King Divas (10 page)

“H
ow long have you known that the chief is considering you to take over my job?” I ask Fowler directly. I cross my arms and prop myself against his cubicle wall.

“So she's talked to you?” He tosses down his pen and then looks up at me as if he's really not in the mood to have this conversation.

“Answer the damn question.”

“This morning,” he says. “I was gonna tell you at happy hour.”

“Fuck you. Thanks for the loyalty.” I push away from the wall and storm off.

“Hawkins, don't be like that.” Fowler jumps to his feet and catches up with me. “I didn't go after the job.
She
came to me.”

“But you'll take the job, right?” I challenge.

Instead of answering, he sighs.

“That's what I thought.” I march into my office and plop down behind the desk.

“Why wouldn't I take the job?” he asks. “It's a promotion. It's better money, better pay—and I can do the damn job.”

“And I can't? Is that it?” I challenge. “You know damn well how much I sacrifice for this. The hours I put in.”

“And what? I play with my dick all damn day, is that it?”

“You're falling back on the dick jokes a little too soon, don't you think? The point is that I haven't been in the job long enough to warm the damn seat and now she wants to toss me under the fuckin' bus. That's bullshit.”

“Dealing with bullshit is part of the damn job,” Fowler counters. “And yeah, while you're like a hound dog on a trail, you don't do any of the political butt-kissing that comes along with the job. You and the hubby never attend any of the boring-ass political fund-raisers. I've never seen you at the department's Christmas parties, retirement parties—or even at the governor's parties, to kiss the ring. Hell, you don't even pay homage to any of the union functions either.”

“What? I don't have time for all that bullshit. Look at my desk. I'm drowning in murder cases and everyone is pissed because I won't put on a damn dress and laugh at everyone's dumb jokes? I'm a cop, not a damn publicist or a fund-raising lobbyist.”

“It's all part of the job. Captain Johnson ate that shit up,” Fowler reminds me. “And so do all the assholes at the top of the food chain.”

“Captain Johnson was a goddamn criminal.”

“Maybe . . . but he knew how to play the game, which is why nobody wants you kicking over any unnecessary rocks on his case, just so you can watch the worms play.”

A lightbulb clicks on over my head. “Oh my God. That's it, isn't it?”

Fowler frowns at my interrupting his lecture.

“This isn't about the murder count.” I hop up from my desk, rush over to pull him into my office, and close the door.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Kicking over rocks? This is all about them forcing me to close the Captain Johnson case. Damn. She even said herself that she didn't want the investigation to fall down a rabbit hole—or not know who it may implicate—and blowback, and blah, blah, blah.”

“So you did or didn't close the case?”

I cock my head up at him. “Will you please focus on the bigger picture here? Johnson couldn't have amassed all those drugs and weapons by himself. He had to have had help. It has to be a fucking ring of dirty cops here.”

“So that's a no to you closing down the case?”

“I work cases. I don't parade around in ball gowns or brown up my nose while kissing political asses, remember?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“That's exactly what you meant.”

Frustrated, Fowler rolls his eyes. “All I'm saying is that the top brass are concerned about your lack of social skills. You've even admitted that you don't like dealing with the press—and it shows. You look like a deer caught in headlights every time you give a press conference. You're a great cop, but your presentation doesn't exactly exude confidence to a city under siege by gang wars.”

“So that's a yes, you're going to steal my job?”

“I'm not going to steal—what the hell? Why are you jumping down my throat? Are you the only one allowed to have ambition around here? That's pretty fucked up. When you landed the job, I was happy for you.”

“So I'm supposed to be
happy
that you're now trying to steal the job from me?”

“I'm not
stealing
anything. The chief came to me—not the other way around.”

“Chief Brown is clearly looking for a fall guy—or woman—to pin the high unsolved homicide rates on. You do know that, right?”

“Do
you
know it?” As much as I want to believe my ascendancy within the department was due to my good record—I have more sense than that. My capabilities as an officer didn't have shit to do with my promotion. But now that I'm on this train I might as well ride it to the end of the line and then fall on my sword like a good soldier.

But I can't focus on that shit right now. I have to play the hand that I was dealt.

Fowler's anger cools. “Look. If you want to keep the job then you're going to have to learn how to play politics—and the first rule of politics is not to rock the boat. The chief told you to close the damn case—so close the damn case!” He brushes me out of the way and snatches open the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” I bark. “I'm not done arguing with you yet.”

