Pretenses (4 page)

“I know, but today is going to be different,” he said with determination. “A lot of people didn't want Taylor on the court because she was black. Did you know that, Phoenix?”

“No, sir, I didn't. But I'm not surprised.” I hadn't meant to say that last part, but it had found its way out of my mouth.

“That's another reason I requested you to work this case. I want the killer to know that I will not be thwarted.”

Oh, great. Now I'm going to be put on parade for the cause.

“I want a black woman right up there with me. I want them to see that this administration is going to find and promote well-qualified minorities and put them in positions where their strengths and talents can do the most good for this nation.”

C
OCO
N
IMBURU
of the notorious Nimburu clan had been conditioned and trained in the ninja fighting arts since she was five years old. The Nimburu clan had existed for five-hundred years. They were only one of a few sects that survived the 1581 ninja slaughter in feudal Japan. In those days, the Nimburus were so vicious that when it was known that a Nimburu was assigned to kill a particular person, the victim often killed himself to avoid the savage death that awaited him.

Coco was a master of disguise and could speak many languages and dialects, including French, Russian, German, Vietnamese, Arabic, English, Mandarin, Cantonese, and Japanese. Her unique talent with languages enabled her to travel the world, carrying out assassinations for whomever could afford to pay the hefty sum her special skills commanded. On this assignment, she had booked two rooms on different floors at the Capitol Hill Hyatt Regency.

She finished practicing her deadly art and her stretching routine, showered, and turned on the television. She watched the FOX News channel to find out what the police were saying about the Taylor murders. Law enforcement officials could always be counted on to tip their hands about an investigation.

President Davidson was shown standing behind a lectern that had the presidential seal on it. A barrage of lights flashed as he spoke. Coco turned up the sound to hear what he was saying. Davidson did not attempt to
appear presidential. His anger gushed forth when he opened his mouth.

“No assassination, no intimidation, and no organization of any kind will discourage this White House from naming a nominee of my choosing to a seat on the Supreme Court!” Davidson said abruptly. “We are determined, I say we are determined, to apprehend everybody involved in the murder of Jennifer and Webster Taylor! There is no place you can run, no place you can hide. We will find you, whoever you are, and bring you to justice!” He paused and glanced at the press. “Your questions will be answered by one of the FBI's best and brightest, Special Agent Phoenix Perry.”

The name triggered something in Coco's memory. Grabbing her laptop, she pulled up the hit-list file and scanned it for the name she had just heard. There it was. Sydney Drew of Drew Perry Investigative Firm. Coco wondered if it could be a coincidence. If it wasn't, she might have to kill an FBI agent. In her line of work, innocent people were often killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The last thing she wanted was to murder an FBI agent, but if it was necessary, so be it. She pointed the remote control at the television and pushed the power button.

Coco decided to get into her disguise. She would be meeting NSA Director Clayton Pockets downstairs in the lounge in about an hour. He had a thing for blondes, so she would become one for him. Seduction was always a good weapon when used by a skilled practitioner. Coco had used her charms on men and women alike; both were extremely susceptible if the seduction was alluring enough, and Coco Nimburu was.

Dressed in her disguise, she entered the lounge. The dim lighting would hide what she looked like when the FBI asked for a description, and Coco didn't want that. She wanted to be seen. Clayton Pockets smelled her intoxicating perfume before he actually saw her. She reminded him of the character that Drea De Matteo had brought to life on HBO's
The Sopranos
. Wearing a skintight white tennis outfit, sneakers, hoop earrings, and a bright smile, she said loudly with a New York accent, “You must be Director Pockets. Here,” she handed him the blackmail money he was owed, “this is for you.” She cracked the gum she was chewing a few times before turning to walk away.

“Hey, what's the rush?” Pockets asked. “Can't you stay for a drink?”

As she turned back, Coco noticed that everyone was staring at her, which was exactly what she wanted. That way they could tell the FBI what she looked like.

“I've got a better idea. How 'bout we take that briefcase and get outta here. I know a great spot for a little fun about fifteen minutes from here, in Alexandria.”

