Mr. Paradise A Novel (25 page)

“She’s in a fashion show tonight at the Detroit Institute of Arts. I told you about my man Ricky, fourteen years old? Sweet boy, can talk about fashion. He got that for me wiping off her windshield and made a buck.”

Art said, “That’s all you pay the kid?”

“What Kelly gave him. I owe Ricky another twenty’s all. She told him she be home about nine-thirty. We get over there around nine, wait till she gets out of the car . . . I think as she’s
crossing the street to her building we roll up and snatch her, put her in the Tahoe.”

Carl said, “We use your car.”

“Man, you got more room.”

“You got a trunk, don’t you?” Carl said. “The Tahoe stays in the garage.”

Art said, “We gonna shoot her?”

Montez said, “If that’s how you want to do it. You the pros.”

“Well, shit,” Art said. “She gets back, walk up to her car and pop her.”

“She has to disappear,” Montez said. “Like she left town and didn’t tell nobody.”

“Take her out’n the woods?”

“I was thinking bring her back here,” Montez said, “till we work out what to do with her. You know you could stick her head in a plastic bag. That way there won’t be no blood.”

Art said, “Shit, drop her in the river.”

“You have a boat?”

“Off the Belle Isle bridge. Weight her down.”

Carl said to Montez, “You ever kill anybody?”

Montez said, “I’m gonna talk to you about it?”

Art said, “I think he’s cherry, never done it in his life.”

“I doubt he has,” Carl said. “Tells us we’re the pros and stays out of it. Tells us, stick her head in a plastic bag, like he knows these different ways he saw in the movies, but won’t do it himself.” He said to Montez, “How come you didn’t take the bag off your suit from the cleaners and suffocate the old
man with it? He’s sleeping, nobody around. We walk in the other night, a party’s going on.”

“I tried to call you,” Montez said. “Ask Connie.”

Carl said to Art, “You think he should do the girl? Since he’s the one fucked up the deal, bringing her in?”

Art said, “We do it, he’ll have to pay us.”

“He already owes for the old man,” and looked toward the worktable. “Lloyd, you getting all this?”

Lloyd turned his head to one side. “I didn’t hear you. What’d you say?”

Now Montez looked over at him. “You don’t hear these guys fuckin with me?”

“I’m making y’all sandwiches,” Lloyd said, finishing up the last one. “Anything you want to put on them’s in the refrigerator. Horseradish, pickles, chili sauce, ketchup, mayonnaise—”

Art said, “You got any mustard?”

“We have yella mustard, Poupon mustard, whatever kind pleases you, Pelican mustard,” Lloyd said, motioning with his head for Jerome to leave the kitchen, saying when he didn’t move, “Go on, they don’t care.” Then raised his voice to tell the three mutts deciding on who was going to kill the girl, “Me and Jerome gonna be in the den watching TV.”

M
R.
P
ARADISE HAD LIKED
to watch it in the living room saying the den was too small, crowded with the big brown leather chairs and the couch. There were three walls of Book-of-the-Month Club books in their jackets, fifty years of book selections in all colors from the counter to the ceiling.
Against the fourth wall was where Lloyd put the TV, the guy who replaced the glass helping him.

Lloyd came in to see Jerome punching numbers in a cell phone, got to him and snatched the phone out of his hands.

“Who you calling?”

“A homicide detective, man. I’m his C.I.”

“You mean his fink.”

“You didn’t hear them, they talking about killing some girl.”

“I heard everything was said. It ain’t your bidness.”

“You don’t care they gonna kill her?”

“I said it ain’t your bidness,” Lloyd said. “They got to pick her up first, bring her here.”

“They gonna put a plastic bag over her head. Man, what’s going on in this house?”

“You don’t read the paper, watch the news? You running with those mutts, they haven’t told you what they did here?”

Jerome looked like he was beginning to understand, nodding his head. He said, “I know they hit men. They whack somebody here and come here to hide
out
?”

“You want to read about it,” Lloyd said, “I’ve saved the papers. They by the chair.”

Jerome turned and Lloyd stopped him, taking hold of his arm.

“Lemme have your gun.”

Jerome frowned at him. “Man, I need it.”

