Triptych (7 page)

The BMW was still parked outside of building nine, two teenagers sitting on the hood with their arms crossed over their chests. They looked about fifteen or sixteen, and Michael felt a cold sweat at the soulless look in their eyes as they watched his car pull into the lot. This was the age that scared him most as a cop. They had something to prove, a quest to fulfill in order to grow from boy into man. Spilling blood was the quickest way to cross over.

Trent was looking at the boys, too. He gave a resigned “Great,” and Michael was relieved to see him still thinking like a cop.

The front door to the building banged open and they both reached for their guns at the same time. Neither one drew as a short, fireplug of a man stalked down the broken sidewalk, pounding right past Trent’s side of the car without giving them a second look.

The man wasn’t wearing a shirt and his broad chest showed hints of thick muscle under jiggling fat, his pecs jerking up and down like tits with each step he took. He had an aluminum bat in one hand, and as he got closer to the boys on the car, he wrapped his other hand around the base, ready to break some balls.

Michael looked at Trent, who said, “Your call,” but he was already getting out of the car.

“Shit,” Michael hissed, opening his door, getting out just as the fireplug reached the boys.

“Get the hell off my car!” the man screamed, waving the bat in the air. Both teens stood up straight, arms dangling at their sides, mouths slack. “Get on a’fore I beat your asses, you lazy motherfuckers!”

Wisely, the kids bolted.

“Well,” Trent said, letting out a breath.

“Stupid motherfuckers,” the man repeated. He was looking at Michael and Trent, and Michael was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the boys anymore. “What the fuck you two pigs want?”

“Baby G?” Trent asked.

The man kept the bat up, ready to strike. “Who the fuck’s asking?”

Trent took a step forward as if he wasn’t scared his head would be knocked into right field at any moment.

Assault,
Michael remembered Angie saying when she told them about Baby G.
Rape, attempted murder.

Trent said, “I’m Special Agent Will Trent, this is Detective Orme-wood.” Michael waved, glad there was a car between him and the angry pimp. Trent was an idiot if he thought he’d get anything useful out of this thug.

“We’re investigating the death of Aleesha Monroe.”

“Why the fuck should I talk to you?” Baby G kept the bat in the air; his muscles tensed.

Trent looked back at Michael. “Any ideas?”

Michael shrugged, wondering how he was going to write this up in his report once he got Will Trent to the hospital.
Officer antagonized suspect…
came to mind.

Trent turned back to the pimp, holding his hands out in an open shrug. “Honestly, I’m shocked my good looks and charm aren’t enough for you.”

Michael felt his jaw drop in surprise. He closed it quickly, let his hand reach down to his gun again so he’d be ready to react when the pimp figured out he was being disrespected.

Two or three seconds passed, then two or three more. Finally, Baby G nodded. “All right.” He smiled, showing the gold caps on each tooth, crosses cut through the centers showing the whites, just as Angie had described. “You got ten minutes before Montel comes on.”

Trent held out his hand, as if they’d made a deal. “Thank you.”

The pimp shook the offered hand, looking Trent up and down, saying, “You sure you a cop?”

Trent reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge.

Baby G glanced at it, then let his eyes do a once-over of Trent again. “You one weird motherfucker.”

Trent tucked his badge back into his pocket, ignoring the observation. “You want to talk out here?”

Baby G dropped the bat to his side, leaning on it like it was a cane. “Them’s my cousins,” he said, indicating the car, obviously meaning the boys he’d chased off. “Up to no good. They should have they asses in school.”

“It’s nice that you take an interest in their lives,” Trent allowed. He had tucked his hands into his pockets again, and was casually leaning against the back of the car like this was some kind of friendly conversation. “When did you last see Aleesha?”

Baby G took his time. “About six last night,” he finally answered. “She was going off to work. Wanted a little something before she went out.” He lifted his chin, waiting for Trent to ask what the little something was.

Trent obviously knew. He had seen the tracks on the hooker’s arms just like Michael. “Did you give it to her?”

Baby G shrugged, which Michael took for a yes.

“Did she have any other suppliers?”

The pimp looked around as if he was checking his audience. He spit on the ground, puffing out his chest in defiance, but he still answered the question. “Hell no. She didn’t have no money. Nobody was gonna float that ho for a dime.”

