“Heya, Felicity,” Ben called out, nodding toward my wife as he put himself through the excessive gyrations necessary to slip his bulk beneath a bright yellow strip of crime scene tape. “Sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out like this.”
“It’s no problem, then,” she returned.
Once he’d unfolded his frame, he continued walking toward us. “Jeez,” he continued. “We’ve never had anything like this happen before. I had ta’ make five calls just ta’ get the okay ta’ bring in a freelancer.”
“That bad, huh?” she queried as he came to a stop in front of us.
“Yeah. We’re so fuckin’ short-staffed it’s a wonder some asshole hasn’t stolen the entire city,” he grumbled. “And now this. Shit, if this whole scene wasn’t such a cluster, I’d just stick a camera in someone’s hands and have ‘em take snapshots. I’m really sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out on this.”
“Aye, Ben, it’s okay. Not a problem,” Felicity repeated.
He abandoned seriousness for a moment and allowed his face to spread into a slight grin. “Damn, I love it when ya’ do the accent.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Ben,” my wife quipped. “I don’t have an accent. You do.”
He chuckled and then leveled his gaze on me. “So, what the hell are YOU doin’ here, white man?”
“Nice to see you too,” I replied.
Homicide Detective Benjamin Storm stood six-foot-six, and a quick glance at him was enough to show he was no stranger to the weight room. He was casually dressed as usual, clad in a pair of faded denim jeans and a loose-fitting, charcoal grey, fisherman’s sweater. His gold shield was hanging around his neck on a thick cord, and his nine-millimeter Beretta was nestled beneath his left arm in a worn, leather shoulder rig.
Now that he was close enough for us to see his face, it was obvious that he’d probably been dragged out of his own slumber just as unceremoniously as had we. Still, even with his rumpled appearance, he made an altogether imposing figure. Of course, it probably didn’t help that at this particular moment the three of us were standing here in the oblique shadows of a motel parking lot watching our breath condense on the chilly breeze.
Harsh red and white splashes of brightness flickered across the scene from active light bars atop emergency vehicles, their on and off glare lending a patina of chaos to what would seem an otherwise somber night. The familiar background din of static and tinny voices prevailed from police radios, running the gamut of low range volumes.
Although Ben had recently begun to show a minor bit of greying, he still possessed a collar length helm of almost completely jet-black hair. That, his complexion, and his dark eyes combined with his rugged features to leave no doubt as to his full-blooded Native American heritage. If any doubt still existed, however, the nickname he had just tagged me with was a direct product of that history as well.
We’d been friends longer than I cared to remember, and the tongue-in-cheek banter had been a part of our dynamic almost from the word go. I would call him “Chief”, “Tonto”, or even “Injun”. He would counter with “Kemosabe”, “white man”, or “paleface”. He even went so far as to give Hollywoodesque Indian names to Felicity such as “Firehair” or “Red Squaw”.
We were both perfectly aware that people around us could be so caught up in runaway political correctness that they would visibly cringe when they heard us. Of course, if we happened to notice their discomfort, we would both be so amused that we would exaggerate the repartee for nothing more than our own entertainment.
However, at this very moment, the most important thing about the moniker was that it told that he wasn’t angered about me tagging along. He was merely giving me grief just for the sake of it. Considering his earlier tone, I hadn’t been sure what his reaction was going to be. His eventual reply to my non-answer simply perpetuated the chaff.
“Didn’t say it wasn’t nice ta’ see ya’,” he said. “I just don’t remember invitin’ you to our little rendezvous.”
“You woke me up,” I told him. “That’s invitation enough for me.”
My friend grunted then gave his head an exaggerated shake and parked his hands on his hips. Looking over at my wife with a flirtatious grin, he exclaimed, “Well damn, sweetheart! Guess we’re gonna have ta’ find a different place ta’ meet now.”
She quickly picked up on the joke and nodded. “Aye. I suppose you’re right, pookums.”
“Go ahead,” I offered with a shake of my head. “She’d just hurt you.”
“Yeah, you’re prob’ly right ‘bout that,” he agreed with a chuckle.
“So, you’re in an awfully good mood considering the circumstances,” I said. “You didn’t sound this chipper on the phone.”
“Prob’ly lack of sleep,” he replied, rubbing a large hand across his chin. “That, or just tryin’ ta’ stay sane, take your pick.”
“Knowing you? All of the above,” I returned.
“Uh-huh,” he grunted then added with a note of seriousness slipping into his voice, “Yeah, well, you got no idea, Row.”
“Is it really that bad in there?” Felicity asked.
My friend reflexively brought his hand back up to smooth his hair, something he always did when he was carefully mulling over a crucial thought. “If you’re talkin’ like real gory, yes and no,” he finally said. “It sure’s hell ain’t pretty, that’s a fact… Guess it depends on your stomach, but I know you’ve both seen worse.”
“So not very high on the gore-meter?” she returned.
“Oh, I dunno. ‘Bout a six or seven, I guess… But that’s not really what I’m talkin’ about. The bad is gonna happen soon as the TV people get here.”
“I’m surprised they aren’t already,” I observed.
“Yeah, me too,” he agreed then suddenly gave his head a quick jerk and exclaimed, “Jeezus, this is gonna be fucked up!”
I shrugged. “You mean the press? So what? That’s not unusual.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m tellin’ ya’ this is worse. It’s gonna be capital F-U-C-K-E-D fucked with an underline this time.”
“Okay, I give. Why?”
He looked me square in the eyes and sighed. “Well, you’re gonna know soon enough anyway.”
“Okay, so now I’m getting curious,” Felicity announced. “What in the world has you so wrapped, then?”
“Jeezus…” he muttered then cast a glance quickly between us. “So look, we’re tryin’ ta’ keep a lid on this for as long as we can, so what I’m gonna tell ya’ doesn’t go any further, ‘kay?”
I nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
“Of course,” my wife answered.
He looked off into space for a second then back to us. “Either of you ever heard the name Hammond K. Wentworth?”
I nodded. “Sounds familiar. He’s a judge or something, isn’t he?”
“District court judge,” Felicity piped up. “Isn’t he the one who presided over the big racketeering case with that construction company earlier… Wait a minute, you’re not saying…”
“Yeah, I’m sayin’…” Ben affirmed as he nodded. “He’s the stiff yer gettin’ ready ta’ immortalize.”
“A federal judge?” my wife almost yelped the question.
“Yeah. That’s why we had ta’ have a decent photographer on the scene and not just have someone do the ‘point, snap, okay I got the picture’ thing.”
The magnitude of the victim’s identity struck home, and my brain immediately seized on the most obvious scenario. “So do you think this was some kind of a contract killing?” I asked. “Organized crime, all that?”
“Who the fuck knows?” he replied. “Maybe. Maybe not. We gotta figure all the angles, and we definitely ain’t rulin’ that one out.”
“But is that how it looks?” Felicity asked.
“Let’s put it this way: The back of his goddamn head and most of his brain is all over the wall, but… Well…” he verbally stumbled, searching for words.
“Something’s not right?” I offered.
“‘Zactly,” he said with a nod. “Somethin’s hinky… I dunno what it is, but it just doesn’t look right.
“Why a motel room?” Felicity asked. “Are you thinking maybe suicide instead?”
He shook his head. “No. Prob’ly not suicide. Not unless the gun grew legs and walked off. Maybe robbery…”
As his last words trailed off, I started making my own connection with what I believed he was implying, so I asked, “Robbery as in a personal services transaction gone wrong, you mean?”
“Personal services transaction?” He wrinkled his forehead at me as he spoke. “When the hell did you get all PC?”
“Like you said,” I returned. “Lack of sleep.”
“Uh-huh. Well yeah, it’s a real possibility. Word is Wentworth had a thing for hookers… He’s been popped with ‘em more’n once, and the department looked the other way. Buried the whole thing so the press couldn’t jump on it.”
“Good to have friends in high places,” Felicity jibed. “I’ll bet the woman didn’t get the same treatment.”
Ben shot her a glance. “Got a soft spot for whores, do ya’?”
“I’d really prefer you didn’t use that term,” she returned coldly.
Ben paused for a moment, giving her a surprised look. “Well… Okay… Yeah, ummmm… Listen…” he finally stammered.
“So you think he might have been with a woman, and she robbed him?” Felicity suggested.
“Or her pimp,” he offered as he shot her a questioning glance. “Can I say pimp?”
She simply looked back at him without a word.
“Well, yeah, like I said it kinda looks that way.” He nodded then continued, “And that’s just a whole ‘nother reason this is gonna be a clusterfuck when the media jumps on it.”
“But you have doubts,” I offered.
“Shit, Rowan,” he spat. “I’ve always got doubts, but yeah, somethin’ just ain’t right in there.”
“Not right how?” Felicity asked.
“It just doesn’t look like… Well, you’ll see it when ya’ get in there. Maybe I’m just chasin’ my tail.”
“Detective Storm,” a uniformed officer called to Ben from behind the barrier tape. “Circus just came to town.”
We all looked up to see a pair of news vans pulling into the parking lot. My friend shook his head again and muttered, “Fuck me. Just fuuu-cck me.” Looking back to us he said, “Let’s get you signed in and workin’ before they start makin’ movies. Last thing I need is for Bible Barb ta’ see yer smilin’ face on the mornin’ news.”
My friend held out his arm and quickly ushered us toward the barrier tape and the waiting officer who was manning the clipboard.
This was the first time I’d heard him mention Barbara Albright’s name in several months. At one time, she’d been a constant vexation to him, even banning him for better than a year from serving on the Major Case Squad. Since the MCS was her command, he’d had little recourse and had spent that time more or less pushing paper around the city homicide division.
Her reasoning for his exile was primarily based on the fact that he was my friend, and she absolutely despised me. On the surface, the naked derision she displayed, even publicly, would have seemed unusual. However, when you considered all the facts, it instantly made sense. She was a fundamentalist Christian with a badge, and I was an out-of-the-broom-closet Witch who had been instrumental in solving more than one series of serial homicides. Not exactly what you would call a perfect match.
I’d made no secret of the fact that I blamed myself for Ben’s career derailment, even if he didn’t. And, while to this day I still felt guilty over it, ever since Albright’s promotion, things had gotten much better for him including being re-assigned back to the Major Case Squad.
“I thought you said Albright hadn’t been causing you any trouble since she made captain,” I commented as I waited my turn to autograph the crime scene log.
“Bee-bee?” the uniformed officer chuckled, overhearing me, then he muttered as he shook his head. “What a piece of work.”
“Yeah,” Ben answered me. “Well, not much anyway. She still gets her kicks in. But, you’re right. It’s been manageable. She’s been fast trackin’, and lately she’s climbin’ the ladder and bein’ a bureaucrat. Rubbin’ elbows just like she wanted.”
“So,” I asked as I scribbled my signature on the log and then handed the pen back to the officer. “What are you worried about?”
Felicity had already slipped beneath the crime scene tape and was photographing the exterior of the motel, approaching the task by-the-book, working her way inward on the actual scene.
My friend was holding the yellow barrier up for me as he answered my query with his own biting rhetorical question. “Like I said, she’s climbin’ the ladder, and there’s a dead federal judge in that room over there. You’re not gonna get much more high profile than this. Jeezus H. Christ, gimme a break. You really think she’s not gonna make for damn sure she’s up to her scrawny ass in it?”