“I have cases to work too, you know. I'm going to head over to Shotgun Row to talk to that church volunteer, Josephine Holmes.” Fowler sucks in a calming breath. “You want to tag along?” This is his weird form of a peace offering.

I'm not about to let him out of my sight. “Don't mind if I do.”

 

Lieutenant Fowler turns onto Utah Avenue a.k.a. Shotgun Row. There are only a handful of brothers on the street. That's to be expected since it's still daylight. My gaze swings over to Momma Peaches's house and I wonder if Isaac has returned home.

“Let's stop at the Carver residence first,” I tell Fowler.

“Why?”

“To speak with Isaac.”

Fowler slams on the brakes. “What?”

I sigh. “With all the shit going on this morning, I forgot to tell you that Isaac was released from jail this morning.”

“You
forgot
?” He stares at me up and down. “How the fuck do you forget to mention that King Isaac is back on the streets the same damn day his wife is killed and Python, rises from the dead?”

“C'mon. He had nothing to do with the shooting.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Because he was with me at the time of the shooting. I picked him up from prison, and had dropped him off when I got into that high-speed chase.”

We glare at each other, the car charged with renewed anger . . . and distrust.

“So you and your father are back on good terms? When the hell did this happen?”

“Don't start,” I tell him before he bounces onto my last nerve. He's the only one in the department who knows that King Isaac is my father—and now that he's going after my damn job, it's the perfect weapon at his disposal.

“I'm definitely going to need that drink after this shift,” he says, easing off the brake. The second he pulls up to Momma Peaches's house, a fat knot lodges in my throat.

I hate doing this shit.
I still haven't formulated a speech. I've delivered bad news to plenty of families in the past, but never to my own.

We climb out of the car, and when I'm about to knock, the woman on the porch next door speaks.

“Ain't nobody home.”

We shift our attention to her.

“Are you sure?” I ask. The woman might not know that I drove Isaac here a few hours ago.

“Yeah. Momma Peaches is dead and her husband took off for the morgue hours ago.”

Fowler strolls past me to hike across the street to Josephine Holmes's residence.

I ignore him so he can wallow in his feelings. Shit. He doesn't tell me every damn thing, so I don't know why he feels like he's entitled to know all my shit.

At this point, more neighbors mill outside, their attention locked on us. Nobody trusts the damn police anymore, not that I blame them.

Fowler opens the screen door and knocks. To our surprise, it swings open—but nobody is standing there. We exchange looks before reaching for our service weapons.

“Hello,” I call into the house.

No answer.

We look at each other again, as if to say
“What do you want to do ? ”

“Hello. Ms. Carter, are you in here?” Fowler shouts. “It's the police.”

Silence.

I give Fowler the nod, and together we creep into the house. “I don't want to alarm you. I'm Captain Hydeya Hawkins with the Memphis Police. Lieutenant Fowler and I came to ask you a few questions.” The silence grows deafening, the hairs on my body prickle.
I have a bad feeling about this.

Inch by inch, Fowler moves two steps behind me. We've done this dangerous dance plenty of times in the past, but this number, it's a short one as we discover Josephine Holmes in her living room, face down, with the back of her head missing.

I
can't shake the feeling that my walking into Club Diesel is like strolling into the devil's lair. As I glance around, I hardly recognize the place. Without the wall-to-wall crowd of half-naked waitresses and dancers the place hardly looks the same.

“You know you helped my opening night to be a success,” Diesel says, strolling ahead of me.

“I doubt that. I think you had more to do with that.”

His deep chuckle rumbles throughout the club. “You have a hard time accepting a compliment, don't you?”

“That's not true, I . . .” I catch myself.

He stops and turns around. “Gotcha.”

“All right. Fine.
Thank you.
I enjoyed performing here last night.”

“So what do you say to being a regular here?”

“I, uh—”

“I know a star when I see one.”

He's gassing me up again. I pump the brakes and put on my best poker face. “I'd say that I will have to get with my manager and run things by him.”

“Ah. All roads lead back to him, huh?”

My lips twitch with a heavy smile.

He shakes his head. “It won't work.”

“What?”

“You trying to hate me.” He clasps his hands behind his back and flashes me his dimples. “I'm a charming cat.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns and winds through the club.

I struggle to keep up with his long, confident strides. “How long have you and . . . what's his name again?”

“Kalief.”

“Right. Kalief. How long have you been together?”

“Professionally?”

