This shit’ll be on the six o’clock news all over the country tonight.”
Aiden looked at Taylor. “Look, Brooks already talked to the trainer. Taylor, I want you to go talk to this lawyer Frank Pearson,” Gillespie continued.
“Whoa, I need her here talking to witnesses,” Aiden said.
“We ain’t gonna get too much more than what we got here already, man” Gillespie said. “We need to get out and talk to the players.”
“No, we need to find out as much as we can here, before it’s too late,” Aiden protested.
“I can’t sit on my hands Aiden,” Gillespie said without looking at the detective.
“This isn’t your investigation,” Aiden said firmly. “I need Detective Taylor hereto -- ”
“We can use uniforms to take statements,” Gillespie answered. “We need detectives in the field getting answers. So, like I said, Taylor, I need you to go talk to Frank Pearson. Now.”
“Idiot,” Aden sighed when GIllespie was out of earshot.
* * * * * *
Saturday, 11:05am
Moochie the Barber was sitting on a stack of milk crates on the sidewalk outside of his now infamous shop. The crowd was growing behind the yellow tape that cordoned off the perimeter of his storefront. Two news crews were on the sidewalk preparing to report from the scene. One of the reporters was a woman whom Moochie had just watched on television that morning as he dressed for work. Now she was a few feet away from him touching up her make-up and hair.
He was watching her do multiple takes of her intro and trying to come up with a witty lead sentence about the barbershop murder when he noticed Blinds making his way toward him. Moochie dropped his head and sucked his teeth.
“Ay, bro that was crazy,” Blinds said.
“Yea, I know,” Moochie barely responded.
Blinds paced back and forth then pulled out a cigarette. With the square between his lips and his hands cupped lighting it he said, “Mooch, whatchu think?”
Moochie bristled. “Think about what?”
“Did you know dude?” Blinds said. He nodded toward the barbershop.
“Hell no,” Moochie exclaimed. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just askin’.”
“Why”
“Because you owe Fats a lot of money.”
“Fuck you.”
Blinds smiled and shook his head. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He drew on his cigarette and exhaled before continuing. “When was the last time you talked to Fats?”
“What you mean?” Moochie heard his voice crack.
“I mean, when was the last time you talked to Fats?”
“I dunno. Why?” Moochie stood up.
“Whatever,” Blinds said. “You know that was his man, right?”
“Who, Six?” Moochie tried to play dumb.
“Yeah, him too, but I’m talking about the nigga that just ran up five feet in front of your face and killed a man in your barber shop,” Blinds said. “You know that nigga from Fats’ club, right?”
“Nah, I dunno shit.”
“Right,” Blinds sneered. “That was that goofy boy that be wit’ the rap nigga.”
“What rap nigga?” Moochie asked.
“You know…what’s the boy’s name…Massacre. I seen ‘im in here before.”
“I know Massacre.”
“I know you do.”
“I mean, I cut his hair all the time.”
“I know that.” Blinds looked around to see if anyone else could hear.
“Shit, I been to a few video shoots and cut his hair in L.A.-”
“That’s what I know,” Blinds said. “And you know his man, that’s always wit’ him, the little nigger that’s always talkin’.”
“Man, that cat have so many niggas around him all the time,” Moochie laughed nervously.
“Yeah, I know, but this one you can’t miss. He talks so much,” Blinds said.
“I wouldn’t know them niggas apart. It’s so many of them clowns hangin on, you know.”
“I can. That was the nigga that’s always talking loud and saying nothing,” Blinds pointed with the two fingers that held his cigarette. “I know that was him. Terrance is his name,” Blinds said. “wants everybody to call him ‘T’.”.
“How you know that was dude? Shit, I was standin’ right in front of the motherfucker and I ain’t never seen that nigga before in my life.”
Blinds turned and looked Moochie in the eyes. “Cause I seen the nigga walk past the joint a few minutes before he came in there.”
“What?”
