D.C. Noir

  Now, with his tan canvas satchel slung over his right shoulder, Cort walked slowly, absorbing the scene. The rain had quit, and the night was warm and humid.

  To Cort’s left, two dozen spectators, mostly Latino adults, stood in front of the faux-marble pillars at the top of the concrete steps of Sacred Heart Catholic Church.

  The damage was concentrated in a three-block strip of 16th Street, dominated on both sides by medium-and low-rise apartment buildings.

  On one corner, a lean, thirtyish, sandy-haired Franciscan priest in a thick brown robe talked with a group of officers. Father Dave Lowell, a Sacred Heart priest.

  A few months before, Cort had written a feature story on the church, focusing on Father Dave, who’d worked at a parish in Guatemala. Cort shadowed Father Dave as poor immigrants streamed into his office.

  A teenage girl who’d been raped by a family friend was distraught that she’d sinned. Father Dave gently assured her she’d done nothing wrong, and convinced her to call the police. Another woman brought in her toddler son for a special blessing; the kid had an infected eye. Father Dave blessed the kid, then had a church worker drive the woman and her son to a health clinic.

  Father Dave was the real deal. Cort had grown up in a church where the parish priest dished out hellfire and brim-stone, when he wasn’t boozing it up. Cort had lost touch with his faith a long time ago. But he believed in Father Dave.

  A month after the piece ran, an old girlfriend was visiting from California when she got word that her father had died in a car wreck. She cried all night. At daybreak, Cort took her to see Father Dave. He spent an hour with her while Cort waited outside the office. She emerged feeling better. Cort was grateful.

  Cort waved to Father Dave. The priest trotted over.

  “Cortez, I thought I might see you tonight. How are you?”

  “Fine, Father.” He looked around. “How’d this happen?”

  “It’s been brewing for a while. There’s so much tension between Latinos and the police. The shooting was like a flame to a tinderbox.”

  Cort nodded. “What about the shooting?”

  Father Dave shrugged. “I’ve probably heard what you’ve heard. The police say the man pulled a knife. There’s rumors that he was handcuffed. There’s probably a lot of misinformation going around.”

  Cort suppressed a chuckle. Driving over, he’d tuned in to an all-news station. A radio reporter had breathlessly noted that the violence erupted on the Mexican holiday Cinco de Mayo, and speculated on a connection. Mount Pleasant was Salvadoran territory, with Hondurans, Guatemalans, and Nicaraguans mixed in.

  Cort said, “Yeah, bad information. Thanks, Father. I’ve got to roam now.”

  “Good to see you, Cortez. Drop by anytime. You’re always welcome at Mass.”

  Cort stepped away, surveying the aftermath of the bedlam. His stomach churned as the dimensions of the missed opportunity sunk in.

  “Goddamnit.”

  Even with the city clocking nearly 500 murders a year, Cort had to hustle for a byline. For every ten murders, one would yield a story, usually a fifteen-inch quickie buried inside Metro.

  A yuppie victim was guaranteed decent ink. But a black or Hispanic homey gunned down in the hood? Well, that’s what the Briefs column was for.

  Cort reached the end of the riot zone, hooked a right, and ambled north on Mount Pleasant Street.

  The street featured dollar stores, bars, greasy carryouts, liquor stores, old apartment buildings, and Heller’s Bakery, which arguably produced the finest cakes in the city.

  The MacArthur Park section of Los Angeles was Little El Salvador, and Mount Pleasant was its East Coast counterpart. Inside Haydee’s, a Salvadoran restaurant, former Marxist guerillas drank beer with ex—Salvadoran Army soldiers as they argued over soccer games playing on a TV behind the bar. Nearby, Salvadoran day laborers stood outside 7-Eleven, or “El Seven,” as they called it, waiting for work. Salvadoran vendors with metal carts dotted the street, hawking fresh mangos.

  To the west, a series of quiet, tree-lined residential streets with row houses sloped down toward Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo.

  The street was unscathed, except for El Seven. A window had been shattered and a store worker swept glass off the sidewalk.

  Cort pulled out the cell phone and punched in Chuck’s number. “Everything’s quiet now. I’m heading back.” He clicked off, muttering, “Goddamnit.”

