Wrong Chance (17 page)

“You gain no leverage frolicking with my patriotism.”

“Innocent people are in danger until I nail the guy behind this.”

Butter Bean cast a tight gaze on the horrific images for a moment. Hakeem knew it was only because the verbal tussle failed to intrigue him. “Thanks for the orange juice.” He chugged the bottle empty then stood to leave.

“I need to know what it says, Butter Bean.”

His tight gaze sharpened. “Trust me, Detective Eubanks, you don't want to know what this says.” Butter Bean pushed the photos back and walked out.

“O
h no, anything but this.” Sweat broke out on Butter Bean's bald spot. His big ass shook like he'd come down with a severe case of Tourette's syndrome. Literally. He held on to his cell door to keep from collapsing. He craved an ibuprofen to preempt his imminent migraine. He couldn't believe his eyes. His once pristine clean and obsessively compulsive orderly cell was in total fucking disarray.

Detective Eubanks, he thought.

It was downright cruel and uncivilized for Eubanks to resort to mind games. “Fix it back,” he whispered, thinking of how he could get Eubanks back for violating the rules of engagement. Butter Bean started banging his head against the cell door over and over and over while repeating “Fix it back.”

“Get used to it, Butter Bean,” the CO said. “We've got the green light to toss your cell every day.”

“Can't function…without order.” Butter Bean started hyperventilating. “You…can't…do…this.”

“Calm down and breathe,” the CO said.

“Make it go back to normal. Make it like it was.” More head banging.

“Only Detective Eubanks can call it off. Relax some and maybe you can catch him before he leaves.”

Between breaths, Butter Bean said, “Take me to him.”

•  •  •

Hakeem flipped open his Palm Treo. “Communicate.”

“Where are you?” Aspen said, sounding like an angel.

“Prison interview room.” He peeped at his Patek Phillipe, 10:43 a.m., and sighed. “I give Butter Bean ten more minutes, then I'm on my way.”

“How did it go?”

“He shot me down and stormed out of here, but I'm certain he'll warm up before I leave.”

With concern coating her voice, Aspen said, “Why? What did you do, Hakeem?”

“Had his cell destroyed. Rearranged his stamp collection. You know, scrambled his whacky world, and agitated his acute obsession with order.”

“That was dirty. Bet the little professor threw one hell of a temper tantrum. Hope you can sleep at night knowing you're the reason he'll spend the next sixty days going to pill call trying to get back right.”

“I'm not sleeping anyway.” Hakeem didn't consider himself a great man—not even slightly. He just had a set of morals and principles that he wasn't sure what kind of person they categorized or qualified him as. Always respect and never strike a woman; beat the shit out of a disrespectful man. Always tell the truth; scheme and lie through his teeth to discover the greater truth. Be loyal to a fault; betray whoever initiates the cross. “He forced me to use his Asperger's to my advantage.”

The door swung open and banged against the wall. “You dingleberry,” Butter Bean said, soaked with sweat.

“Speak of the devil,” Hakeem said to Aspen. To Butter Bean he said, “Back so soon?”

“Call your mutts off.”

Hakeem held the phone to his ear and said nothing.

“Give me a pen and paper.”

Hakeem tore a sheet of legal paper from the Mont Blanc folder and offered him a matching pen. “You need to see these photos again?”

“I have a steel-trap memory, dick head. He's smart. He converted the hieroglyphics to translate to pig Latin. A code within a code.”

In his ear Aspen said, “What's he doing?”

“Writing.”

“Here's the English version.” Butter Bean pocketed the pen and shoved the paper at Hakeem.

Family is the sacred right of

passage. Death to evildoers who

alter the course of man and

woman, the creators of child,

the key to life. Stay out of

my way, Detective Eubanks.

Law 33: Discover Each

Man's Thumbscrew.

I know yours.

“Son of a bitch.”

A
few ticks past noon Hakeem damn near limped out a convenience store on the corner of Euclid and Avalon carrying a loaf of white bread and a Slim Fast for Aspen. What did she need a diet drink for when she was already perfect?
Women, I'll never understand them.

When he eased onto the Hummer seat, Aspen said, “What's up with the bread?”

