Free The Streetbird by Janwillem van de Wetering

walked toward the Volkswagen. De Gier wound down his window and smiled. "Could you reverse, please?" the man asked. "Then you can get away too. If we wait here, it'll be forever."
    "No."
    The man raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"
    "I'm not good at reversing."
    "You want a fight?" the man asked.
    De Gier closed his window. The man knocked against the glass. De Gier stared straight ahead. The man tried to turn the Volkswagen's door handle. The door was locked. The man walked to the waterside, looked about, and picked up a brick. He showed de Gier the brick. De Gier got out.
    "Either you reverse," the man said, "or I wreck your car."
    Two young men dressed in faded jeans and leather jackets walked toward the man. "What's going on here?"
    "This gentleman," de Gier said, "is threatening me with this brick. He wants me to reverse, but I'd rather wait here."
    "You mind your own business," the man said.
    The young men showed their police cards.
    "So?" the man asked.
    "You're under arrest."
    "Watch it," de Gier said. "Sir is rather short tempered."
    The young men stared at the man until he dropped his brick. They grabbed his arms, turned him around, and handcuffed his wrists.
    "Watch it," de Gier said. "The lady is leaving us."
    One of the policemen ran after the woman and brought her back.
    "She dropped something," De Gier said. "I'll get it for you." He returned with a plastic envelope filled with white powder. The policeman weighed it on his hand. "Ten grams." He addressed the black man. "You're arrested because I suspect you of harassment of a civilian and trafficking in drugs." He looked at the woman. "You're also under arrest."
    The other policeman frisked the man. He showed his colleague a stiletto. "One more charge. We can confiscate his car." "Your car is confiscated. I'll drive it to headquarters. The key is in the ignition?"
    The man didn't answer.
    "All set?" de Gier asked.
    "Yes, sir. Thank you for your cooperation."
    De Gier reversed. "Do you know," Grijpstra asked, "that what you just did is discrimination? Since when do we suspect a black man, unknown to us, and driving a new Mercedes?"
    "I was jealous," de Gier said. "You see, that bum got here a few years ago, without a penny to his name, flown out of his hellhole in a government plane financed with my tax money, and look at him now, driving a brand new supercar and with a bit of juicy flesh leaning against his pock-marked skin. I mean, isn't it terrible?'
    "Exactly," Grijpstra said. "A textbook example of low-class discrimination. If the suspect had been white, he would still be free."
    "But he's no good, adjutant."
    "No, no, you can't reason that way."
    "No?" de Gier asked.
    "No."
    "And if I tell you that what I just said consisted of platitudes specially formulated to see if you'd go for it and that I saw that same suspect leave a house in the Fishhead-alley two days ago and that that house is known as a meeting place for junkies? And if I tell you too that the same suspect was dressed poorly at the time and riding a rusty bicycle?"
    De Gier parked. Grijpstra rang the bell.
    "Nobody home," de Gier said.
    The adjutant rang again. "They are home, but the trouble is they're dead." He looked about him. "That such a dainty-looking place, surrounded by blossoming bushes in which songbirds chant, can be a morgue is hard to believe."
    The door opened. "Hello, Jacobs," de Gier said.
    The old man pushed his skullcap to the back of his head and peered over his steamed-up glasses. "Ah, sergeant. Welcome. Hello, adjutant."
    Jacobs shuffled ahead. He looked over his shoulder. You'd be after Obrian, I imagine."
    "We are," Grijpstra said.
    Jacobs pushed against a metal door. "Not a good corpse. Go ahead. Number eleven." The detectives shivered. "I know," Jacobs said. "Rather chilly in here, but with this heat they tend to smell and the cold slows their spooking."
    De Gier yanked a drawer. "Sticks a bit," Jacobs said. "Here, I'll give you a hand. One, two . . . Hop." The tin box