Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (35 page)

“Well, we could use more than a few dollars,” she said as she made a left turn onto a narrow, one-way residential street. “After you called this morning, I had you checked out. Seems your institute has been quite generous to certain police organizations.”

“Just trying to help,” Brock said.

“How'd a telecom multimillionaire like Carter Tessing happen to pick you to be executive director of the Beacon Institute.”

“He read one of my articles, liked what I had to say, and offered me the job.”

Martin smiled. “Or maybe he owed you a big favor. That point on the top of my head is from a bad hair day, not because I'm a dunce. However, I will accept your explanation as a polite way of saying ‘mind your own business'.” Before Brock could reply, she said, “Here we are.”

She parked in front of a two-level, gray brick home of boarded windows, with “No Trespassing” notices stapled in several areas. Chief Martin opened the driver's side door, stepped out, and came around to the passenger side, as Brock stood looking at the house.

“Now, Garrison, perhaps you'll tell me what is so interesting about an unsolved double-murder case that would bring you here asking questions five years after it happened.”

“I'm doing research on unsolved double-murder cases,” Brock said.

“And there aren't enough in Detroit?”

“I prefer the quiet of a small town.”

Chief Martin shook her head. “There's nothing quiet about a town in poverty.”

They both stood inside the very vacant crime scene area. Five years of neglect and abandonment had taken its internal toll on the last stop for Liddia Moore and Frank Dempsey. It had become a place for the homeless to hide at night.

“Why did you want to come here, Garrison?” Chief Martin asked. “There's nothing to see except more reminders of how much more the city needs.”

“I just wanted to check out a couple of things I might have missed.”

“You've been here before?”

“In a way,” Garrison said, suddenly remembering the images on his computer screen that he wasn't suppose to have. “Sometimes going back through an old crime scene can reveal things you might have otherwise discarded.” He moved around the rubble and debris, being careful not to disturb the makeshift sleeping area.

“Chasing them out requires more manpower than I currently have.”

“We do what we have to do, Chief,” Garrison said while pointing to an area on the floor. “This is where Liddia was found.”

He walked around the floor, glancing first at the steps, then over to the former living area. “Frank had fallen asleep, and there was no sign of forced entry.”

“Everyone we could find was questioned, and no one had a clear
motive,” Chief Martin stated. “We ruled out robbery, drug hit, and crime of passion. There didn't appear to be a revenge angle, and former boyfriends, girlfriends, and passing acquaintances all had credible alibis. We concluded that the killer either had a key or the victims had left the door unlocked.”

“Unlocked seems unlikely, given the neighborhood,” Brock said.

“And the most likely people with a key, didn't have one,” Chief Martin replied.

“Is the sister, Lena, still around?”

“Yeah,” Chief Martin said. “Poverty has a way of immobilizing those with the best of intentions.”

Lena Moore's basement-level apartment offered little in the way of social advancement and reflected the hard-bitten life that plagued Wiltshire Commons. A more rounded version of her dead sister, her slumped shoulders and tired walk suggested that the slightest effort was a physical pain. She invited both visitors to sit, after she removed several toys from the couch.

Listlessly, she asked. “Any word on what happened to my sister, Chief Martin?”

“Nothing, so far, I'm afraid. Dr. Brock and I are going over the evidence once more just to see if we missed anything. Trying to give it a fresh look.” She paused. “How are you holding up?”

“I'll do. Baby Antonio is a handful, but we're getting along.”

“Where is he?”

Lena pointed. “Outside playing with Marion's boy.”

“Miss Moore,” Brock began. “I was just wondering if you could tell me something about Liddia that maybe you hadn't thought about since her death.”

She sighed. “I've been over this so many times. Liddia wasn't bad, just wild. She always did what she wanted to do and never thought about how someone else would feel. You know the kind of trouble she got into, Chief, and getting together with that no account Frank didn't help at all.”

“Did you two get along okay?” Brock asked.

“She was my sister. I loved her. I didn't always love what she did. I tried to help her as best I could. She was always running out of something or needing to borrow something. Her body was her paycheck and Frank was just one more person trying to make a deposit.”

The slight turning of the front door knob interrupted the flow of Lena's conversation as an energetic little boy, bounced his way into the room, oblivious to the guests sitting on the couch.

“Ma, I'm hungry,” he said.

“Honey,” she retorted. “Mind your manners and say ‘hello' to these people.”

Garrison stood up and extended his hand. “Hello, young man, my name is Garrison Brock. I'll bet you must be Antonio.”

