Quicksand (7 page)

She actually hadn't known, but she nodded as though hearing old news.

Calder seemed unconcerned, continuing, “Anyway, now that we have most of the real names of the gang members from Mrs. Baker, Eric is actually making a statistical model that he says will allow us to find most of the A&As. He's basing it on prior arrests and known activity, a certain radius from their homes, and I don't know, coordinates for the mothership or something.”

Nora was impressed. “A statistical model?”

“You heard it here first. But Nora, we think there's an all-out gang war brewing.”

“How so?” she asked.

“A Mike Cook from Philly PD just called about a lower-level JBM kid who had been jumped by a group of A&As late last night. Knife wound. He'll live. But his statement was they were screaming at him about Kylie Baker.”

“Mike's a good cop—a good guy,” Nora said. “This could get out of hand really fast.” She frowned, thinking. “What does it even mean, the name ‘A&As'?”

Ben leaned forward and said in a low whisper, “I happen to have that information. If I tell you, will you drink coffee with me?”

She flared her nostrils slightly and laid Mrs. Baker's file on her desk. “Nope.”

He frowned. “Why not?” he demanded.

“I hate coffee.”

“
Nobody
hates coffee. Six-year-olds drink frappuccinos.”

“Yah, well, I'm just that uncool.” She sank into her roller chair.

“What do you drink?”

She opened her laptop and powered it on. “Calder, I don't think—”

Wansbrough appeared behind her, answering for her as he entered: “Mint tea. One package of Splenda. Preferably fresh mint leaves added to black tea, but dried leaves will do. She'll settle for packaged mint tea, but she'll have to complain the entire time she's drinking it.”

Nora's face flushed as she turned to stare at her partner. “What about protecting me from guys with bad intentions?”

Wansbrough smiled. “After yesterday's performance, I've decided Ben's intentions are honorable.” He explained to Calder, “When they bumped her up to work with us, and Nora's dad first started giving me food, I made him a promise to look out for her…”

Ben shuddered. “Why does this man scare me when I've never met him?”

Nora was glaring at John. “Why don't you tell him my sign, too?”

Ben grinned. “Cancer. I looked it up. So. Mint tea?”

“I've got some work to do,” she said, focusing on the computer screen.

Ben circled her desk to stand over her. “Tea's good. Tea's just fine. We can talk about gang history. The whole time. It will be a working tea.”

Libby's voice ripped through the cubicle divider. “Just drink some tea with the man and put us out of our misery!”

All three laughed despite themselves. “There are way too many people working Saturdays lately.” Nora said. She sighed, shook her head at both men, then spoke in hushed tones. “You realize that you're taking advantage of me by withholding information I actually need. I think I have my harassment case after all.”

Calder rose and offered her his arm as though to escort her out of their cubicle and into the bustling hall. “Now, now, it would be very shabby to sue a man who saved your life. Come on, then. I know this out-of-the-way granola-y coffee shop…”

She refused his arm, then pointed toward the floors below. “Cafeteria.”

“There is no way they have mint tea in the cafeteria!” he protested.

She smiled, opening her bottom drawer. “I keep a stash for emergencies.”

*   *   *

It was Saturday
afternoon, and the cafeteria was nearly deserted. Calder watched as Nora placed a Lipton tea bag and then a few spoonsful of dried mint into the bottom of the paper cup. She opened the spigot on the canister of hot water, filled her cup, then poured a small yellow package of Splenda into the mix. She stirred carefully, sealed the cup with the plastic lid, replaced the baggie full of mint leaves in her drawstring backpack, and walked to the cash register.

Ben Calder held his cup of black coffee rather self-righteously.

She caught the look in his eye. “You think I'm high maintenance?”

“You think you're not?” He didn't wait for a response. The gray-haired woman at the cash register opened her palm to accept his payment. “I'll get both of these,” he said.

“Will not,” objected Nora, waving a dollar at the woman.

The woman, whose name tag declared that she was “Lois,” glared at both of them. “Work it out, kids.”

