Kill Me Twice (A Zeke Edison Novel Book 1) (6 page)

Zeke had seen Reggie play lacrosse — they met when they were both getting physical therapy after being dinged up practicing their respective sports. He seen her run and shoot a basketball, too. She was an all-around impressive jock. But he’d never seen her use a bow and arrows.

“Let me guess,” he said, “you’re not half-bad.”

“I’m freaking great, and that’s from the first time I tried.”

“It’s not just beginner’s luck?”

Reggie laughed. “You want, I’ll show you how good I am, and you can tell me.”

Zeke lay down, his head resting on his palms. He wanted to think this was all a big joke Reggie was playing on him. He’d start nodding his head, buy the whole story and she’d pounce. Laugh in his face and say, “Sucker!”

But he looked her in the eyes and didn’t see any sign he was being conned.

What he saw was an epiphany.

He asked Reggie, “You think you’re still mad in this life because of what happened to you in your past life.”

“Not just me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve met your mom and dad. They’re great people, and you’ve told me they’ve broken their backs doing their best for you. So what the hell do you have to be angry about most of the time?”

Zeke said, “A chemical imbalance? Too much testosterone?”

Reggie laughed and said, “Sure, if that’s what you want to think.”

“You’re saying I’ve had a past life?”

“Maybe more than one. Who knows?”

Zeke and Reggie parked his Porsche on Winthrop, just around the corner from Sensei Sugiyama’s dojo on Bryn Mawr. As an exercise in humility and municipal hygiene, the aikido master was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his place of business. But that was only the second thing Zeke noticed as he and Reggie came around the corner.

The first was the monstrous guy, Polynesian at a glance, as big as George during his playing days, charging at him with his teeth bared and hands extended like claws. Zeke’s first defensive impulse came from the gridiron. Duck under the guy’s outstretched arms and hit him with a clothesline tackle, a forearm across the throat. Didn’t matter how big he was. He’d go down like he’d been shot.

Might wind up just as dead, too.

Leaving the SOB no opportunity to explain his attack. Having seen Sugiyama-san, though, Zeke’s more recent training kicked in. He stepped off to his left at a 45-degree angle to the big guy’s line of attack. He seized the giant’s left wrist as it shot past. He didn’t try to slow his assailant’s attack; he added spin to it. He smoothly rotated the man’s outstretched arm clockwise.

Where the arm went, the oversized body followed. The giant flipped through the air almost elegantly, as if he were a willing participant in an acrobatic stunt. Only his head slammed into the sidewalk, making a cracking sound. He remained conscious for a second or two. Then his eyes glazed and closed.

Leaving Zeke to wonder if he’d wound up killing the prick anyway.

Zeke looked up and saw Sugiyama-san standing next to him now. The master martial artist gave Zeke the slightest nod. As if to say his technique had begun to approach acceptability. Then he handed Zeke his broom, making clear that the duty of cleaning the sidewalk was now his.

Zeke had no problem with that, but the thought occurred to him that he should see how Reggie was. For all he knew, he might have grazed her with the oversized dude. He hadn’t. To the contrary, Reggie stood over the supine body of yet another colossus, this one also unconscious, and bleeding from his nose and both ears.

In her hand, Reggie held a metal baton.

She looked at Zeke and asked, “Did you see the other guy?”

“What, this one?” He nudged the guy at his feet with a shoe.

Sugiyama-san shook his head. “She means the third one, the man in the car.”

“The man in the car with the camera,” Reggie added.

Aaron Levy crossed the street to join them, moving like he still had two legs instead of one and a half plus a prosthetic. He bowed to Sugiyama-san and the two men shook hands.

“If nobody else got the license plate number, I did,” Aaron said. “I also called 911.”

Sugiyama-san invited everyone upstairs for tea.

Except for Zeke. He got to stand guard over the fallen thugs. Wait for the cops.

And finish sweeping the sidewalk.

George told Paulette his big secret. “My birth name is Percival Butler.”

They were having coffee and pastries at Bistro Bordeaux in Evanston.

“Being a football player, you didn’t want to be called Percy?” Paulette asked.

“That, too,” George said, “but mostly I didn’t want to be a Butler. The part of Georgia my family calls home, a lot of my ancestors were owned by a family named Butler.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I didn’t realize that until an African girl named Neema came to my high school as an exchange student. I was there on a football scholarship. Anyway, both of us being outside the mainstream, we hit it off.”

“I bet she was cute, too.”

George grinned. “That did help.”

“And she felt safe being around you.”

