Wrong Chance (9 page)

“You're kidding,” Hakeem said, not interested at all. He was thinking about calling Ms. Drew Felding, his neighbor, and asking her to let Keebler out and keep an eye on her because a fresh homicide promised late working hours. Especially when he wasn't getting started until after five post meridiem.

“Seriously. Ran across it online last night. Get this: Back in the day of the Prophet Muhammad, they practiced that because they rode camels without proper underclothes. Shaving was their answer to the flea and tick problem in those times, which is understandable. But today people wear Victoria's Secret and Calvin Klein underwear. We drive beautiful machines like this baby here.” She gripped the steering wheel. “So it's crazy for shaving to still be a mandate, right?”

“You sure know a lot about Muslims.”

“Thought about signing up to give my children a religion and to tick my father off. Changed my mind when I found out Muslim women didn't have equal rights, have to starve themselves for thirty days during the month of Ramadan, and have to shave. You have no idea of how irritating it is to walk around with an itchy coochie.”

“Nope, wouldn't have a clue.” Then: “Looks like you have to find another way to piss off dear old Dad.” He pulled out his Mont Blanc pen and pad and started writing.

“What are you doing?” Aspen said.

“Adding become a Muslim and shave my pubic hair to my bucket list.”

Aspen rolled her eyes. “You and this bucket list.”

The rain had moved on to piss on the southern part of Ohio by the time they turned off Mayfield Road into a parking lot cluttered with Cleveland Heights municipal marked and unmarked police cars, emergency personnel vehicles, news satellite vans, and the one vehicle that caused Hakeem's hemorrhoids to flare: a neon-green Honda. That meant the incorrigible Gus Hobbs, a reporter for the
Cleveland Plain Dealer,
was lurking. Hakeem hated all reporters. They used people's tragedy and misery as a means to get a Pulitzer Prize. As soon as he and Aspen stepped out of the car, everyone on the unofficial side of the crime-scene tape stopped what they were doing to stare at them.

Hakeem knew they stood out like sore thumbs, the only pair in any group. Their clothes were ridiculously expensive. Not like other detectives who depended on department-issued clothing vouchers, whose outdated blazers boasted holes in the linings from years of their gun hammers rubbing against the fabric.

No. Hakeem and Aspen stunk of privilege and six-digit educations.
To the majority of their colleagues they looked like two rich assholes that got bored and stepped off the pages of
Vanity Fair
and came to the inner city to play cop because it looked fun on their seventy-two-inch plasma screens. But, in fact, they had a hundred percent case clearance rate and their pedigrees were as sharp as the pleats in their slacks. Him: heir to Empire Energy & Natural Gas Company; her, twenty-eight percent stake holder of her father's eighty-six-million-dollar trust fund.

As they neared the crime-scene tape—sectioning off a throng of Pine and Maple trees—Sharon Reed, a reporter for
Live On 5,
winked at Hakeem as she spoke into the camera. “Fear grips a suburban community this evening. Just beyond these trees officials are saying is the most gruesome murder scene in the history of this city. The unidentified victim is a black male…”

When Hakeem and Aspen ducked under the crime-scene tape and breached the tree-lined perimeter, the building's sentries, they looked up at a Jewish synagogue. It was an overbearing building with a wide set of concrete steps that sat beneath huge pillars that stretched to the sky swollen with clouds. Hakeem wondered what type of monster would kill a person in a sacred place of worship. He needed to know. It was that thirst for unanswered questions that drove him.

A burly man with a thin goatee and receding hairline came over and shook Aspen's hand, then Hakeem's. “Heard the mayor assigned you guys to this. It's nice to finally meet the infamous Dynamic Duo. I'm Officer McNally.”

Scanning the area with his intense gaze, Hakeem said, “McNally, I'm taking it you were the first officer on the scene.”

McNally nodded. “Dispatch assigned me the call at four thirtyish.”

“Push the perimeter back another ten feet,” Aspen said. “Until
someone relieves you, you're solely responsible for keeping my perimeter secure. Within the next forty minutes, this place will be a circus.” She took in their surroundings. “No one gets past you, not even the person who signs your paycheck unless I authorize it. We clear?”

