The Lightning Rule (11 page)

Emmett’s word might not have been worth much, but he would keep it.

The sun was glaring off a sea of car chrome in the courthouse parking lot, heat roiling off rows of hoods. Emmett chaperoned Freddie to the passenger side of his car and opened the door. The handle burned to the touch.

“Get in.”

Freddie was busy appraising the car’s tail fins. “A Dodge Coronet. Didn’t picture you drivin’ something with so much style. What is it? A ’58? ’59? This was the base model for the Royal and the Custom Royal. Doesn’t have as much dress work and no teeth in the grille. Identical turret to the De Soto’s ’cept this baby’s got a Getaway L-head Flat 6 engine. That’s one mighty engine. Original paint?”

“Yeah and it’d better not go missing.”

“Man, how’m I gonna steal paint off a car?”

“I said get in.” Emmett pushed him onto the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.

Freddie lowered his window. “Where we goin’?”

“Nowhere. Not until you tell me everything about Ambrose and what he did yesterday. Down to the last minute.”

“We gonna sit here in this hot ass parking lot? You crazy? You tryin’ to cook me?”

“Do you think this is a game, Freddie? Your best friend was murdered.”

“You don’t have to say that.” He pouted.

“Start from the beginning.”

“Fine. Ambrose came ’round my house that morning. Same as every morning. We was ’posed to be in summer school, but we’d been ditchin’ to go to the junkyard and look for parts to pay off Luther. ’Brose tagged along, and we sneaked in under the fence. He was always quiet. He’d just follow me through the junk heaps, helpin’ me pick up the heavy stuff. We searched for hours. All I could find were a couple carburetors. Nothin’ special. Weren’t no new cars to buy for switchin’. I knew Luther’d be sore, so I took Ambrose to the body shop with me. I shouldn’t’ve. But I thought if Luther saw me with somebody big and tough-lookin’ like Ambrose, he might go easy.”

Freddie picked at the leather piping on the seat cushion, remorse making him humble.

“There’s this room in back of the body shop where Luther and his guys sit around drinkin’ and playin’ dominoes. It’s got an air conditioner. A huge one. Makes it so cold you can see your breath same as winter. Two guys stand outside, guarding the door. At first, they wouldn’t let Ambrose in with me. Then Luther musta said it was okay. We went into the back room and I tried to give him the parts. He didn’t care much. He was more interested in Ambrose. Luther got in his face, showing him who’s boss. ’Brose didn’t get it. He wasn’t saying nothing, and that got Luther steamed.”

The story slowed, as though the ending might be different if Freddie delayed it.

“He punched Ambrose right in his gut. Then the other guys were trying to hold him down. ’Brose was swinging his arms, swatting ’em off like they was flies. Not to fight ’em but because he was scared. They kept hitting him. I told Luther I’d pay him double what I owed if they’d stop beatin’ on Ambrose. When Luther heard that, he made ’em stop. Told his guys to take ’Brose outside. I’ll never forget his face when they was draggin’ him out. He had blood runnin’ from his lip. He was so confused. That was the last time I ever saw him.”

Freddie’s eyes welled. He blinked to clear them.

“‘You got some balls bringing muscle to my place.’ That was what Luther said. Then he told me I owed him two thousand dollars. Double the grand he’d paid to the cops. I said it was impossible. I’d need a million junkyards to dig up that much money. He laughed. Said it was my problem now. I went home, hoping Ambrose would come there. I waited and waited. I was going to his grandma’s place to look for him when the cops arrested me.”

He sniffled and wiped his cheek on his shoulder, collecting himself. “When you came to the jail and told me Ambrose was dead, I figured it was Luther. I wish I didn’t take ’Brose with me. If I didn’t….” Grief got him by the throat, strangling off the end of the sentence.

Luther Reed was a drug dealer, a pimp, and a thief. Violence wasn’t beneath him, but Emmett hadn’t heard of any murders in connection with the man. Outside of the mob, Reed had no direct competition in the Central Ward, no rivals that required bumping off. Emmett wouldn’t put murder past him or his goons, however the circumstances of Webster’s death—the slashed throat, the missing finger, the location of the dump—were too contrived for the likes of Reed.

