“New here?” Tyrel said, once he’d floated back down to earth.
“Yup. Originally from Charlotte.”
“Charlotte? Why’d you move here?”
“My dad had an accident on the job, so he couldn’t work anymore. We have to make do with my mom’s income, and you know how the economy is.”
“Tell me about it.”
Though Tyrel tried sounding exasperated, he meant what he said because he didn’t know a thing about the economy.
“So we moved to my mom’s place here. Thankfully my grandma had left her old house to my mom before she passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well… we aren’t.” Shane chuckled again.
Then they talked about everything under the sun. From their favorite colors to their favorite wrestlers. They’d become close in ten minutes. It felt so natural. Effortless.
Before the lunch break was over, Tyrel was in love.
* * *
After school, Tyrel was doing his business at a urinal, the drain of which was clustered with snus and dips. The assholes could have spat them in bins or thrown them out through a window. Now the poor janitor had to scour the pee-soaked tobacco out, which would obviously disgust him. The guys who did that were going to hell for it. Tyrel was sure that when you hurt someone, even indirectly, you paid the price in some form.
He shook twice, pulled his zipper up, and walked over to the sink. Once he washed his hands, he splashed cold water on his face and head and looked in the mirror.
Shane waited outside, and Tyrel was going to show him around town. He shouldn’t look tired on their first unofficial date. They’d get ice cream cones and walk to the nearby lake. The air had the right amount of cool, and the evening radiated the right amount of warmth. They would lie on the ground adorned with autumn leaves and flowers, listen to water gurgle and leaves rustle, and let nature envelop them.
Should this hypnotic dream come true, Tyrel promised himself he would find the guts to end the daycation with their first kiss. That made him happy. Very happy. He just knew he would toss and turn in bed that night, fantasizing about Shane and losing sleep.
Tyrel was whistling and raking his wet hair when the bathroom door flew open. Ricky’s friend Jerry, who had assumed power as the head honcho of their little gang, entered the bathroom. He was one of the two boys who’d held Tyrel when Ricky killed Sandy. Tyrel took the high road and forgave them. They were merely puppets.
Jerry didn’t go to the urinals or stalls. He stared at the mirror.
“I know Rick ain’t no runaway.”
“Guess what?” Tyrel turned and winked at Jerry. “I know that, too.”
“Huh?”
Tyrel burped. “I killed him.”
Jerry strode toward Tyrel and grabbed his shirt. “What did you say, you fuck?”
“I said, if this,” Tyrel held Jerry’s soft fist inside his coarse hand, “is the limit of your strength, then you better go get some guys to make the fight seem even half-fair. I really don’t want to beat up a weak fart. It’s pathetic.”
Jerry flinched when Tyrel stiffened his grip. He let go of Tyrel’s shirt and turned and walked out.
Tyrel joined Shane and they passed through the corridor. He didn’t remember ever walking out of school with anyone. The butterflies in his stomach fluttered wilder.
As they exited the school campus, Tyrel found Jerry waiting across the street with two jocks who played football or soccer or something. The jocks’ muscles were trained for many things, but not for fighting.
“New guy is a fucking twinkle, too?” Jerry hollered.
Tyrel glanced at Shane. His pretty face had drained of color.
“You better apologize, Jerry.” Tyrel removed his backpack and let it hang from his hand.
“What you’re gonna do if he don’t, gay boy?” one of the jocks said.
Tyrel let go of his bag and sprinted to the jock, who froze like a deer who’d spotted speeding headlights. Tyrel flew knee first into his chest, and he felt something crack inside.
One down, two to go.
The other jock took a swing and got Tyrel on his ribs. Tyrel ignored the pain, like he always did, and waited for the next punch. The guy predictably swung the same way. Tyrel caught his forearm, yanked him close, and kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over and fell, holding his midsection.
Two down, one to go.
