Soul Mate (The Mating Series) (5 page)

“You don’t need to see that
,” King said, but I already had. A woman lay at the side of a gravel alley. Her head appeared smashed, blood everywhere. I thought I saw bits of brain matter surrounding the body, before he jerked the photo away. I realized that it was the body of a dark skinned black woman.
It wasn’t Skye
. I sighed.

“Did you expect to see
someone else?” Skinner asked.
     “Yes,” I confessed. “A woman from the court ordered program has disappeared.” I broke my agreement with Sky, but she remained at-large. If the police apprehended to her before the killer, she’d be safe.

“Did you report her absence?” Skinner asked.

“No, I wanted to give her a chance to come back on her own.”

Skinner rolled his eyes. “You bleeding hearts really get me.”

My face grew hot. “Excuse me?”

“A woman is in blatant violation of a c
ourt order and you don’t report her.” Skinner huffed.
              “How is putting her in jail going to help?” I asked. “At least our program focuses on rehabilitation.”

“You enable these addict and hookers!”
It was a heated debate, one of which I had many times. Detective Skinner stood up and loomed over me. I shrank in my chair.

King
raised his hand to silence the conversation. “We’re not here to discuss your procedures.” He turned to Skinner. “Are we Billy?” The other detective made a sour face and plopped back in the chair.
Is this the good cop/bad cop routine?
It could be an act to get me to talk, but the two detectives seemed to genuinely dislike each other.

Carefully,
Detective King set a color photo in front of me. The photo displayed a dark skinned shoulder. The skin appeared unusually dark, somewhat ashen. It was a photo of a corpse. “Ma’am,” he said, “can you look at this photo and tell me if you recognize the tattoo?” He spoke gently as if calming a child. His voice sounded deep and rich. I learned to identify accents from Mom. She could guess anyone’s accent. Detective King’s accent was southern, as well, but not with the twang of his partner. He had the melodic tone of the Deep South like Louisiana or Mississippi. His voice and caramel skin caused a serene effect on me. Detective King was the type of person who stood out in a woman’s mind.

“
Look closely,” King said, while his partner silently fumed at me.

I studied the photo.
At first, it didn’t look familiar. I looked closer. The tattoo, a common rose design, showed single name,
Tameka.
“I don’t recognize the tattoo, but the name on it,” I said.

“Is Tameka one of your residents
?” he asked.

“No,” I said
, “that’s not her name. Tameka is her daughter.”

Skinner sighed, looked at his watch, and rolled his head.
“What’s the hooker’s name?” Skinner asked impatiently. He acted like the victim didn’t matter. Cops like him made people distrust the system.

I felt the urge to
lob my pen at Skinner. His demeanor annoyed me. “Her name is,” I said, looking directly at King, ignoring Skinner, “Penny Roil.” I felt the acid in my throat. I swallowed to keep the sickness down.

“Is she a resident here?” King asked.

“She was, a few years ago, but she’s been clean for almost two years now.”

“That you know of
,” Skinner said.

“She’s been clean and off the streets
,” I said. Skinner looked at me like I was delusional.

“When was the last time you saw her?” King asked.

“About a month ago,” I said. “She brought the baby in. Where’s the baby now?”

“I don’t know
,” King replied.

I
teetered on the edge of frenzy. My voice rose. “You have to find out what happened to the baby,” I said. I worried about the baby.

“We’
ll find the baby. What’s her name, Tameka?” King placed his hand over mine to stop the shaking. “Ms. Williams, it’s important you tell us anything you might know.”

“I will,” I hiccupped between sobs
. “I don’t know how much I can help.”

“When you saw her last, did Ms. Roil mention anything new or seem different
?” Detective King asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Did she seem like she was using again?”

“No.”

“Did she mention any new people in her life?” he asked. “A new boyfriend or anything?”

“No
,” I said. I racked my brain to remember. “Actually, she did mention how unhappy she was working at the Mega Mart.”

“Was she unhappy enough to go back to the streets?”

“No, I don’t think so. She knew that would get the baby taken away again.”

Skinner made a disgusted sound. “These people should not be allowed to breed.”
King shot his partner an angry look. “I mean…”

I glared at
Skinner. “I know what you meant.” I snapped. Skinner was a complete Philistine. King seemed like a decent guy. The partnership seemed unnatural.
How could they be partners?

After about an hour of routine questions, the two men couldn’t think of anything else to ask. “Please let me know when you find the baby
,” I said, as I escorted them to the foyer.

“I will.” King said. King and Skinner left.

Nessie stood at the front desk when they left. Once sure the two men were out of ear shot, she grabbed my arm. “Be careful, Miss. Cassie,” she said in a hushed voice. “I know that white cop.” She referred to Detective Skinner. “He was a Vice Cop back in my street days. He’s a real mean sum’ bitch! I ain’t lying.” I didn’t argue. I knew his type of self-righteous cop, who worked to discredit others who didn’t agree with him. “He’s on my list,” Nessie said.

“Your list?” I asked.

“I got me a list of people who I’d like to see beat down someday.”

“I hope I’m not on that list.”

“Course you ain’t on my list,” Nessie said. She pointed to her face. “Numba’ one is the bastard who did this to me.” She pointed to the parking lot. “Numba’ two is Skinner. He’d shake me down every chance he got.”

Skinner’s corruption didn’t surprise me. Several years ago,
a crackdown on corruption rocked in the police department. Many cops went down, many from Vice. Reporters dubbed them the “Good Ol’ Boy club.” The investigations uncovered corruption up the chain of command to the police chief himself.

