Fatal Threat Page 14

  “No one. Certainly not you, Lieutenant.”

  “Good answer.”

  “So, um, while we’re on the subject of the squad, you probably ought to have a talk with Gonzo too.”

  “Why?” Sam had thought her sergeant was doing better lately. Was that an act?

  “He said some stuff after Will resigned about wishing he could do the same thing but he has a family to support so walking away isn’t an option.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Language, Lieutenant.”

  “I figured that news warranted a good strong fuck.”

  “Um, ahhhh...”

  “The word, not the act, you moron.”

  “She gives and she takes away in the span of one minute.”

  “I get taken off the grid for a couple of days, and you people go to hell in a handbasket without me.”

  “What does that even mean? Hell in a handbasket?”

  “You get the point!”

  “Yeah, I do, and I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “That’s all I seem to get lately.”

  Donny Bautista lived in an apartment building a short distance from the interstate. They took the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on the door at unit 439.

  Sam placed her hand on the butt of her gun, just in case, and watched as Freddie did the same. They never knew what would greet them on the other side of a closed door.

  The sound of locks disengaging preceded the door opening. The young Filipino man’s gaze moved from her to Freddie and then back to her, his eyes bugging with recognition. He was about five-eight with a medium-sized build and dark hair. “You...you’re...”

  Sam flashed her badge. “Lieutenant Holland, Detective Cruz, MPD. Are you Donny Bautista?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Answer the question,” Sam said impatiently.

  “Yeah, that’s me. Why you asking?”

  “May we come in for a minute?”

  “Ah, yeah, I guess. If you hafta.”

  Once inside the messy apartment, Sam got down to business. “You were friends with Peter Gibson?”

  At the mention of Peter, Donny’s expression turned wary. “I knew him.”

  “Have you heard what happened to him?”

  “Just that someone shut his water off. It’s sad. He was a good guy. Didn’t deserve it. You oughta know. You were married to him.”

  Sam ignored that and pushed forward. “When was the last time you talked to him?”

  “Not sure. Last week sometime?”

  “You got your phone handy?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Take a look and get me an exact day and time.”

  He hesitated, but only for a second before he went to a coffee table covered in pizza boxes and car magazines to get his phone. “Last Wednesday. He texted me to see if I wanted to meet up, but I was with my lady.”

  “And she can confirm that?”

  “Wait, you think I did this? No fucking way. I liked the guy. I had no reason to kill him.”

  “I simply asked if your lady can confirm that you were with her last Wednesday.”

  “Yeah, she can.”

  Sam pulled her pad from her back pocket and handed it to him with a pen. “Write down her name and number.”

  “You really gotta drag her into this?”

  “Yeah, I really do.”

  “How’d you meet Peter?” Freddie asked.

  “Through a guy I know in the city.”

  “His name?” Sam asked.

  “Ahh, come on! If I send cops to him, he ain’t gonna be my friend for very long.”

  “If he has nothing to hide, he shouldn’t care if cops want to talk to him.”

  “How do I know what he’s got to hide? We play cards and drink beer and talk shit. I have no idea what he does the rest of the time.”

  “You don’t know what he does for work or if he’s married or has kids or anything else about him?”

  Donny squirmed under her potent glare. “He works as a bouncer, and he’s got a coupla kids with some chick he used to bang. That’s all I know.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “You gonna tell him I gave it to you?”

  “Not if we can avoid it, but if you don’t tell us, we’ll take you in and lock you up until you’re feeling more cooperative.”

  “You can’t do that! I ain’t done nothin’.”

  Sam glanced at Freddie. “Can I do that, Detective Cruz?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you absolutely can lock up someone who is interfering with a homicide investigation.”

  Donny held up his hands. “I ain’t interfering with you. I’m just saying if I send cops to my friends, my life could be in danger.”

  “What kind of friends are you hanging out with, Donny? The kind that kill people?”

  “I never said that!”

  “Look, we’re going in circles here,” Sam said. “We want the names of anyone you know who spent time with Peter Gibson. Either you give us that, or we take you in. It’s that simple.”

  Donny thought about that for a full minute. “Okay,” he finally said. “Fine. His name is Dwayne Rogers.”

  “Write down his name, number and address if you have it. While you’re at it, write down your phone number too, just in case we have follow-up questions.”

  Returning her glare, he took the pad and pen from her again and used the contacts on his phone to give her the info she’d requested. He handed the pad back to her with Dwayne’s info and two more names on it.

  “Now, was that so hard?” Sam asked.

  “If I turn up dead, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

  “And the fact that you hang out with thugs will have nothing at all to do with it?”

  “They ain’t thugs. They’re guys who look out for theirselves. You can’t blame them for that.”

  “Yes, I really can if looking out for theirselves includes violence.”

  “I gave you what you came for. You can probably go now.”

  “Thanks for your help, Donny. It’s been a pleasure. Oh and you should stay local in case we need to talk to you again.”