“Great!” He smiled broadly. “Just let me tell the office I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off.”

“I'll wait for you in the parking lot,” Coco said and left.

A couple of minutes later, Clayton Pockets came into the parking lot, carrying the briefcase Coco had given him. She was sitting on a black, yellow-trimmed ninja motorcycle. She wasn't wearing a helmet. He walked over to her and said, “So what's your name, sweet thing?”

“My name?” she repeated, and cracked her gum a few times. “My name is Coco, and I know how to make a man have repeated orgasms without losing his erection.”

Intrigued, Pockets asked, “How?”

“Ever try acupuncture?” She smiled, then remained silent to allow the suggestion to flood his mind. She kick-started the bike and revved the engine a few times. “Try to keep up with me. If you get lost, it's your loss.” Then she peeled off. The smell of rubber burning filled Pockets' nose. He ran to his car and pursued her.

P
OLICE HEADQUARTERS
was always busy. Today wasn't any different. There was no end to crime in the nation's capital. Many of the poorer neighborhoods were littered with drugs and, consequently, violence. It was dog-eat-dog not far from where the President slept. The moment I walked in, prisoners began their ritualistic catcalls. I had grown tired of the constant offers of sex from incarcerated men. Most of them were quite bold, too. On one occasion, a prisoner exposed himself so I could see what he had to offer.

“Hey, baby,” one of the shabbier ones said to me. “You look just like Jada Pinkett. You think you can handle this?” I ignored him and kept walking. Then he yelled out, “Ah, come on, girl! Don't be like that. All I want is a taste. You can have it right back. I promise.” He laughed uproariously.

I walked into Kelly's office with a frown on my face. She was sitting at her desk, looking at the Taylors' telephone records. I opened her portable refrigerator and took out a big, juicy-looking peach.

“You're welcome,” Kelly said.

“Don't mind if I do.” I laughed.

“Saw the press conference this afternoon. The President has all kinds of confidence, doesn't he?

“Yeah, but it's misplaced.”

“You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?”

“Yeah. What if it was a pro?”

“Exactly. And if it was, he's gone.” Kelly shook her head. “And the President is on the television sellin' wolf tickets. Writing checks your ass may end up cashing.”

“I know. Ain't life grand?”

“It sure is. Look, this is what I got. While you were at home getting your swerve on with Keyth, I was doing some real police work.” She flashed a smile. “It turns out that four of the calls came from the Four Seasons Hotel the day she was murdered.”

“Yeah?” I said, looking at the circled numbers on the print-out.

“Judge Taylor's cell phone records show that she called the hotel. I think we oughta get over there. With any luck, whoever called the judge may still be checked in.”

“Let's go.” Once the trail was cold, we would never catch the killer.

“But first the D.C. police want you to do them a small favor, Phoenix.”

“Yeah, anything for the boys in blue.”

“They brought a bad-ass wife beater in here earlier.” Kelly opened a drawer and pulled out several photos. I cringed when I saw his handiwork. “He's not your typical coward either. The son-of-a-bitch beat the shit outta five officers. It took two tasers to take him down and ten patrolmen to bring him in.”

“PCP?”

Kelly shook her head. “Just one bad hombre.”

“Where is he?”

“In Interview One.”

“Let's go.”

I walked into the interview room totally focused yet with my mind clear, relaxed, and completely in tune with the danger in the room. Emotions like anger shut down a martial artist's senses, and we become vulnerable.

The prisoner looked at me and smiled just a little. Both of his hands were cuffed to the table. He had a bald head, jailhouse tattoos on his arms, and a body he had no doubt built at Lorton Prison.

“Gentlemen, I need to speak with you in the hall,” Kelly said. “Special Agent Perry will stay with the prisoner.”

“Uncuff him,” I said calmly.

“Are you sure?” one of the officers said, playing along.

“Yeah,” I said, tossing my peach in the air and catching it. “He seems calm now. You won't bite, will you?”

