Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (34 page)

The next day Samantha called. She seemed genuinely excited to hear from him. Riding this wave of good fortune, he asked about Maria.

“There's something you should know about Maria.”

“What,” he asked. There was a long pause. “What's the problem? She dead or something.”

“I don't want to talk about it on the phone. I have an idea. Do you want to get together for a drink tomorrow night?”

His father found him in bed the next afternoon reading
Sports Illustrated
and smoking a Winston.

“Wanna go around the corner and have a drink with me?”

He looked up from the magazine. The man's eyes were crimson. How did he see? The dingy blue T-shirt he was wearing seemed too small and was frayed at the neck. The armpits were dark with sweat stains. Jeffrey took a deep drag on his cigarette, flicked ash in the tray on the floor.

“Me can't. Going out later.” He flipped the page of the magazine and exhaled slowly, trying to delay having to breathe the sour fermented smell of sweat and alcohol released by his father.

“When you going to bring that granddaughter of mine to meet her grandfather?”

“How many times me gotta say me nah find her yet?” He closed the magazine and got up to dump the contents of the ashtray into the garbage bucket in the kitchen.

“You nah find her? What you mean you nah find her?” His father trailed him, just off his right shoulder.

“Jeffrey spun sharply. “That's what I mean. Me nah find her.”

“Maybe you ashamed to bring her here to meet me. Is that it?”

Jeffrey stepped around Jockey and sauntered back to the bedroom, with his father at his heels like a faithful puppy.

“I wasn't always like this, you know,” murmured his father. “Before I get fire from my job . . .”

“Me thought you say you retire?”

“I was forced to retire. To me it's the same shit. If you black they think they can do anything to you.”

“Who's
they
?”

“Don't play stupid, boy. Who you think run this fucking country?”

“Look, me nah really wanna hear this.”

“You think you got the answer to everything, eh? You just land, and you is fucking Socrates. This ain't Jamaica, boy. This bloodclaat country will wipe your ass with a razor and laugh.”

Jeffrey picked up a pair of jeans from the floor by the bed and started to get dressed. He hadn't expected love to blossom between them, but he'd hoped they would get along. The man's bitterness and his perpetual drunken state made it impossible to entertain any emotion but pity. He couldn't even hate him. He pulled on his boots, took a shirt from the rack in the closet, and grabbed a brown leather bomber hanging on the bedroom door.

“Me nah finish with you yet,” said Jockey.

“Save it for your buddies around the corner. I got places to go.”

“Wake up, boy. You better off forgetting 'bout that child.”

“Like you did me.”

“I left your ass back there, because your mother was a whore.”

“Shut your drunken mouth.”

“You think you tough Mister Know-It-All? Then deal with the truth. I wasn't the only man swimming in that ocean. Your mother was a fucking whore!”

Jeffrey's reaction was swift. Too swift. The right hook landed flush on Jockey's jaw. The man sagged to the floor. Jeffrey swung the flimsy wooden door open and went out into the clear evening.

He rode the number 2 train to Brooklyn Heights and walked to the promenade. Sitting on one of the green benches he watched as the setting sun tore the sky to shreds and cursed his swiftness.

Mouth too swift.

Hands too swift.

Like it or not the man is your father. Striking your father is against God's law.

Feeling sorrow canoeing in his chest he got up to go apologize to his father. Then he sat down again. Perhaps it was better to wait. His father might not be too forgiving right now. He'd take a bottle of rum home later and work up to it over a drink.

He cursed himself double for showing his mother Karina's picture. He could still hear her admonishment:
Boy you go let that little girl grow up and not know her father? You go be just like your father Jockey?
”

Samantha lived in Park Slope. He arrived early and sat on the sofa while she set her face. They took a cab to Banana Boat, a cozy tropical theme bar on Flatbush Avenue where the drinks were mixed to taste.

Sitting at the bar he ordered two piña coladas.

“Remember the piña coladas I mixed for you at Fisherman's Club?”

She laughed. “How could I forget? Got me in big trouble. That was the last night I wore panties on the island. I know you don't believe me, but all I came down there for was to get some rest. I wasn't looking for sex.”

Jeffrey sipped from the large glass. “I believe you.”

“No you don't. Not with that devilish grin on your face. After those piña coladas the word
no
had lost all meaning. And the truth is I would've rather said yes to you.”

He smiled. Samantha was a large woman, not really his type. Her round blue eyes sparkled too brightly to be natural. She had short frizzy hair, blond on top with black roots. Short with a large sensuous mouth, her perpetual smile, with just a blush of laughter and relaxed way of talking, could be seductive though. Perhaps. It'd been a while since he had some.

