“You don't remember me?” the first man hissed. “Detective Drake, you don't remember me?”
Drake stared intently into the man's eyes.
“I'm not a detective,” he said simply. “And I have no clue who you are.”
Only the first part of that statement was true; he knew exactly who this man was. Drake didn’t have the greatest memory, and his destructive drinking had further limited his faculties, but he couldn't forget this man; he couldn't forget Rodney Wise.
Rodney had been one of the last cases that he’d been assigned before he and Clay started searching for the Skeleton King.
The man had broken into a home in the upper east side when he’d thought that everyone was out. His intention had clearly been a smash and grab, but things changed when Rodney came across the elderly mother of the woman who lived there.
As far as Drake could tell, Rodney Wise had smashed the octogenarian in the face with a vase. He finished the robbery and then fled.
The poor woman suffered severe lacerations to her face and eyes. Last Drake heard, she was totally blind in the right eye and had limited vision in the left. She was also disfigured and experienced severe PTSD from the incident.
Rodney thought that he'd gotten away scot-free, but he’d cut himself on the vase and his DNA profile eventually popped up on CODIS.
Drake and Clay had both testified at Rodney’s trial and made no secret about the fact that they wanted the man to get the maximum sentence.
They’d succeeded.
Keep your cool, Drake. Keep your cool and you’ll make it out of this one.
Rodney suddenly reached out and seized him by the collar.
“Detective Drake, you're the one who put me in here. You're the asshole who sent me away.”
Rodney paused again, waiting patiently for Drake to respond.
He didn’t take the bait.
Incensed, Rodney sucked his teeth and leaned in so close to Drake that he could practically taste the man’s foul breath.
“You might not remember me, but I remember you. I remember you and your partner, Detective Cumshot. And you know what? I heard that asshole got his just desserts. Now you’re about to get yours.”
All of Drake's inner monologue to keep cool went out the window at the mention of Clay.
Without thinking, he spat residual gray slop in Rodney’s face and rocketed to his feet.
Chapter 8
Leroy somehow managed to make it through his first few classes of the day relatively unscathed—history and chemistry—but at lunchtime, things just fell apart.
Everyone in the entire school was staring at him, but he thought he could handle that. It was the whispers that eventually got to Leroy; the comments about how his brother was a narc, a snitch, that he deserved what he got.
Fuming, Leroy didn’t go to his regular table to sit and eat with his small cadre of friends. Instead, he opted to sit by himself at an empty table.
I knew I should’ve just stayed home again. Mom getting mad at me would be bad, but this… these assholes talking about Declan like they knew him, like they all fucking Sherlock Holmes and know exactly what happened? This is worse. It has to be worse.
He had taken a bite of his sandwich—just a single bite—when someone slid in beside him.
“What do you want?” Leroy demanded without looking up.
“It's a shame what happened to your brother. A real, real shame.”
The mocking tone in the man’s voice was the final straw; Leroy’s face turned beet red and he whipped around.
And then it felt as if his chest had imploded.
He tried to speak, he tried to stand, he tried to take a swing at the man, but he couldn't do anything.
He was well and truly frozen.
“Good, so you recognize me. Now, let me tell you something, you little fucking shit. What happened to Declan, that's just the beginning. What he did—what that bitch did—that’s on you. That’s on your whole family. He was a fucking snitch and if you say anything about me, I’ll make sure that you pay the same price he did.”
Leroy stared into the man's eyes, the pale yellow eyes of the man who had shot and killed his brother.
He smirked revealing the gold incisor, and then reached into his shirt and teased up a chain just high enough to show Leroy that it was there.
It was the one that belonged to Declan.
Leroy immediately reached for the chain, intent on ripping it off the man’s neck.
But Declan’s murderer was prepared for this, and he managed to grab Leroy's wrist in mid air. He was on his feet in a second, twisting Leroy's hand behind his back while, at the same time, grabbing the back of his head.
Leroy’s face was smashed into his tuna fish sandwich, and he struggled to breathe through clenched teeth.
“No, not yet. It’s Kinesha’s turn first.”
“Hey!” someone shouted.
At the mention of his mother's name, Leroy squirmed with renewed vigor, but the man with the gold incisor had leverage and was stronger to begin with.
All Leroy managed to do was to smear his face deeper into his sandwich.
“Hey!” someone shouted again, and this time Leroy recognized the bellow as belonging to the cafeteria security guard.
Declan’s killer leaned down next to Leroy's ear and whispered something before pulling back.
“I was just leaving,” he told the security guard, finally releasing his hold on Leroy.
Leroy immediately pulled himself to his feet, tuna and bread clinging to his cheek.
It was all he could do not to burst into tears as he watched the man who had accosted him back away, fiddling with the chain around his neck as he went.
The security guard was suddenly at his side, asking him a flurry of questions.
But Leroy heard none of these.
All he heard was the man’s final words in his ear.
“When you're ready, come for me. But not before.”