George nodded. “She did, but the best thing was we really liked talking with each other. I was kind of unsure of myself back then. You know, a big kid whose personality was trying to catch up to his physical size. Neema helped me get there. She and Miz Livingston, the obeah lady across the street, helped me become an honor roll student and an all-state football player.”

“Do you still see them?” Paulette asked.

George shook his head. “Miz Livingston passed on, God bless her. Neema went home and got married. It was an arranged thing. She knew it was going to happen before we met and she honored her parents wishes.”

“Breaking your heart, right?”

“Only for four or five years.” George chuckled. “The last day before she left, though, she gave me a kiss right out of the blue. Surprised me no end. It’s still vivid. Whenever I think of Neema now, that’s what I remember most.”

Paulette said, “A parting gift, but what I’m thinking is she was the one who helped you find out about the Butlers owning some of your family members.”

“She was,” George said. “She said it was important to know who my people were. We worked a lot of evenings in the school library finding out. I knew, of course, that like most African-Americans I came from people who’d been slaves, but learning some of the details …” George shook his head. “It made me really angry.”

“Like Zeke?”

George had told Paulette that Zeke had anger management issues.

“At times, but not all the time. I used my anger to fuel my football game. Worked like a charm, too. Until that big collision Zeke and I had.”

Paulette was one of the few people in town who hadn’t seen the play, not even one of the endless reruns.

“Did Neema suggest you change your name?”

“No, that was my idea, but she offered some African names as suggestions, ones she thought fit me. But I didn’t want to come off as a foreigner. So I decided to go with something generic but descriptive: Georgia Black.”

“But Georgia is a female name.”

“That’s just what the judge said when I applied for the change. I told him it was also a state name. He said when I became a state, if it was okay with the original Georgia, he’d give me his permission.”

Paulette smiled.

“He wasn’t a bad guy,” George said. “He was African-American, understood what I was feeling. He said he could go as far as allowing me to become George A. Black. I pointed out the long-A sound wasn’t the same. He said as big as I was I might politely correct people.”

Paulette laughed. “Did you ever do that?”

“Nah. I just decided George A. Black was close enough. So what about you?”

“You mean you’d like to know more about me?”

“Only if you want to share.”

She bobbed her head. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, if it’s not too nosy, how are you paying Zeke’s fee?”

“I’m a really good CPA. I have my own small, select accounting firm.”

“Well, good for you.”

“I started doing other people’s tax returns, the easy ones, in high school.”

“Numbers a family trade?”

“Mom, yes; Dad, no … but Aunt Pamela was also a CPA.”

Before that line of conversation could be pursued, George’s phone chimed. He answered, listened and said, “Yeah, man. Got it. Right away.”

Paulette saw George was all business now.

“What happened?” she asked.

He told her of the attempted assault on Zeke and Reggie, and the outcome.

“Zeke suggested you and I might be safer back at the house.”

Paulette took George’s arm and they headed to his car.

Reggie admitted cracking the skull of the thug who tried to slip past her and get to Zeke.

The cop in charge of the arrest team, Sergeant of Detectives Arvid Washington, was conducting the interviews of the intended victims in Aaron Levy’s office, after declining a cup of green tea at Sugiyama-san’s dojo. Aaron’s personal attorney, Morris Feingold, was also present.

“You felt you had to smack the guy on the back of his head with a metal baton?” Washington asked.

“I gave him a shot on the wrist first. Pretty sure I heard a bone break, too.”

“You’re right about that,” Washington told her.

“Thing was, the guy didn’t seem to care or even notice. I think he was on drugs.”

“Right again.”

“So I couldn’t let him have a free run at my dear friend, Mr. Edison.”

“The two of you are close?”

“In oh so many ways.” Reggie grinned at Zeke, who rolled his eyes. “So I upped the ante and hit him on the head.”

“You might have killed him.”

“And he might’ve killed Zeke. It was an easy choice for me.”

“You know the state’s attorney might take a dim view of your using a baton.”

Reggie shrugged. “I believe what the municipal code says is carrying a baton with the intent to use it unlawfully is what’s problematic. Is any one in this town going to say saving Zeke Edison from getting clobbered from behind is unlawful intent?”

Morris Feingold told Reggie, “Bravo.”

Sergeant Washington sighed and asked Reggie, “You a lawyer, too?”

“Worse, I’m a journalist and an army veteran.”

Aaron added, “Ms. Green, if you missed it, Detective, was the reporter who led the escape of six prisoners held by the Taliban in Afghanistan.”

“That was you, huh? You did somebody in making your getaway, if I remember reading the story right.”

