Velvet Mafia

by Lydia L Watts

  Who were her captors and what did they want with her? With nothing to go on, the only thing she could think of was Teddy. Could her kidnapping have something to do with her or one of her cases? But how could it? Her relationship with Teddy was a secret. And even if she had wanted to tell someone, she couldn’t because to do so would mean she would have to admit she was gay, something she still had not reconciled with herself.

  She hadn’t chosen to have an affair with a woman. It had just happened. There was something about Teddy that was enchanting. Not only was she beautiful, but she was also strong, sensitive, attentive, and caring. She listened and was not afraid to show her emotions. Teddy made Kennedy feel whole, something she no longer felt with Lance.

  Her relationship with Teddy had grown from a chance encounter. They went from being friends — sharing lunches, thoughts, and ideas — to passionate, caring, and emotionally confusing lovers, both feeling the same for each other but wanting different things. Kennedy needed the relationship on her terms; she needed her private sexual life to be hidden. And not only from the world but also from herself. However, Teddy wanted and needed something else.

  As Kennedy lay quietly on the floor, unwilling to move her body in fear of a severe physical reaction, her mind continued to remind her of her choices. No longer thinking about Teddy, now it was the image of Lance moving throughout her bruised and battered mind. For a brief moment, the thought of his smile when he looked at her made her forget where she was, and she could feel the love and the passion they had once shared. Thinking about Lance was the only thing that made her feel better, and she needed to feel his embrace. To her, their story was truly a love story. Lance had brought understanding to her past and that understanding had helped their relationship to grow.

  There they were, sitting in Logan Airport, hoping to catch their flights. She had been headed to Atlanta and he to Chicago. Lance had just come back from covering the Conference on Racism in South Africa, and Kennedy had just finished spending a week with her girlfriends in Miami. They had been stranded for several hours because of a severe thunderstorm, and both seemed to enjoy that they couldn’t go anywhere else. Kennedy had listened as Lance had shared his experiences and Lance had listened as Kennedy had described in detail her girlfriends and how much they each meant to her.

  Just the thought of Lance made her forget ever so briefly that she was lying on a cold floor — and in a room in which she could feel the stares of strangers.

  “I know you’re there!” she screamed, forgetting that her sudden outburst would create an avalanche of pain. “I can feel you watching me.” With the acknowledgment, Kennedy’s heart began to beat harder and harder. Fear was now taking its position. To overcome the noise her own body was making, she struggled to stand up. The concrete, no longer providing its original comfort, had now become dense, and she could feel its unwavering substance tunnel through her bones.

  “Hi, my name is Kennedy and I’m an alcoholic. I met my husband when, for the first time, I was trying to live life on life’s terms.”

  Struggling to maintain her focus, she continued to talk. She was determined not to let them see her fear, so she did what she had always done: she talked about her sobriety.

  “I was a small-town girl haunted by my past. My parents worked hard to give me and my brother a good life. They were decent people, but they were very strict. My father, more so than my mother, wanted his kids to earn their way and by earning their way, he meant he expected them to work hard for the things they wanted in life. His expectations were simple: set a goal and complete it.”

  No longer capable of holding her legs steady, Kennedy found her way to the dirty cot that sat nakedly in the corner of the room. She had to sit down, but at the same time, she had to tell her story. She wanted her captors to know who she was.

  “My father and my husband were just alike. They were both driven by a value system that honored hard work. But, unfortunately, I wasn’t. I didn’t have the discipline. Instead, once I knew I was pretty, I let my looks and not my brains get me what I wanted. This infuriated my father and he was constantly reminding me that my looks wouldn’t last forever. He was right. My looks have been both a curse and a blessing.”

  For a brief moment, Kennedy seemed to enjoy the quietness emanating from the room. As a recovering alcoholic, she had told this story many times before but, for some reason, this time she found herself listening.

  “What saved me from death many times over was my personality. In fact, my friends said that my personality was infectious.”

  At this point, Kennedy couldn’t help but laugh at herself. It was one thing to hear her friends tell her she had an infectious personality, but it was another to hear herself say it, especially considering her situation.

  “By the time I was an adult, I had mastered my God-given skills and got whatever I wanted. I loved to sing and was pretty good at it, too. Even sang in a group. But, for whatever reason, I lacked ‘stick-to-itiveness,’ as my dad would always say. Funny, when I think about it, I don’t know if stick-to-itiveness is even a word.”

  Out of nowhere, she began to laugh again. Now lying on the cot, head still pounding, she felt a sense of peace.

  “Once I started to sample drugs and alcohol, things really changed for me. I knew that life was a hustle and the spoils went to whoever could hustle the best. Back then, I could get a young boy to call me Ms. Kennedy, a young man to steal for me, and an old man to give me his pension check. Hell, even women envied what I carelessly flaunted.

  “But alcohol did a number on me. I spent a good part of my life mastering the art of feeling people out to determine what they could do for me. People would give me things, so my attitude was, why work when I didn’t have to? But, when the relationship was over, it was over. Once I got what I wanted, or felt that the relationship no longer met my expectations, I would drop it as if it had never existed. I was a master at manipulating emotions, theirs and mine. Even if I was caught lying, I could make the person think it was their fault that they caught me. By then, I didn’t have a problem with alcohol: I was an addict.

