Tough Love (3 page)

“"It’'s okay, Gussie,”" she said. He chuffed tentatively in response.

Gently she extricated herself as she sat up, amazed that she was coming up negative on the hangover meter. Grace had a lot of hangovers. That was what came with being fond of booze. No heartburn, though, ever, despite the greasy pizza.

Earl wasn’'t around. Tequila shots had accompanied the annihilation of the BYU Cougars. Well, actually, she’'d killed the tequila and Earl had nursed a couple of longnecks. She’'d like to get him really drunk sometime, find out if he ragged on his boss or got real silly.

Grinning sleepily, she dragged her ass into the kitchen and microwaved yesterday’'s leftover coffee in a cup that had previously contained some orange juice; she found the pizza in the fridge and pulled off two hunks. As she ate, she smiled at Gus, who was ready for a potty break and some breakfast.

She hustled him out into the dawn-streaked turbulence, picked up the remote, and turned on the morning news. Butch’'s hottie fiancéee Kendra Burke stood in front of City Hall. Very pretty, even more sincere. Yeah, Grace was pretty sure she’'d had a boob job.

“"…... the mayor and the chief of police are both on record as stating that the gang problem in Oklahoma City is finally turning around. Levels of street violence are decreasing—--”"

“"What the hell?”" Grace cried. What an incredible crock.

Her cell phone rang. Moving fast, she opened the door and kept it open with her bare foot so Gus could come back in quick—--which he would, since he was not a fan of harsh weather—--and grabbed the phone off the breakfast bar. It occurred to her that she hadn’'t yet had her morning cigarette.

She checked the number. It was the office.

“"Hey, Captain Perry,”" Grace said, even though at one time Perry had always been “"Kate”" and they’'d worked Vice together. Grace switched back and forth, addressing her more formally most of the time. “"Are you watching this bullshit on TV?”"

“"When you get in, come to my office,”" Captain Perry said in an even, neutral tone. “"Something’'s happened.”"

She went cold. “"It’'s not Ham—--”"

“"Nobody on the squad. And no one in your family. But yes, there’'s been a death.”"

“"Jesus, Kate—--”"

“"Best you come into my office when you get here.”" Captain Perry hung up.

    “"Someone else died, Gus,”" Grace told her dog. Then Grace became a whirlwind, dressing in jeans, a long-sleeved peasant top, and her black leather jacket; feeding Gus and making sure he was settled for the day; holstering her gun and fitting her badge on her leather belt with the decorative rivets.

The wind pushed at her as she raced down the walk to Connie, her beloved Porsche 911. She drove too fast; she was so rattled, she put that first morning cigarette in her mouth but forgot to light it. She realized the error of her ways just as she pulled into the police parking lot behind 701 North Colcord Drive, and lit up for the few precious seconds she had until she hit the smoke-free zone. Trash and leaves cartwheeled across the pointed tips of her boots. She stubbed out her Morley with her heel and scooped up the carcass to dump in the trash. Her hand was shaking.

Hanging from the ceiling above Butch’'s chair were blue ribbons with what had to be real Viagra pills attached to the ends. Seemingly oblivious, Butch sat forward in his cowskin desk chair. The desk itself was littered with all his Texas Longhorn obscenities—--bobblehead, magnets, miniature football—--out in broad daylight for decent human beings to see. Bobby was leaning over Butch’'s shoulder, and they were both staring at Butch’'s computer monitor. They were intent but untroubled. Clearly they had not been called into Captain Perry’'s office for bad news; Grace was going to be the first to know.

As she walked past, Butch glanced at her and popped a marshmallow into his mouth. At his elbow, there were several bags of marshmallows mounded into a limp phallic mountain topped with a big blue pill shape the size of a foot-long sandwich. It was drooping, and there was a sign hanging from it that read, DEAR BUTCHIE, YOUARE TOO SOFT. XO KENDRA.

Grace didn’'t smile, even though it was a pretty good joke on short notice. Then she cast a glance around for Ham, didn’'t see him, and blasted into her captain’'s office.

Kate Perry was coifed and dressed in an oyster-shell-gray jacket and a luminous blue lamb’'s-wool sweater—--every inch an administrator. There were colorful crime scene photos on her desk, graphic ones, of some black kid facedown in a street, horribly broken, legs and arms askew. Blood pooled around him.

Captain Perry was black, too, so Grace’'s mind shot into overdrive, trying to make a connection between Kate and this corpse, wondering if it was a nephew, a godson—--

“"Malcolm Briscombe,”" Captain Perry said, and Grace went completely, uncomprehendingly numb. For maybe ten seconds, she stared blankly at the gruesome photographs. She saw his profile. He was unrecognizable. She lit herself a cigarette. Kept staring. Her mind began turning.

