The Night Gardener

  “You see Detective Ramone?” said Cook.

  “Yeah, I saw him.”

  “He update you on the Johnson case?”

  “We talked about it.” Holiday hesitated for a moment. “Nothing concrete yet.”

  The silence from the radio told Holiday that Cook knew this was a lie.

  Two young men walked by Holiday’s car. They wore shorts reaching to their calves, the edges deliberately frayed. The sleeves on one of the boys’ T-shirts had been cut into strips and braided, the braids ending in tiny balls. There was a character drawn in glitter on the front of the shirt. The faces of the young men were identical. One of them smiled at Holiday as they passed. Holiday believed that despite his black suit and car, they had tagged him as some kind of police. That pleased him.

  In the Marquis, T. C. Cook wiped sweat off his forehead. He had been feeling a little dizzy. He wasn’t used to working, is all it was. The anticipation of the chase had ticked up his blood.

  “Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s hot in this damn car. I’m sweatin, man.”

  “Drink some water,” said Holiday.

  He looked through the binoculars as the blond man came out of the station’s rear door and walked toward a late-model deep green Ford Explorer. Dunne wore an oversize polo shirt out over jeans and wheat-colored work boots. Department regulations required officers to wear their gun at all times, even off duty. From the size of the shirt, Holiday assumed that Dunne’s Glock was holstered at the small of his back.

  “Get ready, Sarge. He’s in his car and he’s about to pull out.”

  “Right.”

  “If he goes north, I’ll let you take point. Keep your cell on, in case these radios fail.”

  “Got it, young man.”

  “He’s on Peabody,” said Holiday. “He’s coming up to Georgia.”

  “Copy.”

  As the Explorer turned right and headed up Georgia Avenue, Holiday said, “You.”

  They followed Dunne up the avenue. Cook kept himself back behind several cars but stayed on the Explorer, blowing yellows and one red light to do so. Holiday’s mission was to keep Cook’s Marquis in sight and in that way trust that Dunne was not far ahead. By radio, Holiday learned that Cook was on it.

  Dunne crossed over the District line into downtown Silver Spring, a virtual canyon of growing congestion consisting of tall buildings, chain restaurants, new lampposts fashioned to appear antique, a brick street, and other town-center affectations. Dunne turned right on Elsworth and then hung a left into a parking garage.

  “What should I do?” said Cook, holding the two-way in front of his mouth.

  “Park on the street and relax,” said Holiday. “I’ll take it now and get back to you.”

  Holiday passed Cook, pulling into a space on Elsworth, and drove into the garage. He took a ticket at the gate and went up a ramp, going level to level until he saw the Explorer pulling into a space high in the structure. Holiday parked and watched Dunne as he got out of the Ford and went to a concrete bridge that ran between the garage and a newly constructed hotel.

  To Holiday, hotels were for women and alcohol. He waited for ten minutes and then put on his chauffeur’s cap and walked the footbridge, taking the same path as Dunne.

  Holiday entered the hotel. The garage entrance led to a hall and a business office and then gave to an open area with a reception desk, sitting area, and bar. Dunne was at the bar, a glass of something clear before him. He was obviously alone, though there were others seated at the stick. Dunne’s back was to Holiday, and so he moved with confidence to the sitting area nearby and took a cushioned chair near a small table holding magazines. It would not be unusual for a driver to be here, waiting on a client to come down from his or her room. Holiday opened a magazine and kept an eye on Dunne.

  He’s drinking vodka, thought Holiday.

  It’s got no smell. But it does. And it shows on you, too. You’re sitting in a bland hotel bar because you’re that kind of police. You’ve got no friends, other than your fellow cops, and you’re not too sure about them. No family and no home to speak of. An apartment, but that doesn’t count. You’re alone when you’re not riding your district. You’ve got nowhere to go. You’re lost.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” said a young man with a hotel name tag pinned to his chest. He had come up on Holiday and was standing before him with his fingers laced together.

  “I’m waiting on a client,” said Holiday.

  “Would you like to use our desk phone to call him?”