  He was three blocks from the office when a high-pitched screech rang out from the police scanner.

  A woman dispatcher said, “Attention units paged. Third District officers at a stabbing at an apartment building, the corner of Park Road and Mount Pleasant Street. Homicide requested.

  Cort pulled over to the curb. Mount Pleasant Street dead-ended at Park Road, three blocks north of 7-Eleven, one block over from 16th Street.

  A murder on the edge of the riot zone? Huh.

  Cort pulled out the cell phone and called Chuck.

  “Yeah, I heard it,” Cort said. “I’m heading back. Maybe it’s connected to the riot. I’ll call as soon as I know.”

  The brick apartment building was four stories high, with a fading, chipped white paint job and a well-manicured lawn decorated with shrubs and small shade trees.

  A concrete walkway stretched thirty yards from the side-walk to the glass double-doors at the front entrance. From the entrance, the building jutted out on both sides out to the sidewalk, in a half H configuration. A short, black iron fence surrounded it. Yellow crime scene tape was draped across the width of the fence.

  The victim was halfway down the walkway, lying on his back, his head turned away from the street.

  He was a stocky Hispanic man, in his early twenties, wearing faded blue jeans, a yellow polo shirt, and black canvas sneakers. The chest area of his shirt was stained a dark crimson. His right arm was crooked at an angle above his head, and his left arm was parallel to his body. Wooden crutches lay on either side of him.

  Two crime scene technicians in navy-blue uniforms worked around the body. One leaned down and shot photos. The other, wearing disposable latex gloves and holding a flashlight in her left hand, was on her hands and knees, looking for evidence.

  A uniformed sergeant Cort knew from previous shooting scenes stood just inside the front gate. An unmarked sedan and a squad car were parked in front of the building. The detective was probably inside the building, interviewing witnesses.

  To the right, a handful of spectators had gathered on the sidewalk. A local TV newsman, Brad Bellinger, chatted them up while a cameraman rolled tape on the body.

  Across the street, to the left, three young Latino men in jeans and battered sneakers stood underneath a streetlight in front of the Argyle convenience store. Two of the men looked anxious, they kept looking from the body to the third man and back again. The third man, slightly older, in his late twenties, leaned against the lamppost, his gaze steady on the body. He looked like he was doing a slow burn.

  Cort soaked it all in as he walked deliberately toward the crime scene, his satchel slung over his right shoulder.

  He stopped at the gate and asked the sergeant, “This related to the riot?”

  “Unlikely.” The sergeant nodded over his shoulder, toward the body. “Victim has an MS-13 tat on his forearm, my money’s on a gang beef. The guy from Homicide’s inside, he’ll be out soon.” MS-13 was a Salvadoran gang.

  “Thanks.”

  Cort turned and sauntered toward the three Latinos. Maybe they’d seen something.

  One man was wearing a white and red Budweiser T-shirt and a chain with a silver cross around his neck. The guy next to him wore a soccer shirt emblazoned with the light-blue and white Salvadoran flag. The older man wore a red Chicago Bulls T-shirt.

  They clammed up when Cort got within earshot.

  “Buenas noches,” Cort said.

  Tentatively, the two younger men responded in kind. The older man gave Cort the once-over. In Spanish, he said, “Who are
you?”

  “Periodista,” Cort replied. In Spanish, Cort identified himself: “My name is Cortez DeLojero, I’m a reporter for the Washington Tribune.” He gestured toward the murder scene. Continuing in Spanish, he said, “Can you help me with what happened? Is this about the riot?” He kept his notebook and pen holstered; bringing them out too soon spooked some civilians.

  The two younger men looked at their shoes.

  The older man peered at Cort a long moment, then said, “This isn’t about the riot.”

  Budweiser said, “His name was Roberto Arias. He deserved better.”

  No riot angle. Probably a gang beef. He could hear Chuck say, dismissively, “Brief it.”

  Cort put his palms out. “So, what happened?”

  Chicago moved off the lamppost and squared up to Cort. “He was murdered by a coyote. He was behind in his payments, because he was hurt, and the son of a bitch killed him.”

  Cort felt an adrenaline surge. This was interesting.

  “How do you know?”

