Hot Flash (7 page)

Dulcey left at 2:00 a.m. An evening with Dulcey always made me feel like I had experienced a full body massage and was ready for whatever came at me.

The orange numbers glared 4:41 when I woke up, dry-mouthed and woozy. I rolled over like a roast on a rotisserie for an hour before I surrendered, clicked on the light, and recovered the file from the briefcase at my bedside and began reading.

The report noted that Nareece had little memory of the attack when she woke from being in a coma for two weeks. The coma was caused by a severe concussion. She told police she had been in her bedroom lying on her bed with earphones on, listening to music, when three men attacked her. No, two men. She was unsure. One punched her in the face. “
They were all over me. They kept punching me and tearing my clothes and punching me, and cutting me and spreading shit over me
.” The attackers had slashed her arms, legs, stomach, and face with a hunting knife.

I hugged the papers to my chest, fighting against the memory as my eyes filled with tears.

The vision forced me over the side of the bed with the dry heaves. The file contents nearly dumped out, but only a slip of notepaper escaped my grasp. I picked it up and almost slid it back in the file, but took notice instead.
FMJ 732-5697
. Who was
FMJ
?

The thought was interrupted by Travis's knock on the door before he opened it and stuck his head in, then rushed to my bedside.

“I'm out,” he said and kissed my forehead. “You good? You look like you seen a ghost.”

“Long night trying to solve crime is all,” I said.

He handed me a piece of paper. “Here's where we're holdin' up, and Ms. Nelson's cell number. See you Monday.” He danced to the door, singing, “Who you gonna call? Crime busters.”

“Get out of here, boy. Have fun and be careful.”

He stuck his head back in the door and said, “Yeah, yeah, I'll be very, very careful.” He e-nun-ci-a-ted the
very, very
part. I threw a pillow at the door he slammed shut.

Back to FMJ. Assuming it was a phone number, I pressed in the number with a 215 area code. It went right to a generic recording saying that the number was not available and to leave a message after the beep. I hung up without leaving one. Then I tried Laughton's number. No answer. His voice-mail recording said there was no room to leave a new message. I tried his home landline. After ten rings and no appeal to leave a message, I hung up.

I showered and put on clean khaki pants and a blue polo shirt—our lab uniform—and accessories, which included gun belt, handcuffs, and baton. The whole police outfit was unflattering, and with accessories added at least ten pounds to my already weight-sensitive parts. You would think hoisting around the extra weight would help melt away some poundage. Not happening.

I tried Laughton again before leaving the house.

Still no answer, so I decided to drive over to his place before going to the station. My first-ever visit to his place of residence.
Ahem.

Laughton lived in Old City on cobblestoned Church Street. Old City is a neighborhood of Center City bounded by Vine Street to the north and Walnut Street to the south. It is one of Philly's most popular nightlife destinations, with an artsy aura. His condo was the only one with a private entrance street side. His Audi Quattro manned the entrance. It took me leaning on the doorbell Dulcey-style and banging on the door Calvin-style, which brought neighbors to their windows spewing obscenities at me, before he answered.

Surprise lost, he droned, “I thought you were going to Boston.” He was shirtless and rumpled-looking, and he squinted to lessen the effect of sunlight in his eyes. “You shoulda called first,” he said, turning back into the town house. “If I'd known you were coming, I would've had Jemima clean the place.”

I shuddered down to my core at this new feeling between us. A wave of pain and sadness slid through my body, leaving goose bumps behind.

I stepped over the threshold, holding the wall to steady myself. When I got inside I hesitated, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, then closed the door and followed Laughton down a short hallway. It felt like ten o'clock at night in the apartment rather than the bright morning hour of 10 a.m. that it was. The hallway opened into a living space with high, beamed ceilings and dark wood floors, accented with muted-colored orientals. A giant Robert Freeman painting hung on one wall. To the left were a kitchen and a short hallway, which I guessed led to his bedroom.

