Dream of a Falling Eagle

Garth shook his head. 'I want it as much as you do, but swiping items from a crime scene just isn't a good idea. We'll recognize him if we see him.'

'Okay. Let's get out of here and find a pay phone.'

'Freeze, motherfuckers! Get your hands way up in the air and turn around very slowly! Do it now!'

'Shit,' Garth muttered.

'Piss, snot, corruption, pillage, and spitting on the floor.'

'You're both a half second from dead, motherfuckers! Get those hands up in the air and turn around slowly!'

Garth and I did as we were told and found ourselves facing two of Spring Valley's Finest, a white male and an Amazon of a black woman who was at least a foot taller than her partner. It was the woman who had spoken. They must have been wearing shoes with crepe soles, because we hadn't heard them come up behind us. Both police officers were standing just inside the entranceway to the altar area, pointing their service revolvers at us.

'Uh-oh,' Garth said.

I swallowed hard, nodded to the two police officers, and flashed my most cherubic smile. 'You got that right.'

Chapter 2

The small interrogation room to which I was taken and left alone, presumably to reflect upon the error of my ways, smelled of fresh paint. Everything was a cream color- the floor, walls, ceiling, table, and two straight-backed chairs. Even the large ceramic ashtray on the table was a cream color. The monotone, cut-rate interior decoration had a slightly disorienting effect, which I supposed was its purpose. I could hear the low bass hum of air-conditioning somewhere beyond the walls, but it wasn't cooling this place; the room was hot.

I sat up straight in one of the chairs at the table, hands folded in front of me, and stared at the one-way mirror to my right, wondering how many detectives were staring back at me while somebody ran our names and licenses through the system and checked our bona fides. About forty-five minutes later a tall, slim black man with a large strawberry birthmark on his left cheek entered the room. He looked to be about thirty. He wore a nicely tailored brown summer suit with matching tie, highly polished black shoes. The name tag over his badge read 'Beauvil.'

The detective sat down across from me, stared at me for a few moments with his dark eyes, then said evenly, 'You and your brother are in deep shit, Frederickson.'

'Yes, Detective. I know.'

'Your brother tells quite a story about how the two of you came to be in that house at that particular time. Let's see how yours matches up to it.'

'Meaning no disrespect, Detective, but my brother hasn't told you anything but his name, rank, and serial number.'

Beauvil's eyes narrowed slightly. 'You seem pretty certain of that.'

'My brother can be sullen, uncooperative, and even downright cranky. I'm the one with the sunny, cooperative disposition, so he always lets me do the talking in situations like this.'

'Do you think this is funny?'

'No, sir. I was explaining why I was certain Garth hadn't told you anything.'

'What kind of situation is this?'

'Very, very sticky.'

'You've already been read your rights when you were arrested at the crime scene. You've declined legal representation, but I'm going to ask you again. You want a lawyer?'

'No.'

'I suspect you do.'

'You suspect wrong. Why so solicitous, Detective? Are you this polite to all your perps?'

'Who you are commands a certain amount of respect. Also, the fact that you're both so well known means that your arrest is probably going to generate a lot of national publicity. Everything's going to be done by the book. I don't want the Spring Valley PD to end up looking like the LAPD. Now, considering your reputation and all you have to lose in this matter, I would think you'd want a lawyer representing you at this interrogation.'

'Thanks, Detective. I really do appreciate your concern, but you can let me worry about that.'

'You had three handguns between the two of you-your brother's Colt, and your Beretta and Seecamp.'

'All three duly licensed, with special carry permits.'

'You don't have a license not to report a brutal crime.'

'We were just about to do precisely that.'

'Unfortunately for the two of you, somebody beat you to it.'

'Who? If it was a man with a Creole accent, it was probably one of the killers. They're an impatient lot, and they wanted to make sure you didn't take too long to discover their handiwork.'

'You know the drill, Frederickson; I'll ask the questions.' He paused, leaned back slightly in his chair, and regarded me rather archly. 'The two of you may be famous, but you're also a couple of cold-blooded and arrogant sons of bitches. You see a man who's been slaughtered like a pig, and then you calmly proceed to take a tour of his house, disturbing the crime scene.'

'I don't know how cold-blooded and arrogant we are, but we didn't disturb any crime scene; the place had already been tossed before we got there. As for our reaction to the torture, mutilation, and murder of the victim, we've seen it before, and the man got what he deserved-not necessarily in that order.'

Beauvil blinked slowly, said quietly, 'You'd better explain that.'

I glanced toward the mirror, addressing whoever might be looking in and listening. 'Things are moving along pretty quickly here, and they could get out of hand. Again meaning no disrespect, Detective, but I'm not certain how much detail the Spring Valley Police Department really wants to know. Maybe your chief should join us, and we could go to another room that isn't quite so public.'

'You'll deal with me right here and now, Frederickson!' Beauvil snapped, slapping his palm on the table for emphasis. He paused, lowered his voice to just above a whisper. 'You don't seem to realize the seriousness of your situation. It's more than just 'sticky.' We're not just talking about the two of you losing your P.I. licenses. You could end up doing some very serious jail time.'

I looked away from the mirror, sighed. 'Detective, what I'm most worried about at the moment isn't jail time, it's getting fired.'

'Are you crazy? You and your brother could be facing first-degree murder charges.'

'Spare me that heat, Detective. I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you. I understand we've got problems here, but being charged with murder isn't one of them. The vie was missing a heart. You didn't find it in our pockets, and your investigators won't find it at the house. You think we ate it? Right now it's reposing in a clay jar, right beside the rum bottle that holds the victim's spirit captive. That's part of their drill.'

The detective tensed slightly. He started to look toward the mirror, then caught himself and stared hard at me. An ashen pallor had appeared around his strawberry birthmark, and something that looked very much like surprise moved in his ebony eyes.

I continued, 'You haven't been to the crime scene, have you, Detective? This interrogation is a rush job. There are symbols called veves painted all over the vic's bedroom walls, which means this was a goddamn voodoo ritual murder. That's going to create quite a stir in Spring Valley, considering the size of your Haitian population. Do Garth and I look like voodoo priests? Before you start threatening to charge my brother and me with murder, you should be thinking about just how you plan to release this information and handle the investigation. What's happened is going to be very unsettling to a lot of people in your village.'

The detective controlled his reaction quickly, but not before I had seen fear film his eyes and tighten his lips. He had been visibly shaken. Considering the fact that this minor breakdown in proper interrogation technique was