SOME TIME AGO
Biondo looked into the deadman's eyes. Only moments ago they had been wide with fear, eyelashes fluttering like startled butterfly wings. Only moments ago the pupils had been pinpricks constricted against the glare of a flashlight that had been shining into them. That was before the man's pleas stopped. That was before Biondo had pulled the trigger.
It still sat across the table from him, the shadows behind it dancing to avoid the only light in the room. The corpse sat there in mockery of what it had been, only seconds before. It still looked like a man. The eyelashes were still moving a bit after all, and blood was still flowing. Through its veins, through its heart. Down the back of its head and into the collar of its shirt. Just like a real live human.
When the thing across the table finally decided to give up its guise of living, it sagged slowly to the left until it fell from the chair and onto the floor of the warehouse with a respectable thump. Vincent Biondo set his revolver down on the table and looked at the recently vacated chair.
"I hate this town. The hired help is for shit."
Two men jumped to pull out Biondo's chair as the old man stood.
"Get, stop, I'm not so old that I can't stand up on my own. Pauly, pick up the damn bags. And for God's sake, someone turn on the fucking lights."
The lights of the warehouse shuddered on row by row, throwing light through the cracked and broken windows into the streets outside. The tall Italian-American called Pauly lifted two small duffle bags from beside the deadman's chair and hefted them to the table. He unzipped each bag and poked a finger inside. "Hey, the shit's all here, boss."
"Of course it's fucking here, Pauly. Rubino was a dumbass, but he wasn't that much of a dumbass. His best bet was riding on bringing the stuff and hoping my old age would bring temperance and mercy. Let this be a lesson to you to never gamble. Those risks are for our customers, not us. We gotta be smart, get me? Do I have blood splatter on me? I hate blood splatter."
"Naw, boss. You're clean."
Biondo's second man returned from his quest for the light switch with his hand behind his back, clutching his pistol. He was looking around nervously as though the old, rusted fenders were going to jump down off the shelves and attack. Possibly give them tetanus. "Hey boss, maybe I shouldn't have turned on the lights. There ain't no one living in this neighborhood but the rats. They're gonna notice the light."
"Who's gonna notice? The cops? No cop cares enough about this city to risk getting his ass blown off for a single gun shot and lights popping on in a junked warehouse. We're more likely to get arrested by bums and whores looking for rewards. But still, as entertaining as that might be, I need to take a piss, so let's go."
With no clean up involved, the boss and his two wiseguys headed toward the front port of the old parts factory where their car waited. They had nearly made it when the doorway was suddenly filled by a brilliant yellow light. The confusion dissipated a moment later in response to the words shouted over a bullhorn.
"DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT! DROP THE BAGS AND PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!"
The bags fell toward the floor and were immediately replaced by guns. The first reports of the fire fight seemed massive in the large space but it was nothing compared to the sound when the police waiting outside opened fire.
Pauly grabbed Biondo's shoulder and threw the old man to the floor. He covered his head with a cry as bullets pushed their way through the walls and zipped over head, tinging off fenders and causes wooden boxes to splitter. A hundred rounds had gone off in a matter of seconds and it only took the sight of Pauly being spun around by a bullet to the shoulder to get the old crime boss moving. He scrambled to his feet but kept low, veering to the line of gigantic metal shelves to his left. He scrambled down the line, moved an aisle over and kept going, the click of his fancy shoes nonexistent beneath the gunshots. When he reached an area of the most cover, he turned and ran straight toward the back of warehouse, avoiding the main exits for a service entrance near the old office.
Biondo only risked one backward glance as he pulled his revolver from its holster at his hip and slammed through the unassuming backdoor. He stumbled into the night and barely dropped to the ground in time to save his eyeball from being popped out by the barrel of a police issued semi-automatic aimed calmly at his head.
The cop was a bit short but armed to the teeth and armored at every angle, the letters SWAT written across his chest and dark visored helmet. Biondo's gun went skittering away under a dumpster but he didn't notice. He was still busy staring up at the single officer who had managed to make him piss his pants. The SWAT officer stood very still, like a statue, holding his gun aimed at where Biondo's head HAD been before the man had dropped to the ground. After a few rapid beats of Biondo's heart, the officer sighed.
