The Darker Hours Read online

  As he broke free and goosed it again, Boyce said, “Must be the polite part of town. You didn’t get one finger.”

  Lincoln was a curvy road with hills. Blackhawk kept the Chrysler just under the disaster speed. He raced toward the 51, running two red lights in the process. When they straightened out and could see the green signs signaling the highway ahead, the guy was nowhere in sight.

  “Son of a bitch,” Blackhawk said between his teeth. He went over the overpass with Boyce straining to look right and left. Nothing. Blackhawk kept driving until he found a side street to turn into. He pulled into a driveway, backed out and drove back to the stop sign. They sat there. Boyce took several deep breaths.

  “We need to get back to Elena and Gabe,” she said. Blackhawk reluctantly nodded and started back.

  When they reached the restaurant parking lot it was swarming with official vehicles. A fire truck, an ambulance and three blue and white police SUVs with sirens in the background, coming fast. Blackhawk had to park on the street.

  Boyce flashed her badge to get past the first line of cops. They went through the parking lot at a trot and then through the patio gate. It was still hanging open. The patio was mostly empty. The customers had been herded inside. Boyce could see pale faces peering out at them. Their statements would be taken shortly. Gabe and Elena were still on the patio. Gabe was sitting beside their table with a paramedic working on his side. They had cut his shirt away. Elena stood beside him. When she saw Blackhawk, she unleashed a string of Mexican invectives that would blister a cactus. The wait staff, gathered in a corner, ducked their heads and cringed. When that was over, Blackhawk opened his arms and she fell into them.

  Boyce went to Gabe. “How bad is it?” she asked the paramedic.

  He didn’t take his eyes off his task. “Like they say in the movies – it’s just a flesh wound. It needs to be stitched if he doesn’t want a scar.”

  “Scar might be sexy,” Boyce said, looking at him, trying to gauge where he was.

  “I don’t feel very sexy,” Gabe winced as the paramedic wrapped him with gauze. He looked at Boyce. “What the hell happened. Where did you go?”

  “They went to be heroes,” Elena spit out.

  Gabe just looked at Boyce. “So, is this what you meant when you said your relationships don’t work out?”

  31

  Deke Sawyer was an Assistant Police Chief and the one running the meeting. His political ambitions were well known in the department. He was straight out of central casting. Tall, slender, ramrod straight, silver hair combed straight back, steely eyes that could bore right into you. Mendoza sat to the side. They were using the big room. Killing one police officer and shooting at another was serious business.

  The patrol officers who were about to begin their shift had filled the space to standing room, even spilling into the hall. Boyce sat in the third row of chairs. Danny Rich sat next to her. Off to her right were Bennett and Barbieri. Next to Barbieri was an empty seat and Boyce realized with a start that this was where DiMartini usually sat. The officers were leaving it empty.

  Sawyer was using an antiquated overhead projector and had thrown an old mug shot of Marcelino Torres up on the screen. Before that he had been talking for a while. He had gone over DiMartini’s shooting in detail. He had named the officers involved, including the patrol officers. He had described the forensics. The mangled bullet they had dug out of the wall that had been twenty feet behind Boyce. It had turned out to belong to a 150 grain 7mm power point mag, with the best guess that it had been fired by a Mossberg slide action bolt big game rifle. DiMartini had not even known he was dead.

  Now Sawyer looked at Boyce, then back up at the screen. “Marcelino Torres,” he said. “Known as Mookie.” He looked back to Boyce. “Is this our shooter, Detective?” he said.

  “I didn’t see him,” she said. “We have a witness that put him there with a gun in his hand.”

  “How reliable a witness?” Sawyer asked.

  Mendoza spoke, “Detective Boyce was out to dinner with three others. I’m personally familiar with two of the three, including the witness. I can vouch for him.”

  “What’s the witness’s name?” Sawyer asked, looking at Boyce.

  Boyce hesitated. Mendoza said, “Blackhawk.”

