But then, when the gangs started appearing, everything changed. The gangbangers were a much more intimidating group. They were inclined to tell the homeowners to fuck off, and one kid, when confronted by a teacher telling him not to be late for sixth period, lifted his shirt to reveal a gun and told the teacher to get his sorry ass back in the school. That was the last time a member of the faculty set foot on Beatty Street.
Before long, the cigarette butts gave way to syringes and other drug paraphernalia, and when some of the residents abandoned their homes and left the area, the newest segment of East End society, the drug addicts, moved right into the empty buildings. The cops did what they could, making occasional sweeps through the neighborhood, but the city’s resources were limited, and the emphasis at the time was on cleaning up the downtown area. Eventually, inevitably, every single family living across from Franklin High left, one way or another, and the homes, with their broken windows and yards filled with overgrown weeds, stood as silent testimony to a municipal policy of too little help, way too late.
Denny was driving the Navigator, which made it difficult for him to maneuver his way among all the other vehicles on Beatty Street, but he managed, and I easily stayed in his wake in my Camry. We parked about halfway down the street and got out and stood in front of a house that looked pretty much like the houses on either side, except that this one was brightly illuminated by the garish lights that cops set up at crime scenes at night. Denny talked to one of the officers on the porch, then motioned me to join them.
“You won’t believe this,” he said, as we walked into the house. “One of the local junkies stopped a squad car down the street, said he’d come in here to spend the night, stumbled across the body. He told the cops he figured the information might be worth a finder’s fee.”
“Finder’s fee?” I said.
Denny just shook his head and led the way toward the back of the house, to a small kitchen. There were three or four cops crowded into the space, along with a woman from the medical examiner’s office. The cops saw the gold shield hanging from the pocket on Denny’s sweatsuit jacket and cleared a path for us.
Stretched out on the floor in one corner of the kitchen, in a puddle of his own congealed blood, was one Tyrone Nichols, aka T-Man.
Chapter 42
People look smaller in death. Not that T-Man had been that big in life. He was a little taller than average, but I doubt he’d weighed more than one-hundred-fifty pounds. Now, though, he almost looked like a kid who’d taken a bad fall in his kitchen. Almost. The pool of blood added a shockingly incongruous note to the simple fall theory.
The woman from the ME’s office was slightly built and very attractive, with the straight, jet-black hair that so many Asian women have and so many non-Asian women envy. She was wearing a dark brown jumpsuit that buttoned up the front. The top three buttons weren’t fastened. There wasn’t any cleavage showing, but the way she moved suggested a gracefulness that carried with it a hint of sexuality. I know, it was a murder scene, but there it was, anyway. Life always goes on, especially for the people who have to deal with death on a daily basis.
Denny stepped closer to T-Man’s body and looked down at the woman.
“Joyce,” he said.
She glanced up and smiled at him.
“Dennis,” she said. “You catching this one?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Friend of mine here has a peripheral involvement. I drove him over.”
Denny introduced us, and Joyce nodded a hello and then went back to her work. Dennis and I hung around for another few minutes and then stepped outside. Forty minutes later, Joyce joined us on the front porch.
“Find any evidence in there?” Denny asked her.
“Tons of it,” she said, as she finished taking off her white latex gloves. “But I doubt if any of it applies to this particular crime. Apparently, this place has been used, and frequently, for drug transactions, prostitution and various other illegal activities too numerous to list right now.”
Denny grinned and said, “Love it when you talk dirty, Joyce.”
She smiled back at him. A big smile.
Why did this not surprise me?
“How about our boy in there?” asked Denny.
“Looks pretty straightforward,” she said. “One shot to the heart, close up. Hit the aortic artery, which explains all the blood. He was dead before he hit the floor.”
“Any idea when?”
She shrugged.
“At least four or five days. We’ll know more after the post.”
She paused for a minute, then added, “Of course, Detective, if the information is vital, you can always call me at home. I believe you have my, um, number.”
As she walked down the steps to the Medical Examiner’s van parked out front, I turned and looked at Denny.
“What?” he said.
I kept looking at him.’
“Just two professionals,” he said, “passing in the night.”
“That is so lame,” I said.
“Love to stay and discuss this further,” he said, “but I have police stuff to do.”
As he walked towards the Navigator, I called after him.
“We’ll definitely continue this discussion the next time I see you.”
Which, actually, turned out to be less than twenty-four hours later.
* * *
At about ten o’clock the next morning, I was sitting in a corner booth at Starbucks, thinking. I can think at home, of course. I’ve done it on several occasions. But nobody offers to bring me coffee and pastries at home. Enough said.
What I was thinking about was, with T-Man no longer on the scene, who was in charge of the Links, and more to the point, where did that person stand vis-à-vis Anthony leaving the gang. Since I had no insight whatsoever into the Links’ line of
