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Authors: Maxine Thompson

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BOOK: Slipping Into Darkness
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“There's Oprah, and look! Jennifer Hudson,” Chica added under her breath. “Look at all that weight Jennifer's lost. She looks amazing!”
“Doesn't she?” I agreed, also speaking sotto voce.
Riley leaned in and hugged me. “Thanks for cheering her up, Z. I appreciate how you're helping her grow her business too.”
I flagged my hand in dismissal. For a moment, star gazing had helped distract me from what was really bothering me, too. I was amazed at the chiseled faces, many which came compliments of the local Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Some faces were soft, improved for their efforts; some were macabre looking, almost like masks.
Without warning, that subterranean side of me reared its illogical head. Blood calling to blood. And blood won out every time. I felt a protective urge. Just the thought of anyone harming my brother hit me with a double punch of fear in my gut. I surely couldn't go up against some cartel or the Bloods or whoever was holding my brother. Sheesh! Who gave my brother up?
Chapter Two
We each stepped out the limousine to the setting sun and the blazing flashes of the cameras as were ushered into the world of the beautiful people–“Hollyweird” as they called them on the Black gossip blogs. The paparazzi, here en masse, resembled locusts descending on a lush garden. I couldn't help but feel the blaring contrast to my private world and the public celebrity world I was now about to enter. Now we were about to become reality stars. Well, at least Haviland was–Chica and I would have bit roles in her program. But it was all good because, in the big picture, we all would get customers for our businesses.
Romero looked spectacular in his Bond-like Savile Row tux and could have passed for a famous Hispanic actor himself. People said he resembled Academy Award winner Javier Bardem.
We each took our time strolling down the red carpet at the Oscars. Actually, I had a press pass; the others were all guests. Today I was looking “Hollywood” myself, clad in Haviland's borrowed black Versace dress. I was even wearing fake eyelashes. I'd been taking martial arts for protection, and now had a side benefit–this new fit, muscular body. Haviland had lost twenty pounds for the night, too, and she was down to almost a three, so she really could get away with the plunging neckline on her Kaufman Franco dress. Chica was rocking the mess out of an Oscar de la Renta gown, also compliments of Haviland.
Tonight, in addition to borrowed clothes, we were all living borrowed lives, which was pretty much what actors do all the time. We were all given invitations because of Haviland's boyfriend's nomination for his role in his first film, a suspense thriller,
The Red Herring.
Before Romero and I strolled all the way down the aisle to our seats, I motioned for him to follow me. “I'm not going to be sitting with you, babe.”
“I know. I just wanted to walk in on the best-looking woman's arm here tonight.”
I grinned. “Thank you, boo. You're so sweet.”
Without warning, Romero's phone vibrated and he looked down at his phone. Someone was sending him a text message.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
He shook his head as he began to type an answer. “I'm all right. No, it's a case I'm working on. This is really important.”
“Gotta go?” I gave him a sad puppy-dog gaze and pouched out my bottom lip in a cutesy pout.
He nodded, and brushed his lips against my forehead. “I'm sorry. I'll make this up to you.” Then he leaned back, scrutinizing my face to see if I was mad.
“Promise?”
“When I get home, we'll pick up where we left off.”
A tingling roared between my legs just at the thought of my Latin lover's sexual prowess. Goose bumps of excitement made my nipples harden. Since I was wearing a sheer, backless bra, self-consciously I slumped my shoulders in, trying to hide my arousal.
“You so bad.” I blushed, trying to hide my grin.
Romero glanced down at my nipples through my dress. “No, you're the naughty one. Tiger!”
That was our inside joke. I lifted my eyebrows at him in the way that was usually our signal when we were ready to make love. Romero softly patted my waistline. Although I tried to act ladylike around him, he knew I was quite the tigress in the bedroom. I liked how Romero always made me feel feminine, which was kind of hard to feel in my line of work. I took the same risks as any soldier did.
“I'll take a rain check. Do what you gotta do, babe.” I frisked my fingers in a “get gone” signal. “I know how it is.” I was reminding him of my decade tenure on the streets as an LAPD officer, before I became a PI. And sometimes it got rough on the streets, even in my new profession.
“You're sure now?” Romero looked doubtful, as if he thought I would hold this against him.
“You know this isn't my thing either.” I waved my hand in a flourish around the gala of Hollywood's celebrities and stars. Although I was looking forward to the after party, I was here partially on business, too. “I'm just here for this dog-and-pony show for Haviland. I guess it will add a little cachet to our show, too.”
Romero looked relieved. “Thanks! You're the best.” He pecked me on my lips. With that, he turned and left. Although he had to leave, I was glad he'd come.
