Imperfect Contract (18 page)

27

I hoisted her good-sized suitcase into the trunk of my car.  Van had jam-packed it and stashed it in the closet, awaiting her chance to pass it off to me without attracting attention. 

As I drove north on Nob Hill Road, Vanessa's plight stuck in my mind.  There was nothing I could do to help her, not yet.  She needed to help herself first. 

I decided to stop by the police department and see if Ray was around.  I was anxious to update him on Vanessa, and I wanted to tell him he could sleep in his own apartment.  Security was under control at my house. 

When I climbed out of my Cooper in the police station parking lot, I glanced down and remembered my bare midriff and legs.  There would be a price to pay for strolling in with my belly button ring visible.  Remembering the suitcase crammed into the small trunk, I decided to help myself.  I'd only wear something of hers for a few minutes, then launder it if necessary.

Vanessa had filled the bag and had, no doubt, sat on it to secure closure.  As was typical of Vanessa, she folded and sorted everything.  She planned to live out of it for a while, if necessary.  I lifted a stack of blouses, looking for something that would fit my shorter body and go well with my outfit, and noticed a red summer weight knit sweater near the bottom.  I lifted out the stack of blouses a few items at a time. 

When I reached the one I wanted, I discovered an envelope of pictures nestled between the folds.  Had she hidden them?  I resisted the urge to peak inside and instead tucked the envelope behind the lingerie pocket.

The too-long sweater hid my belly and coordinated well over my other top.  Good, I thought, at least I looked a smidge more professional.

Ray hung up the telephone and smiled when I approached his desk.  "Sophi, I just tried to call you.  You must be clairvoyant."

"I dropped by to talk to you about a couple of things."

"Good."  He stood behind his desk.  "You'll have to wait a bit.  We hauled in the thugs we think gunned down Hutchinson.  I'd like you to have a look at them and tell me if they are the same ones who came to the hospital with Jamel Hutchinson."

"Okay."  I said, following him across the room and through the hall to the interview rooms.

"Lewis is questioning them now."  Rays said, pointing to the door.  "You can watch from the observation room next door.

Deglin Lewis, a huge African-American detective, was a real pussycat under his huff and puff.  He and Ray were doing the interrogation as a team.  Ray opened the door to the observation room and ushered me in.

"Stay here.  Lewis will join you in a minute."  Ray left.

If they were doing good cop-bad cop, Lewis wasn't the bad cop.  I found that a trifle unsettling.  Ray was kind and gentle when around me, yet I believed him capable of rising to any task necessary to his job.  I'd seen him in action a few times during my time on the force and on several occasions over the ensuing years.  I'd comforted myself with knowing, believing at least, he stayed within the limits of the law.

Lewis settled into the chair next to mine. 

I studied the face of the young man while I listened to the interrogation.  "Deglin," I whispered, "he's definitely not one of the boys Jamel brought with him to the hospital.  He's," I pointed, shaking my head, "much tougher looking.  Jamel's friends look like him, young men stuck in adolescence."

Lewis nodded and whispered, "I thought so."

We sat and watched the drama. 

"You said there were two.  Where's the other one?" I said.

"He's in another room waiting on me, actually.  He can wait.  It'll do him good."

We saw the entire interrogation room through the two-way mirror.  It gave me the feeling of watching a gloomy program on a big screen television.  The suspect appeared to be in his early twenties and sported ratty dreadlocks hanging over the neckline of his too small, black muscle shirt.  A blob of a tattoo smudged his bulging bicep, the details indistinguishable against his dark brown skin.

The light-blue painted walls were unrelieved by pictures or windows, and dark-blue, egg crate foam covered one wall.  The muddy-colored rubberized floor tile did nothing to improve the overall effect.  A closed blind on the outside covered the small window in the door.  I supposed Ray's other prisoner sat alone in a similar room contemplating his fate.

Ray paced the room while the man sat on a bolted-down, straight-backed chair.  The table was free of clutter, except a small, tin ashtray.  The ashtray was clean.  A second chair sat askew near the end of the table closest to the door.

"Okay, my friend," Ray said in a pleasant tone of voice, "I'll see what I can do about taking you to the john.  Let's talk some more first."

"Man, I'm gonna piss on the floor."