I knew several
officers at the police department, but I didn’t know Detective King. “What about the other guy?” I asked.

“I
never saw him before.” Nessie said. “He’s pretty hot, ain’t he?” She nudged me in the ribs and winked. “Course, you got a man, now don’t you?”

“I guess
,” I said.

“Ain’t that how it is. You go fo
rever without getting a man to look at you. Once you get one, they everywhere.”

The rest of the day, Nessie and I
arranged the funeral for Penny Roil. I called funeral homes and florists. I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t feel the sadness until late in the evening. When I got home and alone, my mind wandered.
Where was Penny’s baby girl? Who’d do this to her? Why?

I l
ounged on the couch watching “The Simpson’s”. At about seven o’clock Mom appeared out of thin air. I glanced up, but didn’t acknowledge her. She floated in my hand-me-down green chair. Mom had a colorful red orchid in her hair, over her ear. She wore an American Airlines flight attendant muumuu uniform, mandatory on all Hawaiian flights during the 1970’s. The uniform of blue with red and white flowers hung on Mom. Around her neck she wore a lay of red and white silk flowers.

I loved th
at outfit. It reminded me of a better time in my life. Mom worked on the American Airlines flight to Hawaii before Dad left. Dad’s departure forced Mom to work closer to home. She left the Hawaiian flight. It caused her to struggle financially; the closer flights didn’t pay as well.

My dad
was a pilot. He spent most of his time flying from one destination to another. My parents divorced when I was six. At first, he tried to be a father to me. He took me on the weekends until I turned eight. Then the weekends became less frequent, until I only saw my dad once a year. As a teenager, I didn’t see my dad at all. I would get the obligatory phone call at birthdays and Christmas. I saw Dad twice since adulthood, when I graduated from college and at Mom’s funeral. Both visits were in the same year. At Mom’s funeral, Dad made an empty promise to spend more time with me. I haven’t seen him since.

“Cassie,” Mom said, “are you alright?”

“Yeah.” I replied, dully. I continued to watch TV.

“You look upset.”

“Mom?” I asked, not looking at her. “What’s the green room like?”

“I’ve told you before. It’s like a big waiting room.”

“I know that, but what are the people there like? Do they know their dead? Are they sad?”

“Most know they’
re dead. Many are confused and frustrated.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I guess because everyone expects the bright light or angels with harps,” she said. “Then you die and you’re stuck in limbo in a place that’s comparable to the BMV. There’s nothing to do, but wait for your number to be called.”

“Why is it like that?” I
asked. “Why do you have to sit around, doing nothing, until it’s time?”

“Cassie, it’s not like that for everyone. It’s like taking a flight
,” she said. Mom explained things better when she compared it to the airline industry. “Everyone has a departure time and date, but some of us arrive at the terminal early. Then we’re stuck waiting for our flight. We have to wait until it’s our time to board.”
Great, now I’m stuck thinking heaven is a 747.

“How do you know when it’s your boarding time?” I asked.

“I’m not exactly sure. I’ve seen it a couple of times,” Mom said. “This guy sat next to me. He stood up and walked to the curtain. It opened for him and he went through.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Just a blinding light,” Mom said, “but the man saw people. He said, ‘Hello, mother and father, I’ve been waiting to see you’. It was a moving sight.”

“Do you see people in there that you know?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t spend a lot of time there looking for people. Some people spend all of their time looking for loved ones and friends.”

“Why do you spend so much time here?” I asked.

“Remember when you went to Atlanta?”

“Yes.” Several years ago, I visited a college friend in
Atlanta during hurricane season. I got stranded in Charlotte, for two days, until the weather broke.

“Remember
how the passengers acted?” Mom asked.

“I’ll never forget
,” I said. After being bumped from three flights, everyone grew tired and irritable. One man actually got arrested for getting disorderly with the staff.

“Imagine if you’
re dead and your destination is unknown. You can’t imagine the turmoil in the green room.  Then there are the people who refuse to believe they’re dead. They sit around crying and moaning,” Mom said. “Personally, I think it’s a test. The better you handle the waiting, the better it is on the other side of the curtain.” I imagined a sea of moaning people stuck together waiting to be let into heaven. It seemed horrible. “I shouldn’t make it sound so bad,” Mom said, obviously reading my expression. “It’s just like when you get a flight delay. A handful of people make a fuss, but everyone else tries to make the best of the situation.”

“How do you make the best out of being dead and in limbo?” I asked.

Mom waved her hand in front of herself like she was a “Price Is Right” model. “I guess hanging around with your daughter is one way of making the best of the situation”

“I meant the others. How do they make the best of things?”

“There’s lots of clubs, chess club, physics club, drama club. Spirits with a lot of energy can fabricate whole scenes. I’ve been to the theater a few times. I’ve even seen celebrities perform.”

“Like who?”
I asked intrigued. I imagined Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin and Jimi Hendricks jamming in an ethereal café.

“Oh
, I don’t know. Spirits don’t look like we do in life. I just know they’re celebrities.”

“So you don’t look like this on the spirit plane?” I had no other name for the green room.

“Oh no!” She laughed. “I do this for you because it is the form you’ll recognize.”

“So what do you look like?”

“I’m pure energy there.”

“Energy?”
I asked.

“Energy and light.
” Mom straightened proudly. “I’m very bright. Some aren’t as bright as me.” I gave Mom a doubtful look. “It’s not something you can understand in your form,” Mom said.

“What
is my form?”

“Cassie, our body isn’t our being. It’s just a shell or a cocoon and when the cocoon
opens our true self, our soul, escapes out.”