What It Was by George P. Pelecanos Page A

immunity,” said Doyle with a small nod.
    “What about—”
    “That’s inadmissible.”
    The police on the scene had found Williams’s house key in the alley beside his unconscious body. A bystander had identified Williams and his place of residence. Uniformed police, under the supervision of an overly ambitious sergeant, used the key to enter the house, searched the place thoroughly, and found a large amount of bundled heroin in a false wall behind a hutch. They had no warrant and no PC.
    “I’m homicide police,” said Vaughn. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about heroin.”
    “Who did this to you?” said Cochnar.
    Williams took another drink of water and let a silence settle in the room. “I’m damn near sure the man goes by Red.”
    “Last name?” said Vaughn.
    “Jones.”
    “Does Red have a Christian name?”
    “I expect he does, unless he popped out the devil’s ass.”
    “What else do you know about Jones?”
    Williams paused. Over the ghetto telegraph he’d heard that Red Jones had a woman named Coco, ran a trick-houseon 14th, near R, over a market once owned by a Jew, now run by a Rican. But there wasn’t any good reason to spill that information here. He’d already said too much.
    “I don’t know nothin else,” said Williams.
    Vaughn nodded. The name Red Jones was enough. Vaughn had already narrowed Reds-with-rap-sheets down to three. A .45 shell casing carrying a partial print had been recovered from the alley. Jones would have priors and prints on file. Now Vaughn would have to find someone to squeeze. Roland Williams, in exchange for speaking off the record with Vaughn and Cochnar, would not be required to testify. Vaughn didn’t want Jones for an
attempted
murder, anyway. He wanted him on the murder of Odum.
    “Describe Jones,” said Vaughn.
    Williams gave them detailed descriptions of Red Jones and his accomplice, whose name he did not know. Cochnar wrote it down, and Vaughn committed it to memory.
    “You’re Homicide,” said Williams. “So why you here? Ain’t nobody murder me.”
    “This isn’t about you,” said Vaughn. “You told your lawyer that you think there’s a connection between this Red character and a case I’m currently working. The victim was Robert Odum.”
    Again, Williams glanced at his attorney.
    “Go ahead,” said Doyle.
    “I got robbed, Detective,” said Williams. “Man took my money and somethin else that belonged to me. Bobby Odum was an associate of mine, the only man in town who knew what I had in my possession.”
    “You’ve got runners, don’t you?”
    “My runners know what I got when I’m ready to tell ’em. Bobby was a tester. He knew I had product before anyone else did. Had to be Odum who gave me up.”
    Cochnar was taking notes in a book of lined paper he held in hand. Williams was watching him.
    “I ain’t tryin to dead myself,” said Williams. “I’ll plead the Fifth, I have to.”
    “The detective’s already been informed,” said Doyle.
    “Where’d you get the dope?” said Vaughn.
    “Harlem,” said Williams.
    “You copped from brothers?”
    “Through the Family.”
    “The Italians aren’t gonna like this.”
    “That’s what I
know.
When I get out of here, I plan to give this life up, for real.”
    “Sure you will.” Vaughn looked down at Roland, his honker coming out of his gaunt face like the pecker of an aroused dog. “They call you Long Nose, don’t they?”
    “Some do,” said Williams defensively.
    “I can see it,” said Vaughn, and showed Williams his row of widely spaced teeth. “Take care of yourself.”
    Vaughn and Cochnar left the room. Walking down the busy hallway, they discussed the case. Cochnar had been in charge of prosecuting a James Carpenter, awaiting trial in the D.C. Jail on a homicide, when Odum was killed. Cochnar suspected that Carpenter had ordered the hit on Odum because he believed that Odum had provided information that led to Carpenter’s arrest. Vaughn and Cochnar now