Wrong Chance (18 page)

“According to the DMV,” Aspen said, “Mr. Taylor has three cars registered in his name. You pulled up in the Monte Carlo. Where are the other two?”

Africa nibbled at a cuticle. “His sixty-seven Buick Riviera is in the garage and he drove his sixty-seven Camaro to work. He restores old school cars from the sixties. He's showing the Riviera next week at a car show in Detroit.”

Hakeem wished that was true, but he said nothing.

“Why am I naked?” Madear said, looking down at herself. “Somebody broke in here and stole my clothes.”

“Does Mr. Taylor have any enemies?” Aspen capped her water.

“No.”

Her voice crawled to a tone that prickled Hakeem's body hairs.

She said, “I ain't answering another motherfucking question about my husband until one of y'all tell me what the hell is going on. It's that or get on the other side of my front door.”

Africa took a firm stance and ended the interview before they could pry deeper into Yancee Taylor's life. Who were his friends? What type of person was he? Where did he hang out? Hakeem knew that the answers could somehow connect Yancee to his killer, unless Yancee was purely a victim of randomness. For now they would have to work with the information they did get. Hakeem hated to be the bearer of bad news, but he never let the burden fall on Aspen's shoulders. They naturally fell into pseudo husband-and-wife roles and played their positions because they cared about each other.

Hakeem pulled in a deep breath and let it go with a sigh. “Africa, I hate to inform you of this, but your husband was murdered.”

Madear came back to the sane part of the world. Her eyes fastened on Hakeem and singled in on his eyebrows and goatee. “Damn liar. My son will be home any minute. Now get the hell out of my house with your hurtful lies before I call the cops.” Then: “Damn liar. He called Africa's phone this morning and got disconnected.”

T
he thrill of the hunt leaked endorphins into their systems like good dope. With their cell phones stuck to their ears, Aspen and Hakeem left the Taylor residence high on information.

Hakeem, always the chivalric gentleman, opened the Hummer door for Aspen and helped her inside as he spoke to a police dispatcher. “This is Detective Hakeem Eubanks of the Cleveland Homicide Unit. Badge number six-ten.”

“Hold for verification,” an overworked dispatcher said without much enthusiasm.

On the inside of the Hummer, Aspen spoke into her phone: “Tony, we may have something on the Hieroglyphic Hacker's whereabouts.”

“Caught a break within the first forty-eight, huh?”

“Too soon to tell. I need you to triangulate a cell phone call for me and get me an address.” She gave Tony Yancee's cell number and Africa's cell number and the time Yancee's phone last dialed Africa's. Tony would pinpoint the cell towers the call bounced through and then use Google Maps to locate the address the call was made from.

The weary police dispatcher said to Hakeem, “Go ahead, Detective Eubanks.”

“Run a nationwide APB on a sixty-seven Camaro. Registered owner Yancee Taylor. Black on black. Vanity plate number,
ALL
HERS.”
He hung up and looked at Aspen. “Are we thinking the same Terri Dunlap?”

•  •  •

Detective Leonardo Scott—fortyish, sinewy, sunburnt—looked like an old western gunslinger straight off the set of a
Gunsmoke
episode. His blond mustache was entirely too thick to be comfortable, and it had the nerve to be discolored from Red Indian chewing tobacco. He wore a Stetson hat with a high crown and an extra wide brim that must have cost him a week's wages. Even his cowboy boots were decked out with spurs. A .38 Smith & Wesson was holstered low on the hip of his denims. Aspen wondered if he had a stallion tethered to a parking meter out front.

Aspen and Hakeem sat quietly in the Homicide Unit's conference room while Detective Scott studied their file. After perusing the autopsy report and comparing their crime scene photos with a few of his, Detective Scott spat tobacco juice in an empty Pepsi bottle, then looked up at Aspen and Hakeem through a set of seaweed-green eyes.

“It's him,” Detective Scott said. “It's our boy. After six months of silence, he's finally decompensating.”

Hakeem said nothing.

Aspen stubbed out her cigarette. “What makes you so sure?”