I closed the door and followed him farther into the room, completely dark save for a sliver of sunlight through an open fold of the floor-to-ceiling drapes that covered two walls, as well as the light from the television. The room reeked of cigarettes accented by the morning after a party boozy smell. A cigarette burned in an ashtray on the coffee table. The smoke settled in the sliver of sunlight and swirled in the air like a fog. I could handle the smoke. I had smoked for thirty years myself before quitting two years ago. But the stench of old beer and stale butts that overflowed several ashtrays around the room permeated the air and challenged my breathing.

“What's going on, Laughton? Talk to me,” I said. I dropped the file on the table in front of him. “What about this? And why didn't you ever tell me you were once a married man?”

He ignored me for a few moments before saying, “You tell me. All these years we've been partners and you never mentioned you had a sister.” The words, laden with sarcasm, spilled from his mouth.

Guilt and betrayal blew through me. “You never asked. I had no reason to mention it.” My voice intensified. “Why do you have this file?”

His face looked ashen in the glow from the television. I followed his gaze.

“Laughton!” I yelled in frustration.

The words I was about to say lodged in the back of my throat. On the television, Jesse Boone stood on the stairs of the Criminal Justice Center, reporters' microphones shoved in his face. Laughton reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

“I been telling you all I was innocent. They had to let me go,” Boone said, laughing as he pushed his way through the hungry reporters who heaped questions on his back, until he escaped into the backseat of a black Range Rover and was driven away.

C
HAPTER
6

I
sped down I-95 cursing and pounding the steering wheel throughout the twenty-minute drive to the station. When I arrived, I blew past Parker and another of his stupid remarks, something about me looking like Cruella de Vil. I destroyed the hinges and almost shattered the glass window on Captain Butler's office door, causing it to bang into the wall and bounce back to slam shut behind me.

“How'd this happen, Cap?” My voice squeaked.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Mabley? Knocking is out of the question now?”

I fell into the chair in front of Cap's desk and rested my forehead in my palms to stave off a throbbing headache.

“Look, Mabley. It's out of our hands.”

I sat up and snapped, “What the hell does that mean, ‘it's out of our hands'?”

Laughton stormed in a moment later. He sat down in the chair next to mine. I resumed my position trying to lessen the pain of my headache.

The creaking of both Cap's and Laughton's chairs and the silence between them made me look up again. Laughton got up and leaned over the captain's desk, his fists balled on the desktop as anchors for his taut arms. They glared at each other like boys crazed with proving whose testosterone level was mightier.

The captain said, “Bastard's skippin' on some technicality, or at least that's what they're saying went down. Something about prosecutors let too much time pass between arresting him and taking him to trial. He's got one shrewd attorney. Got a call in to Bandizzi, the lead on the case. Don't expect things will change. But for now, Boone's a free man. Fact is, he may stay a free man. Word is they may have to drop the charges altogether, including assault. Then we're back to square one.”

There was more silence while the staring duel continued.

“Okay, so what am I missing? I definitely get the feeling there is something more to this episode than I'm privy to. Cap?” My stomach growled loud enough to disturb the dander contaminating the air. “Laughton?”

“Damn,” Laughton said, pounding his fist on the desktop, then he stormed out. When the door slammed shut, a photograph of Cap's wife and two daughters that hung on a side wall crashed to the floor. I resumed the headache position.

“I'm sorry, Mabley,” Cap said. “You did your job. No fault of yours. Take a few days. You got plenty on the books. Laughton can handle the lead on the Taylor business.”

I lifted my head and sat straight up in the chair. “That's it? That's all you're going to tell me to take a few days off?”

“That's all there is to tell you.”

“I'm no damn victim,” I squealed. “God knows I know the drill. ‘Don't worry, we'll get the guy,'” I mimicked Cap's baritone voice. “I've said it at least a thousand times to victims. But how do you tell the parents that their daughter's killer is free because the police messed up?”

“Not your call, that's Homicide's job.” He got up and came around to sit on the desk facing me. “Are you okay?”

I hung on to his question. “This whole thing doesn't feel right. Boone's killed at least four people that we're sure of, but we can't seem to prove it and he's out there, fancy-free. A technicality, my ass.”