Antonio nodded and shook Garrison's hand. It was a strong handshake from such a small person. Clearly present were the high cheekbones, brown eyes, and cinnamon complexion features that Lena had clearly passed on to him. He continued his introductions with Chief Martin and then returned to his earlier statement.

“I'll get you something in just a minute, honey. I'm talking with Mr. Brock and Chief Martin right now.”

“Don't give it a second thought, Miss Moore,” Brock quickly stated. “In fact Chief Martin and I will be leaving now.”

“We are?”

“Yes, we are, Chief. Thanks for your time, Miss Moore. We'll see our way out.”

Once they were seated and moving through traffic, Chief Martin asked. “You want to tell me what happened back there.”

“Nothing, I just realized we were wasting time. Besides, I don't enjoy opening old wounds. She has enough to think about and deal with, so why bring up bad memories?”

“Anybody else you want to question?”

“No, I think I have enough. I'll take what I have and combine it with other similar cases, and it should generate an interesting journal article.”

“I have a hunch there was more to this than just a journal article. But, with the hope that this time we spent working cooperatively will lead to
some kind of grant allocation. There are a lot of things I need here, Dr. Brock.”

Garrison smiled. “Cooperation duly noted, Chief Martin, I'll mail you a grant application.”

During the drive back to his restored three-level brick Tudor home in the old Ferry District of Detroit's east side, Garrison reflected on the events and whether or not he should have confided in Chief Martin. She clearly was a competent and overburdened colleague who could use a case closing, but in the end was it worth it?

Garrison had suspected Lena after picking up on the prolonged depression that seemed to carry on beyond the birth of Antonio. Her alibi for that night was plausible, though there was no concrete proof. She said she was home watching television, having turned in early because she was tired from a doctor's appointment. Liddia and Lena argued, but no more than the average sibling rivalry as noted by the investigating officer. She may have been probed further by the economic downturn that abruptly hit Wiltshire Commons, resulting in the layoff and termination of several city employees. It became an old case left hanging by an investigating officer who found employment as a senior investigator for a mid-size town in west Texas.

Lena had killed her sister. It was as clear as the growing birthmark on the right ring finger of Antonio Moore that Garrison noticed when he shook hands with the young five-year-old offspring of Frank Dempsey.

Boxer burrowed deeper under the covers, trying to ignore the growing and pressing need to pee. The sound of the wind bouncing frozen rain pellets off the windows telegraphed a certain reality: He'd freeze his ass off going to the bathroom. He'd worn just briefs and a T-shirt to bed, doubting the forecasters' prediction of a winter storm coming. It was still November, but the wind howled like it was January. He inhaled, flung back the covers, and hobbled to the chest of drawers. He grabbed a sweatshirt, sweat pants, and socks and scurried down the short hall to the bathroom, grateful he'd bought the pretty, fake Persian rug and runner on sale at that linen store last month. Not only did it make the bedroom feel warmer aesthetically, it meant not having to walk on bare hardwood floors.

He had the sweatshirt on by the time he got to the bathroom. He peed, then stepped into the sweat pants and pulled the socks on. He wasn't warm. But he wasn't shivering. On the way back to bed, he pulled another blanket from the closet and spread
it
out over the other blankets and down quilt covering his bed. He got the heating pad from the bedside table drawer where it waited, plugged in and ready to bring soothing warmth to any one of the many places on his fifty-six-year old body, which ached almost constantly. Now, however, he turned it on and shoved it under the
covers, down near his feet, and wondered how much longer he could last without turning on the heat. Wondered how much longer he could last without money.

“Don't worry, be happy,” he muttered, pulling the covers up to his ears.

He shot straight up, snatching himself out of the dream before it became a nightmare. They came just at dawn these days, which was better than at two or three the way they used to, and periodically was better than all the time. After thirty-some years, it finally was getting better. He swung his feet onto the floor and sat still for a moment to calm himself, then he got up, went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and headed for the kitchen. He turned on the oven and opened the door. At least he'd be warm while he drank his tea, ate his toast, and read the paper. Dry toast. He had eaten the last of the peanut butter yesterday, the last of the butter and marmalade the day before. “I like dry toast,” he said, talking to the cat, forgetting that the cat was gone. A fully endowed male, of course he was gone, and Boxer missed him. “But at least I don't have to worry about not being able to feed you, too.”

The phone rang, startling him. He looked at the clock on the stove: 7:15. He trudged through the living room, down the hall to his office. “Charles Gordon,” he said into the phone, and flinched when he heard, “Boxer Boy! How ya doin' ” yelled into his ear.

