Weecho: First Shots

Chapter 6 - Tight Quarters

Deputy Police Commissioner Vincent Burke, hard-nosed commander of the NYPD Counter-Terrorism Force, was sitting at his desk in his headquarters office, chair turned around toward a television newscast. 

The flat screen over his credenza showed stock footage of a large Arab man walking out of the U.N. Building – the man who was killed in the crash with Nina Galleon. A black Mercedes pulled up to him, the rear door was held open, and the man squeezed inside the car. 

The newscaster’s voiceover continued as the Mercedes drove off: 

“… killed in a car accident Tuesday. An embassy spokesperson said Mr. Hasan’s remains would be flown to Riyadh for a traditional desert burial in an unmarked grave near his tribal village.” 

The story had broken that afternoon. 

Burke pointed the remote and zapped the sound, turned around and said, “And here we sit with our thumbs up our ass.” 

He gave a stony look to the uniformed cop standing nervously facing the desk – the cop who took Weecho’s camera at the crash. 

Burke let the man’s unease feed on itself, and then said, “So tell me why we don’t have those pictures we should be looking at right now.”      

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The one dish Weecho knew how to make, what he told her was the house specialty, was macaroni and cheese. Cheap, filling, you can change the flavor depending what kind of cheese you use. Not all cheeses work, so you have to know what you’re doing.   

The batch he made after they’d gotten settled in at the loft seemed to go down okay, them eating at the workbench that doubled as a table. Juna asked for seconds, a good sign, was feeding pieces to Wanda, who knew an easy touch when she saw it. 

They’d decided to call the cops after all. From a pay phone outside a gas station a couple of blocks from the creek. Weecho told them some kids who were fishing in the creek found a body. Gave the location, hung up and got out of there before they could be traced. 

Hoped the cops would see to it that Hoodie Guy got a decent grave. 

They’d taken a roundabout walk through a drizzle, Juna with her hood up, Weecho trying to picture Soul Patch sneaking up on her boyfriend, who probably didn’t hear him because his hood was up.   

After a couple of more blocks a raw wind came in. Weecho could see Juna was getting cold, was cold himself, asked if she was hungry and here they were. 

He put the macaroni bowl back in the toaster oven to keep it warm. “Let me know if you want more.” 

“I’m fine,” Juna said. 

Weecho set a tea kettle to boil on the two-ring stove.    

There hadn’t been much talk since they’d gotten here, Juna keeping mostly to one-word answers. Feeling him out, he believed. While he was cooking, she’d taken a shower, didn’t mind that it was rustic. The tradeoff being the view when she sat on the toilet, the Brooklyn Bridge out there lit up at night. For somebody coming from bayou country, the sight was impressive. Not that she’d mention it. Thinking this Weecho, with his cat and his loft and all that photography and computer gear, well, he must be doing something right. Made you overlook the fact he could use some height on him.  

When she came out, she’d changed into dry clothes, ones Weecho had given her that looked a little tight when she sat down, jeans snug in the hips. But girls were naturally bigger there, and this one he could see wasn’t even close to being heavy.