***
Leroy forced his way out of the cafeteria and then out of the school entirely. As soon as he cleared the front doors, he broke into a run, not slowing until he approached his apartment complex close to fifteen minutes later.
Leroy would have run all the way up to his apartment, but the crowd of people outside the building made his progress difficult.
“What's happening? What's going on?” he asked anybody who would listen.
People turned to look at him, but nobody answered.
Apparently, the news of his brother being a snitch had sullied his name, as well.
“What the hell is going on?” he shouted, his eyes darting to the police cruiser by the side of the road.
“Anybody? Anybody?!”
This drew more stares, but still, nobody responded. That is until his eyes met his mother's.
“Leroy?” she asked.
Leroy forced his way through the small crowd and grabbed his mother in a hug.
“Are you okay? Mom, you okay?”
Leroy stepped back and looked her up and down, frowning when he realized that she was still wearing her pajamas. There was also a fresh, red welt encircling her right eye.
“Jesus Christ, mom? What happened? What the hell happened to you?”
Kinesha brought a hand to her temple and winced.
“I'll be fine, Leroy. Just some punk kids who broke in and vandalized the place. I’ll be okay. What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
Leroy ignored the comment, as he ignored the fact that people all around them were listening to their conversation. They wouldn’t answer him when he’d asked what was going on minutes earlier, but they sure as hell had no qualms about eavesdropping.
Inside, Leroy was seething. Not only had the man with the gold incisor killed his brother, but now his goons had assaulted his mother in their home.
He ground his teeth.
“I'm ready,” he said, thinking back to the altercation in the cafeteria. “I'm ready for
you now.”
“What? Leroy? What are you saying?”
Leroy shook his head and pulled away from his mom, turning his eyes to the front of the apartment building.
As he watched, two officers strode out of the front doors, smiles on their faces. Unbelievably, one of them was blond and wore aviator sunglasses.
It was Officer Michael Pontiac.
“Leroy, you don’t go in there. Don’t—”
But Leroy was already striding forward. He came to within five feet of the officers before it was clear that they didn’t recognize him.
And why would they? Why would they recognize the brother of just another black man who was shot and killed on the streets while dealing drugs? What did it matter that they were probably the ones that had provided the drugs?
“Son, you can’t go up there,” the officer, not Michael Pontiac, but the other one, the fat one said, blocking his path with a meaty palm.
Leroy scowled and sidestepped the man's outstretched hand.
“That's my apartment and I'm going up,” he said, not stopping.
“You best be watching your mouth, boy,” Officer Pontiac said.
Leroy raised his eyes and glared at the man.
“You really don't know who I am?”
Officer Pontiac sneered.
“I got no fucking clue who you are, boy. But if you speak to me like that again, you’ll know who I am.”
Leroy knew that he should swallow his anger, bite his tongue for both his and his mother’s sake.
But everything suddenly came to a head then—witnessing his brother’s murder, being assaulted in the cafeteria, and now his mother with the welt on her face—and Leroy reached his breaking point.
“Fuck you,” he spat.
Officer Pontiac’s jaw dropped.
“What did you—”
“Fuck you,” Leroy repeated. “I know what both of you fuckers did. You were responsible for my brother’s death. You gave him something —”
Leroy didn't finish his sentence, nor did he see the blow that collided with the side of his head.
And he definitely didn't see the pavement as it rushed up to meet him.
Chapter 9
Drake's outburst was exactly what Rodney Wise wanted, of course. His spit hit Rodney directly between the eyes, but when he tried to rise, a thick black arm snaked its way around his throat. Before Drake could even make it to his feet, he was dragged backward off the bench. His hands immediately went to the arm around his neck, and he desperately tried to loosen it to take a full breath.
That's when the first blow came.
It wasn't Rodney, but the much bigger man who had been sitting to Drake’s left that delivered the initial punch.
And it was a devastating shot.
The man's fist, which was the size of a kettle ball, hit Drake in the stomach. It forced all the remaining air from his lungs, and his body tried to curl into a protective ball. Only it couldn't do that on account of the arm around his neck and the fact that his feet were now trapped beneath the table.
Several other people had since gathered around, but they weren’t there to help; they were blocking the view of the guard who seemed to be more interested in something he’d found under his fingernails than the safety of the inmates.
As his lungs screamed for air, Drake gave up trying to pull the man's arm free and drove his elbow backward instead. It connected with something soft and fleshy, and the big man grunted. Encouraged by this sound, Drake continued to deliver more elbows with as much strength as his oxygen depleted muscles could muster.
But by now Rodney had recovered from the spit and was hovering over Drake, a menacing stare on his face.
“You put me in here!” he screamed. “You did this!”
And then Rodney rained down punches.
Stars shot across Drake’s vision, but in the end, it was these shots that probably saved his life. The blows were so powerful that it knocked him backward, and he collapsed on top of the man who was still choking him.
The big fella groaned and at long last, his arm slipped from Drake’s throat.
