“Hayward.”
“Gimme your date of birth.”
Michael Hayward, aka “Jamal,” did. And Kennedy, who was watching every move and listening closely, then sent the information in an encrypted text on his phone back to the Homicide Unit.
“This Dante Holmes,” McCrory then said, “he got capped in a drive-by last night over in Kensington. What do you know about it?”
Hayward sighed, then again looked up and down the street.
“I don’t know nothing ’bout nothing.”
McCrory heard Kennedy quietly reading him the reply to the text: “Five priors, two for public intoxication and three for pot, personal possession, less than thirty grams. No outstanding warrants.”
McCrory rolled him onto his back and continued frisking him. At the belly pocket of the sweatshirt, he felt a familiar heavy object beneath the fabric. He carefully reached inside the pocket and came out with forty-five dollars in rumpled fives and tens, and a dozen postage-stamp-sized zip-top bags. A few of the clear glassine packets held a single pill each. The rest of the small bags contained various amounts of a brown powder and had a black drawing of a T-bone steak rubber-stamped on them.
McCrory then yanked up the bottom edge of Hayward’s dirty sweatshirt.
“Well, look at what we have here,” Kennedy said, squatting as he reached down with his gloved hand and pulled a black-framed .40 caliber Smith & Wesson semiautomatic from Hayward’s waistband.
“Congratulations, Jamal,” McCrory said. “Possession of a firearm just added an automatic mandatory five years to whatever other lucky sentence the judge hands down.”
Hayward seemed unfazed by that.
McCrory looked at Kennedy.
“Don’t forget what Matt Payne said about your little show.”
Kennedy nodded, then stood.
Pointing the muzzle at the ground, he racked back the slide and smoothly engaged the lever that locked it open. In the process, a live round had ejected, and he caught it in midair. Then, using only his gloved index finger and thumb, he held the pistol high over his head for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. He looked up, studying it as he turned it back and forth. Then he brought it down and depressed the release for the magazine with his right thumb. The mag fell from the pistol grip into his left palm.
The magazine felt unusually light, and when he glanced at it he was surprised that it was empty.
Kennedy produced from his pocket a gallon-sized clear polymer bag and dropped the single bullet and the empty magazine into it. The heavy-duty bag was leak-proof and puncture-resistant, with one side imprinted EVIDENCE in large letters and, below that, lines to note such details as date evidence collected, case number, collector’s information, chain of custody, et cetera.
“Only one round, Jamal?” Kennedy said.
Hayward shrugged.
“All I got left,” he said.
McCrory and Kennedy exchanged glances.
Then Kennedy ran a plastic zip-tie through the barrel as a visual aid that the bore was empty. He slipped the weapon, its slide still locked back in the open position, into the evidence bag, sealed the adhesive closure, handed the bag to McCrory, then finished the pat-down.
McCrory looked at the lone .40 caliber round in the bag and noticed that the full metal jacket of the bullet had been scored, two cuts in the copper forming a crude X across the tip.
He looked back at Jamal and thought: That drive-by scene had .40 cal and 9 mil casings all over the place.
He says he doesn’t know Dante Holmes. But there could be a damn good reason for saying that, and for knowing who’s responsible for whacking Dante—because he damn well could’ve done it himself.
Small wonder he didn’t show any response to the extra five years for weapon possession—a murder rap is bad enough.
And that prick Pookie, who clearly lied about Jamal wanting to talk, just sold him down the river.
Or . . . not.
If this is one of the weapons that was used in the shooting, ballistics oughta be able to make the match.