  Chief Sawyer looked at him. His eyebrows went up. “Blackhawk? What kind of name is that? Is he Native American?” He looked back at Boyce. “Is your friend Native American?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never asked him.”

  Sawyer was puzzled. He looked back at Mendoza.

  Mendoza said, “What do you prefer to be called, sir?”

  Sawyer smiled. “When I’m in this building I prefer Chief.”

  “But your name isn’t Chief,” Mendoza continued. “We don’t know if Blackhawk is this guy’s real name or not, but he prefers to be called Blackhawk. He owns the night club, El Patron, down by the Durango Curve. The name on the property deed is Blackhawk.”

  Boyce looked at Mendoza, wondering how he knew that.

  “He’s certain that Detective Boyce was the intended target?”

  “He’s absolutely certain,” Mendoza said.

  “Is this guy,” he indicated the image of Torres, “the one that murdered Detective DiMartini?”

  “It’s probable, but we are still investigating. I’m troubled because this doesn’t fit his history. The guy is a small-time drug dealer. He was a street soldier for Cicero Paz before we sent Paz away. But he doesn’t have a history of violence. Till now.”

  “Okay,” Sawyer said to the room, “Mr. Blackhawk has identified this guy as the shooter. We know he hangs out down in the 40th Street corridor but he could be anywhere. Keep your eyes and ears open. He is armed and dangerous. If you spot him, get some back-up. Okay ladies and gentlemen, we will get this guy!” He leaned forward, “Nobody gets away with killing one of us.”

  The room was silent.

  He continued, “The services for Detective DiMartini will be in two days at four P.M. at Saint Mary’s Cathedral. If you are not on duty, you will be expected to be in your dress blues, and you will be expected to join the procession.” He looked around the room then looked at Mendoza. “Anything else?” Mendoza shook his head. “Okay then, dismissed. Go do your job. Let’s get this guy.”

  They all stood and began to file out. Mendoza signaled Boyce to stay behind. Sawyer stayed behind with them. They waited until the room emptied. Sawyer came over and sat in a row ahead of Boyce. He turned to put his arm along the back of the chair. Mendoza stood up and came over.

  Sawyer looked at him, “Tell me what you really think, Mike. Are these things related?”

  “My gut says they are, but like I said, we don’t have anything to tie them together yet.”

  “Except for me,” Boyce said.

  Sawyer looked at Boyce. “What do you think, Detective?”

  “I think the son-of-a-bitch is trying to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged, “Million-dollar question,” she said. She looked at Mendoza. He was looking back. “The first time I ever saw this guy was recently,” she continued. “And that was by accident. He didn’t even see me, or at least I don’t think he did.” She related the incident at the Circle K with Spark identifying Mookie.

  “If the kids know him, he’s well known,” Mendoza said. He shook his head, looking at Boyce. “What the hell does he have to do with you?”

  Boyce shrugged.

  “So, what do we do now?” Deke Sawyer said.

  Boyce looked at him. “I think I should go down there and show myself. Draw him out.”

  “The Judas goat?” Mendoza frowned.

  “That’s a great idea,” Sawyer said. “But we’ll do just the opposite.” He looked at Boyce. “I want you off the streets.” He looked at Mendoza. “Give her something to do inside. We don’t have the budget for protection around the clock. At least we can minimize her exposure.”

  “I don’t need protectio
n,” she protested.

  “Tell that to your boyfriend, Gabe,” Mendoza said.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said.

  Sawyer stood up. He looked at Mendoza. “Keep her in house.” He looked at Boyce. “Don’t enhance your rebel reputation. Be a good girl and stay off the street.” He walked away.

  “Rebel reputation?” Boyce said. Girl? She looked at Mendoza.

  Mendoza said, “Maybe I can get some of the guys to volunteer to keep an eye on your place. Go with you to the store and things like that. Maybe Rich will help.”

  “I don’t need babysitters,” she said. “I don’t want to do that.” She shook her head. “I really don’t want to do that.”

  Mendoza was looking quietly at her. Finally, he said, “Maybe you should go talk to your friend Jackson.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then she closed it.