I pulled out my press pass that Haviland had confiscated for me, and flashed it to the escort. That Haviland could get her hands on anything.
She was the youngest person I ever knew who went to her doctor and got a prescription for medical marijuana. Although she was in a Narcotics Anonymous twelve-step program for her OxyContin addiction, she was now claiming she had glaucoma. By the way, she was still paying a blackmailer who helped her stage a home invasion last year, which kept her from losing her mini mansion in Hollywood Hills. She was also no stranger to the bail bonds person, and managed to teeter, if anything, just this side of the law. I'm telling you. In spite of her innocent appearance, that girl was scandalous.
When I worked as a policewoman, I'd evaluate someone like Haviland as a sociopath, but since we met in a drug program two years ago, we'd become quasi-friends of sorts. She would do anything for me, but I just didn't trust her as far as I could see her.
After everyone was on the carpet, I excused myself. Although I was looking forward to the after party, I stepped over to the media section and began flashing pictures with my camera. I flashed pictures of various stars as they profiled and floor-showed. I flashed pictures of my friends as they milled around in the crowd before they were seated by the ushers.
In spite of my forced, fake smile, I was not a happy camper. Something kept tugging at me. I guessed it was my conscience. What was I going to do about that crazy brother of mine?
I hated to have to be the one to break Venita's bubble, but I was not getting involved in Mayhem's kidnapping. After the run-in I had last year with two dirty cops, I was already considered suspect as a private eye. No one seemed to remember that these narcs had killed my partner, James Okamoto, shot me, then later killed my fifteen-year-old nephew, Trayvon, because they mistook him for me.
Even though I killed them both in self-defense, from that point on, I could tell I was under surveillance by the powers that be. Trust and believe, though, I didn't lose any sleep over those two murders, either. I felt it was kind of a street justice to them. An eye for an eye. Now and then, the Feds or the police would still pull me in and harass me.
With Romero gone, my mind meandered back to my brother's dilemma. As far as this kidnapping of my brother, Mayhem, I couldn't even go to the law with this anyhow. My brother was a Crip, a known drug dealer, and a lethal killer.
And why was my mother coming to me? As far as I was concerned, Mayhem had always been her pet. She was the one who did twenty years' time for a crime my brother, her first born, committed. Let her figure out how to get him from his kidnappers. I knew I was hardening my heart when I told this to myself.
Still, this thing wouldn't let me go. I was in a quandary.
Venita must be crazy.
I liked living. No telling who could be holding Mayhem, from some Mexican cartels to a Black gang. Because I felt so conflicted, it was hard to concentrate on my surroundings.
I forced my mind back on the present, and did what I came here to do. I started snapping pictures of celebrity couples who would probably be divorced and remarried by next year, since they didn't believe in letting any grass grow under their feet. If I were the paparazzi, I'd be sitting on a gold mine right now, since I was capturing all the A-list actors and actresses, but at the same time, I was looking for a lead on my case. Lolita, the missing person, was last seen with a D-list actor, who so far I hadn't seen tonight.
Romero hadn't been gone twenty minutes when, out of my peripheral vision, I noticed a couple of suits approaching me with the intensity of two fence-jumping alligators. I knew the look. I guessed they were Feds of some kind.
“Come with us, young lady.”
“Why? I didn't do anything wrong? What the–”
Chapter Three
“Wait a minute. I got rights,” I protested.
“You got the right to be arrested right here. Don't make a scene.” The taller man with the glass eye spoke with a threatening rumble under his voice. A spasm of irritation crossed his face, and his good eye narrowed in contempt.
A strong hand grabbed me by the elbow. It was Glass Eye's partner.
“Wait a minute. Who are you? Wha ... Who ... ?” I stammered.
“FBI. Special Agent Jerry Stamper.” He flashed a badge, then stuck it back in his jacket before I could eyeball it good. His crew cut had dandruff snowflakes powdering his navy serge jacket.
Glass Eye flashed his badge. “Special Agent Richard Braggs, DEA.”
“Oh, is this some kind of cluster fuck? Since when did the FBI and the DEA start working together?” I couldn't help but cuss. Something wasn't right here.
“We're part of a covert operation authorized by the government. You're obstructing our operative. Don't get smart or we'll arrest you right here on the spot.”
I looked around at all the Hollywood glitz and glamour and decided I didn't want to make a scene. That surely wouldn't be good for future business. “But what did I do?”
“We need you for questioning.”
“Do you have probable cause?” I asked belligerently. “Do you have a warrant?”
“You either come with us or we'll make it hard for that brother of yours.”