  “He’ll be along.”

  Dunne finished his drink quickly, ordered another, and started in on it with intent. He had not turned around. With the exception of the bartender, he had not tried to make conversation with any of the people around him.

  From across the room, Holiday waited and watched.

  “WHERE YOUR COUSIN AT?” said Chantel Richards.

  “Conrad’s gone,” said Romeo Brock. “He ain’t comin back.”

  “Why?”

  Brock tucked in the tails of his shirt.

  Chantel had come from work and found Brock in the bedroom at the back of the house. He was buttoning his red rayon shirt, standing by the dresser as she walked inside. His gun was atop the dresser, along with a box of bullets, a pack of Kools, matches, a cell. Beside the dresser were the two Gucci suitcases. The one on the right held fifty thousand dollars. The one on the left held Chantel’s clothes.

  “Why he leave, Romeo?”

  “He thinks we gonna have some trouble,” said Brock. “He might be right.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The kind involves men and guns. But look, we gonna be fine.”

  “I didn’t sign up for this,” said Chantel.

  “Sure you did,” said Brock. “When you walked out of Fat Tommy’s with me you bought a ticket for the full ride. But it’s gonna be a good one, and we ain’t even started yet. You know who Red and Coco was, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that story’s too long to tell. But I know you heard of Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Woman stood by her man, didn’t she? They lived right and took no one’s shit.”

  “But they died in the end, Romeo.”

  “It’s how they rode on the way there.” Romeo walked over to Chantel and kissed her soft lips. “Can’t no one kill me, girl. Not till I made my rep. My name’s gonna ring out strong before anything happens to me.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be.” Brock stepped back. “I’m gonna go make a call, and then I’m gonna sit out there in the living room. You lock the door behind me and don’t worry about a thing. We straight?”

  “Yes, Romeo.”

  “That’s my girl. My very own Coco.”

  He took his cigarettes, matches, and cell off the dresser and stashed them in various pockets. He picked up the Colt and the brick of ammunition and walked from the room.

  Chantel thumbed in the push-lock on the doorknob and turned on the bedside clock radio, set on KYS. If she was going to cry, she didn’t want Romeo to hear it. She had a seat on the edge of the bed. She laced her fingers together and rubbed one thumb over the other, and looked out the window to the small backyard bordered by a forest of maple, oak, and pine. If she could find the backbone, she’d run into those woods. But her courage didn’t come, and she stayed in place, rubbing at her hands.

  GUS RAMONE SAT IN Leo’s, drinking a Beck’s, his notebook on the bar. It was unusual for him to go anywhere but back to his family after work. He liked this place and the off-beat neighborhood crowd. That was part of why he’d come. The other part was, he just didn’t feel like going home. He knew he’d have to talk to Diego. But he wasn’t ready to tell him about Asa just yet.

  Two men were beside him, talking about the song that was coming from the juke. They stopped to sing the chorus, and when the verse came they resumed their discussion.

&nb
sp; “‘Closed for the Season,’” said the first man. “Brenda Holloway.”

  “That’s Bettye Swann,” said the second. “Brenda Holloway did that song that Blood, Sweat and Tears made famous.”

  “I don’t care if she did one for Pacific Gas and Electric. This is Brenda singin right here.”

  “Bettye Swann. And if I’m wrong, I’ll kiss the star on your dog’s ass.”

  “How ’bout you kiss mines?”

  Ramone drank from the bottle and swallowed cold beer. Asa’s journal occupied his thoughts.

  There was no question now concerning the cause of death. Asa’s last entry in the journal had been made on the day of his passing and was a veritable suicide note. He couldn’t live up to his father’s expectations. He hated his father and loved him. He was certain that he had been born gay and equally certain that his desires would never change. He couldn’t bear the thought of his father’s reaction if he were to find out. He didn’t want to think about facing his friends. Asa could no longer live with who he was. He prayed that God would give him the courage to pull the trigger when the time came. He knew a quiet place were he could do it. He knew where he could get a gun. Death would be a relief.

