The Night Gardener

  “My son,” said the woman.

  Ramone looked over at Rhonda, who had not bothered to unholster her Glock. She wiggled her eyebrows at him, the signal that she was fine.

  Arturo Conconi came through the front door, his hand on the grip of his sidearm.

  “Put this gentleman in the back of your car,” said Ramone, “and follow us down to VCB.”

  “Why’d you have to rough me?” said Tinsley. “You split my lip and shit.”

  “You shoulda said your name,” said Ramone. “We asked you nice.”

  “Would’ve saved you some hurt,” said Rhonda.

  Rhonda apologized to the mother for the trouble. Ramone and Conconi led Tinsley from the house.

  THIRTY-ONE

  T. C. COOK SAT in his office, several files open before him. The victims of the Palindrome Murders each had their own. He had compiled a fairly complete record of their lives, including photos, both of the family variety and individual and group shots from school. He knew that there were those in the force, especially during his last months of service, who thought he had crossed the border from diligence to obsession. But someone had to be on it.

  Cook had stayed directly connected to the case for a couple of years. By the third killing, anger in the Southeast community had focused on the police force, the presumption being that the case was not being prioritized because the victims were black. Cook eventually earned the residents’ trust. He had advised a neighborhood citizen task force with tips on how to keep their kids safe. Then concerns about drug murders began to supersede those related to the child killings, which had seemingly stopped, and the talk at the meetings turned to matters regarding gangs, dealers, and crack cocaine. As for the relatives of the victims, they formed a group called Palindrome Parents and met twice a month, more for therapy than anything else. Cook attended these meetings as well.

  But after a year or so he lost touch with them. One couple, the mother and father of Ava Simmons, was separated from the start. Another got divorced soon after the murder of their son, Otto Williams. The father of Eve Drake committed suicide on the second anniversary of the discovery of his daughter’s body. The mother had become close to catatonic and was committed to a mental institution the following winter.

  Cook studied the photographs. Otto Williams, a smart young man who liked to build things, wore eyeglasses, and, despite his nerdy appearance, was popular with his peers. Ava Simmons, thirteen when she was murdered, with the body of a girl in her late teens, funny, sassy by all accounts, not much of a student but street smart, and devoted to her grandmother, who lived in the family’s house. And Eve Drake, the double-Dutch girl who had traveled to tournaments and won awards that she proudly displayed in her immaculate room.

  Cook felt their presence in the room.

  The doorbell rang out. Cook went to the front of the house and let Holiday inside. Holiday was wearing his black suit.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” said Holiday.

  “I c-couldn’t get the number right. You need to program it into my speed dial. Might as well do that now.”

  “Did you talk to your lieutenant friend?”

  “I got it. Come on in.”

  They went into the kitchen. Cook poured Holiday a cup of coffee while Holiday programmed Cook’s cell.

  “Thanks,” said Holiday, as Cook put the cup of coffee before him. “What do you got?”

  “The officer’s name is Grady Dunne,” said Cook. “Six-year veteran. White dude, like you said.”

  “Is he working tonight?”

  “He’s on the eight-to-four today. We can catch him clocking out.”

  “Beautiful,” said Holiday. “I’ve got an airport run that should take me a couple of hours. I can be at the station by four, no problem.”

  “We just gonna follow him?”

  “A double should do it. It’s harder to burn a tail like that.”

  “We’ll see what he’s about,” said Cook.

  Holiday reached into each of his jacket side pockets and pulled out two Motorola professional-grade walkie-talkies. He put them on the table.

  “I bring these when I’m working a team with my security business,” said Holiday. “Six-mile capability. The beauty is, they’re voice activated. You can drive and use them at the same time.”

  “And no numbers for me to mess up.”

  “We’ll be golden.”

  “I’ve got some good binoculars in the trunk of my Marquis. Maybe you better take ’em. You can ID him as he comes out of the station.”