  The door slammed behind them, the click of locks reengaging echoing through the deserted hallway.

  “Pleasant sort of guy,” Sam said.

  “He’s afraid of the people he hangs out with.”

  “Seemed that way to me too. Why would anyone hang out with people they’re afraid of?”

  “Because they want something they can only get through them?”

  “Bingo. So what do they have that our friend Donny wanted? And did Peter want it too? Did he fuck up somehow and piss them off? Wouldn’t surprise me if he did.”

  “Here’s a big idea.” Freddie held out the keys to her. “You drive and I’ll find out what we know about Donny’s crew.”

  Sam snatched the keys out of his hand. “Fine. If I have to.”

  “I know she’s not the same as your luxury BMW, but she gets the job done.”

  “Why is your car a woman?”

  “Because she purrs like a kitten one minute and screams like a banshee the next.”

  “You’re not being sexist by any chance, are you, Detective Cruz?”

  “Me? Hell no. I love women. I adore them. I worship them.”

  Sam snorted with laughter, appreciative of the banter with him that made everything feel normal when it was anything but. “You mean you’ve worshipped exactly one of them, who you now plan to marry without ever knowing what else is out there.”

  “When you find the best right out of the gate, there’s no need to continue shopping.”

  They got into his car with Sam in the driv
er’s seat.

  “Tell me you know how to drive a stick.”

  “Please. I was weaned on a stick.”

  “If that’s a metaphor, please don’t tell me.”

  Sam looked over at him. “Thanks.”

  “For what? Letting you drive my car? I fully expect to regret that.”

  “No, not that.” She took a moment to collect her thoughts and find the words she needed. “For bickering with me and giving me a little bit of normal in the midst of this totally fucked-up situation.”

  “Bickering with you is one of my favorite things to do. If it’s keeping your mind occupied, I’m happy to help.”

  “It is and you do. Help, that is.” Sam fired up the engine, revved the accelerator, pushed the stick into first gear and lurched out of the parking space.

  “Holy crap,” Freddie groaned. “Bring the transmission with us, will you, please?”

  “Don’t worry about a thing. I got this.”

  “Famous last words.”

  * * *

  “YOU’RE NEVER DRIVING my car again. Ever.”

  “That was totally awesome! I forgot how much fun it is to drive a stick.”

  “I assume you’ll be paying for the new transmission I’ll need to acquire since you’ve ruined mine.”

  Sam rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t ruin anything. I demonstrated your baby’s full potential.”

  “I told you she’s delicate, and you worked her over. I’ll never forgive you for this.”

  “Yes, you will. You love me.”

  “Not right now I don’t.”

  “Does that mean I’m not your best-man woman anymore?” Sam asked hopefully.

  “I don’t hate you that much.”

  “Damn.”

  “This is it.” Freddie pointed to a stand-alone home on Mississippi Avenue Southeast in the District’s Washington Highlands neighborhood.

  Sam pulled into a parking space and killed the engine.

  Freddie immediately yanked the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. “Never again,” he muttered.

  “It’s official. You’re absolutely no fun.”

  “Elin would tell you otherwise,” he said, waggling his brows.

  He really was too cute for his own good, not that she’d ever tell him that. Dear God, no way. “Gross.” She got out of the car, anxious to get on with the investigation. The sooner she figured out who’d killed Peter, the sooner she could get things back to normal, or as close to normal as anything ever was for her and Nick these days.

  Thinking of him made her wonder about the other ongoing investigation. She fired off a text to him.

  Anything new?

  He replied right away.

  Not yet. They’re briefing me in 30 min. Will let you know. How’s it going there?

  Working the case. Nothing much yet.

  Keep me posted.

  I will.

  How are YOU?

  Hanging in. Fighting with Freddie helps.

  Better him than me.

  Sam laughed.

  Very true. Has a decision been made to let everyone out of the bunker?

  That’s being discussed at the briefing. More to come.

  Okay.

  Love you.

  You too.

  The brief conversation with Nick went a long way toward reminding her that no matter how ugly things might get out here, she always had him to go home to. Peter had never been that kind of husband. He’d added to her stress at the end of every long day by grilling her about everything that’d happened, where she’d been and who she’d talked to. At first she’d thought it was out of concern, but later she’d determined it was all about control.

  How she’d ever survived four years of that bullshit was still one of the greatest mysteries of her life. And all that time, he’d known that Nick had tried to get in touch with her after their momentous night together. It still boggled her mind that a man she had thought she loved, a man she had slept next to for years and made love to, had kept something like that from her to advance his own agenda.

