Hot Flash (21 page)

“He's Jesse Boone's brother.”

I acted surprised. My instincts told me to shut up and let him talk, though guilt swamped me again and singed the hairs on my arms.

“Look, M. Nobody knew who Laughton was, not even me. He's a war hero, for chrissakes. Started his life over . . . buried Kelvin Boone. Kelvin, that's his real name. He told me when he quit what the deal was, said he needed to finish some business before he moved on.”

“What business?”

“He found out Jesse was the one who damn near killed Nareece. He's afraid Jesse will find out you're Nareece's sister and the one who helped bring his father down, and the whole Black Mafia operation. And just so you know, it gets even better. Jesse worked with the Feds after he got sent up for his father's murder. That's how they managed to cripple those sons a bitches. That's also how he got paroled.”

“Yeah, but how did he get off from killing that young college girl after he got out?”

“I hate to think the Feds are that low, but I'd bet they made some kind of arrangement for some reason we'll probably never know. Boone's been locked up for a while, but don't underestimate his influence. He's been working from inside, and now he's out with a vengeance. He learned well from his father.”

“How'd Laughton find out about me and Nareece?”

“He said someone in the department is dirty, somebody high up. He discovered your file during his own investigation.”

“You don't just ‘discover' a cold case file, Cap. You have to be digging for it, that specific file.”

I felt like he was avoiding the subject when he got up and moved around to the front of his desk and pulled a file from his top drawer. “Boston Police contacted me, unofficially of course. You've been meddling in a murder case up there, John's murder. They found Boone's fingerprints at the scene.”

“Boone's gotten away with three murders, maybe more, because he's pro–tec–ted,” I spat, sarcastically. “I'm not about to let him make Nareece another statistic.”

“I've got your back for as long as I can, but it could mean both our careers.” He hesitated, then continued. “I owe your father, the best friend any man could have.”

“You said that already. And it's a debt you've paid a thousand times over—you saved my ass, you helped me get Reecey away, watched over us always.” I reached across the desk for his hand and squeezed.

“You would have been off the force if I hadn't stepped in. They should never have put you undercover so soon out of the academy. They wanted you because you were a fresh face. There was so much killing going on, so much corruption. The whole Black Mafia thing scared the crap outta everybody. Nobody was safe, and so many good cops died. Many turned, too.”

I closed my eyes against crushed memories. Crushed, burned, buried, entombed.

Three years after I joined the force, I was scooped up for a special operation—going undercover to infiltrate the Black Mafia. The directive was simple: gather enough information to enable a successful prosecution of key figures. An intense week of instruction on how to identify drugs, contraband, terminology, and prices, and away I went. Muriel Mabley became Lakisha Butler. It was scary how well I succumbed to Lakisha. A key figure in the Black Mafia of the seventies and eighties, Big Daddy Mann latched on to me at first sight. The operation was all good until my cover got blown. In truth, it was all whack. I couldn't get past the nightmare that was resurfacing now.

I let my head fall back and felt a slight adrenaline rush, a skeleton of the real deal right after a hit of heroin. I inhaled and held it until my brain quieted, then opened my eyes and focused on Cap.

He eyed me. “It's still a part of you, isn't it?”

“Always. Doesn't mean it owns me. I sail through every day and thank God for blessing me.”

“Keep it that way. Now go on, get outta here. Keep me abreast of your movements.”

I stopped at Parker's cubicle on the way out. He handed me a piece of paper with “
4603 Bryn Mawr Avenue
” and “
Frank Mann Johnson
” printed on it.

C
HAPTER
20

L
ike I said, Frank “Big Daddy” Mann Johnson was supposed to be dead. At least that's what the FBI had me believe all these years—killed in prison ten years ago while serving a life sentence for murder. Now here I was, chasing down an address that was listed as his.

It was dark by the time I veered right off Wynnefield Avenue to Bryn Mawr Avenue in West Philly. I pulled up a half block past the 4603 Bryn Mawr address and parked curbside. The street was lined with large half-timbered-style houses, art deco versions of English Regency constructed of dark red brick and stone trim. They were set back and screened by sycamore and magnolia trees and other shrubbery.

Sweat trickled down from my armpits as my breathing rhythm quickened.
Pull yourself together, Muriel. Don't freak out now.
I closed my eyes and focused on a tiny light spot in the darkness. After a few minutes, my breathing slowed. I tried Laughton. He didn't answer. I got out of the car frustrated, but determined.

A black Range Rover was parked in front of 4603 Bryn Mawr. It was probably the same vehicle that had picked Jesse Boone up from the courthouse, that followed Dulcey and me in Massachusetts, and that I'd seen in the parking lot at the rest stop on my last trip. Then it had been too dark to see the kind of car. But I did remember it was a SUV.

I did not have a plan. I'd never expected to see Mann again, so first I needed to know whether he was really alive. What was I going to do, just walk up to the front door and knock? Not a good idea, since Mann and everyone associated with him thought I was dead. And then there was that small detail that I wasn't equipped to take on Jesse Boone and his goons alone. There was no superwoman testosterone pumping through my system.