Jerry glimpsed at the road behind him, calculating if he could escape if he started running now. Too late because Tyrel was already close to him. With one punch, he broke Jerry’s nose, and Jerry staggered back and fell on his ass. Tyrel clutched the top of his shirt, dragged him across the street, and dropped him near Shane’s boot. Then he lifted his leg and stomped the back of Jerry’s head. His face slammed on the road, eliciting a scream.
“Apologize,” Tyrel said.
“I’m thorry.” Jerry vomited a mouthful of blood.
Tyrel nudged Jerry’s head with his foot. “Lick his sneakers.”
“Tyrel, no.” Shane took a step back.
“He’s a bully, Shane.” Tyrel pressed Jerry’s head down with his foot and rolled it on the dirt, enjoying every bit of it. “He deserves it.”
“Stop it,” Shane shouted. “Nobody deserves that. And are you sure he is the bully?” His eyes were tearful. “I’m sorry. You scare me.” Then he turned and ran away.
* * *
Later that night, the door to Tyrel’s room shook as someone thumped on it. Mel wouldn’t dare do that.
Tyrel shouted, “Coming.” He dressed and opened the door.
A deputy stood there with his thumbs hooked on belt loops.
“Who are you?”
“Deputy McCune.”
“Okay… what’s up?”
Mel wasn’t there. Did she… did she just tattle on him?
“You know damn well what’s up, boy. We know what you did.”
It took every bit of Tyrel’s willpower not to look under the bed, where Ricky’s skull lay.
“I don’t…” The words got caught in his throat.
Nothing left to do, except…
He closed his fingers and accumulated all his strength while aiming for the deputy’s Adam’s apple.
“The boys you beat up were admitted to a hospital. All three suffered at least one broken bone. One of them lost his speech…”
Deputy McCune droned on while Tyrel released his fingers, along with a huge breath. The stupid asshole had almost given Tyrel a heart attack, and nearly got himself killed in the process.
Chapter 12
April 5, 2019. 04:12 P.M.
Emma’s red Accord crossed Harlem River, through Macomb’s Dam Bridge, took a left, and passed Yankee Stadium. Three blocks down from The Bronx Museum of the Arts, she pulled over behind a silver Porsche in front of a two-story building. Big aluminum cut-out letters that read Walsh & Simmons, PLLC were welded above its ritzy canopy.
“You wait here,” Gabriel told Bill, and opened the door.
Emma followed suit. “Hey, Gabe. You think junior’s going to be all right? Should we crack a window or something?”
Bill gave Emma the bird. She retorted with two, earning looks of disapproval from the pedestrians. Gabriel shook his head and walked to the building’s sliding doors.
The doors closed behind them, and they stepped into a medium-sized lobby. Noises from the street abated and were replaced by a feeble piano melody. The lobby’s ambiance was on par with that of a five-star hotel’s—shiny marble floor, expensive chandelier, and paintings that depicted Greek gods slaying monsters hung on the walls. Ironic, given Simmons’s profession.
A gum-chewing receptionist doing a crossword in the newspaper greeted them at the front desk. She was young, twenty at most. A wall behind her had a painting of a naked man wearing a laurel wreath, killing a dragon-like thing with a bow. Beside the canvas, to its right, was an unmarked door.
“Is Simmons in?” Gabriel said.
&n
bsp; “Uh-huh.”
“We need to see him.”
“Got an appointment?” the girl said, in a dismissive tone she must have reserved for Simmons’s regulars.
“No. It’s a police matter.” Emma flashed her ID.
The girl’s eyes didn’t flutter, nor did her tone change.
“Still, you need an appointment.”
“It’s very important,” Gabriel said.
“If I had a nickel…” The only part of her that responded to the urgency in Gabriel’s voice was her jaw.
Emma pointed behind the girl, with a questioning look.
“Oh. It’s Apollo killing the Python,” the girl said.
“Was it winter when the epic battle happened?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, either he’s… poorly endowed, or it must’ve been one hell of a cold winter.”