“Medicine.” He nudged the Hummer down Avalon while Aspen browsed through a catalog of baby clothes.

She looked up from the catalog and frowned.

“Don't even try to wrap your mind around it.” Then: “What's a dingleberry?”

“I like to had fell out when Butter Bean called you that.” She laughed, giggled some, then smiled. Sheer amusement poured from her eyes.

“Mind telling me what's so funny?” he said as he parked in front of an ailing two-story brick house with a slated roof and rusted-out gutters.

“Take your pick.” She laughed again as they got out the truck. “Either he was calling you a piece of shit stuck on an ass hair or an inept fool.”

He gave that and the Hieroglyphic Hacker's deaths threat some serious thought as they walked onto the front porch. “Knowing
Butter Bean it was both.”

When Aspen rang the doorbell, a Monte Carlo with twenty-four-inch rims turned into the driveway. Its stereo system was pumping Young Jeezy's “Go Crazy.” The music abruptly stopped. A lady with an unattractive ponytail bound together with a yellow scrunchie stepped out the car. Two handsome twin boys climbed out the back seat and dashed up the street.

The lady looked Hakeem and Aspen up and down. “What y'all want?”

Then the front door swung open. An elderly woman with a milky film on her irises said, “Barack Obama send you with my stimulus social security check?” She flashed a toothless smile.

“Go back in the house, Madear. I got this.” To Hakeem and Aspen, the lady with the bad ponytail said, “I said what y'all want? Y'all deaf or something?”

Hakeem pulled back the lapel of his Givenchy suit so the gold badge clipped to his crocodile belt would speak for itself. Aspen flashed her badge as well.

“We're detectives with the CPD,” Hakeem said. “Hakeem Eubanks, and this is my partner, Aspen Skye.” He offered his hand.

“Aw shit,” Madear said. “I'm busted. I've been through this before. Give me a second.”

“Are you Mrs. Taylor?” Aspen said.

“Yeah, I'm Africa Taylor. Is this about Madear calling the CIA the other day? She doesn't have much left upstairs if you haven't noticed already.”

“Mind if we talk inside, Mrs. Taylor?” Hakeem was a veteran. He knew to never inform a family member of a homicide until after he conducted an interview and garnered as much info as he possibly could. Once a person became emotional, there was no point in trying to extract useful information.

•  •  •

The inside of the Taylor home starkly contrasted with the outside. It boasted a motif of money-green Italian leather furnishings, mahogany wood grain, and frameless tempered glass. The hardwood floors were polished to a mirror shine. Beautifully woven asymmetrical rugs were strategically placed throughout the dwelling. An overstuffed sectional with mink throws draped over it hugged the khaki-colored walls and faced a large plasma TV. Hakeem and Aspen relaxed on the sofa in front of a glass coffee table with a built-in saltwater aquarium stocked with a spectacularly colored coral reef that served as a backdrop to robust triggers, clownfishes, damselfishes, and lionfishes.

“Forgive me for being all ghetto outside,” Africa said, placing ice-cold bottled waters on coasters for the detectives. “I've been stressing lately. Between my senile mother-in-law, my bad men children, and my cheating-ass husband, I don't know what to do anymore.”

Hakeem and Aspen made eye contact, understanding that they possibly had another woman to investigate. Hakeem watched Africa with pessimistic eyes. She showed no obvious signs of deception. Her eye contact was firm. Confident. Concerned. Nothing like the gaze of a woman who was a cold-blooded killer. But then again, maybe she's just a good liar, Hakeem thought.

“Mrs. Taylor, boys will be boys.” Aspen sipped her water.

“Girl, call me Africa. Mrs. makes me sound like I got grandchildren.”

Hakeem said nothing.

“About Madear calling the Secret Service or the CIA,” Africa said, “She—”

“Okay, you busted me red-handed. I won't put up a useless fuss,” Madear said, coming into the living room as naked as the day she was born eighty-four years ago. Her loose skin was wrinkled and
distorted like a crumpled brown paper bag. “I know the drill. Been arrested plenty enough when I marched with Dr. King and the Civil Rights Movement.” She opened her mouth so Aspen and Hakeem could see inside her toothless hole, pulled her ears back for them, and spread her fingers apart. Then she proceeded to turn around, spread her cheeks, squat, and cough. Madear went through each step of a cavity search like a seasoned convict.