“I told you this ain’t your bidness,” Lloyd said. “You won’t need it, but I might.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

HE COULDN’T SEE HER LIVING ON
Farmbrook in a redbrick and white siding—what did you call it, postwar bungalow? With three small bedrooms, hardly any closet space for her clothes. She walked into the closet in her loft and was gone and would come out with pants and a blouse. On Farmbrook, a wood garage in back rotting in places, full of junk. Jesus, and the storm windows . . .

He thought about this standing in the entrance to the museum’s Rivera Court, the artist Diego Rivera’s giant murals of machinery and workers, a tight-mouthed boss, covering both walls of the court, left and right, chairs around the stage that came out of the far wall and was only a couple of feet off the floor, high enough to make the girls look seven feet tall coming down the runway with indifferent expressions but in command, striding to a heavy disco beat.

He knew Kelly the instant she appeared. He saw her looking for him without giving it away. She wore a slight smile,
pleasant. He imagined that everyone in the audience, a few hundred in black tie and evening dress, knew she was fun and would like to know her. He raised his hand as high as he could reach, above the heads of those in front of him, when she came to the end of the stage and paused and made her turn. He didn’t think she saw him. She was a knockout. She had his favorite girl look, her eyes, her nose. Jesus, looking at her and not noticing the outfits, none of them, he looked at their faces and wondered about them. But he did recognize Kelly’s favorite, the suit she called a biker outfit with the chains, the chains the only thing about the suit he’d associate with bikers—but even then couldn’t remember ever confronting bikers with chains. He thought of Maureen because Maureen didn’t have his favorite look, but it didn’t seem to have mattered. He lived on Farmbrook nine years with Maureen and the house was fine, it was their home. Maureen called the old storm windows that came with the house and you busted your ass to put up, those fuckers. He couldn’t see Maureen in any of the clothes coming down the runway, Maureen shorter and heavier than these girls.

He had a program that described each look as it came along, like “No. 35, Black wool striped boucle jacket with lace inset, black lace chiffon skirt.” They were up to cocktail dresses now, a different sound to the disco, and he felt his phone pulse against his chest. He said, Shit, because Harris had called earlier, as he arrived and was telling the valet guy to put his car right there, about thirty feet down the circular drive, Delsa showing the young guy his badge but low-key about it.

Then listened to Harris say, “There’s been a tip on Orlando that’s being checked out. I find out some more, I’ll call you back.”

Delsa, in a dark navy suit, introduced himself to the museum security man at the entrance, telling him nothing was up, his girlfriend was one of the models and he liked to watch her. Calling her his girlfriend for the first time, hearing what it sounded like. Getting it out in the open. He went up a wide staircase to the Great Hall crowded with dressy people standing in groups and at high cocktail tables drinking and dining on the “strolling supper,” the tenderloin, the rack of lamb, pasta, the sushi. He didn’t know anyone. He stood holding a glass of beer until it was time for the fashion show.

When his phone pulsed and he came out here again, the hall was set up with sweet tables and coffee urns.

Harris said, “Orlando’s sitting in the squad room. You want to take his statement?”

Delsa said, “I’ll be there when I get there. Let him chill.”

He wrote a note on the back of his card and asked the security officer if he’d try to find Kelly Barr after the show and give this to her.

The note said, “
Had to leave. Don’t know when I’ll be free. If you want to make other plans go ahead. Will call you later
.” Delsa wanted to add something personal but felt time running out. He handed the note to the security guy and left.

T
HE WAY IT WENT
down with Orlando:

Crime Stoppers got the tip from an informant telling them where to find him. They called ROPE, the Repeat Offenders
Program, part of a federal fugitive task force with Detroit cops on it. ROPE had Orlando’s homicide file and a flight warrant to pick him up wherever he might be. They thought he’d gone to Mississippi, but according to the informant he was in a house on Pingree between Second and Third. They watched the house until they saw someone who fit Orlando’s description come out on the porch. That “made” the house and it gave them probable cause to execute the flight warrant. They told the guy who opened the door, believed to be the suspect’s brother, to keep his mouth shut and get out of the way. Orlando, taking a nap, was nudged with a shotgun and told it was “Time to get up, sleepyhead.” He admitted who he was and they took him downtown.