“I could run up the street and blow just about anybody for a baggie,” Trent pointed out. “No cash involved.”

Baby G laughed at the thought. “Yo, bitch, not on my turf.”

“I’m sure Aleesha reported all her income,” Trent said, more like a question.

“Shit,” Baby G grunted, like it was stupid to even suggest such a thing.

Trent asked, “She a good earner?”

“She like that needle in her arm. Do anything you ask to get it.”

“Did she have any regulars? Men we should be looking out for?”

“Not sick mothers like what did that,” he used the bat to indicate the top floor of the building where Monroe had been found. “I take care of my girls.” He kept the bat raised in the air, using it to make his point. “If I’d‘a seen this motherfucker, you best be sure he’d be the one going in the ground right now, not my Leesha.”

Trent nodded toward the building. “You live here?”

He softened a bit. “With my granny. She gettin‘ kind of old. I gotta look out for her.”

“Were you with her last night?”

“Me an‘ my boys was out at the Cheetah watching the game.”

“Do you mind if we speak with your grandmother?”

“Hell yes, I do. Don’t go gettin‘ my granny mixed up with this shit. She didn’t see
nothing,
you hear? She just an old lady.”

“All right,” Trent acquiesced. He looked back at Michael as if to ask if he had any questions. Michael shook his head and Trent told the pimp, “I know you want to go watch your program. Thank you for your time.”

Baby G stood there, unsure of himself. He finally shrugged them off, repeating, “You just one weird motherfucker,” before walking back into the building.

When the door had banged shut, Trent turned to Michael. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s right,” Michael said, pushing away from the car. “You’re pretty fucking strange.”

Trent’s cell phone chirped, and Michael felt his earlier irritation spark again as Trent walked a few feet away to take the call.

“Yes, sir,” Trent said. “Yes, sir.”

Michael looked up at the sky, the dark clouds that were starting to roll in. The way today was going, a storm would break just as they were leaving the scene and he’d end up sloshing through the parking lot, ruining his new shoes.

Trent snapped the phone closed, tucking it into his vest pocket. “You need to go home, Michael.”

Michael felt his heart stop in his chest. “What?”

“You need to go home,” Trent repeated. “There’s been an accident.”

CHAPTER SIX

Michael drove like the devil, his hands gripping the wheel. Trent sat beside him, stone quiet even as Michael blasted through red lights and ran stop signs. The house was less than twenty minutes away from Grady Homes, but Michael felt like it was taking hours to get there. His heart was in his throat, pumping like a freight train. All he could think about was all the horrible things he had done to his family, how he didn’t deserve them, how he would clean up his act, turn his life around, if only Tim was okay.

“Fuck!” Michael twisted the steering wheel hard to the left, narrowly avoiding a Chevy Blazer that had the right of way.

Trent had grabbed the side of the door, but he wasn’t stupid enough to say anything about slowing down.

Michael straightened the wheel, making another hard left onto a back road that would take them out of heavy traffic and hopefully get them home sooner. The clutch slipped but quickly caught again as he accelerated. A light was flashing on the dashboard, the engine temperature gauge pushing well into the red. All he needed was for the piece of shit car to get him to the house. That’s all Michael needed.

He hit the redial on his cell phone again, listening to the phone ringing at his house for the fiftieth time. Barbara’s cell wasn’t picking up and he hadn’t been able to find Gina at the hospital.

“God damn it!” Michael screamed, smashing the phone against the dashboard, breaking it to pieces.

Greer had called Will Trent to tell him there was a problem, like Michael was some pansy civilian instead of a seasoned cop. All the lieutenant had said was that there had been some kind of accident involving a kid at Michael’s house. Standard rucking procedure-don’t tell them on the phone, don’t freak them out so they drive their car over a bridge on the way to the scene. When Michael had tried to call Greer back for more details, the fucker had talked to him like he was twelve. “Just get home, Michael,” Greer had said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Bike,” Trent said, and Michael saw the cyclist at the last second, nearly clipping the guy as he darted the car into the other lane. There was an oncoming truck, and Michael jerked the wheel back just in time to avoid a head-on collision.

