Out of the Blues (27 page)

DeWare grabbed her by the throat with his left hand, his fingers
closing on the gold chain around her neck, slippery with blood. “Saint Michael,” she said.

He jerked the chain and medallion from her neck. “Just the souvenir for Preacher Prince,” he said. “He loves him some gold.”

“Prince,” repeated Salt.

Entering under and emerging from the lone distant circle of light was a beater, a ghetto junker, Oldsmobile or Buick sedan circa 1970s. It slowly rolled toward them, one of its headlights flickering and the other pointed sideways. Unreasonably, Salt thought that on a slow night in a patrol car she'd have stopped it and, if all else was well, given the driver a warning to get the headlights fixed. She was beyond reality. “You were trying to shoot me but instead you shot the bluesman.” She could ask DeWare anything now. He was going to kill her and wanted to brag first—to show her he had power.

“You think this little gold man saved you? That man got shot 'cause he turn his back. His bad. And now I get another chance at you. Seem like Preacher right about God want me to be the one kill you. He and my boss say I'm born to be the hand of God, born to be a killer.”

“Your boss—Spangler?”

“Yeah . . .” DeWare's voice trailed off as the Buick came alongside them and stopped. He moved to the back passenger side. “Yo, Shawty.” The SUV was higher than the beater, so from where she sat neither the car nor its occupants on the other side were visible, although its exhaust, thick and pungent, plumed in the moonlight.

“Man like to know what's happnin' his streets. Know I'm sayin'? Who drivin'?” asked Lil D, whose voice she immediately recognized.

Salt lost awareness of the pains from her injuries. She felt a sense of time condensing. Lil D's and DeWare's voices—inflections, pitches and tones, small words, a hiss, grunts and guttural noises—were amplified by the silence of her other muted sensations.

“Aw, Shawty. This bitch mine. Man don't have no reason . . .” DeWare stopped talking as the beater's door opened and closed.

Lil D appeared in front of the SUV, his long white T-shirt light blue in the full moon, the birthmark on his neck barely visible, and came around to Salt's window. “This that bitch cop and she fucked-up,” Lil D said through the open window to DeWare, still on the passenger side in the backseat. Salt tried to open one eye. “You done fucked up bringin' this shit here,” he said.

“It ain't like that.” The overhead light came on as DeWare opened the back door and got out from the other side of the SUV, his dark shape following Lil D's path around the front of the vehicle.

Salt held up her left index finger and thumb, signaling Lil D that DeWare was armed. Time slowed. Face framed by the SUV's interior light, Lil D closed his eyes and drew a breath. Salt heard his intake of air. He swiveled his neck once as he lowered his hand. DeWare rounded the front bumper and there was a flash from Lil D's waist and three blasts. DeWare folded to the pavement. Salt's ears rang as Lil D went to where DeWare lay. “My name D, motherfucker.” His words came to her muffled beneath the roaring in her ears. Then he came back to her. She could not hold her head up but was trying to keep her eyes open, resting her right cheek against the steering wheel. Lil D opened the door of the SUV. “You just witness a murder now, didn't you?”

“No,” said Salt. “Defense.” She was barely able to stay conscious, just vaguely aware of the arrival of another sound, the distant motorized flapping of a helicopter.

Lil D opened the door. “Get out.”

“My shoulder . . .”

“Get out. I'm tryin' my best here to make us even.” He pulled her out.

Salt fell onto the weedy stubble beside the street.

“I'm going to give you two presents,” said D, “one from me to you.” He dropped the gun he'd used to shoot DeWare beside Salt and took another from his camo jacket. “Number one. You found that gun in the car. Didn't you?”

Salt nodded to the lie.

“Number two present is DeWare auntee. She the one hear DeWare making the deal 'bout killin' that white woman and her girls, the deal with Tall John. Tall John the one put DeWare on them.”

The whirly sound of the copter was getting closer, missing them by only a couple of miles, its searchlight bouncing off a few low clouds over the city.

Salt fell back on her rear, knees bent.

“And don't keep fuckin' shit up. Man ain't gone like none a' this,” said Lil D, going back to the Buick. He laid rubber speeding off, the beater's exhaust fouling the air Salt gulped as she crawled to DeWare while watching the red taillights disappear down an abandoned construction access in the weedy field.

The grass stubble was prickly and sharp, the clouds above tinged with orange. She took her gun from DeWare's hand and put her fingers to his wrist. He opened his eyes as a sound escaped his chest.

“DeWare.” Salt tried to rouse him.

“. . . shoot . . .” he rasped.

“DeWare, you live or die, you want to be the only one to pay for killing those girls and their mother? Who asked you to kill them?”