McNally nodded like a little boy who'd gotten in trouble.

Aspen had recounted to Hakeem about how she'd learned the hard way about keeping foot traffic inside a crime scene to a necessary minimum. Back in Los Angeles when she worked in the legendary Glass House with Homicide Special, she was processing the crime scene of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, which was overrun with reporters. While bagging and tagging evidence, she caught a break, or so she thought. She bagged a cigarette butt that everyone assumed belonged to the killer or killer's accomplice. After wasting several weeks waiting on DNA evidence to come back on the butt, it turned out to match a reporter who had contaminated the scene. Now as a veteran detective, she prevented the unconscious removal, addition, and/or destruction of evidence by keeping nosey folks out.

Hakeem appreciated her thoroughness.

Aspen nudged the thin strip of soil beneath her with a pump. “Where does this path lead to, Officer McNally?”

“It, uh, winds behind the synagogue for about thirty yards and comes out on Euclid Heights Boulevard. The path's mouth is obscured by overgrown shrubbery. To know it's there you'd have to know it's there. Years ago the neighborhood kids created it as a shortcut to get to school. Four generations later, kids still use this path to get to school.”

Hakeem gestured to another potbellied officer who stood at the entrance of the sanctuary. “Your partner?”

“Eight years straight,” Officer McNally said. “He's manning the logbook.”

Aspen said, “Never knew this place was here.”

“Been here since the sixties,” Officer McNally said. “The Jewish community stopped using it as a place of worship about eleven years ago. It's so well hidden by the trees, like the path, you wouldn't know this building was here unless you knew it was here.”

Hakeem said nothing.

Aspen had already noticed that on first visual, the area looked like it was a dense patch of woods until they cut through the tree perimeter guarding the synagogue and found its hollow bowels.

McNally pointed to their left. “Just behind that evergreen there's
a hidden driveway. The killer probably used it unless they walked in here.”

“You're real familiar with this place.” Aspen nailed him with her suspicious cop eyes.

“Used to be one of those kids who rode my bike through here every morning. I went to Monticello Junior High.”

Aspen said, “Who found the body?”

Hakeem cringed. Aspen knew Hakeem hated how real people were reduced to insignificant “bodies” once they expired.

“Uh…Mr. and Mrs.—” McNally whipped out his notepad. “—Walter and Mary Williams.”

Hakeem's—ever the pessimist—radar went off. What would a married couple be doing inside the building if it's been closed down for eleven years? “Williams isn't a Jewish name.”

“A couple?” Aspen said, picking up on Hakeem's frequency. “Thought this place hasn't been operational, that the most action it sees is kids using this path to get from Point A to B, right?”

“They're senior citizens; they work, housecleaning and maintenance, for the Hebrew Academy of Cleveland up on Taylor Road. The academy uses this old place as a warehouse for the school. They came down here to pick up supplies and found our victim.”

“So they have keys to this place?” Hakeem looked at his Rolex and thought about Keebler.

“Yeah,” McNally said, nodding. “But I believe the killer got in through a window. There's a window broken out in there.” McNally jerked a thumb toward the building. “Mr. Williams is certain it wasn't broken out two days ago.”

On first observation of the place, Hakeem noticed a tree limb reaching out and flirting with the building.

“I'm guessing this broken window is on the third floor, east side of the building,” Aspen said, always on point.

“How'd you know?” McNally had the I'm-puzzled look down to a science.

She shrugged a
lucky guess,
slid her peep-toe pumps off, and then said to Hakeem, “I'll check around back. Sign me in the log; I'll initial it later.” She strutted away carrying her shoes.

“McNally.”

Nothing.

“Officer McNally.” Hakeem shook him back to the here-and-now.

“Huh?” McNally said, coming out his trance.

“I asked you about the Williamses. Where are they?”

“Oh, the old man had medication to take, and they had to let their grandson in after school. I took their statements and let them go home.” McNally gave Hakeem a copy of their statement.

“Give me a minute,” Hakeem said, stepping off to the side, pulling out his Palm Treo smart phone. He pulled up Ms. Drew Felding's information and dialed her number. “Hi, Drew; Hakeem here.”