“Naw.” He laughed. “I won't bite.”

The officers left quietly, but I knew they practically ran to the observation room next door where a crowd of officers had gathered when they learned that I was in the building. They wanted to beat the crap out of him themselves, but if it ever leaked out, which these things were prone to do, the media would have a field day. But I'm a woman, and I only weigh 125 pounds. What was he going to say? A woman kicked my ass? Even if he wanted to, his pride wouldn't let him.

The prisoner was quietly looking back and forth from the unlocked door to me, calculating his chances of escape. I kept tossing my peach in the air and catching it. After a couple of minutes, he said, “So…what, you FBI, or somethin'?”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered, watching his every move.

“So when they comin' back?”

“About twenty minutes or so, I'd say.”

“So—you got a gun or somethin'?”

“Nope.”

“If they gon' be gone for twenty minutes, what's tuh stop me from walkin' the fuck outta here?”

“Just little ol' me.” I smiled.

“What? With no gun? You crazy.” He laughed. “Did they tell you I sent five of D.C.'s finest to Washington Memorial this mornin', tryin' tuh mess wit' me?”

“Yeah, they told me.”

“And you still came in here, huh?” He frowned. “You must be one bad bitch, huh?”

“That's what they say,” I said, still smiling. “You don't get it, do you, sweet pea? We do this shit all the time. Whenever one of you muthafuckas messes with the law, they call me down here to straighten you out. Behind
the two-way mirror, there's probably a herd of officers jammed in there, just waiting to see what I'm going to do to you.”

“You bluffin'.”

I walked over to the door and opened it. “See? It's not locked. All you gotta do is find your balls and walk outta here.”

“I got balls, bitch,” he growled. “And to prove it, I'm gonna fuck you before I leave.” Then he tossed the table against the wall like it was a pillow.

“That's the spirit.” I smiled, continuing to toss the peach in the air.

He growled and charged at me like a bull, headfirst. I stood in the same spot calmly, waiting until the last possible second, then spun away. He ran headfirst into the wall. Then I tapped on the mirror, signaling them to lock the door. I heard keys jangling just outside the door, then a key entering the lock and the bolt sliding into place.

“Ya hear that?” I asked him. “That's them locking you in.”

He shook the cobwebs from his bruised head and stood up. I took a bite from the peach and said, “You all right, sweet pea?”

He charged again, this time using caution. He swung at my head. I moved to the side, just in time. I could feel a breeze go past my head. I took another bite of the peach, which sent him into a rage. He swung again and again, but I remained elusive. He began to perspire profusely. I continued eating.

“When I finish my peach, it'll be my turn. I suggest you do something—quick.”

“YOU LITTLE BITCH! I'LL KILL YOU!”

I laughed.

Again, he charged headfirst. And again, I spun out of the way. This time he stopped short of running into the wall. I took the last bite of my peach and threw the pit at him. It hit him in the head.

“You already tried that,” I told him, then sucked the residual juice off my fingers. “Well, I'm finished with my peach. Guess I have to get in yo' ass.”

“That's how you gon' be sucking my dick when I'm finished with you, bitch!” he screamed. “Just like you suckin' yo' fingers now.”

I walked toward him, determined to give him a whipping he wouldn't
ever forget. When I was within striking distance, he threw a jab, which I easily deflected, and I continued moving forward. I could see he was about to throw more blows, so I took another step closer, nullifying his long reach. Then I hit him in the forehead with my fist, causing his head to slam against the two-way mirror. I spun around and back fisted him, threw a shot to the groin, another to the throat, an elbow to the jaw, and a powerful palm strike to the sternum. He went down hard. I understood why the police had so much trouble with him when he got back up. Most people wouldn't have been able to withstand a blow like that. The police were overmatched with this man.

I hit him about six more times. His head slammed against the glass with each powerful blow. The punches sounded like hard slaps to the face. He went down again. Having finished him, I turned to leave. Suddenly, he grabbed me around the waist. My back was against his muscular chest. His powerful grip was squeezing the air out of me.