I decided on some reconnaissance.

Trees hugged the house, and vines streamed over the windows. Rhododendrons overarched the walkway, and dead petals covered the flat stones. The light of a full moon behind broken clouds cast ominous shadows over the lawn. I tiptoed up the walkway to the front door. Loud, muffled voices filtered through. I snuck around to the side of the house.

An icy exhilaration ran through my body when I peered inside the living room window and saw a much older, fatter, and uglier Big Daddy Mann sitting on the couch with his back angled to me. Jesse Boone stood over him, his face contorted, his finger jabbing the air around Big Daddy's face. Two other men stood on either side of the entryway. They were Jesse's bodyguards, I supposed. I nearly crumpled backward. The ground covering snapped under my weight and drew the attention of one bodyguard through the open window. I crouched down in the bushes and froze, my breath zapped. His shadow spread across the bushes as he looked out the window. He moved away, and I stepped out from the bushes just as the front door opened. I stepped back and plastered myself against the house, as the man stepped cautiously down the walkway in my direction.

He breathed like a bull, his finger readied on the trigger of a semiautomatic pistol, maybe a 9 mm. A glint of light bounced off the shine of his shoes. He peered into the darkness long enough to make me almost pee my pants, then spun around and went back into the house.

When the door closed, I sprinted down the sidewalk to my car, drove down the street with the lights off, turned a corner, and stopped. The shakes took over. Flashes of the lopsided sneer that contorted Jesse Boone's face and the wrinkled, bulging neck of Big Daddy Mann blocked my vision.

I shook my head, then shook my hands, making them flop back and forth, and sucked in a deep breath—ten deep breaths, trying to ease a familiar urge that raced through my body. I could not believe that seeing Mann had evoked such a reaction. Sixteen years, six months, twenty-four days—I checked my watch—twelve hours and thirteen minutes I had been off of heroin. My head whirled.

I could not erase the image of Daddy Mann, his touch, his voice, his hot breath in my ear.
“You'll wish you were dead when I'm finished with your sweet little ass.”

My cell phone rang, ripping through my thoughts. Calvin's name showed on the screen.

I wanted to answer, but I felt like I'd lose it if I heard his voice. Instead, I waited until the
dong
sounded, indicating he'd left a message, then clicked on the bar to listen to it.

I put my head back and let Calvin's deep, silky voice calm me. “I'm just checking on you, baby. You didn't call, so I was worried. Call me when you get a moment. I'm here for you whenever and for whatever you need.” I clicked off when it ended and stayed put, unable to move.

I shrieked at a knock on the passenger-side window.

“Unlock the door, M.” It was Laughton.

I pressed the Unlock button, and he got in, talking way too loud even before he closed the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said. “I told you to wait for my call.”

I didn't respond, trying to recover from near–heart failure. I leaned forward on the steering wheel, rested my forehead on my hands, and shut my eyes. Laughton finally tuned in and came at me from a softer place.

“Are you all right? I didn't mean to scare you, but what are you doing here?”

I sat up and faced him. “What am
I
doing here? What are
you
doing here? You said, ‘
I'll call you.
' Yeah, right.”

“Move the car. Drive up and pull into the plaza.”

I started the car, took a right to Larchwood, drove down a half mile and into Garden Court Plaza to the far southwest corner of the lot, and parked. The lot was empty except for about a dozen cars spread out.

Laughton waited a few minutes after we parked to speak. For the first time since I'd met him, I was uncomfortable in his presence.

“I'm sorry you're back in this, M. I tried to get this done without you.”

“We've already been over this. And I'll say it again, evidently the only way it's getting done is
with
me.”

“We can get Jesse and Mann this time, for good.”

“What do you mean, ‘this time'? Mann's supposed to be dead. Jesse's supposed to be in prison. Instead, Mann's sitting his fat ass in a pretty fancy house talking to Jesse, who, by the way, has kidnapped my sister and is probably torturing her with his sick ass.”

“She's definitely not here. I got a tip that Jesse's got her at an old mill building that my father owned. He owned a few in the same block.”

“By ‘here,' do you mean the house down from where I was parked when you scared the hell out of me? And why the mill building? Who owns it now?”

“Yes, and it's the best place he can go where nobody would find him. There are some underground tunnels that go between them if he needs to escape. I'm guessing Jesse owns them now. I told you, he's out for payback. In the old days, Mann would've had Jesse killed for tripping over a woman. Mann's old and weak now.”

“Sure, old and weak. He didn't look so old and weak to me. Fat and ugly, but not old and weak.” I shook my hands out again.

“Mann's small-time now. He's nothing. The FBI used him, too, to shut down the whole Black Mafia thing in the day. It was all cool when they were killing each other, you know, blacks killing blacks. They used Mann and Jesse separately and without knowledge of each other to get to some of the lead guys, my father for one. Mann's been hold up for years until Jesse came back on the scene.”

“Jesse. Who is Jesse to command anything?”