"I wouldn't do that, Jones.  No, I'd have to ask you to clean it up.  What would you use?  Your shirt, being as how your pants would already be wet."

Jones squirmed in his chair.  Despite his appearance, I don't think he felt very tough.

"Now, as I was saying, we were told you did the hit on Hutchinson."

"Who said?  It's a lie.  That be what it is."  The young man tugged at the shoulders of his shirt, as if trying to cover the bulging muscles.

"We've got reliable sources.  In fact, when I talked to my partner a few minutes ago, he advised me your friend confessed.  Said you'd been paid pretty well for the job, too."

"That muther.  He be throwed off.  I'll kick his ass."  He fidgeted in his chair.  "Man, I gotta piss somethin' bad."

"Okay, dude, just give me the word, and I'll take you to the john."  Ray pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped one into his hand.

I leaned close to Lewis, "I thought Ray quit smoking."

"He did, years ago.  The only time he smokes is when his suspect wants a cigarette.  Then he'll chain smoke if necessary." 

Ray smiled, more a sneer than a smile.  Ray was capable of subtle psychological control over a subject.

"Man," Jones said, "if you won't let me piss, give me a smoke, man."

"Oh, no, I don't think so."  Ray lit the cigarette and blew smoke, acting as if he enjoyed it.  He laid the pack of matches on the table near his chair, then resumed pacing the small room.  He smoked at least half of the cigarette without saying a word.  We watched in silence.  He stubbed it out, leaving the remainder of the cigarette intact.  He rubbed his hands through his hair, then lowered his body onto the chair.  "Listen," he said, his tone soothing, "the sooner you give me some information, the sooner I can let you have a cigarette, and the sooner I'll be able to take you to the men's room."

Jones didn't say anything.  He stared at the cigarette in the ashtray.

Ray picked up the ashtray and matches and stood.  "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Man," Jones said, "please, let me at least go to the john."

"Okay, since you said please."  Ray opened the door and stepped back into the room.  Ray released the kid's handcuffs so he could stand, then reapplied them.

"Thank you, man, thank you."  Jones nodded and bowed as if taking him to the john was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Ray escorted the suspect into the interrogation room about five minutes later.  He told him to sit.  "I'll be back in a minute."  He didn't take the ashtray with the long cigarette, and he didn't bother to remove the handcuffs and secure Jones to the ring on the table frame.  He pocketed the matches and left the room.  A minute later the door to the observation room opened, and Ray appeared. 

"Looks like we'll be at it awhile," Lewis said.

"I don't know," Ray said.  "He's softening.  He really needs a cigarette." 

"You should have seen the look on his face when you picked up the matches."

"Okay, maybe I'll have another smoke and a soda.  I haven't given him anything to drink, and he's been here for a few hours.  He was eyeing the water fountain when we were in the hall."  Ray looked at me.  "Sophi, you recognize this guy?"

"No.  I haven't seen the other one yet either."

"That room doesn't have a two-way," Ray said.

"Let her look in through the door," Lewis said.

"I don't want them to see her."  Ray glared at Lewis.  "Tell you what, let's switch rooms.  You get O'Ryan and pretend to take him to his cell.  Cashous Jones here will be even more convinced he talked."

I stayed in the observation room and watched the switch through the half-drawn window blinds.  It worked to perfection.  Jones glared at the back of O'Ryan's head as Lewis led him around the corner and away from the interrogation rooms.  A few minutes later, Ray escorted Michael O'Ryan into the room. 

O'Ryan, a wiry, small-framed man with light-mocha skin, had reddish-brown dreadlocks hanging below his shoulders.  He wore thrift store specials, though I guess he thought his attire stylish.  I'll never forget his eyes, shifty and piercing at the same time.  They darted around the room, never resting on Ray's face, but never leaving it for more than a second either.

"I told you," O'Ryan said in an even voice, "I refuse to talk to you until I have a lawyer."

"I'm not asking you any questions.  We're waiting for your lawyer."  Ray left the room and came next door.

"We can't talk to him further," Lewis said.

"I see that.  Is he getting a public defender?" I asked.

"Yup.  Should be here any time.  The PD will tell him not to talk and that will be that," Ray said.

"How about the other guy?" I said.

Ray bit his lip.  "We read him his rights, but he's not smart enough to refuse to talk to us or to think his buddy lawyered-up.  Hopefully, our little move will convince Jones to tell the tale."