  “Right.” Holiday looked at the clock on the wall, its hands off by hours. He got up out of his chair, took the clock down, flipped it over, and reset the time. He matched the hole on the back of it to the nail coming out of the wall and straightened it. “There you go.”

  It had made Holiday sad to look at the clock as it was. He had reset it for himself, not the old man.

  “Makes no difference to me,” said Cook. “But thanks.”

  “So your El Salvador lady knows the correct time.”

  “All right, friend.”

  “T.C.…”

  “What?”

  “I talked to Ramone.”

  “You told me. He wouldn’t make the call and find the identity of the patrol car’s driver. I wouldn’t have done it for you, either, you want the truth.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just, I sensed from his voice, the urgency in it, I mean, that he was getting close on the Asa Johnson murder.”

  “You don’t think Asa Johnson’s connected to the Palindrome killings, do you?”

  “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  “I won’t be,” said Cook. “It’s going to sound callous, I know, but I’ve had fun these past few days. No, fun’s not the right word. I’ve had purpose. When I’ve woken up these last couple of mornings, my eyes came wide open; do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “So let’s just see where this leads us. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And knock off that ‘sir’ bullshit, too. I never made it past sergeant, young man.”

  “Right.” Holiday took a long swig of his coffee and placed the mug back on the table. “I’ve got to take off.”

  “See you at four,” said Cook.

  He stayed in the kitchen and listened as Holiday closed the front door behind him. Cook could hear the thin voices of the police Internet site, dispatcher to patrolman, coming from his computer. And something else: the faint sound of children laughing. Knowing that it was not possible, knowing, too, that he was not alone.

  CONRAD GASKINS SAT ON the edge of his bed, rubbing one finger in small circles on the scar that ran down his cheek. Behind him, atop the sheets, was a duffel bag filled with damn near everything he owned. It was clothes, mostly, the majority being underwear, khakis, and T-shirts he wore to work. He had a couple of button-down shirts and a pair of slacks, but as far as nice shit went, that was it. Clothing, his shaving kit, one pair of sneakers, and the Glock Romeo had given him. He’d get rid of it later, but he wasn’t gonna leave that behind. Another weapon was not something his cousin needed.

  Too many beers the night before had caused him to sleep through his alarm clock. He had missed the pickup at the shape-up spot for the first time since he’d been lucky enough to find work.

  Gaskins had phoned the foreman, the ex-con Christian who had seen fit to give him a chance, on the job site. And after he apologized and pleaded for the man to forgive him, he felt a rush of emotion come to him, and the words poured free.

  “I am in a real bad situation here,” said Gaskins. “If I don’t get free of it I am going to die or get myself sent back to the joint. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to kill no one. All’s I want is to work an honest day and be paid honest in return.”

  Gaskins told the foreman, whose name was Paul, a little bit more of his situation but nothing too specific. He told Paul about his aunt Mina, Romeo’s mother, and the promise he had
made to her to look after her son.

  “You’ve done everything for him that you can do,” said Paul. “Grab your gear, walk out that house, and call me when you’re ready. I’ll meet you down at the end of your road.”

  “But where I’m gonna stay at?”

  “I got a couch. Until you find something, you’ll stay with me.”

  “You can take some money out my pay.”

  “Forget about that, Conrad. Just call me, hear?”

  Gaskins had thought hard on it most of the day. He had made the call and now he was packed and ready to go. He’d considered Mina Brock and what he’d promised. Romeo hadn’t even visited her for some time. He, Conrad Gaskins, would be her son now. She’d understand, even if she couldn’t say it in words. He knew this, and still he felt guilt.

  Gaskins Velcroed the straps of his duffel bag together, picked it up, and walked from the room.

  Romeo Brock, not long awake from a nap, heard his cousin’s footsteps. He rolled off his mattress and touched his feet to the floor. He stretched and looked at the two Gucci suitcases set beside his dresser. Then he went to the dresser, where he kept his wallet, keys, and cigarettes. He automatically checked that they were there every time he got out of bed.