“Ben. Come on. We agreed.”

“Nora. It's called being polite. Besides, you brought your own weeds. Let me buy you a tea bag.”

Nora appealed to Lois, who was still glaring, unmoved. “Fine,” she said at last, appending a muttered “Thank you.”

“Don't worry. You won't upset the cosmic order,” Ben whispered.

Lois took Ben's money, still scowling.

Nora followed him to a table by the window. “Don't you diss my mint tea again, though,” she said, sinking into her seat.

“What's the story with the mint tea?” he asked.

Nora toyed with the string that dangled over the side of the cup. “My mom always drank mint tea.”

Ben regarded her, his gaze softening. “I'm sorry.”

“Thanks,” Nora said simply.

“Is her passing part of why your dad is so protective of you?”

Nora smiled wistfully. “I … yah, I guess it is.” She met his eyes and found them to be greener than she'd realized. She was lost in them for a moment, before she said, “Okay, you were gonna tell me about the A&As.”

Ben sighed. “Yes, yes I was. The A&As used to be called African Annihilation.”

“That's a mouthful for anyone.”

“Yes. Started as a black power group, actually, in the late sixties. Man named Hugo Jack. They called him Black Jack. Lot of antipolice activity, taking out a few officers as revenge for police brutality in Kingsessing.”

“They killed officers?”

“Black Jack got the death penalty for it. But the group lived on. Got into drugs. Very hierarchical organization, so succession lines were always clear, which kept them together.” Ben stopped to take a long sip of his coffee. “The Junior Black Mafia were Jamaican-based—really had nothing to do with the Philadelphia Black Mafia, despite the similar names. They are way more recent, born from the crack cocaine boom.”

“And the rivalry?”

Ben shrugged. “Turf. Plain and simple. Through some divine irony they both fight over the worst patch of it we have—Kingsessing. The A&As favored heroin. They originally got some product from New York just like the JBM did, and even some stuff from Pittsburgh of all places. But now it seems Mexico is their primary source. A cartel known as Los Zetas. Very scary guys. The JBM and Dewayne have been left behind in this respect. It's been good for the A&As, but I know that some of their guys have disappeared. Permanently.”

Nora blew across the surface of her tea, then observed, “Kevin Baker is young. He and Dewayne both are. How did they get so much power?”

“Murder. They are both really good at that.”

Nora nodded, considering this.

Ben said wryly, “It's a far cry from—what was your first case again? Lebanese Ponzi schemes?”

She laughed out loud. “Not a Ponzi scheme. This idiot—well, the simplicity of it wasn't really idiotic, I guess. He would pay new immigrants, mainly Mexicans actually, to swipe merchandise from Walmarts and Targets, then he'd resell it to the wholesalers.”

“You got to put your special skills to work?”

“Yeah. He kept all his records in Arabic, which he thought would keep him off the grid somehow.”

“Little did he know…” Ben grinned, then tilted his head. “You speak all the different dialects?”

“Of Arabic?” She shrugged. “No, but I can understand. Thing about growing up here is the mosque communities are really diverse. Kids'll try to speak English together, but your four hundred aunties and uncles will speak to you in Iraqi Arabic, Yemeni Arabic, Palestinian Arabic. So, yeah, I knew enough Lebanese dialect to understand him, and I can read and write it just fine.”

“I heard you chased him down.”

“Well, most Arab guys smoke. It wasn't that hard.”

“I heard he was on a motorcycle.”

Nora looked away. “Well. That part was hard.”

She ignored the look Ben gave her and glanced at her watch. “Look, I should go shoot some more before I head home…”

Ben leaned in, “Come on, Nora. Talk to me a little. I want to know how you got here. John said you had a shot at the Olympics. He said your team at Temple University crushed the competition at the Penn Relays. What made you join the police force? How did you get tapped for the task force?”

Nora leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Why is any of that important?”

“Come on. We work together, right, so it helps to know each other better. You never know when you'll be held hostage and I'll need to know the deep dark details of your life in order to think like you think and help you outwit your captors.”