“"Hit and run,”" Captain Perry added.

“"Jesus.”" Grace sank boneless into a chair. “"Oh, my God, Kate.”"

“"You can see why I didn’'t want to tell you on the phone.”" Her voice was an alloy of steel and velvet.

Grace chewed on her lip. “"We got any leads? Somebody checking in with Jamal?”" Jamal was Malcolm’'s sixteen-year-old brother.

The look on the other woman’'s face said it all.

“"Jamal’'s back in the gang,”" Grace muttered. “"Shit.”" She took a draw on the cigarette and slumped in her chair. Then she pulled out her cell phone and called Jamal’'s cell. Service had been terminated. Called his place of employment. He was no longer with them.

“"I asked Jedidiah Briscombe to contact us if Jamal shows up,”" Captain Perry said as Grace flipped her phone shut. That was Malcolm and Jamal’'s grandfather. “"He hasn’'t heard from Jamal.”" She paused. “"Mr. Briscombe is not in a very good place.”"

“"Shit,”" Grace said. “"Damn it. I’'ve got a list of Jamal’'s friends. Not the gang ones, of course.”" If the gang knew he’'d been talking to a cop, she’'d be lucky to find him in a filthy alley. “"I’'ll run them down.”" She heard what she’'d said and paled. Malcolm is dead. Oh, God, he was such a sweet kid.

There was a knock, and Ham came in. He was wearing a blue cowboy shirt and jeans, looked good, well rested, and worried.

“"Butch said you looked funny.”" He gave Grace a once-over. “"You okay?”"

Grace shook her head.

“"Malcolm Briscombe. Thirteen years old,”" Kate said, gesturing to the pictures. “"Younger brother of your sixteen-year-old Confidential Informant, Jamal Briscombe. So far we’'ve got a hit and run.”"

“"Shit,”" Ham said, scrutinizing the grisly array of photographs. Normal people would avert their eyes if they saw what he was seeing. But like Grace, Ham was a cop, not a normal person. He tapped the close-up of Malcolm’'s head injury like a poker player asking for another card. Then he raked his fingers through his hair and dropped his hands to his sides. “"What about Jamal? Is he okay?”"

Kate shook her head. “"We don’'t really know. Jamal’'s grandfather thinks Jamal rejoined the Sixty-Sixes. We can’'t confirm.”"

“"The Sixty-Sixes make the Snake Eyes look like pussies,”" Grace gritted. “"They’'re the most violent black gang in the city.”"

“"Blood In, Blood Out,”" Ham concurred. “"Kill to get in, die to get out.”"

“"But he was just a Hang Around,”" Grace reminded him. “"Last he told me, anyway. He wasn’'t even an associate member. Sixty-Sixes have a long trial period. He needs to be an adult before he can become a Full Patch. So he hasn’'t taken his loyalty oath.”"

“"That means he’'s got a couple of years before he has to murder someone,”" Ham said. “"Make his bones.”"

“"If they do consider Jamal one of their own, they’'ll look on Malcolm as a little brother. They’'ll demand payback for his death,”" Grace said. “"If they know who ran over him …...”"

Ham picked up another photograph, scowling, then his face softened as perhaps he, too, remembered the funny little boy Malcolm had once been. Malcolm had a thing about the zoo—--loved the snow leopards. And sour candy, like Clay.

“"A death for a death,”" Ham said. “"Law of the streets.”"

“"Good. Let ’'em kill each other,”" Grace muttered. “"Swear to God, I’'d just nuke ’'em if I could.”"

There was silence. No one was inclined to argue. Emotionally, anyway. But they were the real law. They were not someone like Timothy McVeigh—--or even God—--intent on hitting reset by committing a major act of terror—--in one case, a bombing; in the other, a big, fat flood. No, they had to follow the rules and bring in the guilty. Even protect them, until they got a fair trial. But the anger she felt was righteous anger, for a little boy who had never done anything wrong. Her heart was hurting for the injustice of his stupid, senseless death.

Maybe senseless, maybe not, her cop brain argued back. For kids who lived like the Briscombes did—--in poverty, in ghettos, with black faces—--the line between right and wrong was often very blurry.

“"I need to be lead on this case,”" she said quietly. “"Us.”" She looked at Ham, who nodded emphatically. He was in, and she was grateful down to her boots. Together they would make this right.

Just not together together.

“"You’'ve got it,”" Captain Perry said.

“"Thanks.”" Grace rose from her chair. Her legs felt more solid now. For a few moments she’'d been lightheaded with anger and sorrow. But she’'d found her source of gravity again: Malcolm was going to get some justice.

“"Malcolm is personal. For the whole squad. I’'ll tell Butch and Bobby to give you an assist.”" Captain Perry gathered up the photographs and slid them into a case folder.