“Do I look the same?” she asked.

“Better.”

“You're just saying that. When we met you didn't look my way twice.”

He laughed. “You had your eyes on somebody else.”

“No, I had my eyes on you, but your dick was already hard for Maria.”

He laughed nervously. “What's the story with Maria?”

She sighed. “I don't know where to begin.”

“Begin with where she living.”

Samantha touched his right triceps and let her fingers linger, caressing them gently. “Look, Maria was only nineteen when she got pregnant. The pregnancy was very hard on her. And her strict family didn't help. They practically disowned her. The poor girl had a nervous breakdown. I
don't know what you did to her in those three weeks, but she claimed she loved you.”

“I want to see her.”

“You're too late.”

“What about the baby?”

“Karina?”

“Yes. Karina is my child.”

A voice boomed behind him. “Why don't you shut your bloodclaat mouth telling people Karina is your child?”

He spun around at the force of the question. Tallabo stood over his right shoulder, sullen as a Voodoo priest.

“This ain't got nothing to do with you, fool,” Jeffrey said.

Samantha tightened her grip on his arm to calm him down.

Jeffrey breathed deep and sighed. He stood up to take his wallet out. “Let's get out of here.”

“Who the hell you calling a fool?” Tallabo growled.

“What's your problem, man?”

“You're my problem. You need to get Karina off your bloodclaat mind.”

“Don't do this here,” Samantha said.

“You shoulda stayed where you were,” Tallabo said.

Jeffrey put ten dollars on the bar. “Maybe you're the one shoulda stayed back there. Acting all backward like an idiot. Karina is my daughter.”

“Maria is my wife. And Karina is my daughter.”

The words banged off Jeffrey's head, then floated back, hovering around before trickling into his mind slowly like syrup.

He looked at Samantha. “What's this fool talking about?”

She bowed her head and rimmed her drink with her pinkie.

He turned back to Tallabo. “You're talking gibberish. Maria would never marry a monkey like you. Go get a towel and wipe the drool from your mouth.”

“Fuck you!”

The shove Tallabo gave Jeffrey wasn't even hard enough to make him rock on his heels. But Jeffrey's reaction was swift. A hard straight right to Tallaboo's face. The man flopped to the floor.

Taking Samantha by the arm, Jeffrey started for the door. He didn't expect Tallabo to get up. Not after taking his best punch.

No one had time to warn him. Perhaps no one wanted to. In an instant the knife Tallabo wielded was buried in his neck.

Jeffrey stumbled outside. It was raining. People rushing past, hoping to disappear before the police arrived. Samantha screaming. He wanted to tell her to stop, but his mouth wouldn't open. His equilibrium was disappearing fast. For a flash his father was in front of him. He took a step, then he fell, his head resting gently against an empty St. Ives bottle; ten inches of steel rising from his neck like a silver obelisk. A face flashed before him. Maria? Or was that Karina's face? He'd come all this way just to see that face. The streetlight charged the silver strip on the bottle's edge, sending a crackle of light bouncing off his wet cheek. How quickly does a body go cold when blood runs to water on a rainy street?

Garrison Brock stared nonchalantly at the digital images being broadcast across a secured network onto his flat screen monitor. The clock located at the bottom of the screen confirmed the middle of the nighttime that signaled him from a restful sleep. Though the sight of a grisly crime scene at that time of the morning was not an unusual occurrence, it was not the academic, scholarly solace he demanded after agreeing to remain “available.” It wasn't the first time his supposed retirement was interrupted by an unusual crime. His first thought, as the videotaped images moved slowly around the room, was to focus on the peculiar aspects of the crime scene. Like so many other crime scenes he had experienced across a career in various investigative agencies of the United States Justice Department, the images said more about the killer than the victims. Force of habit, years of being a field operative and his unique talent combined like a single laser beam moving slowly across the monitor, looking for the little things that others miss.

“What do you think, ten?” the audio voice asked through the speakers connected to the computer monitor.

“Where'd you get these?” Brock asked already certain of the answer.

“Just fooling around out in cyberspace, Doc, it just happen to digitize onto my hard drive.”

It was the answer he expected from the only criminal for whom he'd called in a lot of favors to keep out of jail. Working in a remote location with a state-of-the-art information system financed by leftover tax dollars, Brian Botcher, was a legend among his peers. The best hacker to have ever been captured by a federal agent, he now availed his talents as an unclassified “information accessor” for the United States government, complete with a six-figure salary, a government-subsidized home, and the red government vehicle.