  “But, when I met my husband, I was clean and sober. I was at a point in my life at which I no longer used my ways to control the outcome of a situation. Besides, I could tell that, even if I tried, Lance was not willing to succumb. When Lance and I met, he was in a good place, too. He knew exactly what he was looking for in a woman and I was her. I had captured this man’s mind and his heart all at one time. In fact, it was almost a year to the day that we met before Lance told me I was beautiful. Can you believe that? All my life all I had heard was that I was beautiful. Then I meet a man with lightly peppered freckles and curly red hair, with a smile like a prince, who wanted to listen to me and see me for me.”

  At this point, no matter how much Kennedy wanted to keep the charade going, the thought of what she had said, where she was, and the fact of her infidelity were suddenly too much to bear. Now she was telling her story through tears.

  As she cried, Kennedy felt again that someone was watching her. She could also feel that there had been others, others like her who had been taken and held captive against their will, wondering why, asking questions, and hoping.

  “What do you want from me?” she yelled, causing her head to feel as if it were exploding. “Who are you, and why am I here?”

  Lance kept looking at the video and rereading the note that had been left behind. He couldn’t believe his wife had been kidnapped, nor could he believe he was holding a note that instructed him to give the video to Agent Teddy Alexander.

  The video contained scenes of several men with their faces covered, in turn simulating a sexual act with a listless woman. Then, appearing out of nowhere, a man wearing a purple robe and a half-face mask kissed the woman on her forehead. He then leaned closer and whispered something in the woman’s ear. Finally, without provocation, he turned to the camera and slit her throat. As if in a scene from a jihad, the man in the robe spoke directly to the ca
mera and said, “Tell Agent Alexander that her last words were, ‘I love you, Teddy.’”

  Lance left his house in a daze. As he headed toward Union Station, he decided to walk through the park. For him, the park was a place of familiarity and comfort. He and Kennedy had spent many nights walk-ing the park as Lulu played. Lulu had been a special dog. Unlike most dogs that chased cats and squirrels, Lulu chased rats, and the District was infested with them. It didn’t matter what time of day it was or how many people were in the park, District rats were out in full force.

  Entering Union Station was like entering a small city. The station was filled with people coming to and leaving the District. Taxicabs were lined up where passengers exited the building, while tourist buses, smart cars, and mopeds controlled the outer perimeter. And in the middle of everything, crossing guards managed the chaos through a series of hand gestures, whistle-blowing, and verbal intimidation.

  Within minutes, Lance could see Alexander as she was getting out of her cab. From where he stood, it was clear she wasn’t paying attention because when she opened her door, she hit a bicycle courier riding by. With little fanfare and what appeared to be several apologies, the courier picked himself, his bike, and his packages up, and simply rode off. By the time the agent had walked into the revolving door that led inside the historic station building, Lance was at her side and she hadn’t even noticed him. In their encounters at various crime scenes over the years, he had never seen the cool, calm detective so distressed. And in that brief moment, her famed superwoman image was gone. To Lance, she now simply was a visibly vulnerable woman.

  Despite living in the District most of his life, Lance had never been to B. Smith’s restaurant, but it was obvious Teddy knew her way around the place as she led him to a seat in the back room. At four o’clock in the afternoon, there were few people about with the exception of the wait staff preparing for the evening rush. B. Smith’s was a familiar hangout for Alexander, who, on many occasions, had used the restaurant as her sanctuary. Food offered comfort and soul food grounded Teddy. As was true of many folks, the aroma of a fine soul food delicatessen made Teddy feel comfortable. And when B. herself was at the restaurant, greeting and sharing stories with her guests, Teddy was always afforded the privacy she needed. Friends for years, they were each other’s girls and had each other’s backs.

  Teddy and Lance hadn’t been at their table more than a few moments before Lance began his questioning. In a very aggressive tone and without pause for a response, Lance spit out questions as if he were the detective and she was his suspect.

  Finally he asked, “Why are we here?”

  Teddy could see that her plan to walk Lance slowly through the maze of confusion required an honesty she was not yet prepared to share. She had to tell this man that for over a year, he had been living a lie and if he ever wanted to see Kennedy again, they had to work together.

  “Unfortunately, we are here because the murders at the Wilson Building and your wife’s kidnapping are related. The people who kidnapped Kennedy are —”

  “How did you know my wife had been kidnapped? I never mentioned that.” Lance snapped, “So I guess you know who wrote this letter and left this video for you, too,” as he tossed the envelope and the video, both with the VM insignia, across the table.

  Teddy knew the game had changed again when she saw the items Lance had brought. But, instead of opening them, she left them there in plain view and continued to explain her position. She had to main-tain her control, and whatever was in the letter and on the video would just have to wait.

  “I know because of a murder case I have been working on for the last eight years. Because of my work on that case, I think Mayor Whitherspoon’s murder and your wife’s kidnapping are related.”