The girl emitted a peal of throaty laughter. “My thoughts every damn day. Even though he’s an asshole, he is supposed to be a god. Not a god-sized winky, if you ask me.”
They both laughed again. However, Emma stopped first and waited until the girl finished.
Then she said, “Look, we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t a life-or-death scenario. We could really use your help. You might even save someone’s boyfriend or brother. At least ask Simmons if he will meet us, okay?”
The girl bit her lower lip, and Gabriel knew Emma had got to her.
“All right. Be back in a sec.” She went inside the unmarked door.
“Wow, look at this place,” Emma said. “He must really love his art.”
“Suppose so.” Gabriel brought the inhaler to his nose and took a deep breath.
“You know the thing about paintings, Gabe?”
“What?”
“Only the rich can afford them.”
Gabriel smiled. “Which, in turn, means he is really good at what he does. Let’s not forget that.”
A minute later, the girl came out and said they could go in. As they walked to the slowly closing door, Emma wagged her pinky at the girl, who cupped her mouth and giggled.
Simmons sat behind a glass-topped table. He had a well-built body and a head full of lush hair that was askew. Probably a wig. He was staring at an opened HP laptop on the table, too focused, which made the act seem contrived. Behind him, on top of a wooden cabinet, were various accolades, framed certificates, and a photograph of a Shih Tzu, the tiny dog’s tongue lolling out.
“How can I help New York’s finest?” Simmons motioned them to a pair of chairs across the table.
Though he sounded genuine, his audience knew that the smarmy prick was bullshitting.
“How well did you know Noah Smith?” Emma said, after they’d introduced themselves.
Gabriel told Emma to take up the questioning for two reasons. He couldn’t produce an ID if the defense lawyer demanded to see it, and he wanted to observe the man when he answered. It was easier to spot lies while watching, than spotting them in a two-way conversation.
“I knew him from college. What’s this about?” Simmons said, casually, but Gabriel could tell from the minor change in his breathing pattern and a fleeting rigidness in his facial muscles that the lawyer was tense.
Emma shared their suspicion about a serial killer contacted, and possibly coached, by Noah.
When Emma finished, he said, “That’s a nice story. But why are you here? Because Noah and I went to the same college? Thousands of others did.”
“Fine,” Emma said. “Can you tell us why you called Noah’s office line on July 3, 2017?”
Simmons looked at Gabriel and appeared to become aware of why Gabriel was quiet, but it was too late. They both knew he was going to lie now. His pupils said as much.
“We are all lawyers. Regardless of the sides we argue for, we are still good friends and keep in touch professionally. I don’t remember why I called Noah. It was two freaking years ago. But you should know, I contact many ADAs to make deals or request evidence, among a million other things. I can’t keep track of them all.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing. You and Noah never worked the same case. Like, ever. We’ve checked.”
“As I said, we were old friends. It could’ve been for anything.”
“Okay, that’s cool,” Emma said. “My next question. Do you help criminals hide their past?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. How about giving new chances to remorseful youth? And if that’s what you’re after, you are sorely mistaken, Detective. We don’t keep expunged records here. That’s super illegal.”
Gabriel should hand it to Simmons. He was a good actor.
“But you should have some kind of database, right?” Emma said. “A list of all the people you’ve helped with expungements?”
“We do.”
“Okay. Did you give this list to anyone?”
Simmons’s demeanor remained unchanged. “Let me ask you something. Have you ever smoked weed or run a red light or jaywalked? And be warned, everything we say inside this room is recorded.”
Emma thought. “No. I—”
“Sure you haven’t.” Simmons gave her a knowing smile. “People like us, who work in the criminal justice system, are expected to be faultless. To be an example. So fearful of political backlash or bad publicity. Even our minor infractions are punished severely. It can make our jobs precarious”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that.”
“Are you fessing up and justifying it?”
“All I’m saying is that even something as trivial as… I don’t know, say littering, can make our lives miserable. Next thing you know, a video goes viral with newsflash Cop Throws a Pepsi Can Out In Moving Traffic or Defense Lawyer Found Trashed In a Park. Get the idea?”