“Things don't just appear on your hard drive, Botcher. You've been peeping into somebody's system.”

“It's what they pay me to do, Doc.” He replied matter-of-factly. “So what do you think?”

Brock leaned closer to the screen. “I'd put both victims in their early twenties. From the position of her body, I'd say she must have been coming down the steps, most likely surprised whoever was in there. The man had obviously fallen asleep on the couch when the shots were fired.”

“What makes you think . . .”

“Look at the contents on the coffee table,” Brock said. “The remote is lying on the floor next to his hand. There are three empty bottles of beer, a half-eaten bag of tortilla chips, an empty cup of salsa, and the channel number on the cable box is consistent with channels that run pay-per-view movies.”

“Coroner's report shows the time of death being between one and one thirty in the morning.”

“He'd probably been asleep for a least an hour. As far as he knows, he's still asleep.” Brock leaned back from the computer screen, smiled to himself, and rubbed his eyes. “Let the local authorities do their job, Botcher. I have a report to finish for the institute.”

“You're the only staff member, Doc. Why are you writing a report that no one is going to read? Besides, if it's anything like those journal articles you write, the readers won't stay awake long enough to finish.”

Brock yawned, choosing to ignore the comment. “There's nothing unusual here, Botcher.”

“I could download all the information they've gathered so far,” Botcher replied, having sensed Brock's pretended indifference. “What's the harm? Besides, you know artists like us have to keep our skills sharp.”

“If you're about to download information to me that you obtained by illegally going into a city's computer system, then I'd say your skills haven't diminished one bit.”

“Those antiquated systems they use should be on display at the Smithsonian, right next to the wheel.”

“Don't you ever sleep?” Brock asked.

“The places I have go into are most vulnerable at night,” he replied.

“You know local authorities don't like outside interference.”

“You are a USA-10, Doc, and that gives you all the authority you need.”

Brock smiled at the thought of Botcher being the only person of his background, and to Brock's knowledge, to hack deep enough into the United States Information System and find the obscure 1960s legislation that created the USA category. A United States senator had cleverly attached the funding for the category on the back of several budget requests for building maintenance and restoration. Over the years, the category continued to be a little-known, seldom-discussed budget line item buried beneath the yearly requests that Congress and the Senate typically rubber-stamped. The unassigned special agent status was only awarded to experienced federal agents whose talents or skills were so unique that they would be considered a threat to national security if their talents were used elsewhere. Garrison Brock was the tenth person to be assigned that status since the category had been created, and the first African-American. He retired after twenty-five years of government service that had taken him to more countries than he cared to visit and more people than he cared to know. His special talent kept him available, though not always willing.

“It's moments like this that I wished I had let you go to jail,” Brock said.

“I just would have created more like me,” Botcher replied. “Imagine how much fun that would have been for you and the limited number of agents trying to catch all my criminally cyber creations.

“Send me what you have, and I'll give it one more look.”

Brock watched as the blue line moved quickly across the bottom of his
monitor and disappeared, quickly signaling that the download was complete.

“You must have found something interesting, or you wouldn't have brought it to my attention,” Brock said.

“It's my way of staying sharp, Doc. Had I not gotten so arrogant, you would have never caught me.”

“I didn't catch you because you were arrogant, Botcher.” Brock said stifling another yawn. “I caught you because you got lazy.”

“Probably explains why I'm up most of the time. Later, Doc. The agency wants me to look into some bookkeeping being done by a revered insurance company.”

“Unofficially, of course,” Brock said, not waiting for a reply.

Botcher logged off. Brock opened the file attachment from the double homicide and began reading through the reports. Scanning reports into computer systems made for easy storage, but proved less than a challenge for people with Botcher's skills. He made a habit of peeking in and out of systems using his God-given talents and a 70-million-dollar-satellite- supported information accessor. Mostly, he'd just look around to see if there was anything the agency needed to know, but every now and then, something would trigger his interest.

Brock spent just under an hour reading through the reports. The investigating officer had done a decent job of reporting what he'd seen. A number of interviews had proven interesting, but not insightful. The victims were Liddia Moore and Franklin Dempsey. Both had previous records for small-time offenses, but nothing to warrant a double murder. Both were killed with an easily obtainable and equally disposable twenty-two caliber. The murder weapon still had not been found.

“Drugs were ruled out, and it wasn't random,” Brock muttered.

Liddia was found lying on the floor between the stairs and the living area, wearing a black see-through robe that Brock concluded she must have thrown on because an unusual noise brought her downstairs. She had been propelled backwards by the three bullets fired into her. The report indicated that she'd been hit three times in the chest. The left hand had been nicked by one of the bullets.