That's when I complied. What did they mean by that? “Hey, where are we going? Hey, what's going on?”
I climbed into an unmarked car. When they didn't jump on the Hollywood Freeway, and headed south on the Harbor Freeway, I knew we weren't headed to Parker Center, the central police station in the heart of downtown. We passed the Hollywood sign and it never seemed more ominous. The sky was clear of clouds, yet I felt a sharp pain in my old bullet wound. I touched the spot over my heart. Good indication there would be rain later that night.
Stumped, I rode in silence. My mind was spinning with questions. Was I being kidnapped? Who were these people? Were they legit? If not, what did they want with me? Then I had an even worse thought. Were they going to kill me? My hands suddenly turned clammy and adrenalin was coursing through my veins. Because Glass Eye was driving so fast, and changing lanes so often, the ride through the city felt like we were hammer sawing through traffic. We were driving at breakneck speed and the streetlights passed us in a blur.
A cyanide night sky covered L.A. and the ordinarily beautiful streetlights resembled dangerous satellites. L.A. is seductively beautiful like that. It's a pretty poison. Treacherous. For all its beautiful palm trees and exotic flowers, L.A. could be hell. While people were at the Academy Awards, someone on the other side of town was probably getting killed at this very moment. I cringed at the thought. I sure hoped that someone wasn't my brother. I shivered and held my arms at the elbows. Suddenly my dress felt too sheer to be out in the night air. Now I wished I'd never come to this awards ceremony.
Finally the car exited the Harbor Freeway, and I recognized that we were in the San Pedro industrial area. After a few quick turns on hilly streets, we pulled up into this small warehouse down near the docks, and I became afraid. I could smell the ocean nearby.
Who were these men? Were they really Feds? Were they going to kill me? My senses became super hyper-vigilant. I could already see myself sleeping with the fishes. Would I wind up a memory in the ocean?
Suddenly, the car screeched to a halt. We were in a darkened parking lot. The two men jumped out of the front seats, pulled me out of the car, and roughed me up; then they pushed me into an unmarked door of this warehouse. The smell of fish let me know I was at some type of fishing loading dock.
“What do you want with me?” I asked, feeling I had nothing to lose.
They didn't answer. The first thing they did was frisk me for a wire. Next, Glass Eye grabbed my purse. He opened it, snatched out the camera, and put it in his pocket. Obviously, he didn't recognize my phone because I had it in a case. Then they pushed me into a chair in an empty store room. I felt like I was a suspect, but what crime was I guilty of?
“I'll get straight to the point. We know you know where your brother is ...”
“What are you talking about?”
“We know you know something. You're not a dummy.”
“Did he get in touch with you?” Glass Eye interjected.
I crossed my eyes, looking crazy. “Do you have a chemical imbalance?”
“Don't get smart. We know all about you and what happened with those two officers. Just because you got off killing two officers before, you won't get away with it now. We got our eye on you.”
“What are you talking about?” I pretended to be surprised.
They both hit me with a barrage of questions. “We know you know something.”
“Did he get in touch with you?”
“Did who get in touch with me?” I kept my game face on. I didn't flinch a muscle. I'd learned over the years to never volunteer information. “I said I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Don't get smart,” Glass Eye snapped. “We know all about you and what happened with those two narcs you knocked off.”
Agent Stamper jumped in. “Yeah, we know how you got fired. That you were a drunk. If we find out you had anything to do with Okamoto's murder, your ass is grass. He was a good man.”
“Look. Okamoto was my friend. I've been cleared by IA, so you can stop talking all that yayo.” Although I was afraid, they made me mad accusing me of killing my late partner, my friend.
“Well, time will tell. Anyhow, we know you know where the money is.”
I paused. It was the money again. First Venita asked me about money and now two strange white men wanted to know about some money. “What money?”
“We gave your brother big money to go to Brazil.”
“That doesn't even sound right.”
“We were after the big fish. Diablo. Escobar, as he's calling himself these days. We have the Olympics coming to Rio de Janeiro in 2016 and we want to have things cleaned up by then. We wanted him to go and do the trade. We were going to catch Diablo this time with the money trail. Now the money has disappeared, and we don't know where your brother is.”
“Why would you give him money like that?”
“You know your brother was a snitch. Rat, whatever you want to call it.”
“I don't believe it.”
“That's how he got out so early.”
“Don't believe it.” Everything in my spirit knew that didn't sound right.
“Well, you better believe it. Your brother is something else.”
I couldn't say anything. I didn't have any idea who the man was Mayhem had become. We hadn't lived together since we were nine and ten, before we went into foster care.
