(Hey there…we’ve got a story going on here.  Each posting is numbered, so there’s no losing your place.  If you’re new to the site, please, click back to They Had the Right to Remain Silent (1).  It’s in the Archives section and was posted July 16th, to crack open the first page of the tale.  For those up to speed, thanks for dropping in once more…shall we proceed?)
They Had the Right to Remain Silent
Richard S. Jachimecki
Chapter ( xvi )
     DETECTIVES MASON BECKER AND TERRANCE MARSHALL sat in their dark green Taurus, watching the gray stone entrance, wedged halfway down the block of row houses. The car melted in with the line of nondescript middle- class vehicles, parked bumper to bumper, filling one side of this quiet Brooklyn street. Empty cups from the coffee shop were piling up on the back seat.
     Becker looked at his watch. Sixty hours of waiting, he thought.
     “Qualifications coming up soon,” Terrance moaned.
     Becker added, “Couple of months. I haven’t been to the range for a while now, T. You want to go tomorrow?”
     “Well,” stated Terrance, “that’ll depend on this guy,” he said, and leaned forward to look through the windshield down the street. “Otherwise…Saturday, Saturday…maybe in the afternoon, Mase,” Terrance calculated, going through his mental calendar.
     “Parker has practice in the morning. I haven’t been there for him lately.”
     Becker focused his binoculars.
     “How old is he?” Becker said.
     “He’s eight. Pee Wee league.” Terrance answered, shook his head, “Time’s flying by.”
     Becker kept looking for any sign of their suspect. “Is he following in his old man’s footsteps?” Becker asked slowly.
     “You build the trophy case for his Heisman yet?”
     Terrance boomed out a laugh; deep, loud and resonate.
     “Oh, man, he’s clumsy as hell. Can’t get out of his own way. All arms, legs and feet.”
     Terrance flipped through his newspaper. “Of course, I was worse at his age…” he mumbled, turning pages to the back section.
     “Think he’ll get as big as you?” Mason asked. When Terrance stood in a doorway, he blotted out the sun. “I mean, sometimes those traits skip generations.”
     Terrance looked up from his paper.
     “When I was playing at Syracuse, friends of the family called my father ‘Big T’ and I was ‘Junior’. He could lift me off the ground and kick my ass.”
     Becker lowered the binoculars and stared at his partner, and imagined someone handling the man- mountain squeezed into the passenger seat of the mid-sized car.
     “No shit,” Becker blurted in awe. “You think he’ll get us Stallion tickets when he goes pro?”
     The laugh rumbled through the car’s interior once more.
     Terrance started to envision the perfect future for his boy, one of the indulgences granted a loving father.
     “My, my, my…wouldn’t that be something.” he said with quiet pride.
     Reality kicked back in.
     “Speaking of tickets, you’re buying a couple for a raffle. Parker’s team needs equipment,” Terrance concluded. He went back to his newspaper and pulled out his pen.
     Becker gulped the last of his coffee and tossed the cup to the back seat.
     “What, ‘Jumble‘ time again?” he quipped.
     Terrance didn’t look up. “Nope. Finished that while you were going for bagels earlier. Crossword.” Terrance stated.
     “In ink?” Becker mocked, “I’m impressed.”
     Terrance pondered, “You think this clown will ever show up?”
     “T, I know he’ll be here,” Becker retorted. “We’ve cased his place through and through. That little bastard is going to run home to mommy sooner or later. I’ll bet we find holdup money in there too. It wasn’t at his apartment.”
     “Something still bugs me,” Terrance said, “the back office was ransacked, safe emptied. Files and receipts were taken along with the money. Who takes receipts?”
     “Credit card numbers?” Becker suggested.
     “But, both of the victims were found in the front part of the store. That’s a lot of ground to cover for just one guy,” Terrance said.
     Becker checked his notes.
     “Witness from the street heard shots, but only saw Stills run out the front,” he recited. He went silent as his neck flushed crimson. While he continued to scan the notes, his mind’s eye was replaying the scene.
     “And that Jimmy Marks kid. Shot in the face. Stills was looking right at him when he pulled the trigger. Just a part- time job after school…” he growled, barely audible.
     Terrance knew where this was headed. “Easy Mase,” he said.
     Becker continued, “he so much as thinks about resisting and I’ll…”
     Terrance cut him off, “You will cuff him, put him in the car and let the ADA take it from there, buddy.” Terrance reasoned.
     Becker pulled up the binoculars, scanning both sides and the length of the street.
     Terrance took the paper, “OK, nine- letter word for ‘separator’, Mase…I got it, ‘parti…”
     Becker interrupted, “He’s coming. Red jacket and baseball cap.”
     Terrance added the newspaper to the pile of cups.
     “You want the back or the front?” Becker said, and checked the barrel chamber of his nine- millimeter, more from habit than need.
     Terrance slid his gold shield onto his sportscoat breast pocket. “I’ll take the back, Mase. But you’ll have to give me a few minutes to go through all the backyards,” he groaned, pulling himself out of the car.
     “Huh?” Becker replied, puzzled.
     Terrance looked back at his partner stunned, “Row houses, man, no alleys.”
     Becker shook his head in disbelief of his own naiveté, “Right, right…I’ll give you five. Get going,”
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