“That's her only defensive wound,” Brock said.

Frank Dempsey had taken one in the right temple as he slept. He'd consumed too much beer and snack food, late at night, stretched out on the couch while watching a pay-per-view channel. Other than a small black birthmark on the ring finger of his right hand, there was very little that stood out about his physical being.

Brock read the coroner's report. “He got it first, doesn't necessarily mean he was the target.”

He turned his attention to the digital view of the crime scene. His computer was programmed so he could zoom in on particular images, sharpen the focus and change the point of view. He reread the witness statements, believing that there was something said that was missed. The parents of the victims were equally shocked, and their interviews reflected their emotional grief and frustration with not having any answers. Liddia's sister, Lena, essentially went into a prolonged depression, and Frank had no other siblings to grieve his departure. Garrison leaned back in the custom-made, leather high-back chair and stared up at the ceiling as if all the information he'd been given was painted up there in a crude mosaic.

Finally, he said. “No doubt, she was the target.”

Wiltshire Commons was a small enclave inside Detroit's borders, having spent its first one hundred and six years as an upscale community that was home to descendants of the city's first robber barons. They spread their wealth and influence throughout the poor structures of Detroit's growing automotive presence, but restricted participation to a small group of wealthy Wiltshire residents. This wasn't the same community that Garrison Brock drove through on his way to keep a ten o'clock appointment with Wiltshire Park's chief of police. What remained was a total devastation of homes and lifestyle left abandoned as the third generation of Wiltshires took their wealth and influence north on the I-75 freeway to the more affluent areas of Troy, Auburn Hills, and other modern-day tributes to wealthy isolation. The main street leading through Wiltshire Commons was a mixture of one-level businesses and fast food eateries. Behind the economic devastation, on the side streets where people took a stab at living, many of the homes were adjacent to boarded up or burnt down
dwellings. The people up and out at that time of the morning looked as if they'd gone forty rounds with Satan's evil twin. Life had beaten them up pretty bad, only they were too proud to fall down.

Brock parked in front of the white stucco building, not surprised by the lack of patrol cars in the area. After studying the police reports, he'd gone out in cyberspace and pulled up the most recent articles written about Wiltshire Commons. Living in Detroit had made him aware of the problem facing this city that was on the brink of being taken over by the State of Michigan. He knew as much about Wiltshire Commons as he cared to know. The city had become one more joke being told by comedy club stand-ups, hoping for that big break on Jay Leno. When Wiltshire Commons was unable to pay its water bill to Detroit, a rash of fires left the few remaining firemen with little choice but to keep people from wandering too close.

“I have a ten o'clock appointment with Chief Martin,” he said to the burly desk sergeant. “My name is Garrison Brock.”

Through half-lid eyes, the sergeant barely looked up while pushing a button on a phone and telling Chief Martin that the ten o'clock appointment was waiting in the lobby.

“The Chief will be right with you,” he monotoned. “Have a seat over there.” He pointed to a row of unmatched wooden and steel-legged chairs.

He walked over to the corner where the chairs were lined up; backs turned to a large plate-glass window with a view of the main street. Brock chose to stand and watch the human traffic find reason to hang on for another day.

His concentration on what was taking place outside of police headquarters was suddenly interrupted. “Dr. Brock?” a voice asked.

Garrison turned and smiled at the medium-height, dyed-red-haired woman, with brown eyes and Hershey chocolate skin, proudly displayed in police uniform blue. “I'm Andrea Martin.”

“Hello, Chief Martin,” Garrison replied.

“Andrea.”

“Garrison.”

“Let's take a ride,” she said.

Chief Martin strolled past the front counter, whispered something to the desk sergeant, and motioned for Brock to come along.

“We'll take my patrol car,” she said.

Out a side door and into the adjacent parking lot, Chief Andrea Martin's gray unmarked patrol car occupied a reserved spot close to the building. A wire fence stretched around the entire parking lot, which could only be accessed by way of a security card-controlled gate.

She rubbed her security card against a small pad, and the gate slowly slid open.

“So what kind of doctor are you?” she asked as she pulled onto the main street.

“Criminology,” Brock replied. “I did my doctorate at Georgetown.”

“Never had an interest in getting a Ph.D.,” she said. “After I did the masters in public administration, that was enough for me. So, you're teaching?”

“I did for a minute,” he said. “Then I was asked to run this ‘think tank' called the Beacon Institute.”

“And that means what?” she asked.

Brock smiled. “It means I get paid to write papers about aspects of criminality that are interesting to me. Along the way, I get to give out a few grant dollars here and there.”