Then she gazed at each detective in turn. “"The faster you move, the better. Before Jamal does something that ruins his own life.”"

“"Sixteen, dead brother, pissed as hell,”" Grace said. “"Not a great combination.”" She patted herself down for her car keys. “"What was all that bullshit on the news this morning?”"

Captain Perry pursed her lips. “"You’'re talking about Kendra Burke’'s report.”"

“"Damn straight. Gang violence is sky-high. There’'s a turf war on. People should be staying off the streets after dark and locking their doors.”" Grace frowned at Ham, who was obviously drawing a blank. “"There was this puff piece Kendra did, about how violent crimes are down in Oklahoma City.”"

“"Say what?”" Ham looked from Grace to Captain Perry and back again. “"Why’'d she do that?”"

“"Guess someone’'s planning their reelection campaign,”" Captain Perry bit off. “"Used her as their mouthpiece. Only you did not hear me say that.”"

“"Shit,”" Ham said, scowling. “"What’'s Butch got to say about that?”"

Grace realized the question was largely rhetorical—--what Ham was really saying was that Butch’'s choice in fiancéees was questionable at best. Grace liked Kendra but she had to agree; nevertheless, she moved back to more important matters.

“"We should go find Jamal before he does something that he can’'t fix,”" Grace said to Ham.

“"His grandfather has no idea where he is.”" The captain spread her hands over the case folder.

Ham grunted sympathetically. “"Poor old man. One grandson dies, the other hits the streets.”"

“"He did everything he could for those two boys,”" Captain Perry reminded him. “"At some point they made a choice.”"

“"Yeah, join my gang or get your head stuffed up your ass,”" Ham muttered. He exhaled slowly. “"We had him out, man.”"

“"Maybe we weren’'t enough,”" Grace said. Her thoughts flew, as they often did, to Clay. Doubtless rocket club had been canceled. He’'d be eager for the overnight, but maybe she should bail, stay on the job—--

No way. As sorry as she was about Malcolm, Clay came first. Then Malcolm, then Haleem. Last night, she’'d promised Haleem she’'d catch his killer. Last night, he was number one on her list. Or was that just something she’'d said to hear herself talk?

CHAPTER          FOUR

Grace wanted to go directly to the crime scene, to see where Malcolm had died, but it was more important to locate Jamal. The lowering Oklahoma sky pushed against Grace’'s back while she and Ham worked the mean streets, two white faces in a blasted-out black-and-brown neighborhood with a prison-style perimeter of hurricane fences plastered with posters for cheap car repairs, bail bonds, hip-hop concerts, and Mexican cheese. Styrofoam fast-food containers and paper plates twirled and spun in the damn wind that would not let up; they had to yell at people to be heard, and everyone pretended to be deaf anyway. When you were poor and hopeless, you admired power. The cops didn’'t have power here. The gangs did.

The scenic stretch of dollar stores, thrift shops, liquor stores, a closed bank, and a grocery store with a broken window belonged to the 13X Boyz. When Jamal had left the Sixty-Sixes, he had moved his grandfather and little brother out of Sixty-Six territory, but he couldn’'t manage to leave gangland behind. He didn’'t have the cash. Yet. Jamal had been working on his dream—--a little house farther away from all the bad guys, like in Norman. Saving all his paychecks.

Or so he told her. Maybe he’'d been lying to her to make her feel better. Maybe he’'d known that Norman was a lot farther away than the road atlas indicated.

“"How long has he been gone?”" Grace asked Jamal’'s grandfather when she and Ham arrived at the Briscombes’' run-down apartment, located over a garage that had, in the past, served as a meth lab. Casa Briscombe was the home of someone who had diligently followed the rules and gotten smacked around because of it. Threadbare carpet, church-donated refrigerator, two-ring cook stove. It smelled like oil changes and alley garbage.

“"He took off soon as we got the call. I had to go down to the morgue by myself, make what you call a positive identi …...”" He trailed off, staring at his hands as if he had never seen them before. “"Make sure it was my boy.”" Tears slid down his face.

Jedidiah Briscombe had always looked older than his sixty-five years; tonight he looked three hundred and change. Seated in a vintage brown-and-orange frayed recliner, he held the framed photograph of Jamal and Malcolm at the party the squad had thrown when Jamal supposedly got out of the gang. There in the photo stood Grace, with a turquoise feather in her hair, and Rhetta, in a dress; Ham, and Henry. Butch and Bobby. And Lieutenant Yukon, grinning from ear to ear with his arm around Jamal’'s shoulders. Lieutenant Yukon had been their boss before his POS addict brother shot him dead, right in the squad room. He had died in Grace’'s arms.