“He's a psychopath stepping into a door of opportunity. With most of the head guys gone, he thinks he can rebuild the organization and rule the streets again. This is a fantasy world with him where he's king of the mountain and anyone who tries to climb up is dead.”

“This keeps getting better. And you're working with the FBI to stop him.”

“Somehow they figured out I'm his brother. They're using the information against me. Someone inside the PPD is on Jesse's payroll, which is how he got off. I haven't been able to figure who it is and the FBI is clueless about a lot of things.”

“You know where Jesse is now?”

“I told you, at the mill building.”

“No, he's with Mann.”

Laughton drew back.

“I just told you I saw him and Mann and—”

“We have to let Jesse lead us to Nareece before we get the FBI involved.” Laughton covered my hand with his. I pulled away. “We need to go back to Mann's and wait,” he said. He caught my arm, stopping me from starting the car. “How did you get this address?”

“I found a phone number with initials
FMJ
on a sticky note in Nareece's file. The one you were hiding in your desk drawer.” I seethed. I had to stop and take a breath. I continued when I felt more in control. “I asked Parker to run the number. The note was in your handwriting.”

“Frank Big Daddy Mann Johnson,
FMJ
. I didn't put a sticky note in the file.”

“The writing looks just like yours.” I reached back to retrieve the file from the rear seat pocket. The sticky note was on the inside cover.

He turned on the overhead light and examined the note.

I backed out of the parking lot and drove the block back to Bryn Mawr Avenue, then parked on the opposite side of the street from Big Daddy Mann's house. The black Range Rover was gone.

“Stay here,” Laughton said.

“I'm in this all the way, so do not even try playing the knight in shining armor. It doesn't suit you.”

The sound of our heels echoed off the silent air. We crept up the walkway. The door was ajar. Laughton pulled his gun from his back and pushed the door open. I followed with my weapon drawn. The only light came from the right in the living room, where I had seen Jesse and Big Daddy earlier. I moved toward it. Big Daddy Mann lay on the couch, his shirt soaked in blood from a gaping hole in his stomach, no doubt made by a shotgun. His eyes popped the moment he saw me. The next moment, a demonic smile split his face.

I stretched his arm above the wound and then let go. He groaned. I hawked up a good one and spit into his eye. “You got off easy, you son of a bitch,” I told him.

It was the last thing he ever heard. I backed away and felt Laughton's arms around me. I held on to him and cried—I mean, sobbed. Hell, I hadn't really cried in fifteen years.

Finally Laughton nudged me back to a drier platform. “Let's do this,” he said.

“Like I told you, I'm all in. These are tears of joy, my dearest, tears of joy.” I wiped my nose with the back of my sleeve and regained my composure.

We moved around the room searching, then moved to the dining room and kitchen and searched some more. There were no signs of Nareece ever being there and no clues of her whereabouts.

“Talk to me,” Laughton said.

“What do you want me to say? You're the one working with the FBI.”

“I'm only privy to what they tell me,” he said.

“Then you're definitely screwed.”

He abandoned his approach to that conversation and changed direction. “You need to call this in and be here for the troops.” He hesitated. “Agents Jakes and Janey will respond.”

“I've already had the pleasure.”

We looked at each other and laughed.

“Jakes and Janey. Sounds like a damn circus show,” Laughton said. Then our laughter waned.

I took a seat at the kitchen table. Laughton sat across the table from me.

“What happened to me was like I was in a movie,” I said. “I guess I thought when I'd done my job and put them all behind bars, I'd go back to my life and never look back. Or I'd look to the next starring role. Those bastards glamorized undercover work. I wanted to prove something, I guess. I mean, the FBI wanted
me
to join their team, to be their star player. I was good, too, did everything right, got all good info. Plucky girl.

“Mann was pretty good-looking back then. Still a pig, though. And I gave a stellar performance as Lakisha Butler, the pig's ‘main squeeze,' as he called me. He trusted me with everything. It got so I knew enough to destroy his operation. It's still a mystery how my cover got blown, but when it did, Mann didn't even blink when he filled my veins with heroin, over and over.” I faltered for a second, and the next second, calm surged through my body, making me weightless, hovering over the pictures that flashed before me. “All those pigs . . . every damn day . . . twenty-four/seven, climbing on me, leaving their stench. I prayed for death every one of those days and more when they found me.”

“Report said you were missing for three months before they found you in a burned-out building in Bartram Village.”

“I thought you only knew what they told you. Only reason I'm here is the cap. He stayed with me through rehab and took care of Reece. Then, when my lieutenant wanted me out of the Homicide Division, and I wanted out of the whole police thing, Cap convinced me to stay and join the firearms unit.”

“And you didn't know about Carmella, I mean, Nareece and Jesse?”

“No, we moved her not long after I went undercover.”

“Explains why Jesse didn't connect you. Wow, this shit's crazy . . . So Jesse and Wade go to your house to kill Nareece and get the money and drugs back, only Nareece never gave up the money or the drugs. She couldn't give up the drugs because she had flushed them down the toilet.”