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Authors: Robert K. Tanenbaum
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shot nobody in his life. Never even carried heat, that I know of."
"He was there," said Dugman.
"Yeah, could of been. Go ahead and pick him up if you want, but he won't tell you shit."
"He won't?"
"He didn't tell me shit when I picked him up, back when. Three guys shot up a liquor store, and Booth was the wheel on the job. The other mutts got loose and Booth took the fall-eight years, I recall it was. Never said shit. Boy can hold his mud, I'll say that for him."
Dugman pushed back from the table. "We'll see about that."
Fulton frowned. "Art, no roughing. I know it's Harlem, but times has changed, you dig?"
"Yeah," said Dugman, standing up. "They sure has. Teddy Wilson used to play this room. Catch you later, Loo."
Outside, Dugman cursed himself for a short-tempered fool. He knew Fulton was good-a smart and competent detective. Yet Dugman could not help harboring resentment for the other man's success, for his rocketing rise through the ranks. Fulton was the first college-educated black detective lieutenant in the history of the NYPD. If the paddies downtown ever let a brother in as chief of detectives, it would be Fulton.
No, it was not precisely resentment; it was anger at what his own life had been, a grinding rise through the ranks, nearly ten years in a blue bag before they gave him his gold tin. Now he was taking orders from a man ten years his junior.
At some level, he wanted Fulton to acknowledge that, to honor him for it, at least to credit him with some smarts. He didn't deserve a laugh in the face and a nagging about questioning suspects.
He got in his car and drove fast across town. He realized that he had not conveyed to Fulton the three points he had wanted to bring out about the rash of dope-dealer killings. What had puzzled him from the outset was the lack of resistance on the part of the victims. Not one of these people had been shot down in a hail of lead. At least one of them had opened his door to his assailant. The killings had been done almost at the leisure of the murderers, and against a group of men who were typically suspicious to the point of paranoia, well-guarded and well-armed.
The second point was what Slo Mo had said when Mack braced him against the wall in that alley. The pimp knew Mack was a cop. Why had he been so frightened, and why did he so urgently want to make it clear that he didn't sell dope?
The third point was the clincher to Dugman. They had dropped Slo Mo in the alley at a quarter to twelve. They had called in the pickup request on the prostitute Haze about twenty minutes later. Within the next hour somebody had picked her off her stroll, taken her down to the docks, and put a bullet in her head.
It was indeed a bad thought, almost too heavy to hold by himself, and Dugman briefly considered turning his car around, driving back to Pepper's, and laying the burden on his superior. But something made him stop. Would Fulton laugh at him again? He didn't need that! No, the better move was to nail it down, to pick up Tecumseh Booth and make him talk, to make him reveal that the cool and casual murderer they were hunting was a cop.
FIVE
Sugar Hill had fallen some from what it had been thirty years earlier, but it was still a pretty nice neighborhood, for Harlem. The apartment occupied by Tecumseh Booth was located in a still-handsome tan brick building on 149th off St. Nicholas Avenue. The class of the area was demonstrated by the brass mailboxes in the lobby, which had retained their doors, locks, and polish. Detective Jeffers read the name of Tecumseh Booth's girlfriend from one of them, and headed up to the third-floor apartment with Maus.
The two detectives drew their pistols and clipped their police identification to their breast pockets. Jeffers was about to knock on the door, but Maus stopped him and placed his ear against the door. It was the kind of hollow metal fire door that was good at transmitting certain sounds.
"Hear anything?" asked Jeffers.
"Yeah,"
"He was there," said Dugman.
"Yeah, could of been. Go ahead and pick him up if you want, but he won't tell you shit."
"He won't?"
"He didn't tell me shit when I picked him up, back when. Three guys shot up a liquor store, and Booth was the wheel on the job. The other mutts got loose and Booth took the fall-eight years, I recall it was. Never said shit. Boy can hold his mud, I'll say that for him."
Dugman pushed back from the table. "We'll see about that."
Fulton frowned. "Art, no roughing. I know it's Harlem, but times has changed, you dig?"
"Yeah," said Dugman, standing up. "They sure has. Teddy Wilson used to play this room. Catch you later, Loo."
Outside, Dugman cursed himself for a short-tempered fool. He knew Fulton was good-a smart and competent detective. Yet Dugman could not help harboring resentment for the other man's success, for his rocketing rise through the ranks. Fulton was the first college-educated black detective lieutenant in the history of the NYPD. If the paddies downtown ever let a brother in as chief of detectives, it would be Fulton.
No, it was not precisely resentment; it was anger at what his own life had been, a grinding rise through the ranks, nearly ten years in a blue bag before they gave him his gold tin. Now he was taking orders from a man ten years his junior.
At some level, he wanted Fulton to acknowledge that, to honor him for it, at least to credit him with some smarts. He didn't deserve a laugh in the face and a nagging about questioning suspects.
He got in his car and drove fast across town. He realized that he had not conveyed to Fulton the three points he had wanted to bring out about the rash of dope-dealer killings. What had puzzled him from the outset was the lack of resistance on the part of the victims. Not one of these people had been shot down in a hail of lead. At least one of them had opened his door to his assailant. The killings had been done almost at the leisure of the murderers, and against a group of men who were typically suspicious to the point of paranoia, well-guarded and well-armed.
The second point was what Slo Mo had said when Mack braced him against the wall in that alley. The pimp knew Mack was a cop. Why had he been so frightened, and why did he so urgently want to make it clear that he didn't sell dope?
The third point was the clincher to Dugman. They had dropped Slo Mo in the alley at a quarter to twelve. They had called in the pickup request on the prostitute Haze about twenty minutes later. Within the next hour somebody had picked her off her stroll, taken her down to the docks, and put a bullet in her head.
It was indeed a bad thought, almost too heavy to hold by himself, and Dugman briefly considered turning his car around, driving back to Pepper's, and laying the burden on his superior. But something made him stop. Would Fulton laugh at him again? He didn't need that! No, the better move was to nail it down, to pick up Tecumseh Booth and make him talk, to make him reveal that the cool and casual murderer they were hunting was a cop.
FIVE
Sugar Hill had fallen some from what it had been thirty years earlier, but it was still a pretty nice neighborhood, for Harlem. The apartment occupied by Tecumseh Booth was located in a still-handsome tan brick building on 149th off St. Nicholas Avenue. The class of the area was demonstrated by the brass mailboxes in the lobby, which had retained their doors, locks, and polish. Detective Jeffers read the name of Tecumseh Booth's girlfriend from one of them, and headed up to the third-floor apartment with Maus.
The two detectives drew their pistols and clipped their police identification to their breast pockets. Jeffers was about to knock on the door, but Maus stopped him and placed his ear against the door. It was the kind of hollow metal fire door that was good at transmitting certain sounds.
"Hear anything?" asked Jeffers.
"Yeah,"
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