“They'll get him.”

“There's something about this guy, Cap. He's so sure of himself. Cocky, even.”

“Why'd he call you that night? Or was it just that you were the one who answered the call?” He hesitated, then continued. “You know you need to be clear on what happened that night and how you ended up at Boone's house without backup.”

“Yeah, I know. Internal Affairs contacted me.”

“Not much to worry about right now anyway, with the case against him dropped for the moment.”

“Doesn't feel right, Cap. He's guilty and we know he's guilty of way more than we had him on. Someone's giving the man a hand up. Laughton's right, it has to be someone in the department. Why doesn't anyone else in the department get that?”

The captain shifted his weight so his right leg was the anchor and his left knee dangled and crammed my personal space. I leaned back in the chair and sighed.

“What else is on your mind, Muriel?”

My intention was to tell Cap about the letter after I knew what was in it and then only if it was warranted, but then I considered he might have some good insight. At the very least I wanted to catch his reaction. “Cap, Reecey got a letter addressed to Carmella Ann Mabley.”

Cap is a five-foot-eight Irish-Catholic, with red hair and a red complexion from all the freckles fighting for space on his face. Now the color drained from Cap's face; it almost reached transparency, his freckles seemingly floating unattached.

In a hushed tone, he asked, “What'd it say?”

I masked my alarm at his reaction by getting up to leave, not sure why I felt the need to pretend. Reece was living because of Cap. He'd helped me get her out of Philly after her attack, and into an unofficial version of the witness protection program.

“She won't open it without me. I'm driving down this weekend.”

He shifted his weight again so his left leg was now the anchor, and cleared his throat. “I'm sure it's nothing. After twenty years, it has to be nothing,” he said. Cap got up and went back to sit in his chair. “She's been doing real well for herself. Husband, two kids, big house. Her husband . . . what's his name, James? John? What's he do for a living anyway?”

“His name is John. I can never get a straight answer, or I'm too much of a flat foot to understand exactly.” It was a lame attempt at humor that got my lone chuckle. “He does something with computers, technology. As long as he's taking good care of Reecey and those babies, and it's legal . . .” I shrugged my shoulders.

“When you find out what's in the letter, call me. Let me know what's going on.” Cap flipped open a folder and picked up his phone, my cue to leave.

Laughton was gone when I came out of Cap's office. He was good at that lately, disappearing. I sat at my cubicle and sighed at the array of cases assigned to me that covered my desktop.

Bullets from an automatic handgun used in a drive-by in Germantown that left an eight-year-old girl paralyzed, bullets from a .38 that killed two teens outside of a graduation party in North Philly, bullets and a .22 from a shooting in a Nicetown bar by a patron who had been kicked out because he wouldn't stop smoking. Nicetown is a not-so-nice neighborhood in North Philly. The smoker, James Waller, came back and opened fire. He was the only shooter who had been caught, and a trial date was set for September 26. I had time. The bullets that killed two men and injured four others definitely came from Waller's gun, but nothing is ever that pat. Shooters got off despite the certainty of the testimony our unit provided, and oftentimes they killed again before justice finally reigned. I spent a few hours organizing the contents on my desk, then clicked off my desk lamp and left.

I landed a flurry of kicks into the punching bag and countered with several punches, back kicks, then more punches, unable to stop the pounding in my head. The face of my unmoved opponent flashed the maniacal grin of Jesse Boone. It remained undeterred by more punches and kicks until I fell into the bag, taken down by the force of my own punch that grazed the side of the bag and pulled me forward.

“You are defeating yourself with no focus.” It was Kim. He surprised me. He hadn't been home when I entered using the key he'd given me.

“Yes, I'm doing a fine job at defeating myself lately,” I agreed.

“Focus,” Kim commanded.

“Too much going on to focus on this freakin' bag, Mr. Kim.”

“If you focus on what you are doing, the rest will come.”

Kim squatted on the sidelines and nodded for me to continue. Thirty minutes later, sweaty and sucking air, I hugged the bag for support, expecting another “Focus” from Kim, but he was gone. When I left, he was nowhere in the house, or at least he didn't answer my call.