“We know all about you too. If we find out you had anything to do with Okamoto's murder, we'll make sure you'll pay.” This time it was Agent Braggs making the accusation, again, and I remained calm.
“Look, like I said, I've been checked out and I'm clean.”
“Well, we know you know where the money is.”
“What money are you talking about?
“We had been following your brother. We don't want him. We want the big fish–Diablo.”
“But why do you want me?”
“We understand your brother has been kidnapped.”
“And?”
“He was working with us.”
“What do you mean?”
“He turned state's evidence.”
“You're lying. He'd never snitch.”
“Whole bunch of people are snitches now if they don't want to spend time behind bars. He was working with us. Don't you think it was strange how he got out of prison on a ten-year bid?”
I didn't say anything. I remembered hearing that Mayhem's judge had overturned his sentence on a technicality. I heard all his last set of charges had been dropped so I decided to suspend disbelief on that one.
“Besides we got a lot of new charges on your brother. He's gone white collar crime.”
“What?”
“He's involved in all types of money laundering schemes. Are you familiar with your brother's strip club and ‘massage'”–he stopped and curled his fingers like quotation marks–“parlor in Hollywood? He even got the nerve to have pornography Web sites. He has a lot of money off shore in the Cayman Islands in some bogus account name that he's hidden away. He's also running an illegal cell phone business throughout the prison system. Even was trying to produce a rap group. So the IRS has a lot of charges waiting on him. Quite the entrepreneur.” I didn't say anything. This was all new to me.
“Hell, your brother is like the Steve Jobs of the streets now. This fool even has investments on Wall Street.”
He's not too big of a fool,
I thought. I was surprised myself. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“We know you're active on Twitter. We know you know the gangs on Twitter. And we know you're on Facebook. We know you keep your ear to the street.”
“Look, I run a legitimate business.”
“No, a lot of people know you're just like undercover and they work on your team and are willing informants.”
“Not true.” I shook my head.
Agent Stamper turned to Glass Eye and kind of snickered.
“Man, did you hear about how the gangs are doing drive-bys using Twitter to help them?”
“Yeah, yeah. You nig–I mean, you brothers make me sick. Just a bunch of savages. Animals, all of you. You all fuck up everything.”
Boy, I wished I had a tape since white officers know they have to be politically correct now since Mark Fuhrman and the O.J. trial. My phone was in my purse so I couldn't get to it to push record.
In my heart, though, I didn't believe my brother was a snitch. Something was not adding up. But what I did know was someone ratted him out for him to get kidnapped.
My gut started thundering. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that they were setting me up. But what did they want with me? Moreover, what was in it for them?
“So once again, where is the money?”
“What money?”
“We understand you will know how to get that. They say you can track anything.”
“Who are ‘they'?” I wasn't flattered at all.
“Look. We're going to keep busting your balls until you give up what you know.”
“No, you're going to tell me something first. Do you know where my brother is?”
“Look, we can get that little license of yours pulled. I suggest you get busy and try to help us.”
“Why should I?”
“We're part of a covert operation!”
“What do you mean?”
“We gave your brother five million to do a deal in Brazil. Now the money has come up missing and he's supposedly kidnapped. Do you have any idea where he is?”
“No. I don't keep up with my brother like that.”
“He's going to pay unto Caesar what is due to Caesar. We're going to take you back now, but you better get busy. If you want to see your brother alive again, that is.”
With that, they grabbed me from the chair, each taking an arm on one side, then deposited me in a rough toss like so much garbage into the back seat of the car. They both tossed me their cards, which I tucked in my purse.
“Give me back my camera.”
“You'll get it back when we get that money.”
“Hey, I paid a lot for that camera.” It was the latest Canon and could even capture people in movement.
Neither man responded.
Thank goodness, I'd taken all my cases off the camera yesterday and only had shots of the Academy Awards.
They drove off, burning rubber. I guess I was safe for now ... that was, if their wild driving didn't kill me first. I sat in the back seat, alone with my thoughts. I didn't know what my next move would be. What should I do?
Sometimes cases stick with you, take you dark places you don't want to go. Who was the bad guy in this case? I wondered. Was my brother such a bad person because he refused to not be able to take care of himself and his family? I didn't know what was right or wrong sometimes.
I'd made my share of mistakes in this life and I didn't want to judge my brother. I'd been fired from the LAPD due to my drinking problem, which I developed while on the job. I know I have to take full responsibility for my choice to drink, but what if I hadn't been able to use my skills to become a private investigator? What if I'd had to do something illegal to make a living? Then, how could I judge Mayhem?
BOOK: Slipping Into Darkness
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