“ 'Cause he's making mistakes. Seven flawless murders in Denver and not one piece of trace evidence until now.” He dug into a leather cache bag and dropped his thick files on the table with a thud. “See for yourselves.”

“Go away.”

Jazz sauntered into the bedroom full of grace and confidence anyway. Had she known that she'd leave humiliated, she would have listened to Jaden and kept going. She came with the intention of finding a middle ground so things could be settled between them. Deciding how hard to push Jaden was the problem. Too much torque and he'd sink deeper into anger and drive the wedge between them to the hilt. Not enough pressure and he'd never take her seriously, leaving them in a never-ending state of dysfunction.

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
“You're still here,” he said, bouncing the ball against the wall. “Too hardheaded for your own good.”

“You ready to talk about the tantrum you threw this morning?”

“You ready to talk about the tantrum you
didn't
throw on July 22, 2001?”

Jazz flinched at the mention of
that
day. She almost choked on the lump that formed in her throat. She had the sensation of a broken fingernail running down her spine. Beneath her black, oversized clothing her skin rashed with goosebumps. Bile crept up her throat like a prowler. But all she could taste was despair, tasted regret, tasted excruciating physical and mental pain. Sweat beaded her brow as a taut silence kidnapped and strangled the room. She staggered on her feet, fighting desperately to maintain equilibrium.

“You look a little woozy,” Jaden said. “Seems like you need to take a seat.”

“How do you know?” she whispered.

“You'd be surprised at what I know.”
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

Jazz crumpled into the chair of the computer workstation nestled in the corner of the room because she had to. Her long brown legs were no longer reliable. Her blank stare fell to the window and the clear blue sky beyond it. She looked into a vision of what was supposed to be the happiest day of every woman's life. But for her, that day her self-esteem was torn into two irreplaceable pieces. Her self-worth was stolen forever. The horrific memory played across her mind like a video clip.

•  •  •

Over fifty law enforcement officers of various agencies gathered in a large conference room on the third floor of the Justice Center. A timeline was drawn on a dry-erase board to keep track of case developments since the discovery of Yancee Taylor's mutilated corpse. The main blue vein of the timeline had several arteries branching out in various directions and colors. At the end of a green artery, written in Aspen's ultra girly handwriting, was the message the Hieroglyphic Hacker had carved into Yancee's body. She underlined Eubanks' name twice because the threat bothered her twice as much. A large city map was tacked to a bulletin board. A blue-headed stickpin marked the spot where Yancee was found.

County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport walked in with a hell of a strut. The collective chatter stopped. She turned every head in the room. Her smile was easy. The scar on her face made her look like a beautiful battle-ready warrior. She wore a classy Oscar de la Renta number with a metallic gray python Nina bag thrown
over her shoulder and matching shoes. She looked more like a
Show
magazine centerfold than a prosecutor. She took a seat in the front row next to Chief Dwight Eisenhower.

The corners of Hakeem's mouth turned up to a stupid grin. Aspen elbowed the silly smile off his face. She knew then and there that she didn't like Scenario Davenport.

J
azz had done everything right. Believed in God and saved her virtue for her husband. She stood tall and proud like a princess in their Marriott suite. She felt beautiful in her long floor-skimming wedding gown. She felt worthy of standing before such a wonderful man, but she was a huge ball of nervous energy. Most she'd ever done was kiss a boy and done some exploratory touching. But now she was about to go all the way. She slowly turned around—imaging his tender touch—so Leon could unbutton her wedding gown. Nervous giggles poured from her as his fingers freed each clasp.

Her dress hit the floor, exposing her slender frame, the sensual bra and panty set she picked out especially for him. She felt safe and sexy revealing herself to her husband. As his gaze eased along the length of her back, she prayed that she could please him sexually. What she didn't know, she promised herself to be open-minded so she could learn.

Leon turned up his nose with transparent disgust. “You should really be grateful for me. Life did you a favor.”

A stone dropped in the pit of Jazz's stomach and ripped the lining out. The condescension in his tone was a brand-new being. One that she never witnessed within their union. She precariously faced him, afraid that if she tipped too far either way, her nausea would
hit the floor. Jazz was vulnerable and visibly trembling. “What…what do you mean?”

