Playing Dirty (15 page)

I couldn’t tell you where I was going after West Palm Beach, but I could tell you that I would be heading north. Perhaps I needed to hide out at one of my relatives’ houses on my father’s side. Virginia would be the last place anyone would look. No one knew about them but Maria, and now she was dead. My mother wouldn’t be able to speak about them, either, because she wasn’t in her right mind. That was a blessing in disguise.

“I’ll leave before anyone has a chance to realize I am gone,” I told myself out loud. I was leaving and I was never coming back. I’d have to leave my lavish lifestyle behind. But I was fine with it, because I figured with the money I had stashed away, I could build another one. Perhaps get my face reconstructed if shit got really hectic. All I wanted to do was stay alive and keep my freedom. I didn’t care how much it cost or what means I had to go through to do it. I had to think about me and only me. And that’s exactly what I intended to do.

I
stood in front of my elevator, literally ready to piss on myself. I was that nervous. Here I was running from a crime I didn’t even commit, with no fucking way to prove that I didn’t do it. I mean, who would murder the only friend they had in the world? That shit made no sense. I didn’t even have time to mourn for Maria—although my heart was in pieces over her murder. It was my fault, too.

From the DVD I could tell whoever murdered Maria wanted revenge on me—this shit was the setup. She had been used as a pawn in a game to take me down—but why? I knew people were jealous of me, but this was taking it too far.

Although I had everything I could dream of, and I stepped on people’s backs occasionally to get where I needed to be, I would never have expected that someone hated me so much that they’d frame me for murder. And it wasn’t just any murder—the murder of my best fucking friend in the world. I didn’t even have time to grieve right now. If I would have stayed around crying and feeling sorry for myself and for Maria, I would have been going up the river without a paddle.

Now, while I was standing inside the elevator, listening to the classical music playing, sweat was dropping off me like pellets. I was literally about to have a nervous breakdown, watching as every number of the floors I was passing by lit up on my way down to the lobby. And just when my ride was almost over, the fucking elevator slowed down and stopped at the tenth floor, and the door opened. I was evil as hell, but I held my composure. I held my head down to prevent me from speaking or giving eye contact to the person who was about to join me. But, of course, that didn’t work.

Stopping at the tenth floor, I should’ve known that I would have run into Mrs. Mitchell. She was the gossip queen of our building. She had to be every bit of eighty years old, but she had a lot of spunk. And she had gobs of money. Word had it, her little old Caucasian ass had been married three times, and every last one of her husbands had been millionaires. When they died or divorced her, she got every stick of their money. Lucky her!

So, when she came aboard the elevator, she made it her business to strike up a conversation with me. Dressed down in a tan Polo jacket, a pair of khaki Polo shorts, and the sun visor to match, Mrs. Mitchell greeted me with her pet Pomeranian in arm. She looked like she was about to take him or her out for a stroll.

“What a pleasant surprise!” she said cheerfully.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mitchell.”

“It’s Ms. Now. You know my last husband left me for a younger woman.” She gritted her teeth. I guess the statement she made took her back down memory lane.

“I’m sure he paid for it,” I commented.

Her face lit back up. “Oh yes, my dear! He definitely did that.”

I didn’t respond to her comment. I wasn’t in the mood to speak to her from the very beginning, so I pressed down on the button to close the elevator doors. I was ready to get the hell out of there.

“I see you’re all packed up and ready to go.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, hoping she’d leave me and my business alone.

“So, where are you off to?” she pressed on.

“I’m representing a client in another state and his trial starts in a couple of days,” I lied.

“My goodness, how long are you going to be gone?”

“One week. Maybe more. Depending on how long the trial lasts,” I continued.

“You really know your stuff. I remember that last high-profile case you were on, and you were on television every single day.”

“All that comes with the territory,” I said modestly.

“Do you ever represent anybody other than those drug-dealing thugs?”

“Mrs. Mitchell, not all of them are drug-dealing thugs. Most of them are well-respected business owners and real estate tycoons.”

“That’s not what the prosecutors or the news reporters are saying.”

I sighed heavily because I was truly sick of having this conversation with this woman. And besides, she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. “It’s their job to paint the ugly picture,” I finally said.