On the way one of the ROPE guys called Violent Crimes and asked, “You guys still looking for Orlando Holmes?”

A senior Violent Crimes officer said, “Yeah, but we think he’s in Mississippi.”

The ROPE guy said, “No, he’s in the back of my car.”

D
ELSA ARRIVED AND HARRIS
filled him in about the federal task force making the arrest. He said Orlando was waiting in the interview room.

“He confess?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Says he wasn’t home at the time. Must’ve been somebody else did the Mexicans.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Delsa said.

He thought of Jerome as Harris told him, “It was Orlando’s brother’s girlfriend’s brother who called Crime Stoppers wanting the twenty thousand. They let him know the woman who’d put it up changed her mind, as she didn’t have time to raise the money, but Crime Stoppers would give him a thousand for being a good citizen. Orlando’s brother’s girlfriend’s brother said, ‘I risk my ass to help you all out and that’s all I get?’ “

Delsa walked back to the interview room with a pad of Witness Statement forms and sat across the table from Orlando Holmes, who sat hunched over picking at a fingernail.

“What you’re doing is fucking up my evening,” Delsa said, and Orlando looked up. “Your girlfriend Tenisha, Tenisha’s mother, and your neighbor Rosella Munson, have all signed statements that you were home the day you and Jo-Jo and another guy killed the three Cash Flow Mexicans. You can tell me a member of the Dorados posse made you do it. Two members of the Dorados have disappeared. If you stayed on the street much longer, you’d of disappeared too. We’ll get to motive. I’ve got your prints on the chain saw Jo-Jo bought at the Home Depot that evening and a tape of Jo-Jo making the purchase from their security camera. So don’t waste my time.”

Delsa began filling in the top of the witness sheet, his name and Orlando’s, time and date, where they were. He said, “I’m putting down that you willingly gave me this information. Now tell me what happened,” Delsa said, writing it on the form, “at 2210 Vermont regarding the three men shot and
burned, one dismembered, on or about April 15. What time did the three men arrive at your home?”

Orlando didn’t answer, looking past Delsa now.

“I know later on at the motel you told Tenisha, ‘My fuckin life is done.’ “ Delsa paused and said, “You think it is?”

Orlando was looking at him now.

“I’d like to hear your side of this,” Delsa said. “Tell me why the three guys came to see you.”

“It was about weed,” Orlando said. “I told them I wasn’t dealing with them no more and they become upset. They brought a hundred pounds and said I had to pay them for it.”

“Where’d you take it, to your mom’s house?”

Orlando straightened a little. “How’d you know?”

“So these Cash Flow guys tried to get tough, uh?”

“Thought they could make me pay ’em.”

“They threaten you?”

“Say they be back.”

“So what you did was like self-defense, shoot them first?”

“Exactly how I saw it. Shoot the motherfuckers before they come and shoot me. Wouldn’t you do the same, you in my shoes?”

“Not exactly,” Delsa said. “Why’d you try to burn your house down?”

“Was a Posse guy did it. He say get a chain saw, cut ’em up and burn ’em. You ever cut into a body full of blood?”

“No, I haven’t,” Delsa said.

“Man, I threw my clothes in with theirs. Those greasers, man, they spooks. I knew that house wouldn’t burn.”

“You know who put the stuff on you?”

“Somebody close to me, his girlfriend’s punk-ass brother. Is how it goes. But listen, I’m on tell you something, I was scared.”

“I would be, too,” Delsa said.

“Thinking of ’em coming back with guns.”

Delsa put it in.

In two hours or more he filled nine pages with Orlando’s statement, each one signed. It was ten to eleven when he gave Orlando to Harris, going to the Seventh Precinct for the night, and had a chance to call Kelly.

Her voice said, “Leave a message.”

He had told her in the note, if she wanted to make other plans, go ahead. And that’s what she did. He had assumed she had a date last night, and she went to Alvin’s to get the stock. Why didn’t she tell him? Because he wouldn’t understand why she wanted to get it and check out the value of what she had by herself—in case it was enough to commit fraud to get. His mind took him there, he was an investigator, he looked for motives. But he didn’t believe that was the reason she made him think she had a date and went to Alvin’s alone. No, she was honest with him. Except in the beginning.