Campbell and his guards came rushing down the corridor. Soneji/Murphy let go of me and began throwing himself at the cell door. Spit ran from the side of his mouth. He began screaming. Cursing at the top of his voice.
The guards wrestled him onto the floor. They restrained him with difficulty. Soneji was much more powerful than his slender body would have suggested. I already knew that from experience.
The R.N. followed them in, and gave him a shot of Ativan. Within minutes, he was asleep on the floor of the cell.
The guards lifted him onto his cot and wrapped him in a restraining jacket. I waited until they locked him in the cell.
Who was in the cell?
Gary Soneji?
Gary Murphy?
Or both of them?
CHAPTER 51
THAT NIGHT, Chief Pittman called me at home. I didn’t think he wanted to congratulate me on my work with Soneji/Murphy. I was right. The Jefe did ask me to stop by his office the next morning.
“What’s up?” I asked him.
He wouldn’t tell me over the phone. I guess he didn’t want to spoil the surprise.
In the morning, I made sure I was clean-shaven, and I put on my leather car coat for the occasion. I played a little Lady Day on the porch before I left the house. Think darkness and light. Be darkness and light. I played “The Man I Love,” “For All We Know,” “That’s Life, I Guess.” Then off to see The Jefe.
When I arrived at Pittman’s office, there was too much activity for quarter to eight in the morning. Even The Jefe’s assistant seemed fully employed for a change.
Old Fred Cook is a failed vice detective, now posing as an administrative assistant. He looks like one of the artifacts they trot out for old-timer baseball games. Fred is mean-spirited, petty, and supremely political. Dealing through him is like giving messages to a wax-museum doll.
“Chief’s ready for you.” He served up one of his thin-lipped smiles. Fred Cook relishes knowing things before the rest of us. Even when he doesn’t know, he acts as if he does.
“What’s going on this morning, Fred?” I asked him straight out. “You can tell me.”
I saw that all-knowing glint in his eyes. “Why don’t you just go in there and see. I’m sure the chief will explain his intentions.”
“I’m proud of you, Fred. You sure can be trusted with a secret. You know, you should be on the National Security Council.”
I went inside expecting the worst. But I underestimated the chief of detectives a little.
Mayor Carl Monroe was in the office with Pittman. So was our police captain, Christopher Clouser, and, of all people, John Sampson. It appeared that one of Washington’s ever-so-popular morning events, a working breakfast, had been set up in the chief’s inner sanctum.
“It’s not all bad,” Sampson said in a low voice. In sharp contrast to his words, Sampson looked like a large animal caught in one of those double-clawed spring-traps hunters use. I got the feeling he would happily have chewed his foot off to escape from the room.
“It’s not bad at all.” Carl Monroe smiled jovially when he saw the chiseled look on my face. “We have some good news for you both. Very good news. Shall I? Yeah, I think so…. You and Sampson are being promoted today. Right here. Congratulations to our newest senior detective and our newest divisional chief.”
They clapped approvingly. Sampson and I exchanged quizzical looks. What the hell was going on?
If I’d known, I would have brought Nana and the kids along. It was like those affairs where the president gives medals and thanks to war widows. Only this time, the dead had been invited to the ceremony. Sampson and I were dead in the eyes of Chief Pittman.
“Maybe you’d like to tell Sampson and me what’s going on here?” I smiled conspiratorially at Monroe. “You know, the subtext.”
Carl Monroe had his magnificent smile blazing away. It was so warm, and personal, and “genuine.” “I was asked to come here,” he said, “because you and Detective Sampson were being promoted. That’s about it. I was very happy to come, Alex”—he made a comic face—“at quarter to eight this morning.”
Actually, it’s hard not to like Carl sometimes. He’s totally aware of who and what he’s become as a politician. He reminds me of the prostitutes on 14th Street who will tell you a raunchy joke or two when you have to pull them in for soliciting.
“There are a couple of other things to discuss,” Pittman said, but then waved off the idea of any real substance entering the ceremonial conversation. “They can wait until after. There’s coffee and sweetcakes first.”
“I think we ought to discuss everything now,” I said. I shifted my eyes to Monroe. “Put it out on the table with the sweetcakes.”