Hakeem couldn't take another moment of it. He skirted his eyes. Aspen's mouth fell open; Hakeem knew she had no desire to stop looking. Africa didn't seem surprised at all by Madear's behavior. Her face drew tight with anger.

She leaped off the sofa and wrapped Madear in a mink throw. “That's it!” she spoke through her teeth. “Pack your shit. I'm dropping your ass off at the nearest old folks' home. Let them deal with you 'cause I'm through.” She led Madear to the sofa. “You hear me? I'm through with you embarrassing the hell out of me. You just don't let up.” To Hakeem and Aspen, she said, “That's what I'm talking about. Madear didn't mean any harm when she made that call.”

After the initial shock of Madear's lewd striptease wore off, Hakeem decided to do a little probing. “You called your husband Yancee a cheat.”

“That's right. The fucker hasn't been home in two nights. I know he's creeping with this Terri chick that moved here from Philly. Ain't the first time he ain't come home because of that home-wrecking slut.” Then: “Wait a minute. What the hell does this have to do with Yancee?” Now Hakeem could tell that Africa seriously contemplating their presence in her home and that her defenses had shot back to the roof.

“Will I be in jail before supper time?” Madear said, watching
the aquarium as a clownfish frolicked with the stingy tentacles of a sea anemone.

Aspen said, “Africa, we're here to speak with you about your husband.”

Africa's brows formed a single dark line. “What about him? Yancee stopped selling drugs when the twins were born. He ain't in jail, is he?”

It was too early in the game to dismiss Africa as a liar or a suspect, but Hakeem's cloud of suspicion started to thin. She definitely didn't strike him as the Hieroglyphic Hacker. Accomplice? Maybe. But she seemed genuinely clueless to the matter at hand. No artifices seeped from beneath her skin. “When was the last time you saw your husband?” Hakeem opened the Mont Blanc, a pen he borrowed from Aspen poised over the paper.

“Wednesday morning when he left for work. A little after nine. Why?”

“I'm gonna need commissary money when I go to jail.”

No one paid Madear any attention.

Aspen leaned forward. “Bear with us. We'll explain everything to you. But it's very important that you do your best to answer all our questions first.”

Worry crept across Africa's face. A moment of silence turned into a long minute of uncertainty. She studied them then reluctantly said, “Okay.”

Aspen continued with her line of questioning. “Do you and Yancee regularly speak on the phone when he's away from home?”

“Yeah, unless he's screening his calls because he's laying up with that bitch Terri.”

“You know Terri's last name? Phone number? Address? Where she works?”

“Yeah, Yancee doesn't know that I know, though. It's Dunlap.” And she gave them the rest of the info she had on Terri Dunlap as Hakeem sat in silence and wrote it down.

Aspen said, “When was the last time you spoke to Yancee?”

“His lunch break, Thursday. He called me from his cell phone.”

Hakeem jumped in. “What's his number?”

Africa rattled off the digits, then she said matter-of-factly, “You're starting to scare me.”

“I'm scared too,” Madear said, rocking in place, her bare knees poking out from the mink throw. “I don't want to go to jail. It's only a little pot I got from the boy on the corner for my cataracts.” She gave Hakeem a conspiratorial wink and let the mink slip from her shoulders to expose her breasts. “Take me to my bedroom and we can work this out.”

“Stop it!” Africa covered her back up. “Stop being nasty.”

Hakeem could tell that Madear lived a full life, that she had marched for the equal rights of Blacks, and had endured the isms of the world long enough to see she hadn't marched in vain. He'd be willing to bet that when Barack Obama won the election for the presidency of the United States of America and the First Black Family filled her TV screen, she understood that the very definition of what it meant to be black in America had changed forever. That she knew it was no longer wishful thinking that her grandchildren would one day be judged and selected for the content of their character and intelligence and not dismissed for the color of their skin. There was no doubt in his mind that she now knew that her grandchildren could truly become whomever they aspired to be.