  She hated him for that more than anything else, even his attempt to kill her and Nick. It would serve her well to focus on the hatred, to keep her distance from what had become of him. She didn’t have it in her to think he deserved what’d happened, because no one deserved to be murdered. But he’d made some bad choices that had effectively ruined his life, and she couldn’t help but wonder if one of those bad choices had led to his demise.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WITH FREDDIE RIGHT behind her, Sam climbed the stairs to the house, noting with interest that a ramp had been installed on the other side of the porch. Having some experience with ramps, she took a closer look and saw that it had been hastily assembled, not at all like the one Nick had professionally built at their house so her dad could visit. She rang the doorbell and pulled out her badge, ready to show it to Dwayne Rogers.

  A black man came to the door. He was tall and muscular with sleeve tattoos and diamonds in both ears. Before they could show their badges, he identified them as cops. “What do you want?”

  Flashing her badge, Sam said, “Lieutenant Holland, Detective Cruz. Could we have a few minutes of your time, Mr. Rogers?”

  “Who sent you here?”

  “That’s not important,” Sam said. “We’d like to talk to you. We can either do it here or downtown. Up to you.”

  He glowered at her but stepped aside to admit them.

  As a policy, Sam never turned her back on a person of interest in an investigation. “After you,” she said, gesturing for him to lead the way into his home.

  They followed him through the foyer to a hallway that led to the kitchen.

  Sam stopped short at the sight of a familiar face. Roberto Castro, the man she’d met while undercover with the Johnson family. Roberto had been left paralyzed by the crack-house shootout that had killed young Quentin Johnson, an event that still haunted Sam almost two years after it happened. Sam had convinced Roberto to go straight and had helped him land a job as a clerk with the city. She hoped his presence here wasn’t an indication that he’d gone back to his old ways.

  “Well, well, well,” Roberto said, smiling. “If it ain’t my favorite second-lady cop.” He’d added the word second to his usual name for her.

  Sam grimaced at the title and returned his fist bump. “How you doing, Roberto?”

  “Livin’ the dream. Nothing fancy like you, but gettin’ by.”

  “You know her?” Rogers asked.

  “Me and her go way back, don’t we?”

  “We do,” Sam said. “How do you guys know each other?”

  “First cousins,” Roberto said. “Our mothers are sisters.”

  “You’re not working today?”

  “Takin’ a little break from work. Had a setback that put me in the hospital for a coupla weeks. I’m still on medical leave.”

  Sam was relieved to hear that he hadn’t left or lost the job. “Sorry to hear that.”

  Roberto shrugged. “Is what it is. What’re you sniffin’ out now?”

  “Peter Gibson.”

  “Who?” Roberto asked, his brows furrowed.

  “The mattress guy,” Rogers said.

  “Oh yeah! He squared me and my Angel away with a sweet deal on a new sack. What about him?”

  “He’s been murdered.”

  Both men looked at her in legitimate shock, the kind that couldn’t be faked.

  “No way,” Rogers said. “He was here for poker last week. Lost big, but he usually does.”

  “Did he say anything about beefs or issues?”

  “Nah,” Rogers said. “But we weren’t tight like that. We played cards and d
rank beer. That’s about it.”

  “How’d he come to be part of your game?” Freddie asked.

  “Another guy brought him,” Rogers said. “Anton. He knew him from a game he was in.”

  “Where can we find Anton?” Sam asked.

  “You ain’t gonna tell him I sent you, are you?” Rogers asked.

  “Not if we don’t have to.”

  He glanced at Roberto, who nodded.

  “She’s cool. She’ll protect ya.”

  Sam appreciated his endorsement. He’d helped her out with the Reese case last year, filling in some blanks for her—blanks that she’d hoped would lead to a break on her father’s unsolved shooting, but like every other lead they’d had in that case, it had turned out to be another dead end.

  Reluctantly—or so it seemed to Sam—Rogers said, “Anton works at a market on 11th Street Northwest. He’s a butcher.”

  “His last name?”

  “Williams.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall, black, built like me kinda,” Rogers said. “Got a neck tat and a pierced lip.”

  “Appreciate your help,” she said.

  “This had better not come back at me,” he said.

  “We’ll do what we can to keep you out of it.” To Roberto, she said, “Could I have a word in private?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Knew you was gonna say that.”

  “I live to be predictable.” Sam led the way to the front porch. To Freddie, she said, “Give me a minute with him.”

  “Sure. I’m going to apologize to my car for letting you drive it.”

  “You do that.” Sam held the door for Roberto, who rolled out behind her.

  “You gonna give me a lecture, lady cop?”

  “Nothing like that. I just want to know how you are. Really.”

  “Me and Angel... We had a coupla bumps, but we’re working it out.”

  “What kind of bumps?”

  He seemed pained when he said, “They ain’t sure I can have kids, and she really wants them. She took off for a while, but she came back. Not sure if she’s back to stay or not, but we’re workin’ it out. Day at a time.”

  That news saddened Sam. Roberto had once referred to Angel as his will to live. Without her, she feared he might veer off course again. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you guys can work it out. And there’re all sorts of ways to have kids these days. I’ve had my own issues with that.”