About an hour later while O'Ryan met with his new PD, Jones conducted story-time.  He confirmed the contract hit on Barry Hutchinson.  The buyer promised five-thousand and paid two in advance.  They didn't get the balance because they didn't finish the job.  Jones claimed O'Ryan made the deal, and he didn't know where the money came from.  Ray thought Jones and O'Ryan took the contract secondhand from someone they feared worse than the courts and jail.

Ray walked me to the parking lot.  "The prints we lifted from your bedroom don't match Jamel Hutchinson's."

"Charming.  We still have no clue who's stalking me—if they’re stalking me."  The thought was unsettling.  For some reason, Jamel, if it was Jamel, didn't seem as threatening as the other options.  If he contracted to have his father killed, it was because he didn't have the guts to do it himself.  I translated that to him not having the guts to kill me either.  But now?

"Still could be Hutchinson.  His friends might not have prints on file.  There were your prints, my prints, plenty of partials, and one good clear thumbprint on the window ledge.  We'll keep on it."  He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me next to him.  "I'll be here a while.  Be sure to lock your doors.  I'll get to your place by ten or eleven."

"That's one of the things I came here to tell you.  I put in lights all around the house today, cut the shrubbery, and had an alarm installed.  The code is the same as the garage door."

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I'll be fine.  Go home to your own bed."  Even though it had been a long day for him, I smelled his cologne.  Nautica was now an erotic scent for me, and his body heat seemed to be releasing waves of it into the air.

"Okay, if that's how you want it."  He smiled, but his eyes looked sad.

I stepped away from him.  "I also wanted to tell you about Vanessa.  Craig's in town."

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Ray helped Vanessa get rid of Craig a couple of years ago.  I told him what I learned and my suspicions about Craig beating her again, then we made plans to meet for breakfast on Tuesday morning.  I had to work on Sunday and on Monday, the Memorial Day holiday, but Tuesday I wasn't working.

I drove from the parking lot wishing that tomorrow was Tuesday and that I hadn't told him to go home tonight.

28

A major thunderstorm unleashed its full fury on our neighborhood on Monday night, and Sunshine, true to form, curled around my head and whimpered.

As I petted the dog, I smiled at the memory of the day he became afraid of thunder.  He had been in the backyard hunting little lizards along the back fence.  The nameless neighborhood lake—in truth, a canal gone fat—acted as a lightning magnet and thunder magnifier.  The water's edge was one hundred feet or so from my place.  An immense clap of thunder boomed directly over the yard, sending a wave of reverberations through the ground and into the foundation of the house.  All four of Sunshine's paws left the ground.  I happened to be watching at the time, and in my mind's video replay, I saw him leave the ground.  He pivoted in mid-air and hit the doggie door at a run, looking like a speeding locomotive smacked him in the rear.  Hence, his morbid fear of booming noises.

The raging maelstrom tested my new burglar alarm, and it performed to specifications.  I'm sure the neighbors didn't appreciate the noise, but I did learn the system worked, and the service called to verify everything was okay.  I checked the doors and windows, turned on the outside lights, and inspected my denuded yard.  Then I gazed at the flashes of lightening off the water for almost an hour. 

Under usual circumstances, I couldn't see the lake, but my neighbor trimmed his shrubs on Sunday giving me a view of the water from my kitchen window for the first time.  The odd thing was that at least twice I thought I saw shadows move on the shore, suggesting someone hiding in the brush.  Given the past events, it unnerved me.  I thought about going back to bed, then decided it wouldn't pay anyway.  The dog wouldn't calm down for a while, and I couldn't either.  I sat with him on the sofa, snuggling and feeling scared until about four.

When the storm finished, I went back to bed, hauling the dog with me.  I sank into a dead sleep around five.  The sound of my favorite DJ's voice blasted me to my toes at seven-thirty.  Damn.

"Good Morning, South Florida.  It's Tuesday . . ."

I poked the off-button and lay still, thinking about the movie
Good Morning, Vietnam
.

I dragged myself out of bed, stumbled to the coffee maker, then fed Sunshine.  He needed more cuddling, but the meal distracted him, solving the problem of getting him out of my hair.  By the time I showered and dressed in slacks and a silky, peach-colored tee, I felt almost human.  I splashed on Chanel, added lipstick, and ran out the door.  Ray and I were meeting at the deli next to Publix.  I made it there as the hostess escorted him to a table.

