#137.
WILDEY: You there
WILDEY: Let me know
WILDEY: You didn’t lose this phone already Honors Girl, did you
WILDEY: Times almost up
CI #137: I’m here!
WILDEY: Hey
WILDEY: Just wanted to make sure you got home okay
CI #137: Had to p/u my dad
WILDEY: ok
WILDEY: where was he?
CI #137: business trip
CI #137: gotta go dad is waiting in the car
CI #137: you still there?
CI #137: is it okay if I go???
CI #137: going now
WILDEY: keep your phone close honors girl
WILDEY: happy thanksgiving
Wildey feels like a massive dick, doing this to a college girl. But Kaz is right—this is the only way she’s going to crack. She’s not like the other CIs he deals with. She doesn’t need to be courted or threatened. She just needs to feel the full-on pressure of that Monday morning deadline all weekend long. Kaz seems to think she’ll crack long before then. “Give her a good night’s sleep, she’ll come to her senses. No guy is worth throwing away your life for. Believe me.” Wildey hopes she’s right. He doesn’t want to keep this up all weekend long.
Excuse me, Auntie M.—I need to go torment this little girl for a minute. Enjoy your turkey roll.
Wildey drives his unmarked car back to Ninth Street and of course there’s a car squeezed into his former space. He pulls into another spot around the corner, then hustles back to the alleged Chuckie Morphine house. The air is freezing this morning, which is good. Nothing better to wake you up. He’s been up for what … a full day and a half now? He tells himself he’s just going to take a look, satisfy his curiosity, then head home for a few hours’ sleep before the family dinner.
There are wooden shutters covering the first-floor window. The front door has a diamond of cloudy glass set in the upper middle, impossible to see through. Wildey walks around the block, counting houses as he goes. Around back there’s an alley, and he counts them down until he finds the right house. There’s a six-foot wooden fence, but the lock is simply a hook-and-eye latch, and Wildey uses a pen to unhook it and opens the fence door a few inches. The yard is overgrown but otherwise clean. No sign of lights or life up in the windows. Guess everyone’s sleeping it off after a big night of sales.
Go home, Wildey. Get your rest.
One minute, one minute.
The D.A. in his head keeps after him.
You got probable cause here, Officer Wildey?
Probably, Mr. D.A.
That’s no answer, Officer.
Best you’re going to get.
Because Wildey
has
to look. He’s already opened the door. It’d be a waste not to step inside. He creeps through the tall grass, keeping one eye on the back door and windows and the other on potential hazards in the yard. Stash guns, tripwire, dog shit.
The back stairs are wooden and creaky. Wildey eases up them, scanning the other yards for curious neighbors. He always forgets he’s not in uniform, and a black man trespassing in a yard is the kind of thing that might get some jittery people in this neighborhood calling 911.
The back door is solid, no windows, but the blinds are up a little in the back windows. Wildey holds the post, leans over, takes a look inside. The kitchen is stripped, empty. Remodeled and painted, but there is no fridge, no oven, just the places where the appliances would go. What the fuck was this? Did he count houses wrong? No. This was it. He sees through the front of the house, and there’s the same diamond-cut window in the door, the shutters closed. This house is empty. Then why were people coming and going all night last night? An open house? No. You don’t just duck into an open house for five minutes. Besides, college kids like Skinny Boy aren’t in the market to buy houses. There’s no real estate signage. This house is just a shell. Unless he somehow spooked them last night. Maybe Skinny Boy called and warned them, and they cleared out quick.
Sorry, Honors Girl. You’re going to have to help me find them.
I drive us home in
WILDEY: You there
WILDEY: Let me know
WILDEY: You didn’t lose this phone already Honors Girl, did you
WILDEY: Times almost up
CI #137: I’m here!
WILDEY: Hey
WILDEY: Just wanted to make sure you got home okay
CI #137: Had to p/u my dad
WILDEY: ok
WILDEY: where was he?
CI #137: business trip
CI #137: gotta go dad is waiting in the car
CI #137: you still there?
CI #137: is it okay if I go???
CI #137: going now
WILDEY: keep your phone close honors girl
WILDEY: happy thanksgiving
Wildey feels like a massive dick, doing this to a college girl. But Kaz is right—this is the only way she’s going to crack. She’s not like the other CIs he deals with. She doesn’t need to be courted or threatened. She just needs to feel the full-on pressure of that Monday morning deadline all weekend long. Kaz seems to think she’ll crack long before then. “Give her a good night’s sleep, she’ll come to her senses. No guy is worth throwing away your life for. Believe me.” Wildey hopes she’s right. He doesn’t want to keep this up all weekend long.
Excuse me, Auntie M.—I need to go torment this little girl for a minute. Enjoy your turkey roll.
Wildey drives his unmarked car back to Ninth Street and of course there’s a car squeezed into his former space. He pulls into another spot around the corner, then hustles back to the alleged Chuckie Morphine house. The air is freezing this morning, which is good. Nothing better to wake you up. He’s been up for what … a full day and a half now? He tells himself he’s just going to take a look, satisfy his curiosity, then head home for a few hours’ sleep before the family dinner.
There are wooden shutters covering the first-floor window. The front door has a diamond of cloudy glass set in the upper middle, impossible to see through. Wildey walks around the block, counting houses as he goes. Around back there’s an alley, and he counts them down until he finds the right house. There’s a six-foot wooden fence, but the lock is simply a hook-and-eye latch, and Wildey uses a pen to unhook it and opens the fence door a few inches. The yard is overgrown but otherwise clean. No sign of lights or life up in the windows. Guess everyone’s sleeping it off after a big night of sales.
Go home, Wildey. Get your rest.
One minute, one minute.
The D.A. in his head keeps after him.
You got probable cause here, Officer Wildey?
Probably, Mr. D.A.
That’s no answer, Officer.
Best you’re going to get.
Because Wildey
has
to look. He’s already opened the door. It’d be a waste not to step inside. He creeps through the tall grass, keeping one eye on the back door and windows and the other on potential hazards in the yard. Stash guns, tripwire, dog shit.
The back stairs are wooden and creaky. Wildey eases up them, scanning the other yards for curious neighbors. He always forgets he’s not in uniform, and a black man trespassing in a yard is the kind of thing that might get some jittery people in this neighborhood calling 911.
The back door is solid, no windows, but the blinds are up a little in the back windows. Wildey holds the post, leans over, takes a look inside. The kitchen is stripped, empty. Remodeled and painted, but there is no fridge, no oven, just the places where the appliances would go. What the fuck was this? Did he count houses wrong? No. This was it. He sees through the front of the house, and there’s the same diamond-cut window in the door, the shutters closed. This house is empty. Then why were people coming and going all night last night? An open house? No. You don’t just duck into an open house for five minutes. Besides, college kids like Skinny Boy aren’t in the market to buy houses. There’s no real estate signage. This house is just a shell. Unless he somehow spooked them last night. Maybe Skinny Boy called and warned them, and they cleared out quick.
Sorry, Honors Girl. You’re going to have to help me find them.
I drive us home in
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