Double Cross

Chapter 41

SAMPSON WAS WORKING another murder case in the projects, so Bree and I went to see the actor. We cut over to Massachusetts Avenue, then up Sixteenth Street to Cooley’s Mount Pleasant address. The neighborhood is still remembered for the 1991 riots, sparked by charges of anti-Hispanic racism among DC’s black cops.

Cooley, I read on the way over, had been-and technically still was-the primary suspect in the shooting death of a girlfriend, Amanda Diaz, two years earlier. The DA had been forced to give it up for lack of evidence, but apparently it had been a close call.

Cooley still lived in the same apartment where the shooting took place. Not the sentimental type, I guess.

The apartment was on the second floor, above a Central American grocery, in a building not yet reached by any neighborhood-improvement effort. Bree and I took the stairs and arrived at a dank, tiled hallway with one translucent window at the far end.

Cooley’s was the middle of three metal-faced apartment doors. We knocked and waited.

“Yeah, who is it? I’m busy.”

“Mr. Cooley, I’m Detective Cross, here with Detective Stone from the MPD.”

To my surprise, the door flew open, and he ushered us inside. “Get in, get in.”

Bree scratched her ear and gave me a look.

“Do you have some particular concern about the police being seen at your door?” she asked.

“You mean because that always works out so well?” he said. “Last I checked, cops at the front door is not good news.”

We walked into a narrow hallway with two closed rooms along the left side and a row of framed headshots-maybe Cooley’s actor friends-hanging on the other chipped and peeling wall. I wondered if one of them was the dead girl-friend.

“Could we sit down?” Bree asked.

He didn’t move. “Not really. What do you want? Like I said, I’m busy.”

Cooley was already one strike away from finding out what it’s like when I lose my patience. “We have questions about two Saturdays ago. Just for starters, can you tell us where you were?”

“Okay.” He started toward the back room. “Let’s sit down. I was right here that Saturday. Never left the apartment.”

Once we were in the living room, Bree stayed on her feet. I sat down across from Cooley on a tall, wobbly stool. He had one very old easy chair, a coffee table, a half-decent home-theater setup, and another stool as the balance of his furniture.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Ever since I won the lottery,” he deadpa

Bree stepped in. “Mr. Cooley, can anyone verify that you were here that night?”

He sat back in his chair. “Yeah. The good ladies at 1-900-FUCKYOU can do that.”

With two quick steps, she was on him. She jerked the handle on the side of his La-Z-Boy and laid him out flat. Then she leaned in close. “This isn’t fu

She’d gone further than I would have, but it worked out.

The actor put his hands up in mock surrender. “I was just kidding around. Damn. Chill, girl.”

Bree stood up but stayed close. “Talk. I don’t feel like chilling, dude.”

“I rented a movie, ordered Chinese from Hunan Palace. Somebody delivered the food. You can talk to them.”

“What time did they deliver?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Seven? Eight? Somewhere in there. Hell, I don’t know.” Bree barely moved toward him, and he flinched before recovering again. “I’m serious. I don’t know what time it was. But it doesn’t matter. I was here the whole night.”

I didn’t say so out loud, but I felt inclined to believe him. Despite his show of testosterone, everything about him was weak-the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he had folded so fast when Bree got a little aggressive.

We were looking for someone much more in control than this guy, someone who was stronger in every way.

And probably a better actor too.

Bree must have felt it. “Let’s go, Alex,” she said. She turned back to the actor, smiled. “Sorry, you’re not right for the part. Bet you hear that a lot, smart-mouth.”

Chapter 42

AT NINE THIRTY on Sunday morning, church day, a mild-ma

Once in a while, a northbound car would honk loudly as it approached the usually deserted pedestrian bridge that ran across the highway. Made sense to Hayneswiggle.

The people riding along below him had to be wondering what some guy in a droopy Richard Nixon mask was doing up there all by himself. And if they did wonder, they were only half right.

It was a Nixon mask, but he wasn’t alone. David Haynes-wiggle had plenty of company.

The third story had begun, and it was a doozy-very imaginative, high profile, dramatic as hell.

Another terrific role to play too. The accountant with nothing to live for, nothing to lose. Huge chip on his shoulder. Payback time long overdue for this guy.

An eighteen-year-old high-school boy lay motionless on the cement at his feet. The poor lad was dead, his throat slit and already bled out. The boy just couldn’t get it in his head to cooperate and do as he was told. Next to him, a teenage girl sat with her back against a wall that also hid her from view of the cars passing below.

The girl was still alive. One of her small hands was in her lap; the other hung limply overhead, where she was cuffed to the bridge’s railing. A line of sweat beads showed on her upper lip, just above the duct tape that was wrapped all the way around her mouth and head.

David Hayneswiggle looked down at the girl, who was all bug-eyed and shaking like an addict. “How you doing? You still with me?” he asked.

She either ignored him or didn’t hear what he’d said. It doesn’t matter what the girl thinks, or how she acts, David Hayneswiggle thought to himself. Once again, he watched the traffic down below on the George Washington, gauging for speed and distance, and just the right moment. The third story was going to be something else.

Whenever some total jackass honked at him, he held up the double peace sign. “I am not a crook,” he said in his best croaky Nixon voice. He identified so much with Nixon, another loser with a chip on his shoulder.

When he had seen enough, had memorized the scene for future reference, he knelt down next to the girl. She scrambled, moving away maybe a foot, all that she could manage on account of the handcuffs attached to the railing.

“Save your strength,” he said. “You’re safe, right? As long as you’re cuffed to the rail. Think about it. Everything is cool.”

He squiggled his arms under the boy’s body, then strained to get himself into a half-kneeling position. The kid couldn’t have been more than 150 pounds, but it seemed like a ton. Deadweight, no joke.

David Hayneswiggle flexed his leg muscles, keeping them ready as he eyed the highway from a squatting position. He saw his target. A white Toyota minivan had come into view about a quarter mile away. There were no trucks allowed on the parkway, so a Hummer, or something like the minivan, was as big as he was going to find. The van stuck to its lane, possibly hemmed in by other cars.

He scootched over to the right a bit, lining himself up as best he could.

When the van was about a hundred yards off, he secured his grip on the boy.

At fifty yards, he rose. In one powerful motion, he came to his full height. And then he chucked the body over the rail, watching it tumble like a heavy sack. It hit the minivan’s hood and windshield with a smash of glass, followed by a fast squealing of tires. Holy shit!