Terminal Secret Page 2

  “And I’ll be left cleaning up this mess by myself.”

  “I’ll give you all the help you need. As long as you solve it in the next two days.”

  “You got a suspect in your pocket?”

  “Nope.”

  “What exactly do we have? Talk to me,” Wallace said, removing his notebook from his breast pocket.

  “Twenty-eight-year-old black female. Shot on her doorstep as she stepped outside. Briefcase in hand. Looks like she was on her way to work.”

  “Weapon?”

  “Forensics says we’re looking at a rifle, based on the wound and spray pattern. We won’t know for sure until ballistics are complete and the ME gets a look at the body.”

  “How many shots?”

  “One. Right through the chest.”

  Wallace looked around. The park across the street was fifty yards away. A mix of trees surrounded the large playground in the center. The street beyond the park was another hundred yards in the distance.

  “Are we talking about a rifle shot from long range?”

  “That’s our guess.”

  “Jesus. Let’s keep that quiet as long as we can. We don’t need panic over a possible sniper.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “What do we have on the victim? Is there a husband or boyfriend in the picture?”

  “No husband. No family.”

  “A single, black female in a wealthy, predominately white neighborhood?”

  “Does that mean something to you?”

  “Just talking out loud,” Wallace responded, never taking his eyes off his surroundings. “Who reported the body?”

  “A neighbor out walking the dog happened to look over and see a pair of Jimmy Choos sticking up on the porch. Ran over, called 911. She’s sitting on the garden bench in the corner of the yard if you want to talk to her.”

  “In a minute. What else?”

  “No one heard anything. Forensics said the victim has been dead for a couple of hours.”

  “Which means she was shot early.”

  “The stiffness meter and body temperature indicate somewhere around six o’clock.”

  “The sun wasn’t up yet but there’s plenty of light in the neighborhood. Good streetlights. Lights in the park. Even if no one saw anything, I can’t believe no one heard anything.”

  “So far, no one has come forward.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Attorney.”

  “Well, then we have motive. Everyone I know hates at least one lawyer.”

  “She’s a tree hugger. Was a tree hugger. Worked for the EPA. Sued big corporations.”

  “More motive. You been inside yet?”

  “I took a quick look.”

  “Anything related to the crime?”

  “Not on the surface. You want to take the full tour?”

  “Just give me the highlights,” Wallace replied. “Then I want to talk to the woman who found the body.”

  Chapter 3

  Detective Matthews stood next to Detective Wallace’s desk at District Two Headquarters and extended his hand. Wallace grabbed the hand and pulled the man in for a chest bump.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Wallace admitted.

  “I’m only going twenty blocks.”

  “Once you cross the Anacostia River, it’s a different world.”

  “I’ll see you around. And you can always come visit.”

  “I did my time in the war zone. I like what I have now. BMW break-ins and iPhone hold-ups.”

  “And the occasional sniper.”

  “Yeah, I do have one of those.”

  “Yeah, you do. By the way, word is that your new partner is meeting with the Captain as we speak.”

  “Please tell me it’s not a young white male. I’ve had a bad run working with young white guys. The last time I ended up interrogated, in the news, and on involuntary leave without pay.”

  “It’s not a young white guy. Two out of three, though.”

  “A young brother?”

  “Try again.”

  “No way…”

  “Oh, yeah. Name is Emily something or other.”

  “Shit. Emily?”

  “Some new blood transfer detective from the fast track program. I hear she’s from Northern Virginia. She should be right at home with you and all those BMW break-ins and iPhone hold-ups.”

  “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “Later, Sarge. Keep me on speed dial.”

  As detective Matthews turned away, Wallace heard his Captain’s voice rise above the din of the Robbery and Homicide division, calling his name.

  *

  Emily Fields stood from the wooden chair in the Captain’s office as Wallace entered the room. The Captain, late fifties with white hair, gave the introductions.

  “Wallace, this is your new partner, Detective Emily Fields.”

  Wallace looked his new partner in the eyes as they shook hands.

  “She comes to us from Fairfax County. She’s been a detective for two years across the river. Came to DC for the long hours, infrequent pay raises, and higher crime rate. Show her the ropes. Keep her out of trouble.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “I’m looking forward to working with you,” Detective Fields said with a smile, flashing a set of dimples.

  Wallace eyed his new partner, his mind devouring the details. Five seven or eight. Athletic build. Brown eyes. Brown hair pulled back in a braid. Attractive. Certainly better looking than his last partner, or any partner he’d ever had for that matter. He could already hear the catcalls.

  Finished with his exterior assessment, Wallace turned towards the Captain. “May I have a word with you in private?”

  The Captain nodded at Detective Fields, who stepped through the door and waited outside the glass wall of the Captain’s office.

  “I know we discussed it, but I don’t know if I’m ready for a new partner just yet.”

  “You worked with Matthews for the last few months.”

