Wrong Chance (20 page)

Scenario promised the piranhas that once the killer was caught, she would aggressively prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law in honor of the victims and their families. She told them that she believed in the justice system and in her staff's ability to assist in achieving the goals of Lady Justice. She gave out a hotline number for anyone who had information that could lead to the Hieroglyphic Hacker's arrest. Then Scenario politely refused to answer any questions.

Mayor Balfour took the podium—eager to satisfy his publicity jones. “Our modern-day Joan of Arc.” He made a show of winking at Scenario. “Myself, my cabinet, the City Council, and the police department, we're all counting on County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport to lead the state of Ohio to the conviction of the Hieroglyphic Hacker.”

Mayor Balfour was a cunning bastard. He had just cleared every other city official of any responsibility and left Scenario solely culpable if things went wrong, if they ever caught the killer. Scenario cringed at the Joan of Arc analogy. Joan had led the French against the English in the Hundred Year War. By the end of the battle, Joan was captured and convicted of heresy and burned at the stake. Scenario instantly became uncomfortable as realization tugged at her soul. She was standing at a figurative stake there on the Justice Center's steps. She had just put the nails in her proverbial coffin when she gave the piranhas sound bites. She was literally standing under the sword of Damocles.

A
flicker of raw emotion brightened Hakeem's exhausted face. Aspen recognized the look: pent-up testosterone amped up on adrenaline. With their weapons drawn, they gave Scenario Davenport a conspiratorial look. Translation:
Are you ready for this?
Scenario demanded that she accompany them during the arrest in order to monitor the legality of the process. She had all the props: bulletproof vest, badge, .40 caliber Sig Sauer holstered on her hip, and a no-knock warrant signed by Judge Adrine. She took a deep breath, unholstered the gun, then nodded.

Hakeem kicked the door in.

“Scratch, this is the police!” Aspen yelled as they rushed the apartment.

The place was infested with roaches. Flies buzzed around a garbage can overrun with spoiled trash. Fast-food containers with half-eaten food littered the table. Among the debris was a leather iPhone cover. Dirty dishes were stacked in the kitchen sink with enough blue mold on them to supply a pharmacy with penicillin. Other than the filth and the pest, the place appeared empty.

Then something fell.

Hakeem motioned to a closed door at the back of the apartment. Aspen covered him as they inched down the hall. His movements were painful. He was going to hurt Butter Bean bad. White bread
on hemorrhoids was like treating them with Tabasco sauce. And his tush was literally paying the price. Bastard. Scenario fell in five steps behind Aspen.

“Scratch, old friend,” Hakeem said just outside the bedroom door, “come out of there.”

“Eubanks, that you?”

“Yeah, come out of there.”

“I ain't going to jail, Eubanks. I'll be dope sick for days.”

Hakeem reached for the doorknob. “I'm coming in.”

“Don't know what the hell for. I don't get down like that,” Scratch said. “Send your partner in here naked and then we're working with something I like.”

Aspen shook her head. “Same old Scratch.”

Hakeem pushed the door open. Scratch was straddled across the windowsill. One leg inside the apartment; the other outside. A twinkle of mischief was in his eyes. Aspen stepped into the room, assuming the Weaver stance, and training her gun on Scratch. Scenario lingered in the doorway with her .40 Cal pointed at the floor.

Hakeem holstered his weapon and pointed a threatening finger at Scratch like it was a loaded gun. “I swear you better not make me chase you. Not with all the pain I'm in. We just want to ask you some questions.”

“My office hours are from nine to five Monday through Friday. It's Saturday, you assholes. Reschedule with my secretary and I'll get back at you later.” Then: “Should've come alone, Aspen.” He winked at Aspen and pushed himself through the window and took off in an all-out sprint.

“Son of a bitch.” Hakeem dove through the window after him. He limp-ran, trying to keep the hemorrhoidal pain to a minimum,
even though his long strides knocked chunks out of the distance Scratch had gained on him.

Scratch loss momentum as he hopped a fence and came out on 105th and Olivet. His lungs were about to explode. Hakeem blocked out the pain and hurdled the fence like he was nineteen.