She stared at him, then took a long sip of tea. “You watch too many movies.”

“I'm single. We do that.”

Nora hesitated, feeling like she couldn't catch a deep enough breath. Then she leaned in. “Okay, but you can't tell Burton. He's such a snob.”

“Yes, yes he is,” Ben agreed. “I promise.”

“Well, I really wanted to join the FBI, but there were two reasons why I couldn't even try.”

Ben cocked his head, listening closely.

“One, the stay at Quantico. My dad shot that down straight out. I had to commute to college, no dorm, so he was never gonna agree to going away on my own. Two, they assign you somewhere besides your hometown. And I needed to be here for now. For Ahmad—and for my dad too. He's sort of a bear, but he needs me.”

Ben opened his mouth to say something when John Wansbrough burst through the cafeteria doors. He crossed rapidly to their table.

“Believe me, I hate to break up this scene. But we've got another corpse.”

*   *   *

Even through the
fog in her mind, she could see the body with perfect clarity. Cold, gray light poured across the alley, falling on exposed skin, on an untamed mass of hair, on big ugly gashes mottling face and body.

Rahma stood, peering out through the dirty glass. The curving metal bars were meant to keep others out but that now kept her in. She stared down, knowing the body had been placed there so she and the other girls could see it. She felt a tidal wave of tears surging, pulsing, begging to explode out of her. She placed her hand against the glass, imagining that it touched the woman's hand, remembering through the fog how warm and soft her hand had felt when it held hers, so briefly. Rahma imagined that her own hand could close the holes in the body, could warm the cooling flesh, could bring her

back,

back,

back …

A dog ambled into view and began to sniff at the corpse.

She slammed her hand against the window, trying to find the words to shout, but forgetting what they might be.
Don't touch her! She tried to help me … please let her be, let her be …

She looked desperately around the room and finally found a small, silent clock. She pounded it against the glass—it took an infinitely long time for a corner of the window to finally shatter, but before she could shout at the dog she heard heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. She scrambled backward, her heart racing, racing. She cringed as she heard his key in the lock, and the door swung open. He paused for a moment, surveying the broken window, as everything inside her writhed in fear. His face clouded, and he entered swiftly, moving so fast she could barely track his movements, and he swung at her, landing his blows on her back and her arms that now clutched her knees as she tucked herself into a ball,

made herself small,

made herself into stillness, into nothingness,

and gave herself over to the fog.

 

CHAPTER
3

The office she
shared with Wansbrough, Burton, and Calder was overly bright and smelled of a collision of aftershaves. They had a visitor, she saw. Special Agent-in-Charge Joseph Schacht. He was tall with a wide girth, a thick crop of gray hair, and pale pink skin that always seemed a bit flushed. He was famous for some of the ugliest ties Nora had ever seen, and today's was no different. Burgundy, with a smattering of silver paisleys. Schacht looked up from the file folder he was reading over Burton's shoulder. He nodded to Ben, Nora, and John as they entered, then he sat on the edge of John Wansbrough's desk.

“Okay,” Schacht said. “Possible gang killing in an alley behind a residential area. Not far from 55th and Chester. Busy area. Very mutilated, very naked female body; very nervous locals.”

“Who called this in?” Wansbrough asked.

“Neighbor.” Schacht handed Nora a printout bearing the logo of the Philadelphia Police Department. “Elderly woman. She has already been questioned extensively but didn't have much to tell, apparently…”

“That's in the heart of Junior Black Mafia territory,” Burton observed.

“Is the stabbing similar to Kylie's?” Nora asked, feeling an anxious sort of clutching in the pit of her stomach. She and John exchanged glances.

Schacht answered, “In addition to multiple stab wounds, her throat was slit. Much like the Kylie Baker case. Only this time we add to the mix that her eyes have been cut out. So if there's a connection, it looks like they're doing Kylie one better. The natural assumption, then, is that this crime could be an act of revenge for Kylie's murder.”