“Yeah, when I was in the chair…before I got up…I saw slim walk past the shop that way. He looked right in my face. He must’ve been waiting for Six Hands,” Blinds said. “A few minutes later, the same nigger, wearing the same outfit, comes in the shop with the heater. I know that’s the hang around joker from that rapper, Massacre.”
“Hmm.”
“So when you talk to Fats, tell him I need to holla at him about some cash.”
“That’s between the two of y’all,” Moochie said . “I ain’t got shit to do wit’ that.”
“I’m just saying, when you see him, tell him I need some bread for this shit,” Blinds said. “Tell him people are asking me all kinds of questions and I ain’t telling them shit. I deserve something.”
“Aiight,” Moochie said. That’s when the detective noticed them talking and headed in their direction.
* * * * * *
Saturday, 11:10am
Aiden walked outside to get some fresh air. He didn’t smoke so he checked his cell phone messages to pass the time. A buddy from college called to ask if Aiden wanted to charter a boat Saturday and do some fishing in the Chesapeake Bay. Michelle, the architect he met at the bar, called and asked if he wanted to go to the symphony at the Kennedy Center, Friday night. Sgt. Milloy had tickets to Sunday’s Redskin preseason game. The last message was his ex-wife, Karen, who called to announce she needed him to watch the kids this weekend while she spoke at a conference in San Diego.
It was the message about fishing that made Aiden reconsider Moochie. He thought not so much about the fishing, but about the crabbing. When Scott went fishing with the other cops he didn’t care too much for the wrestling and snatching the fish out of the water. He preferred to catch and eat large Maryland blue crabs. Scott was thinking about his method of luring the crabs into the cage with an ear of corn. He imagined how the crabs see their friends around the corn but can’t tell that the cage is a trap. Aiden reasoned William Johnson felt comfortable in Moochie’s Barbershop because he knew people there. Aiden figured at least one of those crabs had helped trap him. That’s when he noticed Moochie and Blinds talking to each other.
He walked over to Moochie and Blinds and addressed the former. “Hey, can I ask you a couple more questions? This is pretty hard to understand.” He said this in a low confused tone.
“Sure,” Moochie answered curiously.
Moochie had flawless dark skin. His shape up was sharp and had more hair than a bear. He used a straight edge razor to give his face a perfect shave every morning save for a neatly manicured mustache. Five years ago, a cocaine kingpin punished Moochie and left his left hand paralyzed. “Thanks, let’s go over here,” Aiden motioned for Moochie to walk with him away from Blinds.
Moochie obliged.
Detective Aiden noticed Moochie’s body language. He walked with his head down and both hands behind his back, the way an inmate would at a prison. Moochie acted guilty.
A few feet away Aiden started, “How many people knew William Johnson was coming here today?”
“Nobody,” Moochie looked up for a second and then glanced over at Blinds. “Hell, I didn’t even know.”
“He didn’t tell you that he was coming? He didn’t have an appointment?”
“Nah, he jus’ showed up.”
“How often do you cut his hair?”
“It depends,” Moochie shrugged. “But he’s in here bout every se
ven-ta-ten days.”
“And how about Maurice Coles?” Aiden asked.
“What about him?” Moochie frowned.
“How often does Maurice Coles come in the shop?”
“I dunno.” Moochie looked up. “I guess he comes whenever he really needs to.”
“How often does he need to?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
“Does he stop in at times when he doesn’t get a haircut?”
“I mean, Blinds thinks he’s a comedian, so yeah, he comes in and out telling jokes and messin’ wit’ people.”
“Every day?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Moochie frowned. “I guess you could say that.”
“So what were you doing when the shooter came in the door?” Aiden asked.
“I was getting my clippers ready.”
“How did you not get shot?”
Moochie looked at Aiden incredulously. “I wasn’t in the, you know, the line of fire. I was to the side a little bit getting my clippers cleaned.”
“All of the witnesses say you were on the phone. They all say that you called someone as soon as William Johnson walked in the shop.”