“Luther didn’t kill Ambrose, Freddie.”

An instant of relief twisted into confusion. “If it wasn’t him, who was it?”

That was the same question tumbling around Emmett’s mind. “Maybe Luther can tell us that.”

“You mean you’re going to see him?”

Emmett started the car.

“Nuh-uh. I ain’t comin’.”

Frantic, Freddie grabbed the door handle, then Emmett grabbed him.

“Where I go, you go.”

“You get me outta jail just to deliver me to the guy who wants my head on a plate? Hell, take me back. Jail couldn’t be as bad as this.”

“Yeah, Freddie, it could.”

From the courthouse, it was a short drive to Reed’s auto body shop on Springfield Avenue, a street that originated faraway in the suburbs and wended through the tony enclaves of Short Hills, Milburn, and
Maplewood, to dead-end in the center of Newark in an area called the Strip, a procession of bars, liquor stores, and barbecue shops with filmy windows. Traffic was creeping along as though the heat made cars’ tires suction to the road.

“Where’s your partner at?” Freddie asked. “Don’t cops always have partners?”

“Some do. I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Ask my lieutenant.”

“Maybe nobody would ride with you ’cause ’a your attitude.”

“I’m sure that’s the reason.”

They parked down the block, giving Emmett a clear view of the body shop. A station wagon was jacked up on a lift in the garage, which was filled with the requisite tools and parts to pass the place off as operational. Nobody entered or exited for fifteen minutes.

“Ain’t we goin’ in?”

“A half hour ago you refused to go anywhere near Luther Reed and now you can’t wait to see him?”

“No, I wanna get this over with ’cause I’m hungry,” Freddie whined. “At least in jail, they have to feed you.”

Emmett popped the glove compartment, dug out a candy bar and gave it to him.

“It’s melted.”

“If you won’t eat, I will.”

As Freddie gobbled the candy bar, Emmett took a pair of handcuffs from the glove compartment.

“What’re those for? You gonna lock Luther up?”

“Not exactly.”

Freddie stopped chewing. “Why you lookin’ at me?”

“Put out your hands.”

“You kiddin’, right?”

“Reed’s only met Ionello and Vass. Auto’s a big division, and a badge is a badge.”

“Then you don’t need me.”

“Think about it: when you push a plastic squirt gun into somebody’s back, they don’t know it’s not real. They give over their money so they won’t get shot, even though they can’t. I walk in with you, Reed doesn’t know I’m trying to find out who killed Ambrose. He talks so I won’t come down on him any harder for the auto fraud, even though I can’t.”

“Being in this hot car musta boiled your brains. There’s usually six or seven of them in that back room with Luther. Sometimes more. And they got guns. I seen ’em stuck in their belts.”

“And those are the ones they let you see.” Emmett opened the cuffs.

Freddie finished the last of the candy bar. “I shoulda stayed in jail.”

Emmett led him into the garage by the handcuffs. The station wagon on the lift was missing a wheel. There was no replacement tire in sight. Wrenches and loose washers were strewn about, yet the smell of motor oil was faint, the floor dry, no spots. The body shop was as fake as a cardboard set for a puppet show.

“Act as if I just arrested you and you don’t want to be here.”

“I won’t be actin’.”

Behind the garage was an office. Two large men sat on either side of the door, their heads leaned against the wall, languishing in the heat like sleeping giants. But they weren’t really asleep. Through heavy lids, they assayed Emmett, deciding whether he was worth standing up for.

“I’ve come to see Luther Reed. Some mutual friends sent me.” Emmett flashed his shield.

One man lumbered into the back room. The other positioned himself squarely in front of the door, filling its frame. A minute later, the door reopened, sending an icy gust into the hall, then Emmett and Freddie were let through.