“I have caller ID, Hakeem. But it's good to hear your voice.” She was always as cheerful as ever. “Your car isn't in the driveway. What's going on?”

“Ran into a little situation at work.”

“It wouldn't have anything to do with what Sharon Reed is talking about on the news, would it?” Then: “She's scaring the bejesus out of me, and I'm sure she's scaring the rest of the good people in this city.”

“Don't listen to Reed. Her paycheck is based on putting panic and fear in people's lives. She wants network coverage. Ratings. She gives a story legs. So how can you believe anything she says?” He peeped Officer McNally checking him out on the sly. “But I am working the case she's speculating about, so I'll be home late. I was wondering if—”

“Hakeem, you just make this city safe and I'll take care of Keebler until you get home.”

“Thanks, Drew.” He hung up and dropped the phone in his pocket. He turned to McNally. “Take me to the deceased.”

McNally aimed his Maglite and led Hakeem up the concrete steps and froze at the door. “This is as far as I'm going. Once was enough. Hope you got a cast-iron stomach.”

W
hat a fucking dummy, Scratch, a heroin addict, thought as he peeked through the Camaro's window. The lame with that pretty broad from yesterday had left his keys in the ignition
and
an iPhone on the seat. Scratch looked around, confident he wasn't being watched, then climbed inside the ride and fired it up. The rumble of the engine was powerful. It made him feel tough. Without a doubt, he was about to get a bankroll for this beautiful machine. He gripped the steering wheel eager to see what the car was made of when flashing lights lit up Sidney Avenue.
Fuck
. There goes his fix. He hadn't even stolen the damn thing yet and already Euclid cops were coming. He jerked the car back in Drive, snatched up the iPhone, and hustled out the car and over to the Wood Chips.

He sat on a rung of the sliding board ladder, trying to catch his breath as a tow truck rounded the curve in the street. A tow truck? He panicked and blew his high behind a tow truck? He was pissed with himself for not pulling off as he watched the tow truck back up to the Camaro. At least he got a phone out the deal. That would definitely get him a bag or two. He took the iPhone out to check its applications and saw that the display screen read
92 Missed Calls.
This lame must be important, he told himself.

He slyly shot up his last bag of dope as he watched the tow truck
driver hook the Camaro up to its hoist. Just as the dope hit his system, the iPhone rang. He hit the Send button and listened.

“Yancee…Yancee, hello?” Then: “You black motherfucker, I hope she's worth it 'cause we're through. Come get your crazy-ass mammee and these rotten, penitentiary-bound kids and take 'em to that bitch's house. Fuck this marriage and fuck—”

Scratch hung up. With a woman with a mouth and attitude like that, he understood why the lame drove off with another woman yesterday.

T
he synagogue gave Hakeem the creeps; it reminded him of a setting that Wes Craven would use in a horror flick, a building that would have scared Hakeem shitless as a child. He pushed his hands inside a pair of leather gloves, slipped shoe covers over his shoes, and stepped through the domineering double doors. Everything good and wholesome inside him whispered, “Fool, turn your ass around.”

He took a few more steps into the building's guts and waited, waited for the nausea to grip him and knot his innards. It was a feeling he counted on, one that screamed “I'm still normal.” He'd vowed to Aspen that when he became desensitized to death and the nauseous feeling divorced him, he would turn in his gold shield and spend the rest of his days on an exotic beach in Dubai with half-naked women.

The coppery smell of blood and rotten flesh raped his nose. His belly tried to crawl up his throat and out his mouth. He forced the bile down as his heart feloniously assaulted his chest. Decay and the residue of anger tainted the air. It was a funk that promised to cling until he scrubbed it clean. But Hakeem knew he'd still smell it in his mind.

Like a thoroughbred bloodhound he sniffed and followed the funk to its source, stomach protesting every step of the way. Just
beyond the main sanctuary a man lay on the floor. Shirt open, pants and underwear gathered at his ankles. Blowflies circled his body like hungry vultures. Blood pooled around his body; it had turned brown and thick like meringue.