The cost of vengeance - [12]

“They was Black and so was the van, and that’s all I could see from here. Now y’all got to go,” he said and opened the door. Once we were out in the hall he stuck his head out. “Like I told you outside, officer, I ain’t see nothing,” he said loudly and slammed the door.

Sanchez and I walked away from apartment 213 in silence, and went down the steps. There were still the three guys from the crowd that I picked out, to talk to. I chose the three of them because, unlike most of the crowd who looked like they had just grabbed something to wear to run out and see the show, these three were dressed like they had been out all night doing business. They looked like dope boyz-pure and simple. Some call it profiling; I call it my job.

When I got outside, they had the three of them in separate cars. Sanchez and I got in the car on either side, with the first one. “You wanna tell me what happened out here tonight?”

“No.”

“Look, we can do this anyway you want; but you are going to tell me what happened.”

“No I ain’t. I got the right to remain silent,” he said with a smug look on his face like he had the world by the tail.

“That’s only if you were under arrest, which you’re not. Right now, I have all the rights. And I got the right to kick your fuckin’ ass, and then I’ll arrest you for resisting arrest,” I said.

“Yeah, but you ain’t gonna do that, ’cause I’ll sue your ass for police brutally.”

“You were injured while resisting arrest; wasn’t he lieutenant?”

“That’s how my report will read,” Sanchez said.

“Or maybe I’ll just shoot you in the back and say you were trying to escape.”

“You just tryin’ ta’ scare me.”

“Look, I know you were with them when the shooting started.”

“Who told you that?”

“I did,” Sanchez said. “We had you, asshole, under surveillance for months. We know all about Kenyatta Damson and the whole crew of you. You take a good picture.”

“What I get if I tell you what you wanna know?”

“I already told you: you get to get out of this car alive and with no broken bones,” I said.

“All right. I don’t know who them niggas was, but they rolled up on us and just started shooting. Blade was out front; he got cut down ’fore he got his gun out. Kenyatta and Fraz shot back but they were outgunned. Them niggas was bustin’ with AKs or some heavy shit like that.”

“And the rest of you ran for cover,” Sanchez said and got out of the car.

“I took-yeah, we just ran,” he said and dropped his head before he admitted that he was involved in the shooting.

“Thanks,” I said and got out of the car. We ran the same game on the other two and they told us the same story. I had the officers take them in, book them for loitering, and then let them go. At least we would have their prints and mug shots.

After Sanchez and I left the crime scene, he rode with me while I grabbed something to eat and some coffee, and then we headed back to the precinct. I wanted to get a look at the file he had on Kenyatta Damson and he not only wanted, but needed, to find out how this woman was running an operation like she was, and nobody in his unit knew anything about it. He didn’t say it, but I knew he had to be thinking that someone in his unit might be dirty.

While Sanchez wandered around the unit chewin’ ass, I dug into her file. Under the circumstances, I wasn’t expecting to find much. When Sanchez got done with his tirade, he came back in his office, sat down in front of me, and took a deep breath. “Was it good for you?”

“It was better for me than it was for them,” Sanchez said and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “What about you; you find anything?”

“Nothing current. You got any idea who was supplying this woman?” When Sanchez didn’t answer, I figured he didn’t. “What about Lorenzo Copeland; says he’s a known associate. Got anything current on him?”

Sanchez looked at me and then he looked out in the unit. He stood up. “Come on, Kirk, let’s go get some coffee.”

“Got some,” I said and held up my cup.

“Coffee’s better across the street. Come on,” Sanchez said and walked out of the office.

Now I’m a little slow sometimes, but it was obvious that he wanted to talk, and not in there. So I tossed my coffee in trash and followed him.

Sanchez walked across the street to the deli and went in. Since he wasn’t talking, I saw no point in going in with him. “I take mine black.” I leaned against a car and waited for him to come out.

“So, what are we talking about?” I asked when he handed me the cup.

“Lorenzo Copeland.”

“What about him?”

“Lorenzo Copeland is serving a life sentence for murder.”

“Okay,” I said and waited for the other shoe to drop.

“He murdered Officer Mike McDill,” Sanchez said and leaned on the car next to me.

“He was one of your guys, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, Gene, spill it.”

“What I’m about to tell you goes no further.”

“It’s just me, you, and the car.”

“About six months before it happened, McDill and his partner, Brown, busted a dealer named Bryce Tyler, one of Copeland’s people, for possession. He gives up everybody and we start building a case against Copeland. We get a warrant to search his apartment on Tyler’s word that Copeland is holding big weight. The dope was right where he said it would be, and they go to arrest Copeland and another character, whose name escapes me for the moment. The way I get it is that McDill hit Copeland in the face, and Copeland swung back. Brown pulls out his club and hits Copeland in the shin and he drops to his knees. Then both of them start hittin’ Copeland with their clubs and kickin’ him. Copeland grabbed McDill’s gun and shot him. Then Brown pulls his gun and shoots Copeland. The bullet hit him in the arm and he dropped the gun. When I got in there it was a free for all, my guys were kickin’ and hittin’ him with them clubs until I yelled, ‘That’s enough!’ after that, Copeland blacked out.”