The back room was dim and frigid. An industrial air conditioner was chugging in the corner, beer bottles chilling on top. Six men were seated around a folding table playing cards. A pile of cash sat in the center. All of them had guns in their waistbands. Presumably an extra was strapped under the table as well. They continued playing without a word, flicking down cards.

Emmett said nothing. Freddie was twitching at his side, unable to
stand still. Finally, the player at the head of the table showed his hand. The others folded, and he swept the money toward his lap.

“You a patient man. Most cops ain’t,” the winner remarked. He had a slight build and empathetic eyes that gave him the appearance of being gentle. It was Luther Reed and he was anything but.

“I’m in no hurry,” Emmett told him. “It’s nice and cool in here. I could stay all day.”

Reed contemplated that. “Quite a pet you got. He housebroken?”

“Yeah, except he bites.”

Luther laughed softly. “I met a lot ’a cops in my day. I don’t think you and me’s had the pleasure.”

“No, I don’t think we have.” Emmett couldn’t play coy for long. He wouldn’t give his name unless he absolutely had to.

“I already made my contribution to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association, if that’s what you’re here about.” Reed eyed Freddie, intimating that he was the contribution.

“I didn’t come for a donation, however you are in the position to make a generous one I see.”

The game’s winnings were mounded at Reed’s elbows. He grouped the bills into a neat stack. It was his turn to be coy. He appeared to be debating whether he should tolerate a second round of police shakedowns.

“Keep it. I bet your electric bill’s a doozy.”

Surprised, Reed passed the cash to the man beside him. It went into his pocket, under his gun.

“I won’t take up too much of your time,” Emmett said. “I just need you to tell me where the other one is?”

“The other what?”

Reed was at a loss, and he didn’t like it. Emmett let him squirm for a minute, then he pinched Freddie’s neck until the kid squirmed. “Your friend here doesn’t work alone. It’s a two-man gig. I believe you’ve met the second half of the act.”

“A couple days ago. Ain’t seen him since.”

“That’s funny, because this is the last place anybody saw him. You can imagine how that might come off to those impatient sorts of cops.”

It took a second for Reed to weigh his alternatives. “Tell him,” he ordered.

“All’s we did was rough him up some,” one of the men at the table began.

Another finished. “We let ’im go. I saw him walk out onto the Strip. Swear to God.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?” Emmett asked.

The back room fell silent aside from the hum of the air conditioner. The man closest to Reed who had taken the money moved his hand to his gun. Emmett could feel Freddie go tense.

“Put ’cho goddamn hands on the table,” Reed hissed. The man did as he was told.

“Well, you all seem very sincere. I’ll be sure and pass that along so nobody else comes by to barge in on your card game.”

The chill had gone out of the room. It wasn’t cold anymore.

“Whatcha gonna do with that new pet ’a yours?” Ever the businessman, Reed was probing for his own interests. Freddie owed him money.

Emmett squeezed the kid’s neck again. “I think I’ll put him on a short leash.”

“You do that,” Reed said. “’Cause anybody can take a stray off the street and say its theirs.”

He wouldn’t dare mention the debt, yet his disappointment was obvious. Emmett’s wasn’t, though it affected him as keenly. After Luther Reed’s men had finished beating Ambrose Webster, the teen had disappeared without a trace, a stray somebody else had claimed.

The day was escaping, leaving Emmett empty-handed with nothing to show for his efforts besides Freddie, who was rubbing his neck theatrically and saying, “I thought we was gonna be acting.”

“I had to make it look real.”

“Felt pretty damn real to me.”

They got into the car and Emmett uncuffed him. Freddie massaged his wrists. “What now?”

Emmett was wondering that himself.

“Hey. Don’t you know it’s rude not to answer when somebody’s talkin’ to you?”

“Yup. I’ve heard that before.” He went for the glove compartment. Freddie withdrew from him skittishly. “Relax. We’re done acting.”

He had put the Julius Dekes file he took from the Records Room in the glove compartment.

“I’d take another candy bar if you got one.”