“Strangled the guard who gave me the headscarf he thought I should be wearing,” Reggie told Washington.

“Strangled him
with
the scarf, right?”

Reggie nodded. “I could see it in his eyes after I’d choked him out. He’d been thinking, ‘Now, why’d I have to go and give her that damn thing?’”

The sergeant turned to Zeke. “You saw things the same way as Ms. Green, Mr. Edison?”

“I didn’t see the second guy until he was down, didn’t see the third guy in the car at all,” Zeke said. “I feel like I missed my read on the whole situation.”

“You did just fine with the guy who came right at you. He’s got a dislocated shoulder, a skull fracture and a broken neck.”

“I’ve already had a neck injury. So I’ll go along with Reggie: Better him than me.”

“Yeah, I’d feel the same way,” Washington said. “So, okay, here’s what we found out about the car with the license plates Mr. Levy saw. It belongs to a guy named Tommy Kapono. His brother Nelson is the guy Ms. Green dented real good. Their cousin, Terrence Ahomana is the dude Mr. Edison laid out.”

“And all these individuals are known to the police from their criminal records?” Morris Feingold asked.

“That’s right, Counselor. Strong-arm stuff. They usually lean on people who don’t fight back quite so hard. All of them have done time in state prisons.”

“Do they have any gang affiliations?” Aaron asked.

“Not that we’ve found. Word is they work freelance. Muscle for hire.” Washington looked at Zeke. “You think, maybe, it was some pissed-off Green Bay fans looking to get back at you, Mr. Edison?”

Zeke had received more than a few threatening messages from that quarter.

But all he said was, “Let me walk you out, Sergeant. Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”

As they left, Reggie called out, “I want my baton back.”

“You ever hear of Jonas Dawson?” Zeke asked Sergeant of Detectives Washington.

The two men stood on the sidewalk outside of Aaron Levy’s office building.

Washington gave Zeke a look of suspicion. “Yeah,
I
know about him. What do
you
know?”

Zeke told the cop about his new client, everything about her, and how he’d stopped into Teddy’s Diner that morning. Washington found that interesting, in part anyway.

“The man did a double-take when he saw a picture of your client on your phone?”

“That and stared at me like I was supposed to be scared of him. When that didn’t work, he left angry.”

“So you think he’s the one who sent those punks after you?”

“Not directly, not if he’s as slippery as he’s supposed to be,” Zeke said.

“So you do know something about the man.”

“That he was the only crooked cop out of a corrupt gang of them who got off scot-free. He beat the city out of a fair piece of money, went to law school and now he gets other sleaze-bags off the hook. A friend speculated that he was the toughest one of the crooked cops and nobody would rat on him because they feared him. But I saw the guy, and I don’t think he’s all that scary. Word is he has other leverage: a mob connection.”

Washington smiled and nodded. “That’s pretty good for someone who’s got to be a beginner at checking up on people. I mean, you weren’t working this private eye gig while you were playing football, were you?”

Zeke shook his head.

“My car’s just up the street,” Washington said. “We can talk some more there.”

Washington had a red Mercedes AMG GT.

Sliding in opposite the cop, Zeke said, “You’ve got a nicer car than I do.”

Washington smiled. “Not because I make bigger money than you … well, bigger than you used to make. I just helped out on a joint operation with the DEA. This car belonged to a guy who moved enough dope to buy an NFL team. His arrest isn’t public news yet and, wouldn’t you know it, I look something like him. So a genius on the federal side said, ‘Let’s give Washington the car for a week, see who makes an approach.’”

“Wouldn’t a guy like that have enemies?” Zeke asked.

“He does.”

“Somebody who might like to kill the car’s original owner?”

“Entirely possible.”

“Meaning they probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill whoever might be sitting with him or, in this case, you.”

“You catch on quick,” Washington said. “That’s exactly the point I want to make here. You’re putting yourself in the same kind of spot getting up in Jonas Dawson’s face. I was new to the job when he slipped out of the mess that caught all those other bent coppers. You were right that he wasn’t the toughest, but he was the guy who stashed all the money they stole. Or so the story goes. He was the one who was supposed to pay off the guys who got caught when they were released.”

“Supposed to?” Zeke asked.

“Yeah. Damnedest things kept happening. Well, really, it was the same thing happening over and over again. All Dawson’s old police buddies but one got themselves killed in the joint. Make that several joints up and down the state. Meaning Dawson got to keep all their shares of the money. Right now, there’s only one of those bad cops left, and that’s because he got transferred to an unspecified prison in another state, under a new name.”