Color of Justice (7 page)

Just as quickly, Erik was back to business. “Those people, the Longs,” he said. “They suspect something, but I don't think they even know what it is.”

“Yeah, I got that,” said Danny. “But it could be they're just two scared-ass people. I'm sure this kind of thing don't happen a lot in their lives. I just wonder what kind of person did it.”

“What kind?” Erik sounded curious.

“Well, the Bakers had money, so let's say someone hired a man to kill them. Your average killer for hire comes in two basic types. The lowlife muthafucka who'll whack you over the head for a high, and the pro who'll cap your ass with a silenced pistol, then make it look like a burglary.
Our murderer was neither. He was angry, but he was also clean and planned out. Maybe he's crazy, but he's not a fool.”

“And what about this alleged ho Mr. Baker was seeing?” asked Erik.

“Shouldn't be hard to find her, although the name Xena is obviously fake. All the girls use them.”

“You seem to know a lot of hos, my brother,” said Erik with a smile.

“I know a few, professional and not.” Danny laughed.

“I got a boy in Vice,” said Erik. “I'll get him on it. Shoot, he knows every hooker from here to Argentina.”

They drove out of Grosse Pointe back into Detroit via Jefferson Avenue. As the brightness of the suburb gave way to Detroit, Danny could feel the hardness of the city slowly creep back into him, filling him up.

Fiona sipped coffee from an enormous mug while she stood over the Bakers' dead bodies. Forensic science was fascinating, but it was complicated. Danny had learned that to think like a forensic cop, you had to think of a world you could not see, a place where every molecule told a story. He didn't know what the hell that meant exactly, but he knew Fiona was good at her job and he trusted her.

Fiona's lab was one of those white, sterile rooms where you had to wear latex gloves and paper on your shoes. It was cold as hell, and Danny got a chill every time he came here. The place was creepy, filled with bloody solutions and dead bodies. Not the kind of place for a street cop.

And what was worse, the room reminded Danny that his mother's body had been in one of these rooms not long ago, on a slab being examined by a doctor. He'd tried to stop the procedure, but it was routine in such cases. It was ruled death by accident.

“Well, I thought this was going to be some boring shit, but I was wrong,” said Fiona as she put down her mug and grabbed a clipboard. “Our boy is a sadistic bastard and very smart.”

Danny looked at Fiona with her all-white skin, wearing a white lab coat against the white walls of the room. If he blinked hard enough, he'd lose her in the whiteness.

“Give me the sadistic part first,” said Danny.

“He knocked them out with chloroform. Since the wounds show that the victims moved, the asshole waited for them to wake up. Then he shot them with a .22. Only like a million of those in the city, right? And we got slugs, but they've been doctored. Check this shit out.”

Fiona grabbed a pan. About seven lead slugs rolled inside. She put one under a projector and an image jumped onto a screen.

“What in the fuck is that?” asked Erik.

“That's what killed your victims,” said Fiona.

“That ain't no ordinary bullet,” said Danny. “It looks like a jagged rock.”

The picture on the screen showed a dark shape with peaks and valleys cut into it.

“Yes,” said Fiona. “Our killer filed the tips of the little bullets, so they would be sharp and jagged after they fired. That way, after the bullet entered the body, it would hurt you three times. Once when it went in, again as it tore through tissue and organs, then the third time when you moved—it would move and do even more damage.”

Fiona took another swig of coffee and Danny
wondered how long it had taken her to be able to consume food around dead people. She put down her mug, and Danny noticed the faded picture of a ballerina on it. He remembered that Fiona had trained as a dancer in her younger days.

“The male victim was shot four times—in the heart, liver, and spleen areas,” she continued. “Our killer knew that these areas would do the most damage. The body filled up with bile, blood, and other fluids and he drowned in them.”

“But it would take time, right?” asked Danny. “How much time?”

“Depends on the person, the shot, and other factors,” said Fiona. “I'd guess it took them a half hour or so before they were pretty much goners. Now, the woman was shot in the same manner, but one of the slugs is still in her. It impacted some bone.”