  Chicago pointed to an apartment building adjacent to the murder scene. “The three of us live there, we share an apartment. Roberto lives, lived, next door, with his sister. We were walking home, Roberto was going to his place. He screamed. We ran over—Gato was standing over him. He pointed his knife at us and said, ‘This is what happens to people who don’t pay.’ Then he wrapped the knife in a ban-dana and ran that way.” Chicago pointed west, toward the neighborhood of row houses.

  Halfway into the account, Cort had pulled out his note-book and pen, and was writing furiously. He jotted “Bud,” “Sal,” and “Chi,” respectively, next to each man’s statement.

  “Did Roberto say anything?” Cort asked.

  “He couldn’t. He gasped, and he was gone,” Chicago said.

  A death scene—outstanding. Cort walked them through the evening.

  Chicago said they’d been playing soccer at a nearby schoolyard. Roberto watched. When the game ended, the riot was raging. They went to a friend’s apartment and waited it out. They had a few beers and walked home after calm was restored.

  Cort nodded as he took down the account. “And why did Gato kill him?”

  Budweiser explained: Four months before, Gato and two other men had driven the four of them and eight others in a van from their village near San Salvador across the Mexican border into California, then to D.C. Each man owed $1,800. Each man had to start paying off his debt two weeks after arriving in D.C.

  Roberto had been working steadily in construction, and paying, until he fell off a second-floor scaffolding and broke his hip. A week after Roberto missed his first payment, his mom in El Salvador was kidnapped by the coyote crew. Gato told Roberto he needed to come up with a thousand dollars.

  Chicago gestured to his friends. “We all pitched in, others too. Roberto paid, and his mother was freed. But two days later, Gato told Roberto that was just a tax, he needed to keep up his payments.”

  Budweiser made a circular motion with his index finger near his head—the universal loco gesture. “Gato smokes PCP.”

  Jackpot.

  Most victims were drug slingers, bandits, or enforcers. Editors didn’t break a sweat over them. But this was what the Homicides called a real murder. This had front-page potential.

  Cort said, “Describe Gato.”

  Chicago said, “He’s about your size, but bigger, like he lifts weights. He’s about twenty-five. His hair is short, slicked back.”

  “Anything else? A scar, anything like that?”

  Chicago shrugged. Budweiser rubbed his chin.

  Salvadoran flag said, “Yeah, the tattoo.”

  “What tattoo?”

  “He has a big tattoo of a dollar sign on his left bicep. He always wears tank tops or T-shirts with the left sleeve cut off to show it off,” Salvadoran flag said. Chicago and Budweiser nodded in assent.

  “Just on his left arm?”

  “Yes,” Salvadoran flag said.

  Cort wrote it down. “How can I find him?”

  Chicago said, “He shows up at Don Juan’s every Monday, around 7:00. To collect from a waitress.”

  “You sure?”

  “She’s my girlfriend.”

  Nice. Cort figured he had all he needed. He looked at the three and said, “So, what are your names?”

  Budweiser and El Sal looked at Chicago. Chicago thought about it and said, “Michael Jordan.”

  Budweiser said, “Michael Jackson.”

  El Sal said, “George Bush.”

  Cort smiled. He thanked them and started walking back to the apartment building. He’d taken one step when it hit him. He pivoted. “Have you talked to the police?”

  The three men shook their heads. Michael Jordan said, “No, the paramedics shooed us away. I tried to tell them, but they didn’t speak Spanish.”

  Cort allowed himself a quick smile. He’d score a bucket load of chits from Homicide if he handed them eyeball wit-

  His eyes swept across the three men. “Would you be willing to talk to a detective?”

  Silence. Finally, Michael Jordan said, “We don’t want any problems.”

  “Problems” meant immigration. Cort said, “The police are only interested in who killed Roberto.”

  Michael Jordan said, “How do we know?”

  “You can trust me.”

  Michael Jordan cocked his head to the side. “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Cort looked at the other two men. No give in either of their faces. The cross around Michael Jackson’s neck gave him an idea. “When you all went to Mass this morning, it was at Sacred Heart, right?”

  The three men nodded.

