use. And it was hot in the hall, without a breath of air. And a lot of stink.
I knocked on Beth’s door for what seemed like half an hour. Then it opened a crack, and a young woman I didn’t recognize stuck her head out. Her eyes were all red, and I thought at first that she’d been doing dope. Then I realized that she’d been crying.
‘‘What do you want?’’
‘‘We’d like to talk to Beth for a minute…’’ I held up my badge.
‘‘Fuck.’’ She turned back into the apartment, leaving her hand on the doorframe. ‘‘Beth, it’s the fuckin’ pigs.’’ Matter of fact, no animosity in particular. Like so many, she’d been raised on fuckin’ pig being a label, just like postman, milkman, or clerk. (What do you want to be when you grow up? Fuckin’ pig. It could happen.) There was a muffled response, and the door opened wider.
‘‘Come on in.’’
The apartment was worse than the hallway. And more crowded, as it contained the young woman who had answered the door, Beth, and one two-year-old and one three-year-old. The two kids were wearing plastic pants, but otherwise were naked. Just plastic pants. No diapers underneath. Dirty, bright-eyed, they were very near their mother. Beth sat at a Formica-topped kitchen table that had rusting chrome legs and three matching chairs with cracked vinyl seats. I could barely see the tabletop for the dirty dishes. I’d guess it was supposed to look like marble.
‘‘Hi, Beth.’’
‘‘Mr. Houseman,’’ she said, and took a long drag off a cigarette. She exhaled, blowing the smoke up into her bangs, but cooling her forehead a bit. ‘‘What did you guys do to Howie? I hear he’s dead.’’ She was doing cool well, but her hand was shaking.
‘‘How’d you hear that?’’ I asked.
Beth nodded toward the other young woman. ‘‘Her mom works at the doc’s office.’’
Enough for now. Pursue that part later.
‘‘That’s right. He’s dead, Beth.’’
She almost lost it, but didn’t quite. Another drag, and she was in control.
Beth has long, dark hair, and very large brown eyes. She looked up at me, steadily. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘He was shot, up near his patch.’’
‘‘Why’d you do it?’’
‘‘We think he shot first,’’ I said. I turned toward the other young woman. ‘‘Why don’t you take the kids out on the back porch, or someplace. Just for a few minutes.’’ She looked at Beth, who nodded in assent.
‘‘You go with Nan, guys… That’s okay, Mommy will be right here…’’
Between the two of them, they got the kids onto the porch in a minute or so. Beth came back, ran a hand through her hair, and finally asked us to sit. We did, careful not to lean on the table.
‘‘What do you mean, he shot first? That’s easy to say, now that he’s dead.’’
‘‘We have reason to believe that he did. The evidence,’’ said Hester, ‘‘points to it.’’
‘‘Who’s she?’’
‘‘Agent Hester Gorse, DCI.’’
‘‘You here because of this, right?’’
‘‘That’s right,’’ said Hester.
‘‘She’s okay, isn’t she?’’ Beth asked me.
‘‘You bet.’’
‘‘So, what happened?’’
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘he apparently was on his way to tend his patch, and he got surprised by one of our people. Shot at him. Our man shot back. Just like that.’’
‘‘Well, he saw you guys up there yesterday… God, are you telling me the truth that he shot at you guys? For sure?’’
‘‘Looks like it, kid. It really does.’’
‘‘But he saw you guys yesterday! Why didn’t you bust him then?’’
‘‘I don’t think our people recognized him. In fact, I know they didn’t, or they would have been here pretty quickly.’’
‘‘That’s right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘And they saw him at a distance, and couldn’t keep with him. Lost him.’’
‘‘Well,’’ said Beth. ‘‘Well, then, why did you have to go and kill him?’’
‘‘He shot at a cop, they returned fire.’’
She stood up, fast. ‘‘Oh, yeah, and I’m supposed to believe that!’’
‘‘You’re gonna have to,’’ I said, as evenly as I could.
‘‘Oh, sure!’’ She stabbed her cigarette out in a dirty paper plate. ‘‘You have any proof?’’
‘‘A cop was killed, too.’’
She sat back down.
Silence. ‘‘Not by Howie?’’
‘‘Maybe so.’’ I looked at Hester. Howie had a shotgun. Bill seemed to have been shot by a rifle. But could it have been a really close-range shotgun wound, with just enough spread to make it look like an auto rifle? Twelve- gauge double-ought buckshot contained nine balls of approximately. 30 caliber. Or 7.62 mm. That would make something smaller, like #1 shot, about 5.56 mm. Maybe. I tried to think back, but wasn’t sure I could tell from the wounds. I still didn’t think that shotgun pellets would trim through a vest like that
… and besides, it looked like jacketing material had been peeled off, and shotgun pellets weren’t jacketed.
‘‘It was either Howie or somebody with him.’’
But it wasn’t Howie. Maybe. Goddamn. It looked to me like Howie had shot at Bill and missed. Bill returned fire, Howie is gone. All right. Then, a different weapon was used to kill Bill… obviously fired by somebody currently unknown, but with Howie. Hester, who had no idea what I was thinking, looked back with that eyebrow raised again.
‘‘You think somebody was with him?’’
‘‘That’s what we want to talk with you about. You might know.’’
She thought, and said nothing.
‘‘Look, Beth. You got any dope here?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Don’t lie, kid. Not worth it. You got enough here for us to bust you for intent?’’
‘‘No. Enough for four, five joints. That’s it.’’
‘‘Look, before we go any further, let me advise you of your rights. Now, I know you’re not under arrest, but I just want you to know what your rights are.’’
She nodded, and I recited the Miranda warning to her. Gave her just a few seconds to think, but with that official droning in the background, it sort of encouraged her to cooperate. I had her telling the truth, with reservations, about the dope. She might have a bit more, but it wasn’t likely. And she and I both knew that what she did have was not the point.
I finished Miranda.
‘‘So,’’ I said. ‘‘Who did it?’’
She thought for a second. ‘‘It had to be Johnny Marks.’’
‘‘Johnny Marks?’’ I didn’t have the faintest idea who Johnny Marks was.
‘‘Yes. He owned the plants, and Howie was tendin’ for him. That’s why he had to go back after yesterday, ’cause if Johnny Marks thought he’d blown the patch, he’d kill him. Howie didn’t believe that. But it’s true. He doesn’t like Howie anyway. Johnny Marks is a mean dude. Howie hates him, but he’s scared… he was scared.’’ She started to cry. Just a little.
‘‘You want a minute?’’
‘‘No.’’ Sniff. ‘‘No, I’m fine.’’ She looked back at us, and her face suddenly looked like she had a cramp in it. More tears.
‘‘Where can we find this Johnny Marks?’’
She got control again. ‘‘Probably his place. Up the hill, out on the highway. The new apartments.’’
Upscale. Interesting.