“We’re almost there,” Michael said, as if Trent had asked. “Shit,” he hissed, slamming the heel of his palm into the steering wheel. Tim was always getting into things he shouldn’t. He didn’t know any better. Barbara was getting old. She was tired most days, didn’t have the energy to keep up.

The car fishtailed as he turned onto his street. There were two cruisers in front of his house, one of them parked in the driveway behind Barbara’s car. Uniformed cops were milling around on the sidewalk in front of Cynthia and Phil’s house. Michael’s heart stopped when he saw Barbara sitting on the front porch, head in her hands.

Somehow, Michael got out of the car. He ran to her, bile rushing up his throat as he tried not to be sick. “Where’s Tim?” he asked. She didn’t answer quickly enough and he repeated himself, yelling, “Where’s my son!”

“In school,” she screamed back as if he was crazy. He had grabbed her wrists, dragging her up to standing. She had tears in her eyes.

“Hey,” Trent said, a quiet word that held a warning.

Michael looked at his hands, not knowing how they had wrapped themselves around Barbara’s wrists. There were red marks where he held her. He made himself let go.

Behind him, a coroner’s wagon pulled up, its brakes grinding as it stopped and idled by the mailbox.

He put his hands on Barbara’s shoulders, this time to hold himself up. They had said it was a kid. Maybe they got it wrong. Maybe Greer had lied.

“Gina?” Michael asked. Had something happened to Gina?

One of the cops was at the meat wagon. He motioned the driver toward the house next door. “In the backyard.”

Michael’s feet were moving before he knew it. He slammed open his front door and bolted up the hall. He heard footsteps pounding behind him and knew it was that bastard Trent. Michael didn’t care. He threw open the back door and ran into the yard, stopping so fast that Trent bumped into him from behind.

Michael saw the white first, the skimpy robe, the see-through camisole. She was on her stomach, feet tangled up in the broken chain-link fence. Six or seven men stood around her.

Michael managed to walk toward her, his knees giving out when he reached the body. The mole on her shoulder, the birthmark on the back of her arm. He pressed his fingers into the palm of her small hand.

Somebody warned, “Sir, don’t touch her.”

Michael didn’t care. He stroked her soft palm, tears streaming down his face, whispering, “Jesus. Oh, Jesus.”

Trent was making noises to the group of cops, words Michael couldn’t understand. He could only look at the back of Cynthia’s head, see the long strands of her silky blonde hair draping around her shoulders like a scarf. He pulled the robe down, covering her bare bottom, trying to give her some dignity.

“Detective,” Trent said. His hand was tucked under Michael’s arm, and Trent easily pulled him up to his feet. “You shouldn’t touch her.”

“It’s not her,” Michael insisted, trying to kneel back down, wanting to see her face. It was some kind of trick. It couldn’t be Cynthia. She was at the mall spending Phil’s money, hanging out with her friends.

“I want to see her,” Michael said. His body was shaking like he was cold. His knees didn’t want to work again, but Trent supported him, keeping him up so he didn’t fall back down. “I want to see her face.”

One of the men, obviously the medical examiner, said, “I was just about to flip her anyway.”

With help from another cop, the doctor gripped her by the shoulders and turned her so that she was facing up.

Cynthia’s mouth gaped open, blood spilling out and dribbling down her neck like a slow leak from a faucet. Her beautiful face was marked by a deep cut slashing across her temple. Vacant green eyes stared up at the open sky. Strands of hair were stuck to her face, and he tried to lean down to brush them back but Trent wouldn’t let him.

Michael felt hot tears stinging his eyes. Somebody should cover her. She shouldn’t be exposed like this for everybody to see.

The medical examiner leaned down, pressing her jaw open, peering into her empty mouth. He said, “Her tongue is gone.”

“Christ,” one of the cops whispered. “She’s just a kid.”

Michael swallowed, feeling like he was choking on his grief. “Fifteen,” he said. She’d just had a birthday last week. He’d bought her a stuffed giraffe.

“She’s fifteen.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

OCTOBER 2, 2005

John Shelley wanted a television. He had been working the same crappy job for the last two months, showing up every day on time, making sure he was the last to leave, doing every nitpicking shit job his boss assigned, and to him it wasn’t just a matter of wanting, but
deserving a
television. Nothing fancy for him, just something in color, something with a remote control and something that would pick up the college games.