DeWare's head fell to one side, eyelids half-closed, but as the last breath left his body he rasped, “Tall John, that white man, Spangler,” his dying declaration, courtroom and testimonial gold.

—

A
LIGHT
flashed across her eyes.

“. . . shot last year,” Wills was saying.

All she could see through the one eye barely open was lights, strobing blues, ambulance floods, and some flashes. She knew the air was warm but she felt cold to the bone and tried to get up from the hard surface beneath her. Lights blacklit someone who covered her first with a sheet, then several blankets, tucking them all around her. Her throbbing left arm was taped to a hard plastic splint.

“Shoulder, arm, fingers, ribs, eye, head—but other than that she's runway ready.” A paramedic held her head steady while another secured a stabilizing collar around her neck. “We put the oxygen tube on her mainly so you assholes will leave her alone, let her come to without you asking her a bunch of questions she probably won't be able to answer right now anyway.”

Huff, Pepper, and Wills came into focus as they raised the gurney and rolled it toward the ambulance. “You two go to the Gradys. The Things, Gardner, and I will work the scene here,” said her sergeant. They shielded their eyes against the debris of the helicopter as it lifted off. Techs were expanding the pole legs on portable lights. Blue lights flashed outside the back window of the ambulance after the doors closed. When the ambulance reached the end of the street and took the turn to go north, more blues reflected off the ceiling of the ambulance. On the short trip to the hospital blue lights flashed continuously through the back window.

S
itting up on the exam table in one of the ER rooms, Salt drew a breath between clenched teeth. “Ow!”

“Almost finished,” said the nurse, running her fingers along Salt's lower chest. “The ribs will heal on their own, but if you begin to have more severe breathing problems, come back in. We can't have you getting pneumonia.”

“Can you make her suffer a little more?” asked Pepper from the other side of the curtain circling the ER table.

“Some friends you've got,” said the nurse.

“You have no idea what she just put us through,” said Wills, also from outside the curtain.

“Do we have the entire force out there?” asked the nurse.

“Seems like I'm here at the hospital all the time just for her.” The familiar voice belonging to the chief came from the direction of the ER room door.

“Sir,” somebody said, accompanied by the sounds of feet shuffling.

“How is she?”

The nurse pulled the ties closed on the hospital gown. “I'm finishing up. She doesn't look so hot, but . . . ta-da!” She slid back the curtain.

The chief stood front and center in the room crowded with Pepper, Wills, Huff, supervisors, guys from her old shift and detectives. Nobody said anything. They stood there, mouths open.

“She looks way worse than she is,” said the nurse. “Her vitals are good. She's got fourteen stitches over her eye and more in her arm, as you can see, but the swelling will go down soon.”

Salt tilted her head so she could see. “Fanks, Chief. Fank you for coming.” Her lips had swollen and wouldn't pull together properly.

“Maybe one of you could, like, say something instead of standing there staring at her,” said the nurse, edging her way between them to the door.

The chief moved forward, as did Wills and Pepper. “Damn,” said the chief. “I'd shake your hand or something, but I don't see anywhere on you that looks like it wouldn't hurt.”

She lifted her right hand but winced at the resulting report from her ribs.

The nurse turned from the door. “Careful, though. No hugging. A couple of ribs are badly bruised. But other than that, she can go home if there's somebody there to monitor her.”

“Have you got family at home? If not we'll assign somebody,” said the chief.

“We'll make sure she's taken care of, Chief,” said Huff, lifting his lip silently, snarling at her behind the chief's back.

“Once again, Salt—” The chief brought his hand to his brow and snapped to attention, causing the others to automatically attempt some sort of formal posture, feet together, straightened backs. He turned and left and they all slumped.

“DeWare,” said Salt. “Nex' of kin?”

“The medical examiner is taking care of that,” said Wills.

“No,” she said. “Wills, do it. DeWare auntee.”

“If there's something else that would help with the scene or the investigation, at this point I'd appreciate any direction you suggest.” Huff looked at Pepper and Wills and shrugged. “I have to ask.”

Salt closed her eye and saw Lil D back at the street, his face leaning toward her.

“Salt?” said Huff.

“Hey, Sarge.” Pepper moved around so he stood at her back facing the sergeant.

“Who's taking her home?” asked Huff, taking a step back.

“I've already got her gear in my car,” Wills said.

“You know the drill, Salt. You just went through this last year: chaplain, statement to Internal Affairs and one of our guys, mandatory three-day administrative leave.” Huff looked tired, heavy on his feet as he came close. “I wish we'd been able to get to you sooner.” He nodded to Wills and left the room.

“Wills, I'll stay while you go get your car. I'd like a minute with her alone,” said Pepper.

