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Authors: Solomon Jones

The Bridge (9 page)

BOOK: The Bridge
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She sat for a moment, biting her lip as her eyes quickly shifted back and forth. It had all happened so fast, this falling-apart. But it was a moment that she'd known would come. And as she tasted the blood that oozed into her mouth from the places he had slapped her, she did what she'd always known she would.
Picking up the phone, she dialed the police, gave them Sonny's description, the location where he was last seen, and the description of her car.
A calm swept over her as she hung up. She wiped away tears with the back of her hand and sat for a full minute before a smile began to creep across her lips.
“You gon' be sorry you hurt me, Sonny,” she said, her voice quivering. “I'm gon' make sure o' that.”
 
 
 
The parking lot at Central Detectives was eerily still when Lynch arrived with Wilson and Daneen. But he didn't notice. His mind was filled with images of Sonny and the man who would surely die because of him.
As much as he tried, though, Lynch couldn't make himself care about Baylor. He was much too worried about himself.
“Come on, Daneen,” Lynch said, roughly grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the backseat.
“Stop pullin' on me,” she said, snatching her arm away and locking eyes with him.
Their stare was filled not with anger, but with longing. It was Lynch who looked away first.
Wilson watched as a slew of conflicting feelings hung like a thick fog between them. She turned and started to walk toward the building. There were more important things to worry about than that.
“Lynch!” a detective called out, running out of the back door with two officers following close behind. “She's gone!”
“What are you talking about?” he said, a lump swelling in his throat as he tore his eyes from Daneen's.
The detective stopped in front of Lynch. “Judy Brown,” he said, panting. “Chalmers took her to the bathroom about twenty minutes ago. She must've hit him with something. Gashed the back of his head pretty good.”
“So how did she get out?” Lynch asked, his face turning an ashen gray.
The detective looked down at the ground, clearly embarrassed. “We don't know. My guess is she put on his uniform and walked out through the parking lot. I mean, he didn't have it on when we found him on the bathroom floor.”
Wilson's lip curled as disgust swept over her face.
“Why he was in the bathroom with her in the first place?” she asked, pausing for effect. “With his uniform off.”
“I don't like your tone,” the detective said, his eyes flashing anger.
“And I don't like your nasty-ass officers molesting our prisoners,” Wilson said, moving toward the detective.
Lynch stepped between them and placed a hand on the detective's chest. “Where is Judy now?” he said.
The detective looked from Lynch to Wilson, then sighed in frustration before surveying the empty spaces in the parking lot.
“I don't know,” he said quietly. “But it looks like Chalmers's car is gone.”
“I don't believe this,” Wilson said, throwing her hands in the air.
Lynch's reaction was cooler. “Let's put out a description of the car,” he told the detective. “I'm sure she couldn't have gotten far.”
But not even Lynch believed that. With the Ben Franklin Bridge and the state of New Jersey just minutes away, Judy could be anywhere. For that matter, Sonny could, too.
None of that mattered to Daneen. Sonny was just a means to an end. For her, it was about finding the one person who could help her to reclaim what had been lost in their months and years apart. It was about Kenya. And she wasn't about to let anyone forget that.
So she turned to Lynch with piercing eyes and spoke with the concern of a mother. “What about my baby?”
Lynch and Wilson looked at her, then at each other. But before they could answer, the handheld radio on Lynch's hip crackled to life.
“Dan 25?”
Lynch snatched the radio from his belt. “Dan 25.”
“A complainant at the Fairview Apartments says your male just left her unit. He's wearing a brown shirt and black pants and driving a blue 1990 Ford Taurus with a Pennsylvania tag of B-Barney, W-William, D-David, five-six-four-three. Direction unknown.”
“Dan 25, what's the complainant's apartment number?”
“Eight D. That's eight D-David.”
He turned to Daneen. “That apartment number sound familiar to you?”
“No,” she said. “But that's probably that young girl he mess with up there.”
“And when were you going to tell us about that?” Wilson asked, clearly annoyed.
Daneen wasn't about to be bullied.
“I woulda told you when you asked me,” she said. “Ya'll the cops, not me.” not me.
“Dan 25,” Lynch said, ignoring Daneen and speaking into the
radio as he went back to his car. “I want that description broadcast over J band and East Division. Stand by for flash information on Judy Brown, wanted for investigation on narcotics violations, auto theft, and assault on a police officer.”
Lynch jumped into his car with Wilson and Daneen while the detective who'd told him of Judy's escape rattled off her description to radio.
As Lynch drove the three of them toward the Fairview Apartments, verbal pictures of Sonny and Judy were painted over the airwaves of Philadelphia.
With Judge Baylor on his deathbed, and Lynch poised to take the blame, the search for them was about much more than Kenya now.
 