He looked good in his snug-fitting jeans and golf shirt, and he smiled when he saw me.  As I approached, I smelled his damn Nautica.

"Sophi," was all he said as he waited for me to slide into the small booth.

"Hi."

"I worried about you.  You didn't call, and you didn't pick-up on your cell either."

"I worked late last night—and Sunday, too, for that matter.  The floodgates opened, and every ill person in town floated in on the storm surge.  I got home both nights at, uh . . . maybe eleven-thirty.  Because of the holiday, they couldn't find anyone to come in, so I stayed.  I can use the overtime dough for my home improvements."

After the waitress served our coffee and took our order, I told Ray about the shadows during the night.  I finished my dissertation with, "Of course, by then the man, if it was a man, knew I was up and about.  I had the place glowing like a proverbial Christmas tree."

"You should have called me."  He looked concerned.  "I could have been there in ten minutes.  You're at risk.  You've had trouble twice, maybe three times."

"What I can't figure out is why it's going on at all.  I shouldn't be a target for theft—I have nothing much to steal.  And, I'm not a threat in the Hutchinson investigation," I said, covering old territory.

"Someone might think you are."

I screwed up my face and squinted.  "Yeah, right."

"Don't take it lightly."

"That reminds me.  Did you guys find a match for the prints from my window?"

"We did.  That's one of the things I wanted to tell you."  Ray fiddled with his coffee, swirling it round and round in his cup. 

"So?"

"The prints match Jones'."

"The hired gun?  The one I watched you interrogate?"  I shuddered all the way down to my painted toenails.

"One and the same."  He took a sip.  "He hasn't said a whole lot more since he lawyered-up.  But he did slip once and say
she
paid for the hit on Barry Hutchinson.  We couldn't get him to name names."

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves.  "Interesting.  That would rule out both Jamel and Michael Wiley."

"Unless Jones mislead us on purpose."  He raised a hand, turning it palm up in a
who-knows
motion.  "Or, the contract could have been placed by Jamel and his mother."

"That doesn't sound realistic to me."

"Jamel Hutchinson skipped town.  We can't find him to ask about the break-in at your place."  He broke off a piece of his bagel, spread cream cheese on it, then put it on his plate untouched.  "Several things don't make sense.  We called in the wife again."

"Amelia?" 

"She claims she didn't sign the withdrawal slip, and she's not lying.  Someone else signed her name."

"Who took the money?"

"We talked to Hutchinson's girlfriend again.  Attractive blond lady.  Fifties, I'd say.  I asked her about the money, and if Hutchinson ever mentioned it was missing.  She said, 'Sure.'  He gave it to her to deposit in her savings account.  They planned to get married as soon as he divorced his wife, and the money was the start of their nest egg.  Hutchinson feared Amelia would take him for all he was worth, and the five grand was the only ready cash he could access.  He signed her name, the girlfriend said, as a bitter joke."

"Charming."  I took a piece of Ray's bagel.  I hadn't ordered anything, and I felt hungry.  I peeled the top from a package of Country Crock margarine and took my time smoothing it on.  "Did you verify the story?"

"She produced her bank statement and showed us the deposit.  The dates match."

"Amelia seems to have motive.  Husband leaving her.  She knew that.  She told me.  Lots of bills, no money."

"Big insurance policy, and a townhouse she would own free and clear."

"Greed, necessity, revenge."

Ray smiled his most annoying smile.  "Hell hath no fury—"

"Like a woman scorned."  Grinning, I took a big bite of the bagel and wished I had asked for the walnut, cinnamon, and raisin cream cheese.  "At least the guys who broke into my house are behind bars."

"Two of them anyway."  He pushed back his plate and slid out of the booth.  "I'm off today.  I going to take a ride into the punks' neighborhood and ask around.  I'm not convinced either one of them cut the deal.  O'Ryan is mean enough, but I'm not sure he's capable, and I know Jones didn't set it up.  Something he said didn't set right."

"What was that?"

"He slipped about the deal, said something about being sent on a job, and apparently, someone showed him a picture of the target."

"Can I ride along?"

"Why not?  I'll follow you home."

"I'll leave my car here.  It'll be fine."

