Wild Card

Doyle was right. Freed’s story was bullshit. Cops lied all the time, but not to each other. They had stepped into something.

The Uzi rang out inside the apartment. Valentine ripped away his vest so he could get at his .38., then stood up.

“Hang tough.”

“Be careful,” Doyle said.

The apartment’s doorway was wide open, and Valentine stuck his head through, and saw Freed lying motionless at the bottom of the stairwell with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Valentine guessed the Prince had been hiding at the top of the first floor stairwell when Freed had come in. Daylight was streaming into the building, and he could see that no one was hiding up there now.

He climbed the stairs with Doyle’s words ringing in his ears. The building had four floors, and at the top floor he paused to catch his breath. His left hand had gone numb, and he wondered how bad the damage was. The sound of someone inside an apartment throwing a deadbolt made him jump.

“Stay inside,” he called out.

“Yassah,” a woman’s voice said.

The Prince had left a trail of blood, and he followed the drops down a hallway to a corner apartment. Light flickered behind the peep hole. The Prince got off a round, but not before Valentine emptied his .38 into the door. He heard pounding footsteps and kicked the door down, then stepped into a dingy apartment with a radio playing in one of its rooms. It had a shotgun layout similar to the apartment he’d grown up in, and he went down a hallway to the kitchen. An open window led to a fire escape. He could hear the Prince on the roof.

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice said.

Spinning around, he discovered an elderly black man in a wheelchair. “Where did you come from?”

“I live here. I pray you’re the police.”

“That’s right. Why did you let the Prince into your apartment?”

The elderly man’s arm twitched, and the wheelchair came forward. “He’s my daughter’s boyfriend. She stupidly gave him a key.”

Through the open window they heard the violent whup-whup of a police helicopter hovering overhead, followed by several rapid bursts of the Prince’s Uzi. Valentine put his face to the window, and watched the helicopter fly away to safety. He turned back to the elderly man. “What’s your name?”

“Sampson.”

“Mr. Sampson, I need to reload my gun, only my hand is wounded. Can you —”

“Help you? Afraid not.”

Valentine let out an exasperated breath. Staying in the apartment with an empty gun was an invitation to disaster. Only he didn’t feel right leaving Sampson, either.

“Is there anyone here who can?”

“Just my grandson.”

“Please get him.”

Sampson sent his wheelchair into reverse and went down the hallway. Braking at a bedroom doorway, he said, “Bernard, come here,” and a skinny tyke wearing Batman pajamas emerged. The resemblance to the old man was uncanny, right down to the mud brown eyes. Together, they entered the kitchen.

“This man needs our help,” Sampson said.

The boy gave him a hostile stare. “You a cop?”

“That’s right.”

“Screw you.”

Valentine motioned Bernard towards him. The boy held his ground, and Valentine said, “There’s a bad man on the roof. I need to stop him. Will you help me?”

“Prince isn’t bad,” Bernard said.

“Yes, he is. He just shot six policemen.”

“Bet none of them was black.”

The boy was maybe ten, and already had no use for white people. Valentine looked him in the eye. “One of the men was black. His name is Mink, and he has a son named Marcus. He goes to Atlantic City High with my son.”

“And Prince shot him?”

“That’s right.”

Valentine saw the gears shifting in Bernard’s head. He decided to take a chance, and handed the boy the .38., then explained how to open the chamber, and reload the weapon. Bernard stared at the gun like it was a bomb.

“Do it, Bernard,” Valentine said.

Bernard pursed his lips. “You ain’t lying to me?”

“No. Prince is bad.”

Sampson nudged the boy with his chair, and whispered to him.

“Okay,” Bernard said.