 
 
The knock at the door startled Dot. She thought it was Sonny, coming back to apologize, to take her with him, to do anything but what he'd done before he left.
She dragged herself from her bed, walked into her living room, and stared through the peephole at a police officer standing in the hallway with a notepad in hand.
She hadn't expected the police to arrive that quickly. But she opened the door, eagerly inviting the officer inside.
“You here about Sonny, right?”
“Yeah,” the officer said, walking in while flipping through the notepad. “Where is he?”
Dot started to answer. Then the officer took off her hat and sat down on the couch. Dot's mouth dropped open.
“Why you so surprised?” Judy asked, smiling in spite of herself. “You thought I ain't know about you and Sonny?”
Dot stumbled to find the right words. “Know … what?”
“Look,” Judy said, her hard voice tinged with a quiet anger. “We ain't got time to play games, sweetie. I always knew. I saw the way
he looked at you when you was livin' with your mama. Smelled you on his skin when he came back from seein' you. But I ain't care. Long as he brought home what was mine.”
“So what you here for?” Dot asked.
“'Cause Sonny got somethin' belong to me. And I got a feelin' you know where he went with it.”
“Well, you wrong,” Dot said with an attitude. “I don't know.”
Judy got up from the couch, walked over to her and stood just a few inches away, staring at the cuts on her lips.
“You know somethin',” Judy said. “From the looks o' things, Sonny been here.”
Dot self-consciously raised her hand to cover her mouth.
“Ain't no need to cover it up, honey,” Judy said, her eyes boring into Dot's. “'Cause if you don't tell me what I wanna know in the next five seconds, I'm gon' make sure everybody see it.”
Dot knew she should be afraid, but she stood her ground with flat-footed defiance.
Judy took it in, and her eyes clouded over with a quiet rage. Her hand balled into a fist, her mouth turned down in a grimace, and as the seconds ticked by, Dot's resolve began to waver.
Judy made a sudden move. Dot fell to the ground in a shivering mess. Judy dropped to one knee and grabbed her by the neck. Dot reached up and tried to pry Judy's hands away. But as Judy's grip tightened around her throat, it was clear that Dot was too weak to fight her off.
“Niggas don't tell you ‘bout this when they tryin' to get between your legs, do they?” Judy said through a maniacal grin. “They don't tell you they woman might walk up on you and choke the shit outta you.”
The veins on Judy's forehead stood out as she squeezed harder, cutting off Dot's air. Dot's face turned red, then purple as she struggled to break free.
For a split second, Judy considered squeezing the life from the girl who had taken a piece of Sonny away from her.
But then good sense prevailed over anger. She let go, sitting back on her haunches as Dot coughed and tried to catch her breath.
“Where he at?” Judy asked.
Dot looked up at her, at once fearful and relieved.
“Gone,” was all she could manage to say.
Judy got up from the floor and looked down at her menacingly. “Gone where?”
“To hell, I hope,” Dot said with a gasp.
Judy continued to look down at her and wait. When Dot caught her breath, she repeated the description she'd given to 9-1-1.
Judy memorized it. Then she rushed from Dot's building and walked one block to the Salvation Army Corps on Huntingdon Street.
She told them that she needed clothing for a rape victim she was taking to police headquarters. When they gave her the clothes, Judy went outside, slipped into an alley, took off the police uniform she was wearing, and changed into the clothing herself. From there, she walked to Germantown and Rising Sun, where she took a room in a two-story hotel whose most loyal customers were crack prostitutes.
After checking into the room, she took to the street to find Sonny.
Lily looked from the cracked brown floor tiles in her hallway to the shadows that spilled across Darnell's ashen gray face. She thought that if she stared long enough, she would find answers. But the only things she found were questions. And all of them were about Kenya.
In the midst of her uncertainty, there were two things that Lily believed to be true. Sonny had molested Kenya. And somehow, he had arranged for her to disappear.
As far as Lily was concerned, Darnell's assertion that Judy was involved was wrong. No matter how much the drug game had hardened her, Judy wouldn't have harmed Kenya to hide the truth about Sonny and their drug enterprise. She just wasn't that ruthless.
So when Lily looked up through the shadows of her uncertainty and saw what she believed to be the truth, she spoke it without the slightest hesitation.
“It wasn't Judy,” she told Darnell. “It mighta been some o' them people that hang around her place. But it wasn't her.”
Darnell peered down the hallway at the living-room couch where Lily's daughter sat, watching television. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper.
“I wanna believe that, but I can't,” he said. “Much as it hurt me to say it about my aunt, I can't stop thinkin' it was her.”
“Much as it hurt you to say it?” Lily repeated sarcastically. “I don't think nothin' hurt you, Darnell. I don't even think you remember how it feel to hurt.”
He didn't respond. Not outwardly. But inside, his mind was in another place—in a time when he and Lily couldn't stand this close to one another without touching.
“You'd be surprised what I remember, Lily.”
“You said you came here about Kenya,” she snapped. “Not about us.”
“Us?” he said. “Ain't no such thing as us no more, is it?”
Lily stared at him for a moment. And then she looked away. The memories from their time together reminded her of what it was like to be happy. It was easier when she couldn't remember.
“You right, Darnell,” she said finally. “It ain't no us. But it's a little girl that need to be found. And the cops damn sure ain't gon' do it.”
“So you gon' find her?” Darnell asked skeptically.
“I don't even know where to start.”
“Neither do 1. Seem like I been walkin' in circles all mornin', hopin' I would run into her.”
“You been out all mornin' and you ain't ran into nobody that seen her?” Lily said cynically. “Seem to me like you ain't really been lookin'.”
“Well, I did hear somebody say she was with that girl from the tenth floor. What's her name?”
“Lakeesha or Shanequa or one o' them ghetto-ass names.”
Darnell smiled. “Her name Tyreeka,” he said.
Lily grunted, staring into the space between them as she conjured images of Tyreeka, the little girl who was too old for Kenya, but too young for the teenage boys she seemed to attract.
“I ain't never liked that li'l piss tail girl anyway,” she said.
“Why not?”
“She one o' them sneaky heifers. Always up in some nigga face. And all the boys I ever seen her with was drug …
Lily's voice drifted off. Darnell stood quietly, waiting for her to return to the moment. When she did, it was as if something clicked.
“I wouldn't be surprised if Tyreeka know where Kenya at,” she said.
“Why you say that?”
“Didn't you say Kenya was with her last night?”
“Yeah,” Darnell said. “But when I knocked on her mother door this mornin', ain't nobody answer.”
“Well, I'm goin' down there now,” Lily said, hurrying toward the door and grabbing Janay's hand as Darnell followed close behind. “And I betcha a fat man that when I do, I'll find Kenya.”
 