“Be right back,” said Wills. “I'll tell Gardner to keep everyone else out.” He patted Pepper's back, then tucked a lock of Salt's hair behind her ear. “Be right back.”

As the door closed Pepper came around and sat down beside her on the gurney. “Ann is coming to help you out tomorrow. She'll bring food and God knows what else. Somehow she's got it in her head that this is her fault; that it's because of something she said that you risked your life to save me back there in the club.” He leaned his head to look into her one open eye. “She's wearing out my phone.” He held up his phone, lit and vibrating.

“Answer, Pep. Don' let her worry. Here, I'll talk.” She took the phone and answered. “'Lo.”

“Salt?!” Ann was crying.

“I all righ', Ann. Ann?”

Ann drew an audible breath and sniffed. “I hope you like chili.”

“Love chiree—with 'eans?”

“What's wrong with your voice? Oh, God.”

“They let e go hoe so not ad. Cuh see, to-orrow.”

She handed the phone back to Pepper, who put it to his ear. “I'm on my way. We'll talk. Love.” He put the phone in his pocket. “It's like old times, on our beats.” Her bare legs dangled off the side of the table. Pepper swung his legs back and forth beside hers.

“Ol' ties? A fonf?” She laughed. “We only 'een detectives a fonf. Ouch.” They both laughed, then winced at the same time.

“Ow, stop. Seriously, I hurt just looking at you. I know we've been here before and I know it's what we do.” He put his arms around her gently and spoke into her good shoulder. “For my boys and Ann.” He lifted his head and stood up, wiping his cheeks. “Now I'm going home.”

Wills was at the door when Pepper opened it. Pepper hugged him. “Ann'll be down tomorrow with food.” Wills put his arm around Pepper's shoulder before they parted, then held the door for the nurse with a wheelchair.

T
he end of spring had always been signified for Salt when the wisteria lost its blooms. “Memory can be tricky. We unconsciously select what we recall,” Wills said, picking petals from Salt's hair that had blown from the vine on the fence. “A couple of weeks ago you asked me if the cases ever, what? Change me?”

“Something like that. Yeah. You said not, if I remember right.” She and Wills were sitting in the glider under the trees in the backyard. She held her face to the warmth of the sun as it shone between the sun-speckled leaves. Wonder, stretched out in the grass in the full sun, was dreaming, his eyelids flickering. It was the last day of Salt's mandated leave. Combined with her off days, she'd been away from the job for five days since the incident with DeWare. A warrant had been obtained for Spangler and he'd been arrested without incident at his home.

“Do you remember the family murdered in Adairsville?” Wills
bent down, pulled up some blades of grass, and wove them back and forth between his fingers.

“Five years ago? It was a whole family if I remember right,” Salt answered.

“Seven victims. Women and children. My case.”

“Oh, God, Wills.”

“One of the guys said to me afterward, ‘What's so different about seven bodies in one place? Same number of bodies as seven different cases, right?' The house was tiny. I was processing the scene, the bodies, for over eight hours, and there were things—blood dripping from the ceiling and other stuff that I never could explain. One toddler, alone in a corner of a bare room, was shot in the head and bleeding into an adult-sized sneaker. The girl's all-pink bedroom, pink ribbons on the tips of her braids. But I can't remember even one of their names or the perp's.” Wills looked off as if the names might be written in the bright day.

“And are you changed because of Adairsville?” she asked.

Wonder lifted his head briefly when one of the sheep gave a baa.

Wills leaned back into the glider to better face her. “Yes. But it's not so simple as to say I was changed. Because how we are changed depends on who we are. Some people who come back from wars go on to lead heroic lives and some fall into the abyss. Most live somewhere in between.”

Wonder finally got up and went over to the paddock to reassure himself that the sheep were all still grouped and safe.

Wills sat up. “There's no reason for me to document in the file or to mention to anyone how I knew to contact DeWare's auntee as his next of kin. And asking her about her knowledge of DeWare's involvement in the Solquist murders would have been standard procedure. Salt, you—we—are going to be okay. We will be changed in some ways, but there are some things that remain constant.”

“Do you think she'll hold up in court?”

“I'd say yes, but we need Spangler to give up Solquist, admit Solquist initiated the murder contract on his wife. I interview Spangler tomorrow.”

“Will you ask him about other crimes, Midas Prince, Curtis Stone, Mike Anderson, others?”

“We need to see how it plays. He may give up something, but it'll probably have to wait for sentencing. What time are you scheduled to make your statement on DeWare?”

“Hamm and Huff are doing it at ten a.m.”

“I'm bringing Spangler from jail at noon.”

