Free You Can Die Trying by Gar Anthony Haywood Page B

match, and as he stood in the doorway of his client’s home, barring Gunner’s path to the tiny living room beyond, he examined the business card Gunner had given him with open disgust, not buying the lies printed on its face for an instant.
    “You’re not from the Guardian. And you’re not a reporter. But nice try.” He started to close the door in Gunner’s face.
    “Who is it, Milton?” someone behind him asked.
    Wiley turned to find a short, wiry black woman peering anxiously over his shoulder, trying to see past him to the man at the door. She was not an attractive woman, particularly—her mouth was overly large and her eyes were set too far apart—but even from where he stood, Gunner could see there was an aura of strength and intelligence about her that seemed to render her physical shortcomings moot.
    “It’s a spy for the police,” Wiley told her, turning to glare at Gunner again. “I was just telling him good-bye.”
    He tried to close the door again, but the woman said, “You don’t have to do that. I’ve got nothing to hide from the police. Let him in.” She moved forward before Wiley could stop her and ushered Gunner into the house, smiling gamely and offering him her hand. “I’m Harriet Washington. Please come in and sit down, won’t you, Mr.…?”
    “Gunner. Aaron Gunner.” He shook her hand.
    “Harriet, please,” Wiley said.
    But Washington wasn’t listening. She was moving into the living room now, showing Gunner to a seat on the small, floral-patterned sofa sheathed in clear plastic that was the room’s modest centerpiece. Two matching armchairs waited on either side, turned toward the sofa at opposing angles, and Washington sat down on the one to Gunner’s right. Wiley closed the front door and eventually joined them in the room, but insisted on standing, apparently determined to maintain some semblance of a supervisory attitude over the proceedings.
    “Harriet, you didn’t hear what I said. I said that this man works for the police. He tried to pawn himself off as a reporter for the Guardian , but his business card is a fake. I call that paper regularly, the phone number on the card is a complete fabrication.”
    Washington looked at Gunner expectantly. “Is this true, Mr. Gunner?”
    There wasn’t much point in lying. They were going to be guarded in their dealings with him now, no matter who he claimed to be.
    “In part, yes.”
    “In part?”
    “I’m not a reporter for the Guardian , Mrs. Washington.” He glanced over at Wiley as he offered Washington a glimpse of his license. “But I’m not working for the police, either. As you can see, I’m a private investigator.”
    “Uh-huh.” Wiley’s head moved up and down, his mouth turned up in a self-satisfied grin. “What did I tell you?”
    “It’s the truth. I only tried to run the reporter line on you because I thought you’d be hesitant to talk to me otherwise.”
    “And you thought right,” Wiley said.
    To Washington, Gunner said, “My client and the LAPD may appear to be on the same side in this thing, Mrs. Washington, but I can assure you they’re not.”
    “Your client?”
    “A neighbor of yours who claims to have witnessed your son’s shooting. Someone who says the cop who shot him that night was fired upon first, just as the cop had always insisted.”
    “All right, Harriet. Enough is enough,” Wiley said angrily. “Whoever this man is, whoever his client may be, his intentions are to sabotage our case against the police department, and he’s got to go. Now.” He crossed his arms across his chest and waited, fully expecting to be obeyed.
    “I want to hear what this client of his has to say,” Washington said.
    “No. No! I strongly urge against it!”
    “Sit down, Milton.” She fixed him with a stare that could have sliced through tempered steel; Wiley had no choice but to do as he was told. When she turned her attention to Gunner again, she said, “You’ll have to forgive Milton,