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“Gangs have tagged the buildings,” Fletcher observes, moving slower now that we’re on the scene and our dead guy is, well, already dead. He’s in no rush. Uniforms cordon off our street, and cruisers park haphazardly to keep others from coming down here.
Already, media vans pull up and attempt to get their exclusive scoop, dragging out massive cameras and plopping them on the shoulders of shorter, uglier dudes who look that much worse in direct comparison to their on-air counterpart.
“We haven’t had to deal with gang violence in Copeland in a long while.” I turn my back to the flashing cameras and instead scour the shopfronts, most of which boastFor Leasesigns. “Their comeback is pissing me off.”
“Gang activity means mafia activity.” The very corner of Fletch’s lips curl with a subtle smirk. “Mafia activity was extinct in Copeland City until recently. You wanna tell your brethren to back up?”
“Not my brethren.” I take out my phone and jump to my text screen. Instead of calling, I type a message. “I’m requesting an M.E. from the George Stanley. The sooner they get out here, the sooner we can clear this street.”
“You’re bringing Doctor Dimples in?” He sets his hands on his hips and turns to study the long street. “I thought you wanted her and Aubsawayfrom the mafia stuff. Something about a conflict of interest.”
I’d hit him, if not for the Channel Nine camera pointed directly at us. “I’m texting Mayet, because she’s in charge of assigning a tech to our case. She won’t come out, though. She’s flying to New York in a couple of days.”
“Yeah?” Spying our dead body, he angles that way and meanders closer. “And yet, you just caught a case. You calling in sick already?”
“We’ll tie it up and put it to bed before Wednesday night. Then I’m on the plane beside my wife and taking time off. We’ll consider it a work-trip, seeing as how I’ll probably meet with the fuckin’ mob while I’m over there.”
He chuckles, bringing a hand up and scratching his jaw to hide from the cameras eagerly waiting for their million-dollar picture. “A decade, Arch.” He steps under the police tape and straightens out on the other side as I follow. “Morethan a fuckin’ decade I’ve known you. I knew what you were. Where you came from. I even knew who your daddy was. And not once in all that time was your blood connection an issue for the job. But now Felix is back in your life and suddenly, Copeland City gang violence is up, executions at the bay are up, and our little city is getting a tad noisy.”
“It’s not Felix.” I flash my badge for the waiting uniform, patient as he scans the details and steps out of our way to reveal our dead guy. “I asked. He answered. He has no reason to lie, so whatever is going on here is not from my family. He’s looking into it, but until then…” Slowly, I lower into a crouch and press my fingers to our deceased’s neck to ensure he’s actually dead.
It’s a thing. A lesson learned this past year after a dude woke up in the morgue fridges.
“I’m turning the recorder on.” I glance back at my partner and squint as the sun gleams over his shoulder. “You ready to keep it clean andnotfocused on my family?”
He grins, taking a recorder from his pocket and makes a show of switching it on. “Record is on. Detectives Charlie Fletcher and Archer Malone are the primary investigators. We’re on the corner of Marigold andNinth. Vic appears to have been gunned down, close-ish range G.S.W. to the upper chest. Medical examiners are on their way, expected on scene momentarily.”
I push up to stand, backing away from the body and checking my phone, only to nod when I find Minka’s return text.I’ll take care of it.
“Vic looks to be thirties. Mid. Male. Caucasian. Black hair, slight regrowth on his jaw and down his throat.” Carefully, I peek under his shirt, frowning as I look past the blood soaking the fabric and pooling in his navel. “Just one wound. Pretty neat entry. Once the M.E.s arrive, we’ll flip him over and check for the exit.”
“Vic is wearing jeans,” Fletch continues. “Button-up shirt and a windbreaker. No overt signs of struggle. Clothes aren’t torn. No ripped knees. Buttons are fastened on his shirt and none are missing.”
“Thin gold chain around his neck,” I add. Then, gently pulling the collar of his shirt back, I peek beneath. “Small religious cross on the end. Looks like real gold.”
“He’s wearing a watch, too. And a ring on his right hand, middle finger.”
“Doesn’t seem to be a mugging gone wrong.” I slide my hand beneath his splayed body and feel for a wallet in his back pocket. “Robber is gonna take the cash, watch, cross, and whatever credit cards they can swipe.”
“So this was a targeted attack. Not random.”
“He’s looking a little high-end for Marigold Street.” I take my hands away and straighten out. “He’s dressed smart. Nice quality threads. Expensive-ish jewelry. So why was he here? And why was he killed?”
“We’ve counted three shell casings so far, Detectives.” A uniform comes up on my right, preppy and ready for his pat on the head. “We’ve found two slugs. One in the wall over,” he nods toward a red brick building with more holes in it than I can count, “there. And the other is embedded in the car over,” again, he gestures off to the distance. “There.”
“Third one is probably in our vic then.” I tilt my head and study our guy. Young enough to still look fresh, but old enough to be mature. Possibly even has a family. Wife and kids. “We’re gonna need an I.D. to start with. His wallet is still in his pocket, so we’ll get a name and address there. Then we’ll pull prints and see if he’s in our system already. If he’s associating with folks on Marigold Street, but looks this good, he could be a mid-level dealer. And if he is,” I look at Fletch, “could be friends with our other case of interest.”
Not an actual homicide case on our desks. Rather, a personal issue that landed Fletch’s ex-wife in the hospital last month.
“Like I said,” he firms his lips and turns back toward our car, switchingoff the record as he moves. But before he goes, he offers a murmured, “Lots of gangland noise in Copeland City lately. If we tie one up, it might bring us closer to the other. I’m gonna get the wheel from the trunk and start measuring. We gotta figure out where our shooter stood. It’s the middle of the day, and this entire street is kinda exposed. Seems our killer didn’t mind being seen.”
“On that note.” I let Fletch go and bring my focus to the uniform instead. “Start canvassing. Our shooter either walked these streets or drove them. He shot a man in broad daylight, in the middle of a workday. Someone will have seen something.” I cast my eyes around the shopfronts. “Don’t suppose we have C.C.T.V. around here?”
He shakes his head before I finish speaking. “No cameras. These shops are either already shut down, or they’re struggling. There’s no extra money for security, and the things they have to sell aren’t fetching bunches of cash anyway. We’ve got a seamstress a couple doors up,” he nods in her direction, “and an old record store near that. No one is raking in money along here unless you’re selling something illegal.”
Piqued, I turn from the body and look the uniform up and down. “This your usual run, Officer?”
He shrugs, though he nods at the same time. Yes. No. He doesn’t know. “I swing by a couple of times per shift. Residents appreciate it—makes ‘em feel safe—and those who are doing the wrong thing know to be here after hours. We rarely cross paths, so they don’t give me too much trouble. This street used to have a pawnbroker and a few nice clubs where the uh…” He clears his throat, telegraphing to me, without saying, he knows exactly who the hell I’m related to, “there used to be mafia activity around here. Lots of clubs on Marigold where those types conducted business.”