 
 
Sonny was on 1-76, driving toward the airport in Dot's car. He was traveling at the posted speed limit of fifty, watching as other cars flew past him.
Sonny was in no hurry. He had already made contact with his Dominican connection—a man whose North Philadelphia drug corners paid for the private, guarded villas he'd built outside San Juan.
The Dominican had made arrangements for Sonny to stay at one of them once he reached Puerto Rico. It was a favor Sonny had earned through their decades-long business relationship.
But Sonny hated asking favors. And soon, he would no longer need to do so. With the money he'd taken from Judy, and the money he would have electronically transferred from his account, he could buy a private slice of the island. There would be women, young and nubile, who would bow to his every whim, and men whose daily chore would be to arrange his latest fantasy.
That's the way it would have worked if Sonny had planned to follow through. But he didn't, because he'd hurt cops while trying
to escape, and they wouldn't rest until they found him. That reality changed everything.
Now, he only wanted to use the Dominican's influence to get him into San Juan. He would stay there for just a day, then decide upon a final destination and leave, telling no one.
Sonny knew that staying longer was not an option, because it would give the Dominican the opportunity to set him up. Sonny, after all, was in a position of weakness. The police were looking for him, his family was pointing fingers, and he had no backup to speak of. Regardless of their long-term business relationship, the Dominican, like any good hustler, would be loath not to take advantage of Sonny's vulnerability.
But Sonny wasn't going to give the Dominican or anyone else the chance to stick him. At least that's what he believed before he saw the flashing lights behind him.
Sonny looked in the rearview mirror and saw the patrol car moving closer. As he watched the car's dome lights swirl brightly against the pale expanse of morning sky, his mind began to race.
He had just passed the previous exit—Spring Garden—so he couldn't try to bolt from the expressway into the maze of West Philadelphia's streets. He couldn't turn around because a concrete barrier separated the northbound and southbound lanes. All Sonny could do was hope.
And at that moment, Sonny's hope was that the cop was trying to pass him. When Sonny switched from the middle to the far-right lane to give the cop the chance to do so, the cop switched lanes, too.
His palms began to sweat, causing his hands to slide against the steering wheel. He considered flooring it, but a chase on the expressway was not like a chase on the streets. There were only a few exits, and they could easily be blocked.
After a moment's pause, Sonny pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He did so in the hope that Dot hadn't given his description
to police, and that this was just a routine stop. If it was, he knew that he could take care of the cop.
Sonny tapped the brakes and rolled to a halt. The police car pulled in behind him. When the cop got out, he unsnapped his holster and walked toward Sonny's car.
The gesture was ominous. Drivers who saw it slowed as they rode past, craning their necks to look inside the vehicle the cop was approaching.
Sonny ignored them. Instead, he watched the cop in the rearview mirror and removed his hands from the steering wheel. He knew that backup would arrive soon, which meant that he didn't have much time.
Grabbing the backpack, Sonny flung open the passenger door and plunged out of the car.
“Stop!” the officer shouted, drawing his gun and aiming at the spot where he believed Sonny to be.
Sonny rolled onto the ground and crawled on his belly, moving toward the back of the car. For a split second, everything around him was still. Then the officer opened fire, and the air was filled with the sound of flying bullets.
Suddenly, the cars that had slowed to watch the roadside drama were darting away as their drivers raced to avoid the onslaught.
Bullets punctured Dot's car, embedded themselves in the asphalt, whizzed past Sonny's ears. Sonny, still flat on his stomach, folded his arms in front of his head. Then he rolled beneath the car, pulling the backpack with him.
The officer stopped shooting and began to walk along the rear of the car. Sonny could hear the fall of his feet as he rounded the passenger side and stopped at the back door.
Sonny looked out from beneath the car at the cop's boots, which were just inches from his face. He could tell, even as the cop stood still, that his eyes were surveying the space around him, looking for Sonny.
Just as the cop started to bend to look under the car, Sonny reached out with one hand and pulled the cop's feet from under him. The cop fell hard, dropping his gun as his head bounced against the ground. Sonny rolled out from beneath the car. The cop tried to rise to his feet. Sonny jumped onto his chest, grabbed his head with both hands, and banged it against the ground. Blood spattered. The cop was still.
Sonny jumped in the car and peeled away, the spinning wheels spraying the cop's body with roadside gravel and dirt.
As he bore left at the fork in the highway, he looked in the mirror and saw the cop's backup arriving at the scene. Sonny pulled off at the next exit, Twenty-third Street, drove a half block to Twenty-second, turned right, and pulled into an open-air parking lot near a small street called Cherry.
Swinging the backpack onto his shoulder, Sonny walked out of the lot and cut down a side street toward the river. A few minutes later, when cop cars came flying into the area, Sonny disappeared into the high weeds along the bank of the Schuylkill River.
By the time they found Dot's car parked hard against the gate, with its lights on and its engine running, Sonny was gone.
 