“Okay, so what else did our boy leave at the crime scene?” asked Danny.

“Not much,” said Fiona. “We found some fibers that didn't match anything in the bedroom, but they are so common, they could belong to anyone. We found powder residue used in the making of surgical gloves, so we know why there were no fingerprints at the scene.”

“Hair, skin, blood?” asked Danny. Even he could hear the desperation in his voice.

“
Nada
,” said Fiona. “That's the smart part. Our boy is no dummy. He knows enough about forensics that he was not going to get sloppy.” Fiona smiled at them. “Fellas, you got yourself a goddamned dilly of a murderer.”

“How many sweeps did you do of the house?” asked Erik.

“Two,” said Fiona.

“Do another one,” said Erik.

“Okay, but we won't find anything,” Fiona said. “I've seen a lot of sick bastards in this town, and I'm telling you, this guy's gonna be on my top ten. You know, these stiffs, the Bakers, had one helluva bad week. We found dog hairs in the house, but no dog, right? Turns out their dog died.”

“How?” asked Danny.

“I know what you thinking,” said Fiona. “It wasn't shot. We found the records from a vet. The mutt died of old age.”

Fiona finished up her report then Danny and Erik left. Danny felt his body warm as soon as he stepped into the hallway. Erik looked pissed about something. He walked along, his steps falling a little harder than normal.

“What's up?” asked Danny.

“I had some downtime coming,” he said. “But now it's not gonna happen.”

“Probably not. The boss will want us on this full time.”

“Marsha and me were going to Mackinaw. Boating, fishing, fucking. I had it all planned,” said Erik.

“If it's that important, we can ask Jim to let you off,” said Danny.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you? Solve this case by yourself and get a promotion?”

“Did I say that?”

“No, but you were thinking it,” said Erik. “I know you.”

“Then you know I was just trying to be nice. I don't want your ass to go anywhere while this guy's out there. There ain't nobody in the squad who can cover my back the way I work.”

They walked out of the forensic area not saying another word. Danny was sure that Erik was thinking about how he was going to tell his wife that she'd be stuck in Detroit for the rest of the spring. Danny was thinking that if the killer had a plan, it was mysterious and so elaborate that he'd invented a unique and terrible new way to kill.

The Locke watched the abandoned house as the last of the men went inside. He was one street over looking through the vacant lot. The weeds had grown big, so he had to look over them to see, but there was no doubt that these were the men he wanted.

They had no idea what Detroit was about or they would have left town right after they'd robbed his store. Perhaps they were as crazy as he'd heard. His street sources told him that the three brothers were from out of town, from the South somewhere. When he was done today, they'd wish they had stayed there.

The Locke, as he was called, waited until the men had been inside the little dilapidated home for a few minutes; let them settle in. When he was sure it was time, he signaled his men to get ready.

In the back of the SUV, Dapp, a muscular black who sported a gold stud in the side of his flat nose, and Grease, a kid with a bald head and a Tigers
cap pulled down tightly over his brow, took out their guns and checked them.

Desandias Locke was that rarest of criminals, the successful one. When he was just a kid, the Locke was double promoted in grade school, after his distraction in class was found not to be a learning disorder, but boredom. He had dazzled the teachers with his mastery of math and science and his remarkable memory. In junior high, he had skipped another grade as he exceeded his teachers' already high expectations. He'd graduated from Northern High School at fifteen.

He should have gone on to college then some good job somewhere, escaping the nightmare of the ghetto. But the long arm of the hood was longer than anyone knew. The Locke's parents were both alcoholics. Codependent and hopeless, they took little interest in their brilliant boy and so when the Locke started running numbers for a man named HiLo, all they cared about was how much money the boy was going to make.

The Locke took the job and excelled. He “kept book” as they called it, for HiLo, mentally marking all monies owed and owing. HiLo loved this because there were no written records to use against him if the cops caught on. But the Locke was more than just this one useful function. He thought up new ways to make money for his boss. The Locke invented a game that was tied to the sum of all the points scored by Detroit's professional teams in one day, another was a card game that traveled in a small mobile camper. He was so
good that when HiLo was killed by his girlfriend the Locke took over the game at the ripe old age of eighteen without so much as a ripple in the transition.