“Well, I know you’re being paid very well, living on the top floor and all. Mrs. Draper, who lives on the fifth floor, told me you’re driving a brand-new Aston Martin.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s true.”

“So, have you ever thought about settling down? I’ve never seen you bring a man home.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not in the cards for me right now.”

“That’s a shame! You are such a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Take my advice. Please don’t let time slip by. Before you know it, you’re too old to have children. I regret all the chances I had to have children. I probably would have saved my first marriage if I would have given my first husband a baby.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Mitchell.”

“Don’t be sorry for me. Just take my advice.”

“I will,” I said, just to appease her.

Finally we were on the first floor and I was relieved. I reached down and grabbed the luggage that was placed by my feet, and when I took the first step off the elevator, the two DEA agents who had come to my apartment earlier stood in the entryway before me. This time, though, they had a whole troop of agents with them. My heart immediately fell into the pit of my stomach. I didn’t know what to say. I was speechless as hell. They must have gotten to a federal judge and gotten a search warrant after they visited me.

“Going somewhere?” the taller agent asked.

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” I responded sarcastically.

“I’m sorry, but it is. We have a warrant to search your premises,” he continued as he flashed the warrant in my face.

I didn’t have to turn around to see Mrs. Mitchell’s mouth, because I heard her gasp for air like she just got the shock of her life. I remained cool, though. I was not going to let anyone around me see me break down. “What are you looking for this time?” I inquired in a calm manner.

“We’ll let you know,” he said flatly.

Seconds later all the agents walked onto the elevator with me. They let Mrs. Mitchell off in the process. Before the elevator door closed, she turned around and looked directly in my face. I couldn’t tell you if she wanted to say something to me, but I did see the look in her eyes. It was a look of disappointment, like I failed her or something. It was really weird, so I brushed it off because I had a far worse problem to deal with at the moment.

All the agents stood quietly, with their guns in hand, the entire ride back up to my penthouse, but I knew their minds were racing at the same speed as mine. The one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about was what the hell they were looking for. I knew one thing—if I were a magician, I would make myself disappear right now. The thought of me going back to jail had become too unbearable to imagine. This time it would be for murder, so I knew the world would have to come to an end before I was released.

When we finally made it back up to my floor, all the agents walked either beside me or behind me until we arrived back at my place. A short Hispanic-looking agent took my bags out of my hands, while another agent escorted me to my living-room sofa.

“Can someone tell me what this is about?” I sighed. “I do have somewhere to be.” I continued talking as my legs trembled. I knew it would be a matter of time before they went into my luggage and found Maria’s things and her blood spattered all over my kitchen. All I could do was hold my head down and wait for the inevitable.

“Hey, Patterson, you’ve got to come in here and see this,” yelled another agent. It sounded like he was yelling from the kitchen. And as soon as the tall agent ran in that direction, my suspicions were indeed correct. My heart started pounding uncontrollably. I wanted to make a run for my front door, but there were two more agents camped out around the foyer. I knew my chances of regaining my freedom were slim to none. If only I’d left about ten minutes earlier, I’d probably be about five miles up the road and on my way to West Palm Beach.

Damn! What was I going to do now? I couldn’t do anything else but sit back and watch all the movement around me. It was so quiet throughout my entire house, I could hear a pin drop. It seemed like everybody was going in slow motion. But as soon as I realized that the Hispanic agent who had taken my bags from me had gone into my luggage and had retrieved Maria’s things, it seemed like everything started spinning out of control.

Every agent in my entire place ran toward the Hispanic agent to see the objects that belonged to Maria. The next thing I knew, I was being interrogated smack-dab in the middle of my living room. Agent Patterson towered over me like I was a quarterback and he was a linebacker. And for the very first time, I felt wholly defenseless.

“What are you doing with Maria’s badge and gun holster?”

“Someone left them at my front door,” I managed to say, despite the lump I had lodged in my throat.

“That’s bullshit! Where is our agent, Yoshi?”

“I don’t know!” I screamed.

“You wanna play games with me?” he snarled.

“I am not playing games!” I began to cry. “I told you, someone left a package with her things at my front door.”