 
 
Dot's door was ajar when Lynch arrived with Wilson and Daneen.
She was sitting in the middle of the floor, crying softly, chin on her chest, shoulders sagging under what appeared to be the weight of the world.
Her television was on, and the slapstick music of the Saturday morning cartoons sharply contrasted with the room's somber mood.
“Are you Dorothea Jones?” Lynch asked as he pushed open the door.
Dot looked up and saw Lynch—a man she vaguely remembered from the Bridge—walking into her apartment with a female detective and another woman.
Dot's expression was blank, just like her heart. She had poured out so much of it since Sonny's tumultuous departure that she wasn't sure there was anything left.
“They call me Dot,” she said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Not Dorothea.”
“Okay, Dot,” Lynch said, ignoring her apparent distress. “I'm going to keep this simple. We know you made the call about Sonny, but we need a little more. We need to know where he went.”
Dot looked from Lynch to Wilson to Daneen. Their eyes were accusing.
“I don't know where he went,” she said. “I told them everything I knew when I called 9-1-1.”
Wilson, who had been standing by the door, closed it and walked to where Dot was sitting.
“Well, that's not enough,” she said.
“Too bad,” Dot said, rolling her eyes at the detective.
Wilson was inclined to snatch Dot to her feet and shake the answers loose. But then she saw something familiar in Dot's face. It was defeat, and heartbreak, and betrayal—the kind of all-consuming pain that a woman can only get from a man.
She tried to play on that.
“Sonny hurts people,” Wilson said sympathetically. “But I don't have to tell you that, do I?”
She paused to give Dot a chance to respond. She didn't, so Wilson pressed on.
“He's still hurting people,” she said. “On our way over here, there was a radio call for an assist. A highway patrolman who spotted Sonny driving your car on the expressway stopped him. Shots were fired. But before backup got there, Sonny bashed the man's head in and disappeared.”
“So what you want me to do?” Dot asked, clearly agitated. “He took my car—punched me in my face and took it. I don't know where he goin', but wherever it is, I hope to God he stay there.”
Wilson looked down at her and saw purple marks around her neck. She leaned in for a closer look.
“Did he do that to you, too?” she asked, pointing to the bruises.
“He might as well be the one who done it,” Dot said. “It wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for him.”
She turned away from Wilson, and the light from the television reflected against a shining welt near her right eye.
“Whole lot o' things would be different if it wasn't for him,” she said, her eyes as far away as her voice.
BOOK: The Bridge
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