is?”
“No.”
“Then I’m out of time for you.” He slipped me a card. I slipped him one of mine. Then I slipped out of the police station.
21.
Tori, Joel Lightner, and I strolled along Arondale Avenue as the sun threatened to sink beneath the real estate. We didn’t get any snow last night, but it was forecasted, so I wanted to do my due diligence before the weather clocked me out.
West Arondale was becoming the new Boystown, and wherever the gay population moved in, the city became a mecca for nightclubs and cafés and art shops and boutiques, some of the risqué variety. Bars advertised specials on chalkboards along the sidewalks. A clothing store featured a mannequin dressed in leather bondage.
When I was a kid, anything on Arondale Avenue that was west of Coulter was off-limits. Think the red-light district in Amsterdam, except the women weren’t displayed in windows. The strip clubs stayed around until the early nineties, when the gentrification began and the city started strong-arming them through zoning changes that were litigated in court for years. James Madison probably never thought that his beloved First Amendment would apply to a nude woman grinding herself in the lap of a middle-aged man for twenty bucks.
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Tori said to me as we reached the 2700 block of West Arondale.
“You wanted to know what it’s like to defend criminals,” I said. “This is what it’s like.”
Lightner looked over the two of us. “This is your second date?”
“It’s not a date,” Tori and I said together.
“Hey, okay, excuse me.”
“Our first date,” I said, “Tori informed me that she found me interesting in a purely nonsexual way.”
Joel said, “You have good taste, Tori. Except for the part about finding him interesting.”
Tori seemed to enjoy the back-and-forth. I can always count on Joel for subtlety and discretion.
“I never said my interest was nonsexual,” she clarified.
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” Joel rubbed his hands together.
“I just said the sex wasn’t going to happen.”
“Oh. So, what—you’re just going to be friends? That doesn’t work.”
“Lightner, for Christ’s sake,” I said.
“Well, if you’re ever in the mood for a more mature gentleman like myself—”
I stopped. Joel did, too, belatedly. “What’d I say? You’re all sensitive these days?”
“I’m not sensitive, Lightner. I just figured, if we’re here to investigate a crime scene, I don’t know—maybe we shouldn’t walk right past it.”
“Good point.” He turned and looked across the street at the Tattered Cover bookstore. A huge mat had been thrown down in front of the store where Lorenzo Fowler had bled out.
“Witnesses say they didn’t see anybody in the street,” I said. “And he wasn’t shot at close range. So he was shot from across the street, where we’re standing, basically. I’m thinking he crouched down between two cars and waited for Lorenzo. Sounds like Lorenzo was coming around the back of his car and he got one in the windpipe.”
We waited for a couple of cars to pass and then hustled across the street. The bloodstain on the street was still apparent. “Lorenzo stumbled backward from that shot, all the way back against the door of the bookstore. Then he took one in each kneecap.”
“The shooter is still across the street at this point?” Lightner asked.
“Yeah. Must have been. The witnesses say there wasn’t anybody in the street walking toward him or anything like that. They didn’t see anybody.”
“And he used a Glock?”
“A semiautomatic handgun. A Glock or something similar, probably.”
I thought about all of this, taking it in now that I was at the crime scene itself. It was always different seeing it in person, versus case-file photographs or witness accounts.
In my peripheral vision, I noticed that Lightner was watching me carefully. I glanced at him and broke eye contact. We
“No.”
“Then I’m out of time for you.” He slipped me a card. I slipped him one of mine. Then I slipped out of the police station.
21.
Tori, Joel Lightner, and I strolled along Arondale Avenue as the sun threatened to sink beneath the real estate. We didn’t get any snow last night, but it was forecasted, so I wanted to do my due diligence before the weather clocked me out.
West Arondale was becoming the new Boystown, and wherever the gay population moved in, the city became a mecca for nightclubs and cafés and art shops and boutiques, some of the risqué variety. Bars advertised specials on chalkboards along the sidewalks. A clothing store featured a mannequin dressed in leather bondage.
When I was a kid, anything on Arondale Avenue that was west of Coulter was off-limits. Think the red-light district in Amsterdam, except the women weren’t displayed in windows. The strip clubs stayed around until the early nineties, when the gentrification began and the city started strong-arming them through zoning changes that were litigated in court for years. James Madison probably never thought that his beloved First Amendment would apply to a nude woman grinding herself in the lap of a middle-aged man for twenty bucks.
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Tori said to me as we reached the 2700 block of West Arondale.
“You wanted to know what it’s like to defend criminals,” I said. “This is what it’s like.”
Lightner looked over the two of us. “This is your second date?”
“It’s not a date,” Tori and I said together.
“Hey, okay, excuse me.”
“Our first date,” I said, “Tori informed me that she found me interesting in a purely nonsexual way.”
Joel said, “You have good taste, Tori. Except for the part about finding him interesting.”
Tori seemed to enjoy the back-and-forth. I can always count on Joel for subtlety and discretion.
“I never said my interest was nonsexual,” she clarified.
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” Joel rubbed his hands together.
“I just said the sex wasn’t going to happen.”
“Oh. So, what—you’re just going to be friends? That doesn’t work.”
“Lightner, for Christ’s sake,” I said.
“Well, if you’re ever in the mood for a more mature gentleman like myself—”
I stopped. Joel did, too, belatedly. “What’d I say? You’re all sensitive these days?”
“I’m not sensitive, Lightner. I just figured, if we’re here to investigate a crime scene, I don’t know—maybe we shouldn’t walk right past it.”
“Good point.” He turned and looked across the street at the Tattered Cover bookstore. A huge mat had been thrown down in front of the store where Lorenzo Fowler had bled out.
“Witnesses say they didn’t see anybody in the street,” I said. “And he wasn’t shot at close range. So he was shot from across the street, where we’re standing, basically. I’m thinking he crouched down between two cars and waited for Lorenzo. Sounds like Lorenzo was coming around the back of his car and he got one in the windpipe.”
We waited for a couple of cars to pass and then hustled across the street. The bloodstain on the street was still apparent. “Lorenzo stumbled backward from that shot, all the way back against the door of the bookstore. Then he took one in each kneecap.”
“The shooter is still across the street at this point?” Lightner asked.
“Yeah. Must have been. The witnesses say there wasn’t anybody in the street walking toward him or anything like that. They didn’t see anybody.”
“And he used a Glock?”
“A semiautomatic handgun. A Glock or something similar, probably.”
I thought about all of this, taking it in now that I was at the crime scene itself. It was always different seeing it in person, versus case-file photographs or witness accounts.
In my peripheral vision, I noticed that Lightner was watching me carefully. I glanced at him and broke eye contact. We
Similar Books