“No! I didn’t, man, I was already on the phone when Will came in.”
“But twice just now you told me you were getting your clippers ready. Were you on the phone? Or were you getting your clippers ready?”
Moochie glared at Aiden. “I was cleaning my clippers and talking on the phone at the same time.”
“Relax,” Aiden said smoothly. “Do you have a problem using your left hand?”
“Yeah, I got shot. It don’t work ‘cause the nerves is bad.”
“Do you mind showing me how you were cleaning your clippers and talking on the phone if you only have one good hand?”
Moochie picked up a stick and stuck it between his left elbow and rib cage. He acted out the job of spraying and brushing his clippers. “My hand was paralyzed before I started being a barber,” he said.
“Ok. Who were you talking to on the phone?”
“My girl.”
“And you were on the phone when the shooter walked in?”
“Right,” Moochie answered.
“So, did your girlfriend hear the shooting?”
“I dunno.”
“Did you call her back and tell her what happened?”
“Na,” Moochie was annoyed now. He was starting to exhale with emphasis.
“Well, did she call back to check on you?”
“No, she must ain’t hear the shots. I musta got off the phone wit’ her before he started shooting.”
“Were you on the phone with her, or did you hang up or were you cleaning your clippers? The story changes every ten seconds.”
Hey, look man-”
“What's her name?” Aiden asked.
“What?”
“Her name. Your girlfriend. What’s her name?”
“Why you need all that?” Moochie frowned.
“Because I’m trying to solve a murder. A murder that looks like an ambush. I want to make sure you don’t get blamed for being an accomplice.”
“Sounds like you tryna make me a suspect.”
“It’s your barber shop, right?” Aiden answered. “Your client? Somebody knew he was coming here today.”
“Well, I didn’t. I definitely was surprised to see him pull up and come in my shop today.”
“William Johnson pulls up outside and you make Maurice Coles get out of your chair. Johnson comes in, sits down, and you make a phone call. A minute later a gunman walks in and kills the guy. You don’t get shot and you can’t identify the shooter.”
“Look, you can come up with whatever bullshit theories you want. I ain't have nothing to do wit’ what happened up in here today. I had no idea that man was coming in here. I thought he was in Vegas training.”
“What's the girlfriend’s name?”
“Who?”
“The girlfriend you were talking to on the phone?”
“Michelle.”
“Michelle what?”
“I dunno. Just met her at the club a few nights ago.”
“Bullshit,” Aiden said. He scribbled notes for a few seconds and then started again. “What’s your phone number?” Moochie gave him the cell phone number. Aiden scribbled it down and circled it. “Do you know Fats Harrington?”
Moochie looked over in Blinds’ direction. “Yeah. I know him.” Blinds was too far away to hear so he paced and smoked and paid no attention to Moochie’s chat with the detective.
“How well?” Aiden followed Moochie’s eyes to Blinds and back.
“I mean, I cut his hair every now and again.”
“Oh, okay, so you cut his hair, too,” Aiden said as he started making a list of Moochie’s clients in his notes. “When were you shot in the hand?”
“Five years ago.”
“And it’s been paralyzed since then?”
“Yeah”
“When did you open this barbershop?”
“Two months ago.”
“So, what’s the deal with this guy having half of a haircut?”
“Fuck him,” Moochie glared in Blinds’ direction. Blinds was still oblivious to Moochie’s glares. “He was in the chair when Six Hands pulled up.”
“Why’d you make him get up?” Aiden asked.
“Cause Six Hands gave me the money to start my barber shop,” Moochie said. “Whenever I needed something for the shop he helped out. So, whenever Six Hands stops, he don’t have to wait. Whoever was in the chair had to get up and move. That was my man. If Six Hands didn't give me the money, that barbershop wouldn’t even be there.”