  Also on the dresser were his Gold Cup .45 and his ice pick. The tip of the pick was corked. Romeo liked to tape it to his calf. When he grabbed the handle and pulled it free, the tape naturally knocked off the tip. He might have seen this in a movie, but over time he had convinced himself that he’d thought of it himself. A man wasn’t stupid who could invent a system like that.

  Brock, shirtless, lit a Kool and tossed the dead match into the tire-shaped ashtray. He slid his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and walked barefoot from his bedroom. He went down the hall, past his cousin’s room, and out into the open living room. Conrad was seated on the couch, his duffel bag at his feet.

  Brock took a drag off his cigarette, double-dragged, and let out a long stream of smoke.

  “You dippin out?” said Brock.

  “I’m done, Romeo.”

  “You ain’t got the heart for it no more.”

  “Killin and robbing is easy. It’s the consequences.… I don’t want no part of it, man.”

  “We almost there,” said Brock. “Least you can do is stay till we cut it up. Take your share and then, if you want to, go.”

  “That’s blood money. I don’t want it. And I don’t want to be here to watch you go down.”

  “Shit. Me?”

  “You don’t think it’s gonna happen? Even your boy Red Fury exceeded his grasp. When he was getting stabbed to death in that prison yard, do you think he was boastin? Was he prideful of his rep? Nah, cuz. He was cryin for his mama, most likely. The way all men do in the end.”

  “But I’m just getting started.”

  “You already done,” said Gaskins. “A guy like you has success against chumps and kids, but there’s a ceiling. You make a score like you did the other day, you start spending, and then you got a standard of living to maintain. So you gonna steal bigger and bigger until you step on someone’s toes you shouldn’t have. That someone then puts a contract out on you and, bam, it’s over. Hell, boy, you might already have sealed your fate. You took that girl with you, you made a big mistake. That Broad-ass fella got to know where she works at. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday some killer’s gonna follow her out to this house. Whoever’s fifty grand was you stole, most likely. So, yeah, cousin. You done.”

  “Good thing I love you, man. I wouldn’t let no one else talk to me that way.”

  “I love you, too. But I can’t stay.”

  Gaskins got up off the couch and hugged Romeo Brock. He broke free and picked up his duffel bag.

  “Take care of my mother,” said Brock.

  “You know I will,” said Gaskins. “That’s my heart.”

  Brock watched through the front window as Gaskins passed under the tulip poplar and walked on the gravel road toward Hill.

  Brock could still catch up to Conrad if he ran to him now. Talk some sense into him, stop him from leaving. But he stood there instead, smoking his cigarette and tapping its ash to the hardwood floor.

  THIRTY-TWO

  RAMONE ENTERED THE video monitor room at VCB with a fried-chicken sandwich and can of soda in hand. It was late in the afternoon, and he had not eaten lunch. Rhonda had processed Aldan Tinsley while Ramone made the carry-out run.

  Antonelli sat in a chair, his feet up on a table, his ankle holster and Glock fully visible. On screen 1, Bo Green was going at Dominique Lyons, who apparently had been informed of Darcia Johnson’s on-camera testimony and cooperation. His face was contorted in anger, and he had been leg-ironed to the stool. Bo Green sat back, his hands folded on his belly, his expression neutral, his voice calm and soft.

  “Bo just told Dominique that we’ve got the man who sold him the gun,” said Antonelli. “And that that same gun was the weapon used in a homicide the night before. Check him out. Our boy don’t look so pimpin now.”

  Onscreen, Dominique leaned forward and punched his fist on the table.

  “Bullshit,” said Dominique. “Y’all can’t charge me on no other murder. I ain’t stupid enough to buy a gun got a body attached to it.”

  “Beano told you it was clean?” said Bo Green.

  “Damn right that motherfucker did.”

  “Where’d he get the gun, then?”

  “I don’t know. Ask his punk ass where he got it.”

  “We plan to,” said Green.

  Antonelli dropped his feet to the floor and nodded his chin at screen 2, where Rhonda sat with Aldan Tinsley. “Your booster’s not saying much.”

