The three men shook their heads. Michael Jordan said, “No, the paramedics shooed us away. I tried to tell them, but they didn’t speak Spanish.”
Cort allowed himself a quick smile. He’d score a bucket load of chits from Homicide if he handed them eyeball wit-
His eyes swept across the three men. “Would you be willing to talk to a detective?”
Silence. Finally, Michael Jordan said, “We don’t want any problems.”
“Problems” meant immigration. Cort said, “The police are only interested in who killed Roberto.”
Michael Jordan said, “How do we know?”
“You can trust me.”
Michael Jordan cocked his head to the side. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Cort looked at the other two men. No give in either of their faces. The cross around Michael Jackson’s neck gave him an idea. “When you all went to Mass this morning, it was at Sacred Heart, right?”
The three men nodded.
Cort thought about asking them to wait, decided it might spook them. “Thanks.” He turned and began jogging east on Park Road, toward 16th Street.
Brad Bellinger hustled onto the street and held up a palm. With his dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and square jaw, Bellinger bore an unsettling resemblance to a full-sized Ken doll.
Cort pulled up. Bellinger said, “Get anything good from those guys?”
Each of the local TV news outfits had a cheesy promotional slogan. The slogan for Bellinger’s station was, “We report to you!
Cort pointed his index finger at Bellinger. “You report to me!”
Bellinger’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Cort turned and resumed jogging.
“I promise, if you help the police, no harm will come to you,” Father Dave said in Spanish. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead. Father Dave and Cort had sprinted over together.
The three men said nothing.
Cort chimed in, “The police want the killer. And they wouldn’t dare do anything against you if you’re…” he paused, trying to find the right word, “represented by Father Dave.”
Father Dave put a hand on Cort’s shoulder. “You can trust Cortez. He wrote that article about the church.”
At Father Dave’s request, a church secretary had typed a translation of the piece, Xeroxed hundreds of copies, and distributed them to parishioners.
Michael Jordan’s eyes flashed with recognition. “You wrote that?”
“Yes.”
Michael Jordan nodded. “Okay.”
Cort said, “Good. I’ll get the detective.” He ambled across the street, pleased with himself. He’d earn beaucoup chits with Homicide for hooking them up with the key witnesses.
His editors would suffer massive strokes, then fire him for violating journalistic ethics as they dropped to the floor, if they ever learned about half the deals he cut on the street. They had no idea. Cort knew if he played strictly by the book, he’d end up parroting useless press releases.
He was halfway across the street when a stout, fiftyish man in a tight tan suit, white shirt, brown tie, and brown loafers stepped out of the building.
Detective Rocky Piazza — two hundred and twenty pounds of grief.
Cort stopped in his tracks and groaned.
Piazza was built like a fire hydrant. Unfortunately, he was about as intelligent as one. He had curly, sandy-colored hair, chubby chipmunk cheeks, and brown eyes that were set a little too close together. Piazza’s ruddy complexion turned beet red when he was riled up. Cort knew because Piazza turned beet red every time their paths crossed.
In two years on the beat, Cort had encountered all of the Homicides. Most were cordial. Some were indifferent. A few had become sources. Piazza, however, was overtly hostile. They’d first met at a murder scene in Columbia Heights. When Cort introduced himself, Piazza had snarled, “I know who you are. You’re like a fucking cancer.”
Halfway down the walkway, Piazza paused to say something to the crime scene techs, then continued toward the front gate.
Cort thought about it. Not even Piazza was dumb enough to turn his back on three eyeball witnesses…
He hit the sidewalk as Piazza pulled the yellow crime scene tape over his head and stepped through the gate. “Detective Piazza, I have something—”
Piazza looked at Cort as if he was something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “Call PIO,” he grunted — the department’s Public Information Office. Cop-speak for “fuck off”; the boys in PIO worked bankers’ hours.
“I have some—”
Piazza chested up to Cort as his face went beet red. He pointed a stubby index finger in Cort’s face, fury in his eyes.
“I said, call PIO. I’m not talking to you, understand?” Piazza pivoted and marched to his sedan.
Plaintively, Cort said, “But I’m trying to help you.” Piazza ignored him. As the detective slid into the car and slammed the door shut, Cort cried out, “I’ve got witnesses!”
Piazza pulled away from the curb.
“Goddamn moron,” Cort muttered as the sedan rolled away. He looked over and saw Father Dave turn up his palms in a “What’s going on?” gesture. Michael Jordan and his friends looked puzzled.
Slowly, Cort walked toward them, marveling at the purity of Piazza’s stupidity, wondering what he’d tell Father Dave and the witnesses, wishing that Phil Harrick was there.
Harrick. He was working midnights this week.
Cort pulled his cell phone out of his satchel and punched in the numbers to Harrick’s pager, which he’d memorized. He put the phone to his ear and the pager chirped. Cort punched in the number to his cell phone, punctuated it by hitting 9-1-1, then sent the page as he reached Father Dave.
The priest said, “Is there a problem? The officer didn’t look too happy.”
“No problem,” Cort replied, nonchalantly. “That detective has to get back to headquarters, but I just paged another investigator. One of the best on the force, and he’s bilingual.” To the workers, in Spanish: “Don’t worry, the detective’s on his way. He’s Latino, he’ll speak to you in Spanish.
Father Dave said, “Well, okay.” The workers nodded. Cort threw them a tight little smile.
Three minutes later, Cort’s cell phone rang. He stepped just out of earshot of the others. “Phil, thanks for calling back so quickly. Where are you?”
“I’m on Georgia Avenue, I’ve been working my network all night. I’m headin’ over to see my girl Darlene now. What’s up?”
Phil was a detective with NSID, the citywide Narcotics and Special Investigations Division. His network consisted of winos, dope fiends, hookers, gamblers, and street-level crack slingers, along with legitimate business owners and straight-arrow residents. His wife and five-year-old daughter were at home in Arlington.
Darlene was a slender redheaded Assistant U.S. Attorney who prosecuted gang conspiracies. She lived in Capitol Hill. Darlene was Phil’s side dish.
“I’m in Mount Pleasant, and I’ve got a situation.”
Cort explained quickly, about the murder, Father Dave and the three witnesses, and Piazza.
“Rockhead Piazza,” Phil said. “Imbecile.”
“Felony-stupid,” Cort agreed.
“They still there?”
“Yeah, Father Dave too. But I don’t think they’ll be hanging around long. I don’t think they’ll cooperate if they’re not interviewed tonight.” Cort paused, letting the idea sink in. Then, “Look, I know you’re not Homicide, but could you take their statements. They saw the killer. This could be a quick lock-up.”
Phil sighed.
Cort said, “Come on, this is a real murder. The victim and one of his buddies have gang tattoos, but they’re working guys now. This doesn’t vibe gang beef.”