—

O
N
M
AY
10
,
2015
,
at approximately midnight, I was part of a team that served a search warrant on the Toy Dolls Club. We also had information that a subject of interest in several murders, DeWare Lovelace, might be hiding at the club.

SWAT made entry and secured the occupants, employees, and customers. I had entered after SWAT with other detectives and we were beginning to question employees and patrons as SWAT and narcotics detectives continued to search and secure other areas in the back and basement of the building. I went to a hall closet to find the house lights for the main room, and when I was in the closet, some insulation fell from the ceiling, so I climbed up to check and came face-to-face with DeWare Lovelace, who then came down on me. As he came through the ceiling, a part of the metal shelving supports cut my arm, and he knocked me to the floor as he dropped down. There was no chance for me to get to my weapon before he stomped and kicked me and took my gun.

As he left the closet I tried to grab him to keep him from firing on officers that were in the hall. Then he put the gun to my head and forced me outside and into the SUV. I couldn't see out of my left eye. It
was bleeding and swelling and two fingers on my left hand were broken. Also my ribs, shoulder, and collarbone were messed-up. I was shot last year, and when DeWare kicked me in the head—I don't know if there was damage, injury to the same area, but I got blurry. My vision was screwed up and I was hyperaware of some things and not aware of others.

He told me to drive to The Homes and then had me stop on a side street, Amal Place. He put the gun to my head and choked me. He snatched the Saint Michael from my neck.

I was in and out of consciousness. We were out of the car and he was shot. I had gotten a gun that wasn't mine from somewhere. I crawled to him, got my gun, and saw that his wound was to his chest and that he was dying. His breathing was ragged. I asked him who was involved in the Solquist murders. He said, “Tall John,” then he quit breathing.

She hadn't told any lies and had kept Lil D out of it. They believed she'd found the gun in DeWare's SUV. Her reputation preceding her, they believed she'd been the one to shoot and kill DeWare. And she let them.

—

M
AYBE
THE
BOUQUET
was a little over the top, a bit more funeral-like than get-well, but Salt appreciated Rosie's welcome-back gift. And since she was restricted to desk and office duties, she would enjoy the blooms.

The bruises around her eyes had faded to yellow. The stitches over her eye and in her arm were coming out the next day. Her left hand was in a brace, the fingers splinted and taped. Her ribs were still slightly tender when she tried to draw a deep breath. Already there were moments of the incident with DeWare about which she had become uncertain, didn't know what she remembered or didn't want
to remember. The statement she gave for the record that morning was followed by the usual Q and A conducted by Detective Hamm.

Hamm:
What was your level of consciousness when DeWare forced you to drive away from the club?

Alt: I was, the best way to describe it, fuzzy, disconnected.

Q:
Do you remember driving to the street, Amal Place?

A: Some of it.

Q:
Were you aware of where you stopped?

A: My attention was on DeWare. He held the gun to my neck.

Q:
You were in fear for your life?

It was the central question to every use-of-force incident—the one that established the legal use of deadly force.

A: Completely.

Q:
What happened when you stopped the SUV?

A: He grabbed my throat to choke me and he ripped the Saint Michael from my neck.

Q:
And he still had the gun at your head?

A: Yes, with his right hand. He pulled the hammer back and grabbed my neck with his left hand.

Q:
What happened then?

A: My awareness became erratic. I'm uncertain of exactly what happened.

Q:
Do you remember finding a gun in the car?

A: No.

Q:
Do you remember shooting DeWare?

A: No. I was on the ground outside the driver's door and then I was beside him, and he made the dying declaration.

“Thou shalt not bear false witness” was the ninth commandment, and one she hadn't broken with this statement. Her parents had taught her not to lie, and how not to tell.

—

W
ILLS
SLAPPED
a fistful of papers on his desk, fell into the chair, and grabbed the computer keyboard. “This is happening,” he said, staring at the monitor. “The feds found a paper trail.”

Salt stood beside Gardner at his desk. Together they watched the Wills whirlwind.

“Arthur Solquist was helping Spangler launder his money. Laura Solquist's lawyer friend said she'd found a list of storage units that Arthur had rented—different locations in different parts of the city.”

“And the lawyer failed to bring this to us why?” Gardner rolled his chair around to face Wills.

“Laura'd asked him not to mention her concerns to anyone. Apparently she was still hoping to get her husband to quit his nefarious dealings. And since the press had reported Arthur having an alibi and us as having no suspects, Overmeyer, the lawyer, had kept Laura's confidence, even though it'd been informal.

“Oh, and by the way, Salt.” He turned to her and Gardner. “Looks like Spangler was also donating tons of cash to Big Calling Church. Prince might have been washing away more than people's sins.”