  “He will,” said Ramone.

  “Rhonda hurt?”

  “That door barely touched her. She went back like she’d been hit by a Mack truck.”

  “Woman’s got acting skills.”

  “Along with everything else.”

  They watched Rhonda go back and forth with Aldan Tinsley and make no progress. Ramone ate his chicken sandwich with the ferocity of an animal, killed his soda, and tossed the can in the trash.

  “Think I’ll go in,” said Ramone.

  Antonelli watched the screen, saw Rhonda turn her head at a knock on the door. Then Ramone entered the box. He had a seat next to his partner and placed his hands on the table.

  For the third time that day, Ramone loosened his tie. It was warm in the box, and he could smell his own body odor in the room. He had played basketball in these clothes a few hours earlier. He had wrestled with Tinsley. He felt as if he had been wearing this suit and dress shirt for a week.

  “Hello, Aldan,” said Ramone.

  Aldan Tinsley nodded. His lips were swollen from where he’d hit the floor. He looked like a duck.

  “You comfortable?”

  “My mouth hurts,” said Tinsley. “I think you loosed up one of my teeth.”

  “Assault on a police officer is a very serious charge.”

  “I apologized to the detective here. Didn’t I?”

  “You did,” said Rhonda.

  “I ain’t mean to hit her with that door. It’s just, I was upset. Y’all ain’t say why you were there to see me, and I been having too many run-ins with the law lately. I’m just tired of it. Tired of being harassed, too. But listen, I wasn’t lookin to hurt no one.”

  “Serious as it is,” said Ramone, “the assault charge is the least of your worries right now.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “Dominique Lyons. You know the name?”

  “I don’t recall it.”

  “Five minutes ago Dominique Lyons told us that he purchased a gun from you on Wednesday night. A thirty-eight Special. The girl who was with him when he purchased the revolver has confirmed that it was you who made the sale.”

  Tinsley’s lip trembled.

  “The gun was used by Lyons in the commission of a homicide later that night.”

  “You ain’t hear me? I w
ant… a fucking lawyer.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said Ramone. “I’d get a whole team of lawyers, I was you. Felony gun charges, accessory to homicides…”

  “Man, I ain’t did no motherfuckin homicide. I buy things and I sell things. I ain’t no killer.”

  Ramone grinned. “I said homicides, Beano.”

  “Nah. Uh-uh.”

  “I wonder if you can tell us your whereabouts this past Tuesday night.”

  “Tuesday night?”

  “Tuesday,” said Rhonda.

  “I visited this girl on Tuesday night,” said Tinsley, relief at the change of direction plain on his face.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Flora Tolson. I been knowin her awhile. She can, like, verify that I was there.”

  “Where?” said Ramone.

  “She stay up off Kansas Avenue.”

  “Where off Kansas?” said Rhonda.

  “I don’t know exactly. Above Blair Road.”

  Ramone and Rhonda exchanged a glance.

  “What were you doing there?” said Rhonda.

  “I was gyratin. What you think?”

  “And you left her house what time?”

  “It was late. We had a long visit. After midnight, I expect.”

  “And what, you drove straight home?”

  “No, I…” Tinsley stopped talking.

  “You walked,” said Ramone.

  “On account of that DWI you’re carryin on your sheet,” said Rhonda.

  “You got no driver’s license,” said Ramone.

  “Gyratin player like you, walkin to your dates,” said Rhonda.

  “I want a lawyer,” said Tinsley.

  “And the way you would walk to your home on Milmarson,” said Ramone, “is through that community garden they got on Oglethorpe Street.”

  “Fuck y’all,” said Tinsley. “I ain’t kill that kid.”

  “What kid?” said Ramone.

  “I’ll take a gun charge,” said Tinsley. “But not a murder.”

  Ramone leaned forward. “What kid?”

  Tinsley’s shoulders relaxed. “I found that gun.”

  “Found it where?”