Out of frustration Agent Patterson stormed away from me; then several seconds later he turned back around and came walking back toward me. “If you don’t tell me where my agent is right now, I am going to haul your ass downtown and have you charged with murder!” he roared.

“I told you, I don’t know.” I screamed even louder, my face turning flaming red. I began to cry, to the point I caught an instant headache. It didn’t faze even one of these bastards, though. They all thought I was a fucking joke. They really thought I was lying.

“Ms. Lomax, you are under arrest,” he told me, and then he snatched me up from my sofa and handcuffed me. He roughed me up a little bit while he read me my rights, but I didn’t fight back. Why should I? Things would only have gotten worse if I had retaliated. As a matter of fact, I didn’t utter another word. I guess I was in total shock.

After they bagged up all the evidence they felt they had on me, they escorted me out of my apartment. I was pushed into the elevator and roughly carted out of my building to a waiting black Suburban. Although I held my head down, I could still see the surprised looks on the faces of my valet, security guard, and some of my high-class neighbors. It was like a scene out of a movie or from the eleven o’clock news.

I also knew what this meant to my future—no matter what. This was the end. It was the ultimate setup, and I had no wins. I had all the fucking incriminating evidence right inside my bag, and they found it. I was sure that they’d seen the DVD of the murder by now. And if they hadn’t, they would when they got back to their headquarters.

While we were in transit, all I could think was, why couldn’t they see that this whole thing was a setup? Why would I murder my best friend right in my own house? Nevertheless, whether they thought logically about it or not, I was fucked…royally fucked. And even though I knew I was in a terrible situation, I knew it wouldn’t be wise for me to answer any questions without a lawyer. I knew how the system worked, and as soon as a person invoked their right to an attorney, all questions must stop.

No one in the car spoke a word, but I could feel the stares burning holes in my back and into the side of my face. For the entire ride I could tell that everyone around me was furious with my ass. I couldn’t blame them, either. One of their own had been murdered, and shit like that hit home for law enforcement officers. On top of that, Maria wasn’t just an agent; she was the director of the Miami DEA field office, and her brutal murder was big news. I could tell by the agents’ body language they wanted a piece of me. All they knew about me was that I’d killed their supervisor, a fellow officer. I knew the kinds of shit law enforcement officers did to cop murderers, but I also knew that these DEA agents were smart enough to know that they couldn’t touch me because of who I was.

After we arrived at the DEA building, I was manhandled out of the Suburban, and although those agents didn’t fuck me up like they wanted, they did place me in a typical dirty, dim, and dank five-by-five interrogation room. I’d seen hundreds of these kinds of rooms when I’d gone down to rescue my high-flying clients from interrogations. This room down at the DEA headquarters was no different than the ones at the local police stations—plain, drab walls, hard-ass chairs, a long table, and the famous double-sided mirror. I knew they were watching me through that fucking mirror, so I was trying to be as calm as I could be.

My body was calling for a hit of coke; I needed something to get me through this. My nerves were literally jumping; I felt my eyes flickering and my hands shaking. I placed my hands underneath my thighs—no need to let them see my shit shaking like I was guilty. Finally, after a couple of excruciating hours of waiting, a tall White man I recognized as the deputy director of the Miami office entered the room, with Agent Patterson in tow. They both wore serious faces, and they had somber eyes. They’d clearly been crying for days over what had happened to Maria. They also both wore black suits, with their badges hanging around their necks from silver-beaded chains. The badges were covered with a small black band across the DEA emblem, which meant they were mourning a fallen officer. All of these things didn’t make my case any easier. I was wishing I had one of those black bands to put around my entire body, considering how hurt I was over Maria’s murder.

“Ms. Lomax, I’m Frank Sinetti, deputy director—” he started.

“I know who you are. Maria was my best friend. She talked about you all the time,” I cut him off.

Those words seemed to anger him. He furrowed his eyebrows and pulled his chair very close to me. “Don’t tell me she was your best friend, you fucking murderer! Tell me where her fucking body is!” he growled. His face turned crimson and his eyes hooded over.

Frustrated, I screamed back, “I don’t know where her body is! I didn’t kill her! So you bastards need to go out and find the real killer!”

That was all I was going to say, I promised myself. These agents knew what buttons to push to get you to talk without a lawyer.