  Lance’s face had turned from a pale white to blood red. Dropping his head into his hands, his elbows resting on the table, Lance paused and Teddy respected the moment. Then, in a sudden move, Lance stood up like a man who had been insulted by another man and pounded his fist on the table. Each utensil neatly placed on the well-garnished table sounded the alarm.

  “Damn it, Alexander, why the hell are we here? Stop with the riddles and tell me the truth. Where is my wife? And how did you know her name was Kennedy?”

  Lance had heard rumors about Teddy Alexander being a lesbian, but for him, it was just that: a rumor. He simply hadn’t cared. But now he was beginning to wonder. Did she and Kennedy have something going on? Alexander knew too much, was saying too little, and was all too familiar with knowledge about him and his wife.

  By now, the restaurant was filling up and Lance’s outburst had garnered the attention of its guests.

  “Sit down, Lance,” Teddy said in a controlled tone, “and listen. Eight years ago someone we both know was killed.”

  “And who might that be?” he said, still standing over the table as Teddy continued to sit.

  “Isabella Cardosa.”

  “Isabella Cardosa? What does she have to do with my wife’s kidnapping? And how do you know Isabella Cardosa?”

  Teddy could tell she was just making matters worse. Lance wanted straightforward and deliberate answers. He didn’t want to be walked through the maze of deception slowly and methodically as she had hoped to do. He was totally pissed off, and listening to her dance around his questions was clearly wearing thin.

  Teddy and Lance left B. Smith’s and headed toward the park that stood just outside Union Station’s perimeter. There, they could talk without being overheard.

  As they walked through the park, Teddy again tried to engage Lance in a constructive dialogue. Based on his behavior in the restaurant, she knew that, if she were a man, Lance would have taken a swing at her by now. This time she needed to be more conscientious.

  “So I’m going to ask you again,” she said. “Do you remember Isabella Cardosa?”

  “Yes!” Lance turned directly toward her. “I remember her. We were lab partners in school. What does she have to do with all this mess?”

  “Eight years ago, she was murdered because of something she was working on.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She and I were life partners,” Teddy said. “And while we were together, she started to believe that the science community had taken a pretty harsh stance against one of her colleagues because of his belief that HIV didn’t cause AIDS. So she started to investigate his theory and was eventually kidnapped and later murdered.”

  Turning away to hide the emotion fighting to be released, Teddy paused briefly to allow the evening air to remind her she was still alive.

  “Continue with the story, Agent Alexander,” Lance said, even as he noticed her discomfort.

  “Well, for the last eight years, I have been tracking her killers.”

  “Killers?” he said, perplexed.

  “Yes, killers. These men are part of an underground cult known as the Velvet Mafia.”

  By now, they were deep in the park and away from all other activity. Teddy could see that Lance was visibly shocked by what he had just heard.

  “Listen, Lance, I know what I just shared with you is a lot, but it’s important that we work together, especially if we are going to get Kennedy back safely.”

  By now, Lance appeared to be disengaged and the dialogue between the two of them had stopped.

  “Lance, are you listening to me? We have to work together if we are going to save —”

  Before Teddy could complete her thought, Lance turned and coldcocked her. Teddy was left lying face down in the park and Lance didn’t care. He knew she could possibly be further victimized by thugs or even the park’s rats. If she was lucky, a kind person would find her and tend to her needs. To Lance, the outcome didn’t matter. He had had enough; he was finished.

  When Lance arrived home, he was still noticeably shaken. He could not believe he had punched someone, let alone a woman. Once inside his front door, he was reminded of the violence that had taken place in his home and that Lulu was s
till lying dead in the den. Inside his broken home, he could visualize the assault that had taken place and like a young boy who had his heart broken for the first time, he lay on the ground in a fetal position, clutching his stomach. He was in so much pain and agony.

  Why, God? Why did this have to happen?

  Lance knew God existed but had never felt a need for Him. To him, God had simply existed for the needy, but now it appeared his relationship with God would change.

  For hours, Lance lay on his bedroom floor sobbing. He had never felt so betrayed in his life. Even though Teddy had not admitted to having an affair with his wife, he knew they had. She knew too much about Kennedy and what had happened to her, and he knew nothing at all.

  How could she? After fifteen years of marriage, how could Kennedy have betrayed him?

  As the evening progressed, Lance’s tears turned to anger and rage. He cursed everything and everyone, and was especially angry with God. He was determined that he would not help the woman who had betrayed him, and he definitely was not going to help Teddy Alexander. Instead, he was going to kill her. Rage and revenge were Lance’s only weapons against the pain of betrayal deep within his heart. Kennedy deserved her predicament, and both Teddy and Kennedy were going to regret breaking his heart. By now, his whole body felt like an abscessed tooth; he was emotionally bleeding and dying a wrongful death.

  Two days after the Wilson Building Murders — as they were now being commonly referred to — Councilman Grey Jeffries held a meeting in his ward. Out of all the council members, Jeffries had the most political savvy, but he also had his dark side. Power to Jeffries was the ability to crumble dreams, steal livelihoods, and create diversions. He was not only charismatic, but also dangerous and driven by his robust appetite for malice.