  32

  It was mid-morning. No one had attacked Boyce in two whole days. She had spent the two days sitting at her desk and was going nuts. Now, she got in her Miata and drove to El Patron. Jackson’s car was sitting alone in front of the main door. Blackhawk, Elena’s and Nacho’s vehicles were parked around back. The front door was wide open and as she stepped inside, she could hear voices coming from the new room. She looked in.

  It didn’t look like a restaurant. A small, raised semi-circular bandstand was in the far corner. Elena was painting the far wall. She had on paint splattered coveralls with her hair tied into a blue bandana. Jackson was on a ladder, opposite her, cutting in where the wall met the ceiling. He was wearing a pair of swim trunks. His good foot was bare, and the prosthetic was protected by a blue painter’s bootie. Boyce noticed the muscles rippling across his back as he reached up with the brush. There was a run of paint that started on the back of his shoulder and ran down his back into the trunks. She stood and watched for a few moments.

  Finally, Elena stepped back from her wall to inspect it. She soaked her roller in the paint pan and caught sight of Boyce from the corner of her eye.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” she smiled, turning. Her smile like a high wattage beacon from a tall beautiful lighthouse. “You come to help?”

  “On my way to work,” Boyce said. “What happened to the restaurant?”

  “Too much work,” Elena said. “We’d have to get kitchen stuff, freezers and big stoves and stuff. Hard enough to keep waiters let alone cooks.”

  “So what is it now?”

  Jackson had turned around on the ladder. “She finally got some good sense. She’s going to have a jazz club.”

  Elena frowned at Jackson, then turned back to Boyce. “It’s going to be great. We’ll have a girl singer in here every night with a jazz combo. I’ve already got the girl; her name is Mariannie Bickerdyke and she’s gorgeous. We’ll have her singing those old American standards like Linda Ronstadt did.”

  “Like Sinatra and Tony Bennett,” Jackson said.

  “Mariannie Bickerdyke?”

  “She goes by Mariannie. No last name. You know, like Cher or Madonna.”

  “Or Blackhawk,” Jackson said.

  “You’re one to talk.” She turned back to Boyce. “Anyway, I can’t wait for you to hear her.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “Tomas Marino, you know, the guy that runs the casino. He has her singing in the lounge out there. But he has her singing the modern stuff. He thinks all people want to hear is the new, you know, like top forty hip hop stuff.”

  “So, she’s going to leave him and come here? Won’t Marino be pissed.”

  “Hell, no,” Jackson said. “Elena will bat her eyes and wiggle a little bit and Marino’s brain will lock up and he will give her anything she wants.”

  “Shut up, Jackson,” Elena said. “Besides, I’m going to buy her contract and pay her more than he will. You sure you don’t want to help paint?”

  “Afraid not,” Boyce said. “I really stopped by to talk to Jackson.”

  “Oh, boy,” Jackson moaned.

  Boyce stood there for a moment, not sure where to start. Finally, she said, “They took me off the streets and put me behind a desk.” The bitterness was clear in her voice.

  “You don’t understand that?” Jackson said.

  “It’s not safe for you with that guy out there,” Elena said.

  “Yeah, I know. Anyway, the Chief says they don’t have a budget to post a car outside my place when I’m off duty, so Mendoza,” she emphasized the name, “suggested that I see if you’ll come stay until we catch the asshole.” She wanted to make sure he understood it wasn’t her idea.

  “You bet he’ll do that,” Elena said.

  “I promised I’d help you paint,” he said to Elena.

  “I’ll be at the precinct today. I get off at four. Maybe you could come over then.”

  “We’ll be done by then,” Elena said. She looked at Boyce, “How’s Gabe?”

  Boyce shrugged, “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him.”

  “Guy gets shot because of you and you don’t check on him?” Jackson said.

  “I called him yesterday.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “I left a voice mail.”

  Jackson looked at her a moment, then shook his head and turned back to painting.

  “You know who that guy is?” Elena said. “That guy that shot at us.”

  “I thought Jackson might know him,” Boyce said.