"Fine. If you insist."
The gun smoothly dropped to point at where Biondo's head CURRENTLY rested. Still, the gun no longer held Biondo's complete attention. He was fairly busy thinking about the officer's voice. Calm and even, it was low and raspy, like someone who would probably be a lot better off if they laid off the cancer sticks. And the voice also just happened to belong to a woman.
The officer cocked her head in an almost curious fashion. "This means you're under arrest, by the way."
Biondo had to remember not to swallow his tongue in surprise. "You–you can't just point guns at law-abiding citizens."
"You are correct, sir. When I see one, I'll be sure to lower my weapon." There was calm amusement in her voice.
"My lawyers are going to have a field day with your ass!" Biondo cried, spraying a bit of spittle onto the front of his suit. The lawyers! Always fall back on the lawyers!
"Sir," the officer's arm didn't wavier in the least as she kept her gun trained on her detainee, "your mob lawyers are all back in Italy. When will you guy realize that the mafia gave up on Detroit about two decades ago? I mean, you don't even bother with the accent anymore, do you?"
Before Biondo could respond, a crackle came over the radio attached to the armor on her right shoulder. He couldn't hear a word of it over the pounding of blood in his ears.
"Ten-four, I hear you, Cal. Good job. I found myself an old guy. How about you boys come on out back. You know, whenever you're free." She let her radio go and turned her helmet back to Biondo. "You catch any of that? Looks like you had money AND cocaine in those bags. Man, that is not looking good for you. And then there's the dead body of course."
"I want to talk to my lawyers."
"They're on their way, sir. I think it's an nine hour flight from Italy to Detroit. Their plane should come into Metro sometime tomorrow morning."
The backdoor opened again and four officers in full SWAT gear walked out to where the catch of the night sat on his knees.
"No, no. Take more time, fellas. I insist. It's not like my damn arm is falling off here or anything," the female officer sighed and reholstered her gun as one of her fellow officers patted Biondo down and hand cuffed him.
"Hey, we knew you had him covered, Em," one cop pulled the old man to his feet.
Biondo was red in the face now. "I want the badges and names of every man on your SWAT team! You WILL hear from me!"
"Fair enough," his arresting officer unhooked her helmet and pulled it off. Her skin was dark and her eyes matched her black hair, pulled back into a tight bun. Her face was attractive but too rough around the edges to be considered beautiful. She was chewing gum. "I'm Second Officer Mendoza. These are Second Officers Callahan, Bateman, Fulton and Brinker. There are others, but we're the ones who enjoy our job the most." She smiled with the piece of gum wedged between her teeth.
"And since when did they start letting bitches onto SWAT?" Biondo growled, his rage finally beginning to dissipate with his adrenaline.
"Oh shut up. Ten bucks says my dick is bigger'n yours anyway," Mendoza snapped her gum and gave him a big grin.
Biondo began to spit curses and threats to the team and was collected by officers in regular uniform and taken back through the warehouse to be driven to the station. Mendoza mentioned the runaway six-shooter beneath the dumpster. Guns were holstered as the five arresting officers relax. It had been a good bust. Biondo's men were dead, but they had gotten what they had come for. Biondo and two canvass bags full of sweet, sweet incriminating evidence. Not too bad a bust for an operation that had been on the boards for two years. The rest of the SWAT team removed their helmets and Mendoza stuck her gum to the side of the dumpster and immediately pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Fulton quickly followed suit. Her first breath was let out in a long smokey sigh of happiness. "Better'n sex."
"You always say that," Bateman, a large black man the size of a linebacker, leaned back against the wall.
"And it's the truth every time," Mendoza smiled.
Brinker flicked ash to the ground. "Yeah, your husband must love that." Brinker was black and had a nose that had been broken at least ten times but he also owned the friendliest smile on the force.
Fulton, a stocky white man in his early thirties, plucked the cigarette from Mendoza's fingers and took a puff before handing it back. "Hey, Marty was in the military. He knows how good it is to shoot at shit and scare your enemy pantless."
Mendoza shook her head, "Meh, he was a military lawyer. Not MPs or grunts like the rest of us. Just don't tell him I said it or he might try out some domestic abuse."