“Sorry. That was it.” Hunger had hit Emmett as well. It would have to hold. “Do you recognize this kid?” He showed Freddie the school photo of Dekes.

“No. Why? He dead too?”

“Actually, he is.”

“Jeez, I was just kidding.”

“You’ve never seen him?”

“I said no.”

The address for the next of kin, Dekes’s mother, Dorothea, wasn’t far from Freddie’s house. “He was your age and he was from your neighborhood. Are you sure you don’t know him?”

“Because we both brothas we got to know each other? Is that what you sayin’?”

“No. But it would help.”

“Help how?”

Emmett hadn’t intended on telling Freddie about Julius Dekes, but Webster’s trail had run cold. He would have to forge a new path.

“They had something in common, Ambrose and this kid.”

“They was Negroes. We covered that.”

“Someone cut off one of Ambrose’s fingers. The kid in the picture was killed two months ago. He was also missing a finger.” Emmett flipped to the autopsy diagram displaying where the ring finger had been scratched out.

“Don’t be showing me that stuff, man.” Freddie wrinkled his nose.

“You see the connection?”

“Yeah? And?” He was only half-heartedly convinced. It was the same response Emmett could expect from Lieutenant Ahern.

“Never mind.”

They drove in silence until they reached Freddie’s neighborhood.

“Are you taking me home?”

“No.”

“We ain’t done?”

“Done? Didn’t you hear what Reed said? He’s not going to be satisfied until he gets his two grand from you. Assuming you don’t have that saved in your piggy bank, don’t you think you might be safer with me?”

“With you? You cuff me, bring me to Luther, almost get me shot, and I’m gonna be safer with you?”

Emmett parked the car as Freddie continued to mutter bitterly.
“This’ll be safer for both of us.” He slipped the handcuffs on Freddie again, shackling him to the steering wheel. “You’re in debt to me and to Luther. I won’t hurt you to get my money. He will.”

Freddie was contorted across the front seat, seething. He was about to start swearing a blue streak.

“Now don’t scream and try to attract attention. You wouldn’t want anybody calling the cops, would you?”

The address in Julius Dekes’s file was a tenement on Treacy Avenue. Three elderly black women were sitting on the stoop. They were fanning themselves with folded newspapers while a toddler maneuvered a slot car around their feet.

“I’m here to see Dorothea Dekes. Can you ladies tell me if she’s home?”

One nodded warily, and they watched Emmett go inside.

Dorothea Dekes answered her door while wiping water from her hands with a rag. She had been washing dishes. Two young girls clung to her legs. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Dekes?” He let her see his badge.

“Yes?” she repeated.

Emmett introduced himself. “May I talk to you about your son, Julius, ma’am?”

Her expression saddened. “Go on in your room,” she told the girls, then she invited him in.

A pot was boiling on the stove. Though Emmett was starving, the smell told him what she was cooking wasn’t anything he would care to eat. Simmering lye in water was a home remedy for warding off rats and roaches.

“I have to admit I don’t recall you,” Mrs. Dekes said, offering him a seat at the kitchen dinette. Her hair was combed into a bouffant, and her dress had been ironed into sharp angles. “Were you one of the detectives who came here after they found him?”

“No, ma’am. That wasn’t me.”

“I only saw them that one time. I went to the police station and the man at the desk said they were out. I went twice more. He said the same thing.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Serletto and Hochwald had discarded the case. They were the last people Emmett would make excuses for. There was no excuse.

“Did you find who killed him? Is that why you’re here?” Her voice held cautious hope.

“Not yet.”

“But you’re still looking?”

Emmett couldn’t close Vernon Young’s case, and he’d had misgivings about taking Ambrose Webster’s. Here he was signing on for another. He held as cautious a hope as Dorothea Dekes that this wasn’t an error in judgment.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m still looking.”

She reached out and rubbed his hand, grateful. “I knew it. I knew those officers couldn’t see me because they were busy searching for who did this to Julius. Everybody told me I was wrong, that the police had gave up on him. But I knew they hadn’t. In my heart, I believed.”

