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MacAullif took a cigar from his desk, began twirling it through his fingers, a nervous habit he had when thinking something out. “The Grant Jackson case is rather straightforward. A kid with a bad heart shoots a lethal dose of coke. It’s a no-brainer. It’s a slam dunk. The type of case you pray for with a case overload. Just this morning I was quite thrilled at the prospect of having chalked it up and not having to deal with it again.”
“I’m not asking you to deal with it. I’m just wondering if you could discuss it.”
MacAullif took a breath, then smiled what had to be the most forced smile this side of the Mona Lisa. It occurred to me if he were working any harder at being relaxed, his jaw might crack. “Of course,” he said.
“You get anything from the autopsy report?”
“Just what I said. Kid OD’d. Shame, but it happens all the time.”
“The kid a user?”
“No, he wasn’t. Not according to the M.E. No track marks. He might have snorted before, but he never shot. And for good reason. Guy with a heart condition mainlinin’ got to be suicidal.”
“Think it was?”
“What?”
“Suicide?”
MacAullif’s face contorted in what could only be preparation for a barrage of sarcasm. He re-collected himself, composed his features. One could almost hear him reciting a mantra. “I would think you could rule out suicide. Suicides kill themselves. They don’t get high and go play ball.”
“What do you think of the theory he was trying to get himself up for practice?”
“I don’t like it, but I’d take it over suicide.”
“What do you think of the theory someone did him in?”
He raised one finger. “That theory I don’t like at all. That theory takes the Grant Jackson case out of my inactive file and places it in my pending file. That theory gives me four homicides and five detectives. You do the math.”
“I see your point.”
“Do you? Tell me something. Why are you pushing this?”
“If the kid OD’d, the mother doesn’t get a dime.”
MacAullif squinted at me sideways. “Richard kicked the case?”
“I was signing up the mother when we got the report that-”
“Richard kicked the case?”
“When we found out that the kid OD’d and-”
“Richard kicked the case?”
“You’re getting all worked up.”
He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. “I’m not getting all worked up. I’m fine. Let me know if I understand you correctly. You came in to bother me about a case you are not even working on?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t working on it.”
“Is anyone paying you to work on it?”
“No.”
“Well, how delightful.” MacAullif spread his arms. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Actually there is.”
“I might have known. Pray what might that be?”
“Well, I know you scrutinized this case carefully before you decided it wasn’t worth your notice. I imagine you checked out where Grant might have copped the cocaine. Did that investigation bear fruit?”
“Oh, sure,” MacAullif said. “We had people linin’ up claimin’ to be the dope dealer who sold him his last toot. Would you like a list of names?”
“Good, MacAullif. You’re getting better at calm sarcasm. Actually I was wondering if you pulled the rap sheets on his friends, family, and teammates.”
MacAullif had.
Of the gentlemen in question, there were two with prior drug busts.
One was Larry White, one of Grant Jackson’s teammates.
The other was brother Lincoln.
Lincoln Jackson met me at a small coffee shop near the project in Bed-Stuy. He had no reason not to. As far as he knew, I was still working for his mother. He slid into the booth, propped his elbows up on the faded Formica table, and demanded, “Why we meetin’ here? Why not up there?”
“Don’t you want coffee?”
“I don’ want coffee. I want to know what’s going on.”
“I want to talk with you. I didn’t want to disturb your mom.”
“She interested.”
“I know she is. I wanted you to be able to talk freely.”
He glared at me suspiciously. “ ’Bout what?”
“I think you know ’bout what.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t ‘preciate this.” He turned, yelled to the waitress. “Hey, we get some coffee here?”
I didn’t remind him he didn’t want coffee. “Your brother died of an overdose. I bet the cops wanted to know where he got it.”
He muttered something about the integrity of the police force in general and one detective in particular. The waitress shoved a cup of coffee in front of him. He didn’t notice. He looked at me as if I were a cockroach he was about to step on. “They talk to me ’cause I got a prior. Is that stupid or what? That I’d give my own brother junk when I know he got a weak heart.”
“You knew that?”
“Course I did. Grant don’t want to tell, can’t hide nothin’. Face like a road map. He come back from the doctor, we all knew somethin’s wrong.”
“You dealin’ coke?”
His face twisted into a snarl. “I jus’ tol’ you, wasn’t me.”
“Yeah, but if it was in the house, Grant could have got his hands on it. Say if he wanted a boost, to play better.”
Lincoln snorted. “Play better? Tha’s a good one. You never seen him play. Grant didn’t need to play better. Grant was the best.”
“That bother you?”
“What?”
“That your brother was the star and not you?”
Lincoln took a sip of coffee. Like MacAullif, he seemed to be composing himself, holding himself in, framing a moderate response. “Do I wa
“I hear you,” I said.
I’m not sure I believed him.
Larry White was suspicious. “You a cop?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You sure?”
“I think I’d know.”
“If you a cop, you gotta say.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“If you a cop, I ask you direct, you gotta say. Tha’s the law. You don’ say, you can’t bust me anyhow, don’ matter what I do.”
“I don’t wa
His eyes widened. “You a cop? Then you can’t bust me, even if I whip out a ki-lo, ask you if you wa
“Is that right?”
“Truth. Leroy say so.”
“Savvy guy.”
“Damn right. He been aroun’. He done time.”
I blinked in despair over a generation that regarded a jail sentence as a qualification, had to remind myself I liked Robin Hood as a boy.
“Now we got that out of the way, you mind answering a few questions?”
“You make it quick. I gotta get to class.”
I knew that. I had located the administration building, looked up his schedule, and ambushed him coming out of math. He’d been easy to spot. He was the one who had to duck to get out the door.
“You were there when Grant Jackson collapsed?”
“Course I was. Durin’ practice.”
“What did you see?”
A girl with a Cedar Park College sweatshirt put her book bag in one of the metal lockers lining the hallway. She flashed us a look as she went by.
Larry White frowned. “Hey, man,” he said. “Maybe you can’t bust me, but she think I’m talkin’ to a cop.”
“That bad for business?”
He frowned. “Hey! What you mean?”
“Lemme speed things along for you, Larry,” I said. “I pulled your record. You got drug busts. I don’t give a damn, except how it relates to Grant. If Grant got coke from you, I gotta know.”
He shook his head. “No way!”
“And if Grant got works from you, I gotta know.”
His head kept shaking. “No way!”
“The medical examiner says Grant was a virgin, never shot before. If he wanted to shoot coke, he wouldn’t have the equipment. He’d have to get a hypodermic. I’m wondering if he got it from you.”