The numbers game got old after the lottery caught on big, so the Locke moved into drug trafficking. The money was great, and he'd set up middle men, mostly juveniles, to do the dirty work. He never got so much as arrested.

When the Union drug wars started, the Locke got out of narcotics. The organization of all the independent drug groups was a violent undertaking that closed off the avenues for profit. Either you joined, or they killed you. Locke saw this as a sign to move on. He got into all manner of nonviolent sin. If it was stolen, he had it, if you wanted sex, he could arrange it, and if you wanted to bet on anything, he was your man.

The Locke made peace with the drug dealers and hired enforcers to keep the random criminals away from his deals and businesses. He kept several small legitimate enterprises and paid taxes, so the IRS would look the other way. He greased the palms of the local community activists so they'd do the same.

The Locke loved “the life,” as they call it, so he always kept close to the action, financing a buy, setting up a pyramid scam or a robbery. Lately, he was doing a lot of auto arson. He'd torch a car for the insurance. With a burned-up car, you could inflate the value. He took 10 percent of the nut. Good money and no one ever resisted because
everyone hated insurance companies. The Locke even sold information to the cops if it was safe to do so. He liked the ladies and ran a few girls, taking a modest cut of the earnings. They were a pain in the ass, but he got to sample the girls for free.

The Locke was a big man. He was only five nine or so, but he weighed in at almost three hundred pounds. He had a large, roundish head covered with thick hair that he never combed. His eyes were deep-set and seemed to be tiny circles of brown in the fleshy folds of his face.

So the Locke maintained a lifestyle devoid of criminal stench. To the public, he was a man with a small party store and a gas station. Things were good, that is, until someone robbed his store and killed two of his men. They had come into the store and robbed it, making sure to take the surveillance video. Only serious, hard-ass pros did that. But the video theft didn't stop him from finding out who they were. The Locke had many street connections, and so he quickly discovered who the killers were. The three brothers were from out of town. They were young, ruthless, and were described as crazy more than once.

The Locke had withheld this information from the cops when they came to investigate the murders. He wanted these men. No one on the street could think that he would not avenge a thing like this. The clerk was a friend of the Locke and also one of the best forgers in the business, a valuable asset gone.

The Locke popped some M&M's into his mouth
as he checked on his hitters. “Y'all ready?” he asked.

“We up,” said Dapp.

“Hit 'em hard,” said the Locke. “If they got any of my money, get it back.”

Dapp and Grease opened the door to the SUV and rushed toward the house. The Locke turned on the engine and watched. He had faith in his men, but if there was any sign of trouble, he'd get his ass out of there in a hurry. He watched as Grease and Dapp disappeared. He was excited. Sometimes, he did miss the violence.

 

Muhammad Bady casually read a newspaper account of the hit on the party store. He was never a good reader and struggled with the long sentences. He also liked to read in front of his brothers because they never read and it made Muhammad feel like a father to them, the man who had all the answers.

The news account of the robbery was the usual shit, “unknown robbers,” “no witnesses,” and the like. But the thing that bothered him was that the owner of the store's name was not used and he wasn't quoted as saying anything. They'd done more than their share of robberies, and if there was a story, the owner always said something, usually how the world was going to hell in a handbasket. But this owner was silent, almost as if he didn't want anybody to know he owned the joint. That bothered him a little, though he didn't know why.

The house they were in had been recently occupied by a crew of drug dealers who'd been taken down by the cops. They'd boarded up the place, but that was easily remedied. Muhammad also knew the utilities would be easy to turn back on.

Detroit was a wonderful place for them to end up. There were many abandoned houses in forgotten neighborhoods that could be easily lived in with little work. And the people in the hood were nice and stayed out of your business. The brothers took advantage of this as they always needed cheap living space, and free was as cheap as you could get.