  The passages in the journal detailing Asa’s homosexual experiences had unsettled Ramone. Asa had experimented first with phone sex and then, through the Internet and ads placed in local alternative papers, he had met men at predetermined locations near his home. At the end, he was seeing a partner, considerably older than he, whom he identified only as RoboMan. Asa wrote that this man was infatuated with him. For his part, Asa did not speak of his emotional feelings but rather the physical aspect of their relationship. They had engaged in oral and anal sex. There was no indication of rape or coercion. Ramone had to assume that the sex had been consensual. Consensual, perhaps. But not legal, given Asa’s age.

  Ramone opened his notebook on the bar. He began to read through the pertinent remarks he had recorded during his interviews.

  RoboMan.

  RoboCop. That was the first thought that came to Ramone. Could Asa’s lover have been Dunne, the police officer he’d met at the crime scene? The same officer Holiday had seen driving by the garden the night he’d discovered Asa’s body?

  Then Ramone read something that he’d written just yesterday.

  “Defensive,” said Ramone, his voice unheard under the Bettye Swann vocal and sweet horns filling the room.

  He raised one finger, caught the attention of the bartender, and ordered another beer.

  He’d sit here at Leo’s and drink this one slow. The next order of business was the gun.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  RAYMOND BENJAMIN PULLED over behind the Maxima on Hill Road and waited for Michael Tate and Ernest Henderson to come to him. He had phoned Henderson, told him he was nearby, and told him and Tate to bring their guns and get in his car when he arrived. He watched as they approached, Henderson with confidence in his step, ready to put work in. Tate looking more like a young man about to go clubbing or attend a fashion show than an enforcer.

  Benjamin had been tight with Tate’s older brother, a man named William who went by Dink, when both of them were full in the game. Dink had stood tall at Benjamin’s trial, and because of that Benjamin had drawn a light sentence. Someone had rolled on Dink, so he took the full federal jolt, his lack of cooperation on the stand an added negative factor at his sentencing. Benjamin would never forget what Dink had done for him. He sent a little money to Dink’s mother regularly and had put his younger brother Mikey on, even though he was unsuited for this type of work. He used Tate mainly in the car business. He took Tate with him to auction up in Jersey and allowed him to detail the vehicles before delivery. He had never used him for anything like this.

  Tate and Henderson got into the backseat of Benjamin’s S500. It was an immaculate, roomy, black-over-tan Mercedes with two DVD screens, well appointed with real wood and fine leather. Benjamin needed the space, as he was a very tall, broad-shouldered man.

  “Talk about it,” said Benjamin.

  “Girl took that gravel road on foot,” said Henderson. “Mikey went up there through the woods. He can tell you what he saw.”

  “Two houses,” said Tate. “One at the head of the road, one far back. She went into the house at the back.”

  “Anyone in that first house?”

  “Not that I could see. Wasn’t no cars there.”

  “Looks like they all park out here, anyway,” said Benjamin.

  “ ’Cause there ain’t no way out back there,” said Tate. “It dead-ends.”

  “Man’s bein careful,” said Benjamin, his eyes in the rearview on Tate. “Can you get there through the woods?”

  “Either side is trees, all the way to the second house. Behind it, too.”

  “I’m not about steppin through those woods in the evening,” said Benjamin. He feared no man but was frightened of snakes.

  “We can wait,” said Henderson. “Another hour it’ll be full dark; we can walk right up the road.”

  “We need to do this now,” said Benjamin. “I don’t want to be sittin out here with guns in the car. Y’all are tooled up, right?”

  “We’re ready,” said Henderson, lifting up his blue shirt and showing the checkered grip of a nine-millimeter Beretta holstered under his jeans. Tate nodded but did not feel the need to show Benjamin his gun.

  “Okay, then,” said Benjamin, still looking at Tate. “Mikey, you go on in. I’m gonna have you cover the back of the house.”

  “I can do that.”

  “That girl or anyone else comes out back, you know what needs to be done.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Ray.”

  “Go on, then. When it’s over, buck and run. We’ll meet back here at the cars.”