  “That was different. He’s been around. He knows the city. This girl is from Fairfax. She doesn’t know anything about DC. And this fast track detective transfer program is bullshit. We have plenty of cops here in the city who want a crack at detective.”

  “And they will all get their shot. This program does not take existing job slots. The transfer program positions are all new, funded for transfer detectives. Agreed to by the police union.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “You know what I like? I like the fact that Detective Emily Fields has a master’s degree in criminal justice and an undergrad double major in criminal justice and information systems. She speaks Spanish, which will help with the MS-13 problem. She tested off the charts in every category of the transfer training program.”

  “The program is bullshit designed by a bunch of bureaucrats.”

  “Then I guess you’re unaware I helped design the curriculum? Everyone accepted into the program has to go through the District’s police academy. You can imagine there aren’t many mid-career officers willing to put up with a second tour through any academy. And Detective Fields is my first and only choice from the program since it started.”

  “Sorry for the insult, Captain.”

  “How long have we known each other?”

  “Longer than I’ve known my wife,” Wallace replied.

  “A long time. What’s the problem with her? She has police experience and detective experience. Just not much DC experience.”

  “I don’t know if I have the training side in me anymore. May not be good for her. May not be good for me.”

  “I know you’re still dealing with Detective Nguyen’s death. We all are. He was your partner, but he was everyone’s friend. And we all have to move on.”

  “I just don’t know if I can train another young detective.”

  “Don’t train her. Mentor her. Let her watch. Let her learn. You’re the best detective I’ve got. This police force needs n
ew blood with advanced IT and cross-cultural communication skills. We’re being gutted by other jurisdictions that pay more. The bottom line is that we can’t produce decent veteran detectives without training a few young ones first, and we can’t attract and keep the good young ones without someone experienced to guide them.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Get acquainted with her. Share your cases. Get to work.”

  *

  Detective Wallace stepped from the Captain’s office, forced a smile, and then flicked his head in the direction of the staircase.

  Five minutes later they were in traffic on the Q Street Bridge with the treetops of Rock Creek Park a hundred feet below them. Detective Wallace sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup as he drove with two fingers of his free hand.

  “I thought we were going over some of your cases?” Detective Fields asked from the passenger seat of the unmarked dark car.

  “I am. We are. Consider this your first lesson in DC detective work. I’m not sure how it works in Virginia, but the only thing at the station here is paperwork and bad coffee. The less time you spend there, the better. Use it as a resource. Forensics. Evidence. Databases. Those are all part of the job. But don’t confuse them with being the job. The job is out here. Gathering evidence. Talking to people.”

  “Roger that. Can I ask a few questions?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “For all practical purposes, I’ve been in DC forever.”

  “I heard you have thirty years on the force.”

  “Easy, Detective Fields. I’m approaching twenty-five years.”

  “I’m only repeating what I heard. You look good for someone closing in on sixty.”

  Wallace spilled some coffee on his hand and drifted into the other lane. “Sixty? Jesus.”

  “Just kidding. I put your age closer to fifty.”

  “You know what they say…”

  “Good genes.”

  “No. ‘Black don’t crack,’” Wallace said.

  “I’ve heard the expression.”

  “Don’t hold back on my account. I have thick skin. Thick black skin. And if you and I are going to work together, we are going to have to get past a few things. I’m black. You’re white.”

  “Oh, here we go. I heard race might be a problem in the District.”

  “Now, wait. Hear me out. I’m not sure how it works in the suburbs, but this is how it works here. I know we probably come from different backgrounds and have different taste in music, food, and whatever else floats your boat. But as your partner, you can tell me anything and I will keep it to myself. I will have your back at all times. I expect you to have mine. And I will most certainly not be offended when you say ‘black.’ Out here, we have white perps, black perps, Asian perps, Middle Eastern perps, Hispanic perps. Those are the basic groups. And if they don’t fall into any of those groups and you’re still unsure how to describe someone, use a coffee color.”

  “A coffee color?”

  “Yeah. A skin color described by a small black coffee and the amount of cream you put in it.” Wallace pointed to a gentleman dressed in a suit standing at the corner waiting for the light to change. “That guy, for example. He’s a black coffee with two creams.”

  “I’ll have to get up to speed on my coffee colors.”

  “All I’m saying is that you can say ‘black’ as often as you like.”

  “I don’t have any problem using the word black, when it’s called for. But we were talking about your age just a minute ago. You look good, but you have plenty of wrinkles and a bit of a double chin. You don’t qualify for the ‘black don’t crack’ reference.”

  Wallace stewed for a moment and then caught his new partner smiling as she turned away and looked out the passenger window.

  “Are we going to have a problem, Detective Fields?” Wallace asked.

  “Only if you create one,” she replied.

  Detective Wallace let silence rule the car for a full minute and then asked, “How old are you, Fields?”

  “Thirty-one. And you can call me Emily.”

  “You can call me Wallace.”

  “Not Earl?”

  “Only if you want me looking around for my wife every time you say it.”