The thoroughfare 105 was one of the most disenfranchised and disconnected blocks in the city. It was neatly tucked away from the rest of society and its inhabitants moved with complete lawlessness.

Hakeem chased Scratch past Big Daddy's, a monumental soul food restaurant in the hood. Hakeem had his hands full trying to gain on Scratch. Drug dealers and their groupies showed comradeship to the dope fiend by obstructing Hakeem's path and justice. He held up his badge and urged them out his way and even knocked a few people down. But for the most part, they didn't budge. Scratch cut the corner on Hampton Avenue, flipping Hakeem the birdie as he did, and Aspen clotheslined him off his feet and knocked the smug smile off his face. Hakeem bent the corner a moment later huffing and puffing.

Aspen gently patted him on the ass. “Thought you could use some help,” she said as Scratch staggered to his feet.

Hakeem punched his lights out and noticed that Scenario Davenport was not pleased with brutality.

S
cratch clawed at his neck for the twentieth time since he was escorted into the interrogation room. “Shit, man, I'm getting sick, Eubanks.”

The fluorescent light suspended over the interview table cast a glow on Scratch that highlighted how bad of shape the heroin use had him in. The whites of his eyes and the hue of his skin had a yellow tint going on like he was suffering from jaundice. He was rail thin and his cheeks were sunken in so deep it looked to Hakeem as if Scratch was sucking on a straw.

“You're going to jail for murder this time for sure.” There was an intense pounding behind Hakeem's temples. And he knew the last words he'd spoken were a lie. Scratch wasn't a killer. A theft, yes; but a cold-blooded murderer, no.

Aspen shook a Newport out and offered it to Scratch. “You know you're gonna have to make this right,” she said, giving him a light.

Now he clawed at his arm. “I ain't kill nobody. Just like I didn't kill Monique. I didn't lie to you when I told you she had overdosed before I showed up. All I did was use the rest of the heroin since she wasn't gonna need it anymore.”

“That was last year,” Hakeem said. “And it has nothing to do with why we found a dead man's phone in your pocket today.”

Aspen said, “You're just a magnet for dead people. Listen, Scratch,
I believe you, but the only way I can help you is you gotta tell me where you got the phone.”

He cut his eyes to Hakeem. “I think you broke my nose.” Then: “I should sue.”

“I'll tell you where you got it,” Hakeem said. “You robbed and killed a man so you can stick that junk in your arm and you were too stupid to get rid of the phone. Now you're on your way to Chillicothe State Penitentiary.”

“You got it all wrong, Eubanks.” Scratch stubbed out the cigarette. “That isn't true.”

Aspen put photos of Yancee's body on the table. “Unless you tell me something different, it doesn't look like we're wrong.”

“No.” Scratch closed his eyes.

Hakeem jumped up and grabbed Scratch by the neck, then forced his face an inch away from the table. “Open your eyes. Look at what you did. Look at it.”

“Talk to us, Scratch.” Aspen lolled in her chair. “Help me make this right.”

“I'm sick.” Sweat dripped from his forehead. “You gotta let me out of here so I can get straight. Please.”

Hakeem pushed Scratch's face on Yancee's picture. “Why did you have the phone of a man who's been murdered?”

“My nose, Eubanks. Watch my nose.”

“Better talk,” Aspen said.

Hakeem pushed harder.

“Okay, okay. I stole the damn thing, okay?” Then: “But I didn't know it belonged to a dead guy.”

Hakeem let him go. “Talk.”

“The other day, Thursday—” He rubbed his neck as his nose started running. “—I was out in Euclid going to hang out with this
girl I freak and get high with sometime and I saw this guy.” Scratch picked up a picture. “Yeah, this is the guy and he wasn't all cut up like this.”

“You saw him where?” Aspen said.

With caution in his voice and uncertainty in his eyes, Scratch said, “Am I in trouble?”

“Murder spells out trouble,” Hakeem said.

“I only stole something out the lame's car.”

Aspen wrote something on her notepad. “So you were the last person to see Yancee alive?”

“No, there was a woman with him.”

Hakeem's eyes found Aspen's as he recalled Africa describing her husband as a cheater. “You saw Yancee with a woman?”