We reach the back of the club and proceed to climb a set of stairs.

“Both.”

“Not that it's any of your business, but we've been together since high school.”
Now can I get my damn check?

“Ah. So I'm going up against high school sweethearts. This is getting more and more challenging.” He opens the door to his office and gestures me to go ahead of him.

When I walk past him, he says, “But no ring?”

“What's the holdup?” he asks as he crosses over to his desk.

“That's none of your business,” I tell him, wanting to end this.

“Ah. We're back to playing the ice princess again.” He grins.

I fold my arms and try to wait him out, but after a minute the game becomes stupid. “My money?”

“Oh. Yes.” Diesel springs back to his feet. At the same time, he pulls off his bloody T-shirt and exposes his muscled body covered in tattoos, and a bleeding bandage on the back of his shoulder.

“What happened there?” I ask, forgetting my vow to keep my nose out of this man's business.

He turns his back away from me. “An old injury,” he lies coolly.

Or you were shot inside of that church.
Besides that, I have to admit that every inch of this honey-baked brothah is on point. I pretend to be unimpressed, but I'm sure the truth is written all over my face. More warning bells go off in my head and I take a step back toward the door.

Diesel grins like a slick panther, his eyes asking me whether I see anything I like.

My answer is to look away.

He chuckles. “I can't figure you Memphis girls out. Y'all stay hugged on these punk bitches that ain't got shit, but then when a real man wanna upgrade you, y'all act scared.”

“I ain't scared of a damn thing. I just want my money.” He unbuttons his pants.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like? Changing.” He opens a door off to his left and reveals a bathroom. “I have an important meeting to get to and I need to change.” He walks into the bathroom and leaves the door open. “It should only take a few minutes for a hot shower.” He turns on the water. “Of course, you're more than welcome to join me.”

This muthafucka is playing too many games. I roll my eyes and give him my back.

“Just thought I'd ask.” He laughs as he steps into the shower.

I don't believe this shit.
I walk backward to the bathroom door and close it.

“Chicken!” he barks before his rumble of laughter comes through the door.

I roll my eyes. Alone in his office, I glance around and notice how pristine and orderly everything is.

I take a seat on the leather couch and wait. Outside the door, I hear a steady clack of high heels walking up the stairs. A few seconds later, a very curvaceous woman with model looks walks into the office. When she spots me, she stops.

“Oh.” She tosses a look at the closed bathroom door. “I didn't know that, uh . . . Okay. I'll leave these on Diesel's desk.” She walks over and drops off some paperwork.

I flash a smile, but keep my mouth shut.

“Don't I know you?” She cocks her head. “You're the singer, aren't you?”

“Yes. How are you? I'm Cleo.” I stand and offer her my hand.

She nods, but keeps me hanging. “You're good.”

“Thank you.” I lower my hand while she continues to assess me.

The woman glances at the door again.

“He's taking a shower.”

“I can see that.”

She's jumping to the wrong conclusion. “I'm waiting for my check.”

The woman lifts an amused brow.

“For performing last night.”

“Oh?” Her other eyebrow rises up. “There must be some misunderstanding. Diesel wrote a check to your manager a few days ago. A, uh, Kalief something. Is that not your manager?”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She folds her arms. “I was there when he wrote it.”

What the hell? “
Do you work here?”

“Yes. I'm in charge of the girls.”

“Ahh.” Something tells me that she doesn't mean the waitresses and the dancers.

“See you around,” she says and then exits the office without ever introducing herself.

The shower shuts off. A few seconds later, Diesel returns to the office with a towel still wrapped around his chiseled hips.

“Good. You're still here.” He grins at me.

“What kind of fucking game are you playing?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you or did you not already pay Kalief for the band's performance?”

“Did I?” He pretends to think it over.

“You're too much. I'm out of here.” I spin and head for the door.

“C'mon. C'mon. Don't be like that.” He races to catch up with me; grabs my hand before I slip out the door.

“Don't touch me!” Angry, I snatch it back. “I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I'm not fucking interested. In fact, you need to find yourself another singer.”

“Whoa. Whoa.” He jumps in front of me. “You're right. You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you.”

I try to get past him, but he blocks me at every turn. “Move!”

“Not until you say that you accept my apology.”

Tired of his shit, I shove him as hard as I can.

He stumbles back, letting go of his towel.

It's impossible to avoid seeing the anaconda between his legs. I gasp and then race the fuck out of there.

“Cleo! Cleo!”