Chapter 5: The club
Saturday 12 noon
T heodore Pearson’s law firm was downtown on the corner of 18th & M Street. Detective Melissa Taylor parked in a garage across the street. The receptionist looked at Taylor and continued her phone conversation, so Taylor read the directory and headed for the elevator.
Melissa Taylor’s petite frame and smooth face contradicted nature. At 48, she was the mother of four and a grandmother of an infant baby boy. She looked a score younger. She had a flawless brown face, framed by long, straight hair, but the obvious feature was her brown eyes. Taylor was an award-winning officer before going undercover and then landing in homicide. As an officer she developed a reputation for being violent. As an undercover she proved to be intelligent and savvy. As a homicide detective she learned to be thorough. She was an excellent investigator.
Detective Taylor rode up to the 17th floor and exited to her left. Theodore Pearson & Associates was behind double glass doors. She noticed the furniture in the lobby was a lot more expensive than the couches and loveseats in her living room. An elderly office manager asked how she could help.
Taylor smiled at the lady, who reminded her of Estelle Getty, flashed her badge, and asked to speak to Mr. Pearson. The receptionist asked Detective Taylor to have a seat and excused herself with a promise to return shortly. Taylor huffed before plopping down on the edge of a leather chair.
She had time to scan a few magazines and picked the Washington Post over the USA Today and The Wall Street Journal. After reading the Style and Metro sections she started on the crossword puzzle. She only knew half of the clues and had time to read all of the comics, her horoscope, her husband’s horoscope and her mother’s horoscope, before the receptionist told her Mr. Pearson was ready to see her.
She led Taylor down a long hallway and opened another set of double doors. Pearson was as dark as a limousine and known for wearing colorful neckties. He was in marathoner’s shape, stood with perfect posture, had manicured nails, and polished shoes. He didn’t look like the crook most everyone said he was.
Before she could say a word, he extended his hand for a shake. “Detective Taylor,” he said. He flashed a perfect smile. Pearson had papers and manila folders stacked in the two chairs facing his enormous desk. Taylor noticed the desk was a replica of the one in the Oval Offi
ce. She knew the papers in the chair were Pearson’s way of discouraging visitors to sit down, talk, and waste his time. Those seats cost $300 an hour.
Pearson opened his palm to a small round table and waited for her to take a seat. When she did, Pearson offered her a drink.
“Oh, water would be fine,” she said.
“Me too,” Pearson said to the receptionist,and she exited, leaving one of the doors open. “I received the news of William’s unfortunate demise a few hours ago,” he said while muting the volume on the flat screen wall. “I assume that’s why you’re here without an appointment.”
Taylor nodded her head. “You’re on a very short list of people who hated Six Hands Johnson.”
“Well, you can scratch me off, because I didn’t hate William,” he responded coolly.
“You weren’t upset that he left you for another promoter just when he started signing the million-dollar deals?”
“Sure, but I got over it and I moved on.”.
“Not in boxing,” Taylor said.
“No, not in boxing. I immediately lost interest in boxing. It’s a scandalous business.”
“How’d you meet Six Hands?” Taylor flipped open her pad and began writing. “My wife
left me,” Pearson answered. Taylor looked up. “I studied four, five hours a night through college, and more in law school. After passing the bar I logged as many hours as possible at a small, but respected, firm. My two kids attended St. Albans, we lived in a colonial in Chevy Chase while my wife enjoyed expensive cocaine and shopping habits. Eventually she got bored and left me for a schoolteacher she met in Narcotics Anonymous.”
“Damn.”
“So, I wanted a taste of the fast life. You know, the pretty women, the champagne, and the red carpets. I decided to take a fat chunk of cash out of the bank and buy my way in. It was easy. I invested a couple thousand in a couple of rap concerts at the local clubs and suddenly I knew everybody,” Pearson smiled and continued bragging. “Within three months I was friends with just about every rapper in the industry.”
“I don’t see any rappers on your walls,” Taylor said, looking up at the many framed pictures of Pearson shaking hands or hugging politicians and business titans that decorated the office.
Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries Page 6