Drama City

Down on Sherman, a white woman with stuff in her hands got out of her car, some square-back hooptie. Looked like she was carrying a file or something like that. A cell too, and some kind of little leather case.

She didn't look all white. She might have been Spanish or something; he couldn't tell. She was wearing jeans and a shirt had no style. She didn't belong on this street. It wasn't her color. There were a few whites and plenty of browns down here. It was the way she carried herself, walking down the sidewalk, aware of where she was, trying to act like this was her neighborhood when it was not. Miller had this talent. He could smell police.

Soon as this entered his mind, a 4D patrol car, heading east on Irving, turned up Sherman. It slowed near where the woman was walking and pulled over to the curb. The woman hesitated, seemed to recognize the driver, and went to the open window. He couldn't see the woman's face as she bent forward.

That woman's talking to one of her own, thought Miller. She's conspiring with the police in the car.

The uniform police spoke to the woman police for a couple of minutes, and then the uniform took off. The Crown Vic's tires caught rubber on the street. The woman got back up on the sidewalk, went down it some, and turned toward Melvin's row house. As she made her way to it, she looked up at the third-floor window. Miller leaned back in his chair.

She seen me, he thought. I fucked up. Police coming up here looking for Melvin. I should do what Melvin say to do and go out the fire escape and run.

He went back to the bedroom and opened the window. He looked down at the mesh platform outside the window and the ladder below it. What good would it do Melvin if he, Rico, was to book on out? If the police was looking at Melvin for the murders, they would get him up there at the car wash just the same. What Rico needed to do was to stop them from looking. Leastways, hold them off until he and Melvin could leave out of town. Besides, to run on out of here, from a woman? That didn't work for him.

High like he was, it was hard to know what to do. He closed the window and stood stupidly in the center of the room.

Miller put his hand in his pocket and touched leather. He touched the rough part of the leather where the letter C was at. He ran his finger down to touch the R. Then the E, and then the other E. And then the P.

Miller heard a grinding sound.

Rachel parked on Sherman, gathered her badge case, her cell, and her file on Melvin Lee, and got out of her car. She locked the Honda and went down the sidewalk toward Lee's address. It was a row house like all the others on the block. The file said he lived on the third floor.

An MPD patrol car came off Irving and up Sherman. Rachel clocked the Fourth District designation and identification numbers on the Crown Vic. It came to a stop curbside. As the window slid down, she saw that it was Donald Peterson, one of the many cops she had worked with over the years, behind the wheel. Peterson was a sergeant, black, and somewhere on the good side of forty. He was well built, close to handsome, and, like many cops, divorced.

She liked him; he had a confident cool. He had flirted with her when they'd first met, down at the District Courthouse, and asked her out. It was a respectful, non-aggressive flirtation, and she had been flattered. But she had politely declined, explaining that she had just come through a rough stretch, dealing with the illness of her parents, and wasn't ready to date. Of course, it had nothing to do with her parents. She had never been in an equal relationship, one where she was not in complete control. The thought of it frightened her.

'Hey, Donald,' she said, leaning on the lip of his window, feeling the bite of the ice-cold air-conditioning blowing in the car.

'Miss Lopez. Making a house call?'

'A Melvin Lee.'

'Spidery-lookin' gentleman,' said Sergeant Peterson, who had been working the Fourth for over fifteen years. 'Toiled under Deacon Taylor, if I recall.'

'If you say so.'

'Don't tell me: You missionary types are interested in their futures, not their pasts.'

'Can't do anything about their pasts.'

'What's he doing now? Pediatric surgeon, some-thin' like that?'

'He works in a car wash.'

'Another productive member of society.'

'Somebody's gotta keep the cars clean.'

'Send him up to the station. Mine could use a bath.'

'You guys are always looking for a handout.'

A call came over the radio, something about a man driving erratically down Georgia Avenue. Peterson keyed the mic and told the dispatcher that he'd respond, then replaced the mic in its cradle.

'I was wonderin'…'

'What?'

'You like seafood?'

'Love it.'

'Ever been to Crisfields?'

'No.'

'You gonna make me work for this, aren't you?'

'I've never been to Crisfields and I'd like to go.'

'When?'

'Give me a call.'

'You still in that same office?'

'Yes.'

'Okay.' Peterson pulled down on the transmission arm. 'Let me get on over to Georgia. See what this guy's malfunction is.' He looked Rachel over, then looked directly into her eyes. 'Be safe.'

'You too, Donald.'

Rachel backed off the window and Peterson drove away. His tires squealed, leaving rubber on the asphalt, as he took off.

They can't help themselves, thought Rachel. They're all boys at heart.

She went up the walkway to the row house where Melvin Lee stayed. As she walked, she smiled and shook her head. All this impulsive behavior in one afternoon. Sergeant Peterson had tried one time, a while back. Turning his car up Sherman as she was making a house call, maybe it was just his lucky day. Could be it was hers too.

Rachel entered the row house and took the steps up to the third floor. She heard television sets and the bass of a stereo as she ascended the stairs. She made the landing and knocked on the door marked 3B. She put her cell phone in her front pocket and kept her badge case and file in her hands. There were footsteps behind the door, and then the door opened.

A young man who was not Melvin Lee stood in the frame. He was tall and thin and had a long lupine face. His eyes were nothing eyes and told her only that he was high. She had seen this look, absent of all humanity, on some of the young offenders in her case files. She had seen it more frequently in the last couple of years.

'Melvin Lee,' said Rachel, badging the young man.

'I ain't Melvin.'

'I'm looking for Melvin,' she said, keeping her eyes on his and her tone firm. 'I'm Miss Lopez. Melvin's probation officer.'

'Yeah, okay.'

'Is Melvin around?'

'He out. He gonna be back soon.'

Rachel smelled marijuana from inside the apartment. She slipped the badge case into the rear pocket of her jeans.

'I'll come back,' said Rachel. 'Tell him I was here.'

Rachel turned to go.

'Hold up,' said the young man, and Rachel stopped.

'Yes?'

'I'm sayin', he only gonna be out for, like, ten minutes, somethin' like that. He only buyin' a pack of smokes.'

'Who are you?'

'Rico.'

'My question is, what is your relation to Mr Lee?'

'Melvin my father,' said Rico. 'Come on in and wait, you want to. He ain't gonna be but a bit.'

Rachel hesitated. She tried to remember if Lee had a son. She didn't think it was in his file. He had omitted it, maybe, on the form. Not unusual, but still a lie. A violation, along with the weed, if there was any left. If the boy hadn't flushed it down the toilet already.

She needed to note these things for the record. It wasn't enjoyable, but it was her job. She stepped inside the apartment. The boy named Rico closed the door behind her.