  Benjamin and Henderson watched as Tate jogged down Hill Road and then cut right into the woods.

  “He don’t have it,” said Henderson.

  “But you do,” said Benjamin.

  Henderson burned with pride. “I’m hyped, Ray. For real.”

  “These motherfuckers took me off and shot my nephew.”

  “Said I was ready.”

  “Hold that attitude for ten minutes,” said Benjamin. “Let youngun get to his position. Then we’ll go in.”

  HOLIDAY AND COOK TAILED Grady Dunne back down into the District after he left the hotel bar. This time Holiday was on point. They speculated via radio as to Dunne’s destination. He was taking his time moving through the city. He had made his way to Kenilworth Avenue, and then Minnesota, into Southeast.

  “He’s headed out of town,” said Holiday, as Dunne got off Minnesota Avenue and hit East Capitol toward the Maryland line.

  East Capitol became Central Avenue far inside the Beltway in Prince George’s County. They were on the border of Seat Pleasant and Capitol Heights. They passed new developments, older homes, strip malls, young men walking down the road. It was less a suburb than an extension of Southeast, D.C.

  Holiday eased the gas and faded back. Then he saw Dunne’s turn signal and watched as he made a left into a gas-and-convenience mart up ahead.

  “Holy shit,” said Holiday into the radio.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Get in your right lane and follow me into the lot of that strip mall.”

  As Cook got closer, he saw the convenience market, and Dunne’s Explorer stopping at a pump.

  “Goddamn right,” said Cook. “That’s where Reginald Wilson works.”

  “Hurry up and pull over.”

  Cook drove into the lot of the run-down strip mall. He pulled into a space alongside Holiday, facing Central Avenue. Holiday got out of the Town Car with binoculars in hand and slid into the Marquis beside Cook. Cook was sweating and his eyes were bright.

  “I knew it,” said Cook.

  “We don’t know anything yet,” said Holiday, looking through the glasses as Dunne pumped gas into the Ford.

  “Wilson’s in there,” said Cook. ?
??There’s his Buick, parked beside the market.”

  “Okay, he’s in there. That doesn’t mean the two of them are connected. For all we know, Dunne just stopped to get some gas.”

  “So, what, we’re gonna do nothing?”

  “No.” Holiday lowered the binoculars and put them on the seat next to Cook. “Take these. Keep your eyes on the market.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m gonna stay on Dunne. Figure out a way to talk to him. He’ll be off guard.… It’s the best time.”

  “And I’m supposed to, what, sit here on my behind?”

  “Make sure Wilson doesn’t go anywhere,” said Holiday, who didn’t want Cook slowing him down. “If he does, tail him.”

  “Stay in radio contact?”

  “If I brace Dunne, I’m turning my walkie off. I don’t want him to know I’m working with anyone. I’ll report back to you when I’m done.”

  “All right.”

  Holiday looked at Cook, his shirt damp with sweat. “Why don’t you take that jacket off, Sarge?”

  “I’m working, young man.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Doc?” Cook extended his hand, and Holiday gripped it. “Thank you.”

  “Forget it,” said Holiday. He left the Marquis and got into his Lincoln. He drove to the strip mall’s exit and let the Town Car idle.

  Dunne had entered the market. A few minutes later, he emerged from its front door, talking on his cell as he headed for his Ford. Cook watched him pull out of the lot, and he watched as Holiday waited patiently and fell in behind him on Central Avenue. Then both of them were gone.

  Cook leaned his arm on the lip of the driver’s-side window and put the binoculars to his eyes. He lowered them and stared at the Buick in the lot. He knew that Holiday had not told the truth about Ramone’s progress. Ramone had broken through on the Johnson case, most likely. Now Holiday was pursuing Grady Dunne alone because he felt that he, Cook, was an old man. Too old to police. Baggage on a tail. Cook wasn’t going to sit here and watch a parked car. Reginald Wilson wasn’t going anywhere. He sure wasn’t going home anytime soon. That’s why Cook needed to get hisself over to Wilson’s house. Make something happen now, show these younger men that he still had game.