coming from one of the squad desks upstairs in the patrol room. "I just talked to Moses. He's on his way," Reynaldo said.

  "Oh yeah? How'd you rope him in?"

  "The S.J.N.E.P.O.A.D is an unstoppable force of indestructible law enforcement power!"

  Frank hung up the phone and headed for the stairs, looking up in time to see the mammoth form of Brian Boxer heading for the exit. "Hey!" Frank called out. "What's this shit about a mandatory meeting tomorrow?"

  Boxer's face instantly flushed red and his jowls wobbled indignantly, "What makes you think I have any idea what you're talking about?"

  "Because Frederick already told me you approved it, dumb ass. Are we being paid for this bullshit?"

  "I…I just figured because of all the turmoil that's been going on, it wasn't the time to make a big stink. The supervisors are trying to help us sort this mess out, and we need to show them we're part of the solution, not the problem."

  Frank grunted in frustration, "So now I've got to call twenty guys and order them into the station off-duty, for free."

  Boxer shrugged as he opened the door, "Better you than me."

  Frank leaned out the door after him, "If I ever actually go to a PBA meeting, I'm going to vote you out for this!"

  "Elections aren't for another two years. Somehow, I'm not worried."

  "I'm voting early then. Every time I come to one, I'm voting against you."

  Boxer opened his police car door and said, "You can bring the veggie dip."

  "Veggie dip?" Frank said. "You know you have to eat vegetables with that, right?"

  "I use tortilla chips."

  "No shit!" Frank slammed the station door shut and headed back toward the interrogation room door where Reynaldo was standing, holding a manila file. "Is he in there?" Frank said.

  "Yeah, he's just sitting at the table."

  "Do you want me to go in there with you or do you want to try it alone first."

  "Do you have a Miranda warning card on you?"

  Frank cocked an eyebrow, "What do you need one of them for?"

  "So he can sign it before I talk to him."

  Frank held up his right index finger, "You see this? This is custody." He held up his left index finger and moved it toward the center to meet the other one, "And this is guilt-seeking questions. When they are both together, we Mirandize. If they come apart, like this, we do not tell him shit. They stay mushrooms."

  "So how is this guy not in custody?" Reynaldo said.

  "Because we're going to tell him so. Come along, young Reynaldo and I will show you the strange and mysterious ways of the non-custodial interrogation." Frank opened the door to the interrogation room and said, "Hi, thanks for coming in. Are you Paul Moses?"

  "Yeah. What's this about?"

  Frank took the kid's measure. Early twenties and skinny. Bad skin and hollow eyes. He smelled, and he was wearing a torn sweatshirt, orange pajama pants and black sandals. With socks. Frank smiled at him and said, "I'm Frank. You understand you're not under arrest and you're free to leave, right?"

  "What would I be under arrest for?"

  Frank sat down and waved for Reynaldo to do the same. "I'm just letting you know that I'm aware you came in here on your own, which is a good thing, and that when you want to leave, you can. That's all. Do you want some water?"

  The kid was still nervous. His eyes flicked back and forth between Frank and Reynaldo, "Why am I here?"

  "I just want to ask you a few questions."

  "Do I need an attorney?"

  "I'll tell you what," Frank said, easing back from the table to disengage a little and relax. "Let's be straight up. I don't like beating around the bush. Is that okay with you?"

  Moses shrugged, "I guess so."

  "Good," Frank said, smiling widely. "Because I changed my mind. I'm not going to ask you any questions. I'm going to tell you a few things and what happens after that, you get to decide."

  Moses leaned forward, "I'm not stupid. Do I need an attorney?"

  "I didn't think you were stupid, and if you do want an attorney that's fine. He's going to want to know what I'm about to tell you. You don't have to say a word. Just hear me out. You can get up and leave right after that if you want and tell every attorney you see what I said."

  Moses was silent for a while, the mice working overtime on the wheels inside his brain as he mulled over Frank's proposal. "All right, so what's up?"

  Frank leaned forward against the table and lowered his voice, keeping it intimate when he said, "Ok, ready? You gave a bundle of heroin to Jessie Pincher on consignment and expected him to pay you back for it. You're a drug dealer, son."

  "Bullshit. I'm outta here," Moses said, leaning forward to push himself up from the table. "I don't give a fuck what that rat snitch said about me, I didn't give him a goddamn thing."

  Frank laughed lightly, "What Jessie said about you? He didn't say anything about you, Moses. Jessie's dead."

  "What?"

  "He's dead. He overdosed. Lights out."

  "Fuck you," Moses said. "You narco niggers are always trying to run some game on people to get them to snitch for you. Jessie Pincher is not dead. I just t
alked to his ass."

  Frank reached down into the manila case file and pulled out a photograph that showed the marbled, bloated face of Jessie Pincher's corpse and laid it on the table in front of Moses. "That's one of the nice ones. Wanna see the others?"

  "Holy shit!" Moses sputtered. "He's really…Jessie…holy fuck!"

  "Hang on," Frank said, digging in the file. "I think I've got one that shows where the bugs had eaten the flesh off his genitals."

  Moses covered his mouth and closed his eyes, pushing the picture back across the table at Frank, "I can't believe you fucking showed me that shit, you asshole!"

  "You're the one who didn't believe me." Frank dropped the picture back in the folder and said, "You all right, bud?"

  The kid's eyes turned red and started to well up. All his whiteboy appropriated-street-style collapsed under the weight of the stark reality of his friend being dead. "I've known Jessie since elementary school. We played t-ball together."

  "Uh huh," Frank said. "Well, he's dead now."

  "I could see that you cold hearted fuck!"

  "And you killed him."

  "No I didn't."

  "Do you know what the charge is for a drug delivery resulting in death is in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, son? Murder. Not manslaughter. Not death by misadventure. Murder."

  Moses's head drooped forward so that his dirty hair hung over his face as he sat there without speaking.

  Reynaldo leaned forward and said, "The best thing to do is let us help you −" but shut his mouth immediately when Frank kneed him in the leg.

  After a few minutes, Moses's head came back up. His eyes gleamed with renewed resolve. "I didn't give him that bundle of heroin."

  "Sure you did," Frank said. "I've got all the text messages you sent Jessie talking about it, and right now the wax baggies that were in the bundle are being processed for fingerprints by the FBI. How much do you want to bet your prints come back on them?"

  Moses clutched his hands together, squeezing so tightly that his fingers turned white. "I said I didn't give him that bundle! Period point blank, aiight?"