There was along moment of silence before the entire team busted into laughter. Brinker finished his cigarette and walked back through the warehouse with the others, leaving Mendoza with Callahan who offered to stay until she finished her cigarette. When the rest of the guys were safely away, he frowned at his partner. "You don't really think that about sex, do you?"
Mendoza smiled, "No, but men seem to think the best thing a woman can have is man. It's my obligation to beat their masculinity down from time to time."
"Damn, you are one mean bitch. Semper fi."
"Hu-rrah. . ."
- - - - -
. . .The tile of her bathroom floor was always so cold. She curled her toes in a bit as she stood still in front of the sink. She wore only a tank top and white boxers. A tattoo of the letters SEMPER FIDELIS was written across her hips in an old English script. The small hairs on her arms and the back of her neck were standing on edge. She could blame it on the chilly floor but she would put money that it was more likely a reaction to what she held in her left hand.
Her right hand held something familiar and comforting. A small red box with the letters PALL MALL in a much plainer script then the tattoo on her lower back. The pack was mostly full and would last her probably until the end of the day if she was sparing with them. Martin had given up on telling her to quit long ago. Her left hand though . . .
It seemed like such a harmless thing. It was long, white, and had an indicator which had just done its job by indicating something. It indicated that she would have a lot more time to spend trying to clean her messy house. It indicated that she had to quit her job. It indicated she had to quit smoking.
She looked back and forth from the pink indicated mark to the red pack of cigarettes. New and scary. Familiar and safe. New and scary. Familiar and safe. New and very scary. She looked up into the mirror and almost laughed at the shock that was painted all over her reflected face. She had gone a shade paler and she couldn't seem to close her mouth. Her eyes were really big too.
What are you going to do with those muscles now, chica? Push a vacuum cleaner? Build a play scape? Drive a fucking minivan?
Carry a child. That's what. You're going to carry your child in your arms.
Her right hand curled slowly closed, crushing the red box and its precious but deadly contents. It made a sad sound when it fell from her hand into the trash can.
When she heard her name called, she slowly set the pregnancy test down on the sink and called out to her husband. She had some news for him . . .
- - - - -
. . . Indescribable. Her coffee was simply indescribable. She couldn't think up any suitable adjectives as she grimaced and put her mug down. She grabbed five packets of sugar, hoping to rectify her grievous mistake but didn't have much hope. Man, it was coating her tongue like . . . like . . . bad coffee. She looked across the kitchen table to where her husband took a gulp from his own mug and set it down as though nothing was wrong in the world of taste and ruffled a page of the Detroit Free Press. She stared at him, waiting for his mouth to screw into a grimace. Or for his eyes to start watering. Or perhaps for his face to turn green. He bit into a piece of toast, none the worse for wear.
". . . Dammit, Martin, at least make a gagging sound. Assure me you have taste buds in there somewhere."
"What's that?" he swallowed his toast and looked up at his wife, reaching for his mug again.
"How can you drink that shit?"
He looked down at his mug and back up at her, his green eyes twinkling a bit in the morning light coming through the window. "My beautiful wife made it. How can I think it's anything be delicious?"
"Um, because it tastes like diesel fuel. That's it! Diesel fuel!"
"What's it?"
"I was looking for an adjective to describe this swill. Diesel fuel is pretty close."
"It tastes fine, Em," Martin smiled. "The coffee at the office is worse."
The sugar didn't help it a damn. She pushed her mug away with a sigh. "Yeah. That's what this is. This is police office coffee. Alright, I give up. You can make the morning coffee again."
He pushed his bottom lip out, "Oh, but you wanted to make the coffee. You begged and begged and I said okay after you got me in that headlock. The coffee machine is your domain now."
She leaned back in her chair so she could put her foot up on the windowsill. "Don't be a dick. I'm giving you back your coffee making rights. Don't make me beg. You know I get angry when I have to beg."
"Then I gratefully accept them back. So you don't mind if I do this," He stood and grabbed both their mugs and dumped them into the sink. He followed that up with the entire pot of coffee and the filter went into the trash for good measure. He held his blue tie to his chest as he sat back down in his chair. "So how upset was the precinct when you handed in your resignation?"