***

I settled into the passenger seat of the S2000.  The sun was shining, but the air was cool, though I knew it would heat up later.  Ray popped the levers to lower the top—the way I liked it.  We drove in silence for a few miles.

"Just hang loose and keep close.  Stay out of the conversations.  Let me know if you see anyone you recognize as one of Jamel's friends."

"Ah, I'm an invitee with a purpose."

He patted my leg.  I bristled at the unexpected familiarity.  He retracted his hand as if burned.  "The less obvious you are, the better."

"Okay, boss.  Whatever you say."

We drew close to the neighborhood.  He pulled over into the parking lot of a strip mall and twisted in his seat.  He put a hand on my shoulder, then withdrew it in a quick motion.  "I don't know how to take you.  Sometimes you seem glad to have me around, then you push me away.  Then you seek me out.  What's with you anyway?"

"Is now the time for this conversation?"  I faced him, turning sideways.  I knew by the tone of his voice that we would have the conversation.  The only way to avoid it was for me to get out of the car and walk home.  Too far.  Too dangerous.

"I can't get you off my mind.  It seems like forever since I saw you on Saturday.  Now you're all business."

"I thought this is a business, professional relationship.  You made that unequivocally clear in the past."

"I don't know anymore.  Being around you brings back those old feelings."

"Ray, for me, too.  Feelings of being hurt, deserted, cheated on."  I snapped at him.  It hadn't been my intent.

"That's not what I meant.  I mean the old emotional attachment, the longing, the desire.  I didn't take you out to dinner to be professional.  I took you out to be with you."

"Seems that every time we see each other we end fighting.  Then you disappear until the next case.  I feel set up and used."

"That's uncalled for.  You've said you like to be involved in my cases.  But the truth is, I look for reasons to see you, excuses to call."

 I stared at him in mock dismay. 

He sat back in his seat and shoved the car into gear.  "I can see you don't feel the same.  I'm sorry I brought it up."  He gunned the engine and popped the clutch.  The tires squealed, and we sped out of the parking lot, a cloud of dust in our wake.  "Let's check out the neighborhood, then I'll take you to your car."

"That's a plan."  I was angry, and I didn't know why.  I wondered if I'd ever get over the old hurt.  I didn't think so.  Many years had passed, and I still remembered the day I realized he wasn't coming back to see me again.  Then the other cases, the inevitable end to the case, and the casual
see you around
.

It wasn't long before Ray pointed to a couple of young men in front of a convenience store.  He pulled in behind their car—the only one in the lot—and climbed out.  "Stay here."

I watched as he approached the punks and flashed his badge.

"I'm looking for Jamel Hutchinson.  You know where he's hanging?"  He directed his comments to the shorter of the two.

"No, man.  Haven't seen him since his old man passed.  He ain't been comin' round."

"We busted the shooters."

"I heard."

Ray leaned close to the kid and said something I couldn't hear.  Then he said, "You know if we got them all?"

"You do.  I know for a fact."  The kid glanced at his friend who looked like he wanted to crawl under the pavement.

Ray leaned close.  The muscles bulged across his shoulders.  The kid's mouth moved.  Ray had his face within a few inches of the kid's eyes.

I strained to hear the conversation.

"Don't say anything," the companion said under his breath.  "You'll be as dead as Jamel's old man."

Ray reached out and grabbed the taller kid by the front of his red shirt, lifting him to eye level.  The kid's toes swept the ground.  "Would you care to explain that comment?"  Again, he raised his voice.

"Man, it's obvious," he said.  "There's a few more of the boys.  They hang out together.  We talk to you, they'll do us."

"If you don't talk, they'll think you did anyway.  Maybe when I find them, and I will find them, I'll tell them you told me a story."

"No, man, don't do that."  The kid's voice shook as he shrunk against the wall.  "Just make like we're not cooperating, and we'll tell you."

I looked around.  I believed everyone in the neighborhood knew Ray had rousted these two.  But was anyone close enough to know they were cooperating?  I didn't think so.

Ray grabbed the shorter kid by his shirt as well.  Neither of them were any match for his strength and agility, and an uninspired struggle ensued.  Ray pushed them against the moldy brick façade of the building in apparent disgust and walked away.  When he climbed back into the car, he said, "That was productive.  You recognize either of those two?"