  “Me?’

  Boyce pulled Torres’s folded picture from her back pocket. She walked over and handed it to Jackson. Jackson came down two rungs and took the picture. He studied it. “Why do you think I’d know this guy?”

  “He used to be one of Cicero Paz’s street guys. Handled the opiates down in the corridor.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Doesn’t look familiar. You sure this is the guy that shot at you?”

  “Blackhawk picked his picture. Guy’s name is Marcelino Torres. Known as Mookie on the street.”

  “Mookie?” Elena said. “That’s a stupid name.”

  “He’s not a real bright guy.”

  “They have a bolo out on him?” Jackson said,

  “Of course,” Boyce said.

  “What’s a bolo?” Elena said.

  “Stands for be on the lookout,” Boyce said.

  Elena turned to Jackson. “Of course, they’ll be on the lookout. The guy shot at us!” She turned back to Boyce. “You want, you can come stay with us,” she said. “We have that spare bedroom.”

  “I appreciate that,” Boyce said. “But I think I’d rather stay home.”

  “You think that guy knows where you live?”

  “Probably,” Jackson said without turning.

  Boyce shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Elena was aghast. “You go outside to get your paper and the asshole shoots you from across the street.”

  “I don’t take the paper,” Boyce said.

  Jackson laughed. “That’s just what she wants.”

  “To get shot?”

  “For the guy to try. She’d love to draw him out so she can nail him.”

  “That’s just dangerous,” Elena said.

  “You forget I’m a trained police officer,” Boyce said.

  “Wrapped in the cloak of truth, justice and American jurisprudence,” Jackson said.

  “Don’t matter what you wear, that asshole can shoot you,” Elena said, turning back to her painting.

  33

  Jackson was laying on the hood of the Mustang, which he had parked behind Boyce’s Miata in the city parking lot, blocking it in. He had an arm thrown across his eyes. When Boyce approached, she thought he might be asleep.

  “You asleep?” she said.

  “Ever vigilant,” he said sitting up. “You going home?”

  Boyce nodded.

  “I’ll follow,” Jackson said.

  Boyce had bought a townhome from an acquaintance who had moved out of state. It was in an HOA on the south side of Thunderbird Road just wes
t of 7th street. All the buildings were white with flat roofs. The grounds were grass lawns and large sycamore trees. It was walled, but not gated. The good news was that there was little turn over and most owners had been there a while. Strangers would be noticed.

  Boyce’s home was a two-story, located in the middle with parking in front of her door. She parked there. Jackson went around the corner and found a place for the Mustang. He popped the trunk lid and pulled out a cased shotgun. He carried it into Boyce’s living room. He had not been there before.

  Boyce was in the kitchen. “Want a beer?”

  “Sho nuff,” Jackson said.

  She came out with two beers and handed him one. “Sho nuff?”

  “Pure African American dialect,” he said, taking the beer. “Learned first-hand on the streets of Decatur Illinois, otherwise known as little Chicago. I could’ve used the pure Mexican that Nacho has been teaching me and said si.”

  She shook her head. “You are so full of it.”

  He looked around. It was a moderate-sized, but comfortable living room. One straight back chair, one recliner and a couch with a mahogany coffee table. A flat screen TV was mounted on the wall opposite the couch. Another room was just inside the front door, before the stairs. The door was open, and it looked like Boyce had set herself up an office. There was a wide curved doorway that led to the kitchen.

  “This is nice,” he said.

  “Thanks, there’s a spare bedroom upstairs. You can camp there.”

  Jackson sat on one end of the couch. He slipped the shotgun out of the case, checked the loads and leaned it against the wall.

  “If it’s just the same, I’ll sleep down here. We get Wily Coyote trying to sneak in here, I might not hear him upstairs.”

  “Suit yourself,” Boyce said. She sat in the recliner. She took a drink of beer.

  “You heard from your boyfriend?” Jackson said.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “And yeah, I talked to him this morning. He says he’s still a little sore but he’s getting around okay. He wanted to come and stay with me.”