  Cort thought about asking them to wait, decided it might spook them. “Thanks.” He turned and began jogging east on Park Road, toward 16th Street.

  Brad Bellinger hustled onto the street and held up a palm. With his dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and square jaw, Bellinger bore an unsettling resemblance to a full-sized Ken doll.

  Cort pulled up. Bellinger said, “Get anything good from those guys?”

  Each of the local TV news outfits had a cheesy promotional slogan. The slogan for Bellinger’s station was, “We report to you!

  Cort pointed his index finger at Bellinger. “You report to me!”

  Bellinger’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Cort turned and resumed jogging.

  “I promise, if you help the police, no harm will come to you,” Father Dave said in Spanish. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead. Father Dave and Cort had sprinted over together.

  The three men said nothing.

  Cort chimed in, “The police want the killer. And they wouldn’t dare do anything against you if you’re…” he paused, trying to find the right word, “represented by Father Dave.”

  Father Dave put a hand on Cort’s shoulder. “You can trust Cortez. He wrote that article about the church.”

  At Father Dave’s request, a church secretary had typed a translation of the piece, Xeroxed hundreds of copies, and distributed them to parishioners.

  Michael Jordan’s eyes flashed with recognition. “You wrote that?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael Jordan nodded. “Okay.”

  Cort said, “Good. I’ll get the detective.” He ambled across the street, pleased with himself. He’d earn beaucoup chits with Homicide for hooking them up with the key witnesses.

  His editors would suffer massive strokes, then fire him for violating journalistic ethics as they dropped to the floor, if they ever learned about half the deals he cut on the street. They had no idea. Cort knew if he played strictly by the book, he’d end up parroting useless press releases.

  He was halfway across the street when a stout, fiftyish man in a tight tan suit, white shirt, brown tie, and brown loafers stepped out of the building.

  Detective Rocky Piazza—two hundred and twenty pounds of grief.

  Cort stopped in his tracks and groaned.

  Piazza was built like a fire hydrant. Unfortunately, he was
about as intelligent as one. He had curly, sandy-colored hair, chubby chipmunk cheeks, and brown eyes that were set a little too close together. Piazza’s ruddy complexion turned beet red when he was riled up. Cort knew because Piazza turned beet red every time their paths crossed.

  In two years on the beat, Cort had encountered all of the Homicides. Most were cordial. Some were indifferent. A few had become sources. Piazza, however, was overtly hostile. They’d first met at a murder scene in Columbia Heights. When Cort introduced himself, Piazza had snarled, “I know who you are. You’re like a fucking cancer.”

  Halfway down the walkway, Piazza paused to say something to the crime scene techs, then continued toward the front gate.

  Cort thought about it. Not even Piazza was dumb enough to turn his back on three eyeball witnesses…

  He hit the sidewalk as Piazza pulled the yellow crime scene tape over his head and stepped through the gate. “Detective Piazza, I have something—”

  Piazza looked at Cort as if he was something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “Call PIO,” he grunted—the department’s Public Information Office. Cop-speak for “fuck off”; the boys in PIO worked bankers’ hours.

  “I have some—”

  Piazza chested up to Cort as his face went beet red. He pointed a stubby index finger in Cort’s face, fury in his eyes.

  “I said, call PIO. I’m not talking to you, understand?” Piazza pivoted and marched to his sedan.

  Plaintively, Cort said, “But I’m trying to help you.” Piazza ignored him. As the detective slid into the car and slammed the door shut, Cort cried out, “I’ve got witnesses!”

  Piazza pulled away from the curb.

  “Goddamn moron,” Cort muttered as the sedan rolled away. He looked over and saw Father Dave turn up his palms in a “What’s going on?” gesture. Michael Jordan and his friends looked puzzled.

  Slowly, Cort walked toward them, marveling at the purity of Piazza’s stupidity, wondering what he’d tell Father Dave and the witnesses, wishing that Phil Harrick was there.

  Harrick. He was working midnights this week.

  Cort pulled his cell phone out of his satchel and punched in the numbers to Harrick’s pager, which he’d memorized. He put the phone to his ear and the pager chirped. Cort punched in the number to his cell phone, punctuated it by hitting 9-1-1, then sent the page as he reached Father Dave.