  “She’s the only one who calls you Earl?”

  “The only one.”

  “Wallace it is.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Fairfax.”

  “Born and raised in the burbs?”

  “Fairfax County has over a million people in it, which makes it twice the size of DC. Area-wise, it’s four times as large as the District. It has everything. Little Vietnam near Seven Corners, the madness of the Middle East in Bailey’s Crossroads, Koreans in Annandale, the best hospital in the region, good schools, and Tyson’s Corner, which is basically a city now. You can’t pigeonhole it.”

  “Where in Fairfax did you grow up?”

  “Between the beltway and GMU. The white suburbia part of the county, before you ask.”

  “Why did you become a detective?”

  “I lost my father when I was twelve. He was a chemical engineer. Worked at a big company everyone has heard of. Did business all over the world. Was robbed at gunpoint in Sao Paulo, Brazil. He was in a taxi cab, stuck in traffic. Two guys on a motorcycle robbed my father and two of his colleagues. Took everything they had. Money. Passports. Jewelry. And then they fired five shots into the car as they drove off. The guys were never found. My father’s company put pressure on the State Department to put pressure on the Brazilian authorities, but nothing ever came of it. A little bad press and then the storm blew over. Brazil moved forward. My father’s company hired a replacement, and life continued.”

  “But not for a twelve-year-old girl.”

  “No. For my brother, my mother, and me, things would never be the same.”

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  Emily nodded. “Doesn’t take Freud to figure out it was my father’s unsolved death that drove me to this profession.”

  “As long as you’re aware that solving a hundred other murders won’t bring your father back. Probably won’t even help the pain much.”

  “Maybe not. But I will be making a difference.”

  “One death at a time. One life at a time.”

  “I like that. You should put it on a bumper sticker on the back of the car. Maybe add a little skull and crossbones. Copyright it.”

  “The DC Metro Police is not big on personalizing public property. I think a bumper sticker would be frowned upon.”

  “Just a thought. Where are we headed?”

  “To the medical examiner’s office.”

  “What’s the case?”

  “Lawyer shot through the chest on the doorstep of her home.”

  “The one up in Spring Valley?”

  “You pay attention.”

  “It was on the news.”

  “The news can be your friend or your enemy.”

  “Which is it in this case?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  Chapter 4

  Dr. Lewis was celebrating three decades of death. As a veteran medical examiner for Washington DC, he had survived the crack epidemic and the narcotics turf wars that tore the city apart for twenty years. Then re-gentrification came knocking, led by yuppies with pit bulls who wanted a shorter commute and a house they could afford, regardless of what the property may have been in a previous life.

  Dr. Lewis watched the city’s demographics change before his eyes, one visitor at a time to his stainless steel table and refrigerated drawers. With the changes in the city and the decimation and incarceration of ten thousand crack war soldiers, the number of murders per year plummeted. The last twelve months had produced the fewest murders since the last US president to be assassinated was reportedly sleeping with a leggy Hollywood blond.

  As was customary, Wallace announced his arrival as he pushed his way through the swinging double doors. Emily
followed, taking note of Wallace’s comfort level.

  “Doc, I have a new partner for you to meet,” Wallace said.

  Dr. Lewis closed a manila folder he was reading and placed it on the counter. “A new partner? That’s progress.”

  “It wasn’t voluntary,” Wallace added.

  Emily extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. Emily Fields. I’m the unwelcome new detective. I think it has a nice ring to it. I might put it in quotes on my business card.”

  “She’s into personalization,” Wallace added. “Wants to put bumper stickers on the squad car.”

  Dr. Lewis felt the female detective’s grip and glanced down at her hands. “Strong hands. Welcome. My door is always open. If you need access, it can be arranged, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  “A fellow all-nighter,” Wallace chimed in.

  “I was actually thinking about removing the door. Be like one of those establishments in the French Quarter that’s been open for forty years straight,” the ME said.

  “The good doc here went to his first Mardi Gras last year. It obviously left an impression,” Wallace added.

  “I really went for a Medical Examiners’ conference. I just stayed an extra week to see what the hubbub is all about.”

  “How was the hubbub?” Emily asked.

  “After my wife saw the pictures on my cell phone, she made it clear there would be no encore.”

  Emily smiled and Wallace pressed the conversation forward. “What do you have for us, Doc?”

  “Maybe nothing, but that’s for you to decide.” The ME walked to the table on the far side of the room and turned on the overhead lights. The body on the table had undergone a full autopsy and was dulled by the pallor of death—all life and blood vacated.

  “This is the victim who was shot on her front doorstep the day before yesterday in Spring Valley. An otherwise healthy twenty-eight-year-old female. Not much of a mystery on this one. Shot through the chest, with a rifle in all likelihood. Partial reconstruction shows the bullet was consistent with a .223 round. The bullet was designed to fragment upon striking the target and the projectile performed as intended. She was dead before she hit the ground. Probably didn’t even have time to reach for her chest.”