“You're up early, Kenny. You changing your stripes in your old age?” Boxer pulled out the desk chair and sat down.

“Not changing, Boxer, worrying. I need you. You got some time today?”

Boxer hesitated only briefly. “The sooner the better, Kenny. You know where I am.” He hung up the phone and leaned back in the chair, putting his feet on the desk. He'd have to get a rug for the office, too; the floor was freezing, even through the thick socks he wore.

He'd met Kenny Schuster in Vietnam, and because they were “home boys,” they'd connected, but he hadn't really liked him then, didn't like him now. Yet he had to acknowledge the man's positives: He kept in touch, he always was ready and willing to help, and he'd been there for Boxer at the worst times in his life: when his baby daughter died; when Sharon left him,
taking their son; when the police department retired him on disability. Kenny was there with the pat on the back, with the encouraging words, with the food he made Boxer eat to keep his strength up. Kenny had helped him move from his cabin in the woods to this apartment three months ago. So why didn't—couldn't—Boxer like the man?

“Because he's loud and he's a bully.”

Braggadocio was commonplace in Vietnam; perhaps in all wars. Men had to do something with the terror, and pretending that it didn't exist was as good a thing as any. But Kenny went further. He killed children and old people and raped women—young and old. He burned villages and rice fields and enjoyed the misery that brought to the people. Boxer thought that was wrong then, and he knew it was wrong now. He knew he could never forget the things Kenny had done any more than he could forget Vietnam. And what Kenny did in the present also bothered Boxer. Though he had no proof, he believed that Kenny was a dealer. One of his wives had thought so, too, and had once tried to use Boxer's cop connections to jam Kenny. He'd been reluctant to go along with that, finding it sneaky and underhanded. But if a man's wife suspected he was a drug dealer, then he probably was.

He shivered and got up, went to the hallway, and turned on the heat. It was one thing for him to freeze his balls off, quite another to freeze a guest. Even one that he didn't like. He shaved, showered, and dressed, then ran out and down the corner for a pint of half-and-half and a dozen doughnuts. Kenny liked doughnuts and coffee, and he'd done enough for Boxer that the least Boxer could do was spend a quarter of his last ten dollars on coffee and cream and chocolate-covered doughnuts. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and pulled the hood over his head. It still was spitting ice pellets.

“Damn good coffee, Boxer Boy,” Kenny said, draining his second cup and going for a refill. Boxer had made a whole pot, knowing that Kenny would drink it all.

“Comes with the training.”

“You still the only Black private eye in Buffalo?” Kenny said, biting into another doughnut.

“I still haven't taken a survey, Kenny, so I still don't know. What's got you so worried you're up and at 'em this time of morning?”

“Linda. I don't know where she is.”

Boxer didn't say anything, just studied the man across the table from him. Kenny Schuster weighed exactly what he'd weighed in Vietnam thirty-odd years ago, wore his hair the same way, though the blond was generously flecked with gray now, and lines crinkled at the corners of his mutable blue eyes. And he still was a pussy hound; Linda Stone was his third wife, a barely-thirty beauty who'd fallen for Kenny's charms and spotted the darkness and the wildness only later. She'd divorced him a year and a half ago. Kenny hadn't been happy about letting go.

“I didn't know you still kept tabs on her.”

Kenny's face reddened and clouded, then quickly cleared. “I'm not, Boxer Boy, I'm just trying to stay in good with the courts. See, I'm late with this month's alimony check, and I don't want her to report me, which she's done before. I wanted to let her know that I wasn't stiffing her, that I'm gonna pay her, just late, you know? And anyway, she doesn't need my money.”

Boxer heard the bitterness. “Maybe that's what's bothering you?”

“You know me pretty well, don't you?”

Boxer waited. He knew Kenny well enough to know how his bullshit sounded when it rolled off his tongue.

“OK, here's the deal: She's dating this guy from Rochester . . .”

“I'm not gonna spy on Linda and some guy from Rochester, Kenny, not even for you. I don't do that kind of thing.”

Kenny held up his palms defensively. “I know you don't. Boxer Boy! I'm not looking for you to spy. What I think is she's gone off with him, maybe even married him, and if that's the case, I'm off the hook for four bills a month.”

“And you've called her?”

“A bunch of times, and left messages. Sent her faxes and E-mails, even dropped her note in the mail asking her to get in touch. No response at all.”

“Over what period of time?”

“The last ten, twelve days. That's why I think she's gone, man. Flown the coop. Gone off to Rochester with her college professor.”

Boxer let that slide; he'd ask later how Kenny knew who Linda was dating and that the man was a professor from Rochester. “And you want me to do what, exactly?”