“Why are you telling me all this? I’m just asking you if you have given out—”
“Client information without proper paperwork, which is a major transgression, as per our firm’s policies.”
“So you’re telling me you didn’t give them out?”
“I’m saying that any professional who flouts such fundamental principles of their respective organizations would be considered treacherous. So, are you, Emma, free from such misdoings? Have you never broken the rules of the NYPD?”
“That’s different—no, I mean, I haven’t. Why are we talking about me?”
Simmons smirked. “To err is human, and if I’m ever—”
“Just answer the goddamn question,” Emma said. “Did you or did you not give Noah a list?”
Simmons was now calm. Calmer than he had been throughout the meeting. Gabriel face-palmed in his mind. Simmons had used the straw man technique to make it seem like he had the upper hand in the conversation, and pissed Emma off. Now that she’d vented her anger, Simmons got an excuse to escape answering them. He’d won.
“I entertain a couple of cops who show up at my doorstep without an appointment, and this is the respect I get in return?”
“But you—”
“Show yourselves out.”
* * *
Bill turned around. “How’d it go, Detective Chase?”
A stupid question, considering that he’d seen Emma punch the steering wheel before starting the car.
“I heard dick jokes and met a serious dick,” Gabriel said.
Emma cackled. “I didn’t know you could do funnies, Gabe.”
“What dick jokes?” Bill said.
“Tiny dick jokes.” Emma closed her mouth with a hand. “Oops. Sorry, Billy, no offense.”
“Could have gone better,” Gabriel said, before Bill could say something and get sidetracked further.
“You and your euphemisms,” Emma said.
Gabriel wasn’t bitter, because the mealy-mouthed lawyer, in spite of his best efforts against it, had given them something. As Simmons didn’t know how much information Gabriel and Emma possessed, he had resorted to the use of fallacies to circumvent lying to the police and incriminating himself. His answers were as vague and indirect as they could have been
, due to only one reason—he was hiding the truth. And their only question to him was if he had given Noah a list of people his firm had expunged.
Chapter 13
April 7, 2019. 11:59 P.M.
Jamal “Lilliputian” Washington pulled a ski mask over his face. His ancient Nike’s soles were bald, so he negotiated his footing on the wet grass. Before trespassing onto the premises, he drove by the big house three times to locate all the vantage points. And he’d decided to use a window on the second floor. Experience had taught him that the chances of confronting burglar alarms upstairs were not as high as facing one at street level.
Jamal sneaked across the lawn, to the right side, which was darker than the other parts of the house. A dumpster rested near the wall, and beside the smelly container was a window with its curtains drawn. He climbed up on the dumpster’s lid to reach the slanting window awning.
When he was on it, the lid threatened him with a nasty dip into the garbage. He shuddered at the thought. Without allowing time for the lid to sink any deeper, or himself to think any further, he grabbed the edge of the awning with his gloved hands. Heaving himself up onto it wasn’t hard, as he was just a five-foot-three featherweight. Yeah, his nickname wasn’t creative.
His slick-bottomed kicks struggled to get purchase on the slippery wood. When he moved his foot a few millimeters to get a better grip, it creaked under his shoes. He arrested his movements as his heartbeat skyrocketed. A cat screaming somewhere in the dark, which sounded like a baby’s wail, didn’t help the situation.
It was funny how Jamal had thought about babies twice that night. God had blessed him with a baby girl last week, and he had sworn off burglary for good. However, his current project didn’t count. It was a favor owed, and he’d always return favors.
The awning had done its worst from this angle. Careful not to move anything below his waist, he pulled out a crowbar from his backpack. Wedging the bar’s sharp end in between the window and its frame, he pushed it in. When he was sure he couldn’t thrust it in anymore, he pressed down with all his strength, still keeping his lower body still. The hinges protested, but eventually let up and popped free. He put the crowbar back in the bag.
Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own Page 8