Emmett didn’t have it in his heart to tell her otherwise.

“Could you go over some things with me, Mrs. Dekes? I was, um, recently assigned to help the detectives with Julius’s case,” he lied, “and I wanted to get the background from you in person.”

“Of course. Of course.” She was eager to help. “I was at the nursing home where I work. I have the dinner shift. I don’t get home until midnight. I would always leave food for supper, and Julius would heat it up for his sisters and him. When I got back that night, the girls were awake. They were crying, saying Julius never came. That wasn’t like him. He was a good student, a good boy. He was going to be a schoolteacher,” she said, his aspirations evidence of his virtue. “I waited up all night. When I telephoned the police, they said he must have run away. They called me a week later to come to the morgue.”

“Would Julius have been heading here straight from school?”

“No, he played basketball with some friends. I talked to them boys myself. I asked them if they saw where Julius went. Everybody said they saw him walk home same as usual.” The pot of lye was bubbling on the burner, filling in the silence and adding to the heat. Her son had vanished, just as Ambrose Webster had.

“I couldn’t afford the funeral on my own. The casket had to be made special because of how big Julius was. Our church had a collection. It was a beautiful service, so many flowers.” Her mind seemed to wander, then she was back. “Are you a churchgoing man, Detective Emmett?”

“Not as much as I used to be.”

“I’ll put you in my prayers tonight. I’ll pray you’ll get who did this to my baby.”

Mrs. Dekes rubbed Emmett’s hand again, as if it was he who needed consoling. When he stood to go, the two young girls were at the door to their bedroom, staring up at him. The smallest was sucking her thumb. Emmett wasn’t even in his own prayers. Being in someone else’s couldn’t hurt.

The women on the stoop stopped their talking when Emmett stepped outside, all except for the one who had the toddler on her knee. She was teaching him how to count, folding down his fingers one at a time. The boy was mesmerized. He stared at her mouth as she said the words aloud: “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”

Emmett was overcome by the skidding feeling of a sudden realization. Julius Dekes was missing his ring finger, Ambrose Webster his pointer. They were out of sequence.

He hurried to the car. Freddie had commandeered the driver’s seat. “Move,” Emmett ordered.

Freddie scooted across to the passenger side as far as he could with the cuffs on. He had Julius Dekes’s autopsy report in his lap. He had been reading it.

“I thought you didn’t want to see that stuff.” Emmett unlocked the cuffs.

“Wasn’t anything else to do. What’s the rush?”

“I have a problem.”

“I coulda told you that.”

Emmett leaned over to get his radio out from under the passenger seat.

“What’s that thing?”

“A radio.”

“Don’t look like no radio I ever seen.”

“My brother built it. It was a gift.”

“Maybe you oughta ask for somethin’ else next year.”

The radio was a clunky amalgam of parts Edward had patchworked together, topped off with a big dial from an old Packard Bell. He had a knack for taking things apart and reassembling them and could breeze through issues of
Popular Mechanics
as effortlessly as reading the comics, a talent their father shared, which Emmett hadn’t inherited. Edward had given him the radio his third year on the force, tuned specially to pick up the police band. It was too cumbersome to carry on foot patrol, but Edward had made it for him to have in case of an emergency. Emmett’s current situation qualified.

A joggle of the tuner and the frequency came in clear. Dispatch was announcing that, citywide, officers were being put on mandatory emergency duty, twelve-hour shifts on and twelve off. All vacation days were suspended until further notice.

“Sucks for you,” Freddie said.

Emmett shushed him, listening. It was almost seven, and the rally was about to get under way. The dispatcher ordered those in patrol cars to stay by their radios because a dozen picketers had planted themselves outside the Fourth Precinct. No other commands were issued.

“Now you gonna take me home?” Freddie groaned. “I’m hot. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And I’m sicka being in this damn car.”

Sunset hadn’t put a dent in the weather. The humidity curdled the air. Emmett was hot and tired and hungry too, and he had a sickening sense that with nightfall would come more violence.