The place was still very cluttered, but that didn't bother the brothers. They didn't plan to be there very long. Muhammad had tips on where to find their missing father.

Rimba was still nursing his cold and was sprawled out on an old sofa in a corner. He had his headphones on and he muttered a rap by Nelly.

Muhammad made sure his brother took it easy. Rimba was an energetic person who'd only make the sickness worse by his natural tendency to run around. And if he wasn't careful, Rimba would give the cold to Akema, then they'd both be sick. They did need looking after, he thought.

Suddenly, there was a loud pounding sound from above them. Akema bounded down the stairs, jumping down the last two.

“Men comin',” said Akema. “One in the front, one sneaking round the back way. They got guns.”

Muhammad cursed then pulled out a gun and
yelled to Rimba, who ripped himself from his slumber and grabbed his coat off the floor. Out of the inside pocket, he took a big knife.

“Go to the back,” said Muhammad. Akema and Rimba rushed to the rear of the house. Akema pulled out a small pistol and waited by the door.

 

Dapp kicked in the flimsy front door and raised his gun. He saw no one in the room. He entered slowly, waiting for any sound or movement. He moved out of the living room toward the small den to the right of the front door. Quickly, Dapp approached a closet whose door was ajar, flinging it open, pointing the gun inside. He fired a shot inside the darkness, but soon saw that the closet was empty.

From across the room, Muhammad rose from behind the old sofa and fired a shot at the man facing the empty closet. The shot caught him in the back of the head. Dapp flew forward, disappearing into the closet. Muhammad kept firing into the closet as he walked across the room.

In the rear of the house, Grease heard the shots and kicked open the back door. It was sturdier than the one in front and he had to kick it twice before it flew open. He started firing as soon as the door was open. He saw the two people in front of him for only a second before the big knife hit him in the throat. He jerked from the impact and fired off a round. He was shocked at the speed of the attack. His mouth popped open as he tried to make a sound, but none came out.

Akema's shot flew right into Grease's open mouth and out of the back of his head. Grease's errant shot just missed Akema's left arm. Both attacks had come right on the heels of one another. Grease faintly heard his gun fire, and saw the blurry images of his killers as he fell on the dirty floor, dead.

A moment later, Muhammad walked in holding his gun and the one he'd taken off Dapp's dead body. He moved over to a window and looked out. A street over, through a lot, he saw a white Cadillac Escalade parked on the street. Exhaust came out of the tailpipe, signaling that the engine was running. The vehicle was much too nice to be in a place like this, thought Muhammad. The windows were darkly tinted and he could not see who was in the driver's seat.

Muhammad went out of the back door so the driver could see him and know that his men had failed. The Cadillac quickly sped away, burning rubber. Muhammad frowned as the SUV rolled off. He walked back inside.

“We got us an enemy,” said Muhammad.

“Who?” asked Rimba.

“Probably the man whose store that was,” said Muhammad. He now knew why the owner hadn't wanted his name used and made no comment. He was a player, a criminal, and he wanted revenge. “Akema, put your hat back on,” he said with a little anger.

Akema's hat had fallen off, and with it gone you could see what the hat was designed to hide.
Akema was a girl. The baby face she tried so hard to make look tough was now clearly the face of an adolescent girl. Akema stuffed her hair back under the hat, feeling embarrassed. Her brothers didn't like to think of her as a girl. Years of abuse in the foster care system had turned Akema away from her God-given sexuality and into the one she felt gave her the most security. She was neither female or male. She was tough and that was what it took to be left alone.

“Get all your shit,” said Muhammad. “We got to go.”

The Badys gathered their meager belongings and started to vacate the house. They would leave their car and steal another. Muhammad was too smart to keep using the same car now that they had a formidable enemy. This was not good, he thought. They had business and this enemy would be a distraction. But all it meant to Muhammad was that they had to get down to business of finding their father that much quicker.

Muhammad instructed his brothers to pull the bodies together in one room. They did, dragging them into the center of the floor. Then Muhammad picked up their belongings, started a fire, and left as the house burned to the ground.