“Don’t bother, Dante. We know you supply them with cheap guns in return for them letting you sell your hardware in their territory.” Bob had called the MPD’s Weapons Unit, who knew Marco Dante’s name but could neither confirm nor rule out any link to X-11.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Dante and yawned loudly. “I run an auto body shop in Jordan. Jordan isn’t X-11 territory, it’s Black Wolves. Don’t you know your gang map, Detective?”
“As far as I know X-11 operates wherever they please. Speaking of weapons, you recognized this?”
Bob held up his phone again, this time displaying a photo he’d taken in Gomez’s apartment.
“No.”
“That’s funny, because according to Weapons Function this is a case for an M24. Now I don’t know much about weapons, but even I know this is a classic sniper’s rifle. One of my colleagues checked the firearms register and it says there that you recently purchased a gun like that.”
“So maybe it also says there that I reported it stolen.”
“Yes. Maybe you should be a little more careful about how you keep your weapons. In the last twelve months alone you’ve reported weapons stolen from you six times. Altogether twelve rifles and sixteen revolvers.”
A thin smile appeared between the narrow black strips of hair on the gun dealer’s face. “What can I tell you? I live in a very rough area. So as long as the MPD refuses to patrol there then I’m thinking the break-ins will just keep on happening.”
Bob nodded slowly. “Yes, I guess they will.”
He heard voices outside in the corridor. Time to get out of there.
“Well, thanks for your help, Dante.”
“It’s nothing…What you say your name was?”
“And get well soon,” said Bob Oz. He pushed open the door and headed into the corridor.
“Hey, Bob!” It was Rooble Isack. Bob knew Isack from when he was the new guy in the Homicide Unit. Rooble had come from Mogadishu as a thirteen-year-old, part of a family that clung tenaciously to Somali traditions. His father dyed his beard orange and his mother worked in a henna store in the Somali shopping mall on 29th and Pillsbury. Rooble was one of those young and ambitious immigrants, so naive in their faith in the promise of a country with equal opportunities for all, and so energetic in their pursuit of a better life for themselves and their families. So it was well deserved when, after two years with Homicide, he was offered a detective position in Aggravated Assault.
“Hey, Rooble.”
“What are you doing here, Bob?”
“Murder case. We’ve got a gun we can connect to Dante. I’m guessing you’re here in connection with the assault?”
“Yes.” Rooble nodded to his partner, a boy who blushed when he introduced himself and whose name Bob had forgotten by the next time he breathed in.
“This is Bob Oz, the man who taught me everything I didn’t know about being a detective,” said Rooble to the boy, who was trying to look interested. “A living legend.”
“I think you learned quicker than I could teach.” Bob looked at his watch.
“How’s Alice?”
Bob’s face stiffened into a smile. “She’s fine.”
Rooble showed no noticeable reaction to the reply. “It’s been a while. Wasn’t it that barbecue with Homicide, in your backyard?”
“Could well be,” said Bob as he tried to convey in body language that he didn’t have time to engage in the local custom known as the Long Goodbye.
“Holy buckets, all those pork chops we cooked.” Rooble laughed. “Me and Hani brought our own barbecue, remember?”
“Yes. Listen, I have to go. Say hello to Hani.”
“Sure will. Actually she’s pregnant again.”
“Wow, good work. See you.”
“See you.”