Even though he was teetering on the verge of unconsciousness, the large, burning lungful of air that Drake sucked in at that moment provided him with renewed energy. He swung his leg hard in an arc and it connected with the side of Rodney's knee.
But while his knee buckled, the man managed to stay upright. And the whole time, the sneer never left his face. Rodney replied with another punch, this time to the side of his jaw. Drake's head jerked to one side and he felt something crack seconds before blood spilled out from between his lips. Knowing that if he passed out now, he would likely never wake up, Drake spat out one of his teeth and then tried to force himself into a kneeling position.
But there were three of them and one of him, and Drake was slightly out of shape and ravaged by alcohol.
In the end, he was no match for these hardened criminals. The big man who’d punched him in the stomach grabbed Drake’s right leg and yanked him hard. As he was dragged across the floor, Rodney kicked him in the side.
Even though Drake had already been punched in the stomach, choked, had lost one of his lower teeth, it was this kick—this well delivered, swift kick to his liver—that did the most damage.
He’d managed to remain relatively silent aside from wheezing, but now Drake let out a low, guttural moan.
“I’m going to kill you, Drake,” Rodney whispered as he pulled his leg back to prepare for another kick.
Drake was in the process of flipping onto his stomach—there was no way he could take another liver shot—when at long last a guard appeared.
Just as a high-pitched whistle filled the room, the guard wrapped his nightstick around Rodney’s throat and yanked the man backward.
Three more short whistle bursts rang out, and all of the inmates suddenly dropped to their knees.
Drake knew that he should do the same, but he was in too much pain to comply.
The best he could do was to roll over onto his side.
And that's when someone else grabbed him, not an inmate this time, but a guard, and he was pulled to his feet. Only Drake couldn't stand on his own, and it took two of them to hold him up.
He spat blood onto his chin and looked across at Rodney who was still being strangled by a nightstick.
“I'll kill you,” the man hissed. “I'll fucking kill you, Drake.”
Chapter 10
“Leroy Tennyson Walker, you're looking at a minimum of 60 days in juvie, followed by at least three months of community service,” the man who sat across from him said.
It seemed surreal; a man he’d only met a quarter hour ago couldn’t possibly make such assertions about his immediate future… could he?
“No, that’s not right. It can’t…?”
The prognosticator was a man in his mid-sixties with thin gray hair and spectacles that were just shy of true.
“You're looking at jail time, son. Consider yourself lucky that you didn’t try to pull this stunt in a few months when you turn eighteen. There’s a crackdown on gangbangers out there; the DA would like nothing more than to throw the book at you.”
Leroy's eyes bulged, which inflamed his already aching head.
“Gangbanger? No, that’s not… I’m not… listen, I was attacked by a police officer. All I wanted to do was go to my apartment.”
And check for the gun, money, and dope that I stole from the police, Leroy thought but didn’t say.
The lawyer pushed his lips together tightly in a smug expression and then turned his attention to the paper on the clipboard in his wrinkled fingers. He flipped through several pages before starting to read.
“The defendant approached the residence and was told that he could not enter as it was an active crime scene. Ofc. Michael Pontiac informed the defendant of this three times but the defendant did not stop his attempts to enter. Ofc. Pete Dalton tried to impede his progress by holding out a hand and preventing access to the b
uilding. The defendant was clearly irate, and every attempt to calm Mr. Walker failed. The defendant then cursed at Ofc. Dalton and uttered several racial slurs. When Ofc. Pontiac intervened, Mr. Walker took a swing at him. He missed and, in the process, slipped and fell to the ground where he was momentarily dazed when his head struck the concrete. He was subsequently apprehended without further incident.” The public defender raised his eyes. “Does that sound about right to you?”
Leroy was furious.
“Sound about right to me? It’s absolute fucking bullshit, that’s what it is,” he shouted, slamming his fist down on the table.
The public defender, whose name Leroy couldn’t remember, leaned away and motioned for the guard.
“That's all made up. I didn’t take a swing at anybody. They… they hit me. I was just trying to go to—”
But the public defender wasn't listening anymore. He rose to his feet, his eyes locked on the guard who was in the process of unlocking the door.
“My client is being hostile,” he snapped. “I don’t have time for this.”
Leroy's heart started to race.
“Wait, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t—I’m just frustrated. I didn’t—I didn’t do anything!”
Leroy knew all was lost, however, when the public defender continued to ignore him and started making his way toward the now open door.
“I can't take him to juvie, Karl,” the guard said, his eyes flicking to Leroy. “I was told that nobody can go there for the next two weeks—overcrowded already. Unless I ship him upstate, and you know, what with the transportation costs…”
Leroy's public defender, who was evidently named Karl, turned back in his direction and shrugged.
“He looks like a tough kid,” he said, patting the guard on the shoulder. “Put him with the big boys for the night, then we’ll see if he changes his mind about whether or not he wants to cooperate.”
***
Leroy had never been to prison and neither had his brother, Declan. His father, a man he’d never met, had reportedly been in and out of prison since he was a teenager.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 40