"Upset? They threw a fucking party. They were making dibs for my desk as I was laying my badge down on the Lieutenant's desk."
"Oh, they all loved you," Martin looked at his watch and stood right back up again, patting his pocket for his keys and pulling on his suit coat. "I'm almost positive you were having an affair with at least three of them."
"Scandalous. Are you going to sue me?"
"Don't think I won't," he smiled as he pulled on his over coat and grabbed his briefcase.
"Get the hell out of my house, you untrustworthy shyster."
Martin leaned over his wife and kissed her. "I love you, Emirene."
"Love you."
Within ten minutes, she was bored out of her mind. She turned on the TV just to turn it off again. She folded the Lazy-Boy out just to fold it back again. She was eyeing her weights when the telephone rang. She nearly catapulted over the couch to get it.
"Mendoza . . . Callahan! Oh thank God. I've been retired for three days and I'm already - - what?" She listened for a moment before reaching out for a chair and falling numbly into it. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. "When? . . . Wait, was Sharon and the kids . . . oh my God. Oh my God. Well . . . no, I'm coming down to the precinct. . . . No, Sean, I'm coming down now, I'll be there in . . . but . . . Sean . . ." Her voice began to waver as her eyes stung with tears. " . . . Okay. Okay alright . . . when is the funeral? . . ."
- - - - -
. . . It was the two small coffins that made joy seem forever lost. The large coffin with the American flag draped over it was devastating. The matching coffin of the soldier's wife was heartrending. But the two small coffins were completely unbearable. She found she simply could not look at them and she turned away as people streamed by in silence to touch the family of coffins, one by one. She held onto her husband's arm and looked over his shoulder across the green lawn of Elmwood Cemetery. He squeezed her hand and respectfully said nothing.
The day was bright and beautiful, a splendid irony lost on everyone. The ranks of police stayed until the last of the line finished their goodbyes. Her husband softly warned her that her Lieutenant was approaching so she blinked back the tears swimming in her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She turned just as the Lieutenant came to a stop behind her. Her hand moved to salute him, which would have been protocol if she were in her dress blues, but she felt the flowing skirt drift against her shins and her hand stopped its upward momentum. It hung unsure in the air for a moment before she moved it forward, offering her hand. The Lieutenant took it and used it to pull her into his arms. He was a tall, older black man, extremely venerable with a quiet and respect-inspiring demeanor and she nearly disappeared into his arms. She stood motionless in his arms for a moment before resting her hands on his broad back.
"I wish you were still with us, Emirene. We could all really use you right now," the Lieutenant said softly just above the gentle rush of wind through the trees.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and her arms tightened a bit around him. She didn't say anything so he let her go. He leaned down to kiss her cheek before shaking Martin's hand and walking away.
The uniforms left solemnly, leaving behind only the extended relatives of the deceased Brinker family, three of Bernard Brinker's partners, and an ex-partner and her husband. The family kept to themselves, crying over the flag they had been given at the end of the funeral ceremony.
She gave her husband's hand a squeeze before going and joining Callahan, Bateman and Fulton beside a wonderful old oak tree a few plots over. They were all in their dress blues. She should be matching them, but she was no longer a Detroit Police Officer. She walked over and stopped, standing with them in silence for a long moment. She still had her back turned to the graves. She put her hand down along her thigh to keep a sudden breeze from lifting her skirt too high.
" . . .Can you please tell me what you know about how it happened?" She whispered to her old partners. Her old friends.
Callahan cleared his throat, "I talked to Richards in Arson. He hasn't ruled out accidental . . . but it's not looking good."
"So you're saying that someone purposefully set fire to Brinker's home. Someone purposefully burned him and his entire family alive?" She looked out over the cemetery to the stone walls that enclosed it from the rest of the city.
"That's what it looks like," Fulton said softly.
They all stood silent, three blue uniforms and a grey dress. Nearly ten minutes passed before she found the courage to speak again. "You're going to find the bastards who did this, right?"
"We're going to find them," Bateman said in a low, dangerous voice.
"No matter what?" She whispered.
"No matter what," Callahan nodded . . .