Scratch nodded. “Yeah, they were sitting together like lovebirds.”

“Where were they?”

“At the little playground on the corner of Brush and two seventy-sixth.”

Aspen considered Scratch.

“You were in the playground?”

Scratch came down with a case of the shivers. “I'm in pain, man. I gotta get out of here.”

“I swear I'll throw you in a holding tank and let that monkey break your back.”

“You wouldn't.”

“He would,” Aspen said. “Seen him do it, and you're about this close from finding out for yourself.” She made a tiny gap between her index finger and thumb.

“No, I wasn't in the playground. When I first saw the two lovebirds, I was walking by. Told you that I was headed to a friend's house.”

Hakeem pulled up a chair next to Scratch. “How did you end up with Yancee's phone?”

“My friend's apartment overlooks the playground. While she was in the bathroom getting ready for us to do our thing, I watched this Yancee guy and that pretty girl he was with through the window. They walked to a red Infiniti and messed around in the trunk. My friend said something to me and when I turned back to the window, the Infiniti was pulling off.”

“They were in the car together?” Aspen perked up.

“Had to be. The Camaro I saw him get out of was still parked on the street.” He wiped his nose with his shirt. “And when I left the next day, it was still parked there with the keys in the ignition and the phone on the seat, so I took it. Do you know how much iPhones are worth on the street? I can get straight for two or three days. There was no way I was leaving it.”

Hakeem said, “Describe the girl.”

Hakeem decided it was time to dig in Madam Terri Dunlap's business to see if she had any holes in her panties.

Aspen thumped a half-smoked cigarette to the sidewalk. “I'm telling you now, Hakeem. Don't be the cause of someone up in here getting the whore smacked out of them,” she said as they stepped into the foyer of an east side massage parlor, which was merely a front for Terri's brothel. “Before your eyes get carried away roaming over every inch of flesh you see, remember you came with a lady on your arm.”

Hakeem yawned, feeling the exhaustion hibernating in the marrow of his bones, and a little confused about why he was getting checked when he hadn't gotten out of line. “What makes you think—”

Aspen threw a hand up. “You're a man; you can't help but admire women. Just respect me enough while we're together to look, but be smooth enough to pretend like you're not looking. I'm not about to go in a place like this and be trumped by another kitten's meow.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Hakeem bowed, then opened a second door of the house whose first floor had been remodeled to resemble a hotel lobby. The lounge area, facing a register counter, was lined with cozy overstuffed armchairs, and an internal speaker system softly played make-out music. Three men, one of which Hakeem
recognized from somewhere, dressed in business suits lounged while flipping through voyeuristic trade magazines. The cunning proprietor's way of engaging her customers in mental foreplay while they waited to experience the real thing. Velvet drapes covered the windows, blocking all traces of sunlight, low-wattage bulbs dimmed the ambience of the undercover brothel, and the air was scented with a powerful olfactory aphrodisiac that worked its magic on Hakeem's sexual desire.

A leggy brunette with the body of a sister winked at Hakeem as she sashayed by them carrying a serving tray with a bottle of red wine and tumblers on it into the lounge area. She wore six-inch heels, a white thong that made her tan sing, and pasties over the nipples of a set of perky breasts. Heeding Aspen's warning and feeling her piercing gaze on him, he fought the strong urge to take a second look so he could check out the white girl's ass and see what she was really working with.

“Damn, this Terri bitch knows what she's doing,” Aspen said as they approached the register counter. “I can take a few lessons in the art of seduction from her.”

Hakeem immediately realized that the place was working its magic on Aspen's desire too. He wondered if the temperature of Aspen's passion could—

“What masseuse are you two scheduled to see today, and are you seeing her as a couple or do you have separate appointments?” a dolled-up, brown-complexioned woman said. She wore lingerie and extra-long eyelashes. Her fingers were ready to type their response into the computer to fact-check it.

“We're here to speak with Ms. Terri Dunlap.” Hakeem's gaze rose from the woman's cleavage to her inquisitive brown eyes.

“Uh.” The woman made a face as if what Hakeem had said wasn't
normal. “Ms. Dunlap, uh, isn't here. If you would like to leave her a message, I'll see to it that she gets it.”