There was a voice mail from Calvin when I got home. I called back.

“Ms. Mabley. Good to hear your sweet voice,” he said.

“I'm sorry I've been AWOL lately. Work is consuming me as usual.”

“I can help soothe that if you'll allow me to dazzle you with dinner at Bistrot La Minette, French wine, soft music, kneading of your most tender spots.”

I laughed at his attempt to pronounce the restaurant name with a French accent. I'd never been to La Minette, as it was way out of my league. I told Calvin I would be ready in an hour. I showered and went the distance to make the mess on my head presentable. I already knew what I would wear—a Red Valentino, a black slinky number I had scooped up on sale at Banje's last year, along with black velvet pumps to match. I had agreed to a blind date orchestrated by Travis's friend's mother's sister, whom I barely knew. I know, sounds desperate. Rather it was just me trying to accommodate my son and everyone else in my world. Maybe a little part of me was hopeful. Anyway, the dress was the bomb; the blind date needed bombing.

Calvin came with corsage in hand and thugged out, wearing a black shirt against a black two-button vested suit with peak lapels and accented with a lavender tie. The presentation was a little overstated for my taste, but there was that charisma thing going on that gave me a hard-on, and the gentleman thing, and the “I'm the queen for the evening” thing, and the “I'm the most beautiful and sexiest woman on the planet” thing. All of which was slathered on, none overstated.

He held the door to a late-model silver Porsche 911, black interior with red trim. Nice. Midlife-crisis car, no doubt. Calvin's other car was an older Mercedes S430, white with black interior. Not too shabby by any means.

He closed the door and scooted around to the driver's side.

“Nice,” I said when we pulled away from the curb.

“Just a little something I picked up for special occasions.”

“Special occasions, huh.” We chuckled.

“Tell me again what you do.”

“That would take a while, when I'd much rather talk about you, what you do, and what I would like to do to you and with you.”

“Really, Calvin. It's been what, three months? And all I know about you is that you own the club and you can sing. Oh yeah, you live over the club, you've never been married—or so you say—and you don't have any children. You're a Philly boy by way of Alabama and . . .”

“I'd say you know quite a bit.”

“Sooner or later you're going to have to spill it. All of it.”

“So be it,” he whispered. He reached over and took my hand, kissed it, and held it next to his chest while he drove the rest of the way to the restaurant and Etta James crooned from the car stereo how she'd rather be a blind girl than watch her man leave.

When we arrived at the restaurant, everyone, from the parking attendant to the hostess and the wait staff, lionized Calvin, and since I was on his arm, me too. I won't say I did not get caught up in the attention from the get-go. It was mesmerizing. I was spellbound—until the first time my phone buzzed.

It was Nareece.

We nibbled on the appetizer of escargot with butter, garlic and parsley and made goo-goo eyes at each other like a scene from a sweet-sixteen-and-never-been-kissed movie. No direction needed. By the sixth Nareece disturbance, I was sufficiently stupefied and needed a break to shake off the trance anyway. After one heavenly bite of the entrée, poulet—French for chicken—with aligot potatoes, I excused myself and went to the ladies' room to take the call.

Before I could say a word, Nareece pounced. “What happened? Where are you?” She was teetering on hysterical, her voice piercing my ear.

“Is everything all right?”

“No. Everything is not all right. I'm scared, Muriel. I'm scared for my life and my family's life. Why aren't you here? I need you here so we can open the envelope and fix things.”

“Nareece, did something happen? What do you mean, you're scared for your life? Did someone threaten you?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then what are you talking about? You just sent my blood pressure through the roof.” I struggled to keep my voice in check. “You're taking this thing to someplace it doesn't need to be. We don't even know what's in the envelope. It could be somebody playing some kind of a joke.”

“Yeah, right.” She snorted with sarcastic laughter. “Who the hell do you know that can make that kind of joke or even knows that much about me to make that kind of joke? Who?”

For a moment I listened to the hollowness of her heavy, fast breathing in the phone.