The Night Gardener by George Pelecanos Read Free Book Online Page B

to maintain strong marriages. Others were players. Some drank heavily and some were on the wagon. Most had a beer or two after their shift and never developed a problem with alcohol. None of them were types. They weren’t in their position for the promise of great financial reward. The job wasn’t, for the majority of them, a calling. For one reason or another, they were suited to be homicide police. It was where they had naturally landed.
    “Everything all right?” said Rhonda Willis, noticing Ramone’s frown as he hung up the phone.
    Ramone stood, leaned his back against a divider, and crossed his arms. He was an average-sized man with a good chest who had to work hard at his flat belly. His hair was black, still full and wavy, and without gray. He had a dimpled chin. He wore a mustache, the only thing that identified him as a cop. It was unfashionable for white guys to wear them, but his wife preferred him with it, which was reason enough for him to keep it on his face.
    “My kid got in trouble again,” said Ramone. “Regina said she got a call from the assistant principal, something about insubordination. We get calls from that school damn near every day.”
    “He’s a boy,” said Rhonda, who had four of her own by two different husbands and was now raising them by herself. She spent a good part of her day communicating with her sons via their cells.
    “I know it,” said Ramone.
    “Spare the rod,” said Bakalis, distracting himself with a stroke magazine he had picked up off his desk. Bakalis had no kids himself but felt he needed to chime in.
    Antonelli, who was divorced, tossed a set of Polaroids onto Bakalis’s desk. “Check these out, you want to see something.”
    They were the death photos of Jacqueline Taylor. In the photos she was laid out on her back, naked on a large sheet of black plastic. By the time the sister had identified her, she had been cleaned up, but these were the shots taken when she had first arrived at the morgue. The stab wounds were most prominent on her neck and one of her breasts, which was nearly severed. Her eyes were open, one more widely than the other, which made her appear to be inebriated. Her tongue was swollen and protruded.
    “Look at that hair trail,” said Antonelli, putting his feet up on his desk. His trouser hiked up, revealing an ankle holster and the butt of his Glock.
    Bakalis studied the photos one by one without comment. The mood was not festive, despite the fact that they had caught a killer. No one could be happy with the results in this particular case.
    “Poor old gal,” said Green.
    “Him, too,” said Ramone. “Guy was a solid citizen up until a year ago. Loses his job, falls in love with the pipe, watches his wife shack up with an asshole who parks his laundry in the same place Tyree’s kids are sleeping.…”
    “I knew his older brother,” said Green. “Shoot, I used to see William out there when he wasn’t nothin but a kid. His people were good. Don’t let no one tell you that drugs don’t fuck you up.”
    “Even if he pleads,” said Rhonda, “he’ll catch eighteen, twenty-five.”
    “And those kids’ll be messed up for life,” said Green.
    “She must have been some woman,” said Bakalis, still studying the photos. “I mean, he was so torn about losing that thing he had to kill it so no other man could hit it.”
    “If he hadn’t been smoking that shit,” said Green, “he might have thought straight.”
    “Wasn’t just the rock,” said Antonelli. “It’s a proven fact, pussy will compel you to kill. Even the pussy you
can’t
have.”
    “Pussy can pull a freight train,” said Rhonda Willis.
    Bakalis dropped the Polaroids on his desk, then touched the pads of his fingers to the keyboard of his computer. But his fingers did not move. He stared stupidly at the monitor.
    “Hey, Plug,” said Bakalis. “How’d you like to type up a subpoena?”
    “How’d you like to suck my dick?”
    The two of them went back and