“That someone like me felt sorry for you and actually married you. You owe me.”

Those words knocked more than the wind out of Jazz. They tore out her beating heart. She was taken aback. Instinctively her mind retreated and her feet followed close behind as she stepped away from him.

Leon clenched a sturdy grip around her wrist, yanking her back in place. “Stand here and don't move again.” Then: “And wipe that look off your face. I'm doing you a favor. Look at you, you're ugly and too skinny. Nobody in their right mind wants you. No tits. Your ass is flat. What am I supposed to do with any of this?” He snatched her bra off and shook his head.

Jazz wanted to cover her crawling flesh. This wasn't the respect Leon vowed to less than an hour ago in front of their minister, family, and God. The first time she showed her body to a man, he responded to it negatively. This wasn't what she dreamt her first time would be like. This was nothing like the beautiful description she internalized from the numerous romance novels she read. Jazz always imagined fireworks, shooting stars, an indescribable pleasure. She always thought her first time would allow her to experience the meaning of ecstasy. She never entertained the thought that she would be made to feel unloved and ugly.

She said, “What was all that lovey-dovey stuff you were whispering in my ear before we got married? If you felt like this, why even marry me?”

Leon reared back and smacked her face swollen. Jazz existed somewhere between shock and confusion. This betrayed the protection he promised her. Her eyes were frozen wide with fear.
Without thinking of her actions her fingertips found the raw skin of her face.

“Don't ever question me, and don't you ever fix your mouth to talk back to me,” Leon said through his teeth. “Those are the first rules you'll learn to comply with, the easy way or the hard way.” He squeezed her wrist to give her a true taste of his strength and dominance. “You're mine now. Good wives live according to their husband's rules.” He appraised the value of her features again with unmixed disgust. “Your eyes are the ugliest things I've ever seen in my life. Stop looking at me with them.”

She downcast her gaze and cried.

“I'll get you a pair of sunglasses so I don't have to see them again.”

A cold emptiness of continental proportions surged through her veins like ice water. No, this wasn't love and honor; it was tyranny. She sobbed and covered her body with her arms as best as she could. Instantly she became self-conscious of her feminine attributes. No other soul would see her so exposed for as long as she lived.

“And do yourself and the entire world a favor,” he said. “Don't hop your ass in another picture. You have no right. Ugly doesn't photograph well.” Then: “Have I made myself clear, wife?” He loosened his tie.

Jazz was too horrified and too everything else to say anything. She was hoping to wake up and find that she was an unwilling participant of a nightmare.

Leon got pissed and raised his voice. “Am. I. Making. Myself. Clear?” He raised his hand, threatening to strike her if she didn't answer correctly.

Jazz flinched and nodded in one motion.

“Trust me when I tell you that I'm the only person who has the
heart to attempt loving you. No one else cares about you. No other man will tolerate the likes of you.”

She sobbed like never before.

“You are no longer allowed to speak with your family without my permission. I'm your mother, your father, your sister, your brother.” He flung his tuxedo shirt to the bed. “You will keep my house spotless at all times and have my dinner prepared by four o'clock every day.” He kicked his shoes off. “When your chores are done, then and only then can you write your imaginary stories. All your royalty checks come to me.” He unzipped the fly of his tuxedo pants. “When I allow you the special privilege to be seen with me in public, you walk two paces behind me—always on my inside. I pray that you like to learn the hard way. That would really turn me on, because my rules have several consequences when broken.” He stepped out of his pants, then took off his underwear. “Now let me see if this pussy satisfies her husband. It better if you know what's good for you. Take them panties off, bend over the bed, and hide your ugly face in the pillow while I break you in.”

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

The ideal companionship Jazz shared with Leon died the moment she stood at the altar gazing into his seemingly innocent eyes. It all died the moment she said “I do.” Getting married and losing her virginity were the two worst and most painful things that had ever happened to her. On her honeymoon she learned what the consequence was of not satisfying Leon in bed—his fists while he was inside her.