“Find her. And if she's gone, if she's married, get me proof so I can go to court and get out from under this weight.” Kenny got up to get another cup of coffee.

Boxer looked down at the legal pad on the table in front of him on which he'd written not a word. He pushed the pad and pen toward Kenny as he resumed his seat. “Write down her full name, address and phone number, place of employment, her parents' names and addresses, her date and place of birth, social security number . . .”

Kenny started writing while Boxer ate a doughnut and thought of more things he could ask for. “The names of a church or a gym if she belongs to one, the make and model of her car and the tag number if you know it, and I'll need a photograph if you've got one . . .”

“I know it. And I've got one.” He seemed to know everything Boxer had asked for. The pen sailed across the paper, then he grabbed an envelope that was sticking out of his shirt pocket and slid it across the table to Boxer. “That it?”

“For now,” Boxer said, opening the envelope to find an image of Linda Schuster staring back at him. “I can get started with this. Now, when exactly was the last time you saw Linda?”

Kenny shifted uneasily in his chair, and his eyes danced about, looking for a place to land that wasn't Boxer's face. “I haven't seen her to talk to in a while, maybe four or five months, I guess.”

“But you've seen her.” Boxer said, not making it a question.

Kenny nodded. “I drove by her place a couple of weeks ago. Saw her going in the building with . . . her professor.”

“Linda have any enemies you know about?”

“Yeah, me.”

“Other than you.”

“You know, Boxer, everybody liked that girl. And I do mean
everybody!
Perfect strangers would tell her their life stories. Her friends would make appointments to see her, just to spend time with her. And the guys! Including you! Hell, you didn't even like your own wife, and you liked Linda!”

Boxer pulled the legal pad over and looked at what Kenny had written, thinking that he hadn't known his wife's social security number or her
parents' address when he was married to her, to say nothing of a couple of years after the fact. And he
had
liked her. He stood up, paced a few steps, and ended up leaning against the refrigerator, still holding the pad. “You have any reason to believe anything's happened to Linda?”

Kenny's eyes got big. “Anything like what?”

“Nothing in particular, Kenny, just asking. I'll get started right away, and hopefully, three or four days, I'll have something to tell you.”

Kenny pushed back the chair and got up, reaching deep into his jeans pocket. He pulled out a roll of bills. “Two hundred a day plus expenses, right? This is a week's worth.”

Boxer couldn't answer for a second, then recovered himself. “I wasn't looking for money from you, Kenny.”

“I know it, and that's why I'm gonna pay you Boxer. After all, you
are
a private investigator, and finding people
is
what you do.”

“You've done me lots of favors. I owe you.”

“A favor is helping somebody move or lending him a sawbuck. I'm asking you to do your job, I should pay you.” He thrust the money at Boxer. “You gonna take this?”

Boxer took the money, hoping the relief and gratitude didn't do a tap dance all over his face. “Then lemme draw up a contract for you . . .”

“Get it ready, and I'll sign it when I see you again. I don't have time to wait right now. Got to get to work, whether I got to pay Linda or not.”

“What're you doing these days?”

“Short-haul trucking. Just in New York state. I leave today, drop off a load in Jamestown, go over to Albany tomorrow, pick up a load, bring it back here next day. Piece of cake,” he said with a wide grin, stalking out of the kitchen like a man relieved of a terrible burden and grabbing his jacket, which he'd hung on the antique coatrack in the living room. “The place looks good. Boxer. Real classy. Looks like you been here a few years instead of just a few months.”

“Yeah, it's beginning to feel like home,” Boxer acknowledged.

“But you still miss the old place?” And when Boxer nodded, he said, “Well that's why you rented it out instead of selling it, in case you ever want to go back there.”

Boxer nodded his head some more but he knew he'd never live in the
cabin again. He'd probably sell it come spring. God knew he needed the money. The rent on the place only covered the mortgage, the taxes and a fund for repairs, nothing left over for him, and his pension and what little he made as a PI barely covered his apartment rent and the alimony and child support he owed Sharon every month. And here comes Kenny Schuster with two thousand dollars. Loud, rude, boisterous Kenny Schuster had saved his ass again. Maybe he ought to try liking the guy. Kenny said something, but Boxer missed it and had to ask.

“I said you're looking pretty good, too. Been punching the bag, sparring?”

“Punching the bag couple of times a week, but not much sparring. Those young guys would kill me in the ring, Kenny, fast as they are and slow as I am. I'm old enough to be their granddaddy, some of 'em.”