by Leslie Wolfe
That was the man she loved, the man who’d easily kill her if he ever found out what she’d done.
She remembered their first night together like it was yesterday. Although she’d known exactly what she was doing, she was also afraid of him, afraid he’d see right through her, and then the enforcers would come calling. She had to fight the urge to close her eyes during the most intimate moments of their first encounter. Back then she didn’t care; she wanted their eyes to connect during his climax so that their souls would connect, so that his ecstasy would forever be associated with her blue irises, looking at her, feeling, absorbing her love.
It had been a great strategy; it had worked wonders. Before long, Paul Steele was in love with her, craving her body like the drugs she was covered in, addicted to her in more ways than he knew.
Only her strategy had backfired; she had fallen for him hard, with everything she had, with every fiber of her being. There was no turning back from that ledge, and no closing her eyes now, during their torrid nights, because she couldn’t dream of not looking into the dark abysses of his black irises while she found her bliss in his arms.
But now her elation was poisoned with the green venom of jealousy. His hands had touched Crystal’s breast, had grabbed the straps of her bra as if he’d done it many times before, and maybe he had. Despite looking at Paul’s elegant features and aquiline nose as he caressed her heated body, all Roxanne could see were the images she’d witnessed on that horrible video, forever burned into her memory.
Her so-called best friend hadn’t shied away from his touch, the conniving, little bitch.
If she could grab Crystal and shake her, beat her to a pulp or whatever she needed to do to make her tell the truth, she’d do it. If only she could bring her back, now that she needed answers so badly, before losing her mind completely. But Crystal was gone forever, and the thought of her death no longer brought relief to her scarred, guilty soul.
How long had their relationship been going on? How did it start? Did he see Crystal dance when he’d come looking for her, like he’d done earlier? Had his lustful eyes touched and craved Crystal’s body? He was a power freak used to taking what he wanted, and once he wanted something, there was no stopping him.
Her mind kept spinning, descending farther and farther into the bottomless, poisoned well of doubt. She was losing her mind, one moment at a time, one unanswered question after another.
Paul kissed her lips hungrily, tasting her, possessing her in ways that dissolved her anger, leaving her molten, desperate for his touch. Then he nuzzled her hair and whispered in her ear, “I love you, baby. I’m crazy about you.”
If she could only believe those words again.
The thought of confronting him was appealing, a dire need, like the thought of cold water after a stroll through the desert, and for a moment she pulled herself away from him, ready to pounce with her first question. But her body and mind betrayed her; she was too weak, too much in love, too afraid she was going to lose him. What if she made him angry with her suspicions, and he just up and left? There would be a time for the truth, maybe, but that time wasn’t now. Not when her heart thumped, fueled by her deep desire for his touch, not when she craved him just as badly as he did her.
He wrapped his arms around her, kissing every inch of her neck, then peeled off the smooth silk and let it fall at their feet. Then she lay on the bed, waiting, her eyes half open, fixated on his.
She was ready for him.
He made quick work of getting rid of his clothes and dropped to his knees in front of her. He drew close to her with an impulsive move and a smile filled with promises and anticipation, but the sharp heel of her shoe scraped against his thigh, leaving blood in its trail.
She cringed, afraid she’d hurt him, terrified she’d made him angry. Instead, he moaned and closed his eyes for a moment, lost in the feeling. She opened her eyes widely, surprised, frowning a little, while her rage for his betrayal rekindled, set off by the sight and smell of blood. Her nostrils flared.
Maybe there was another way he could pay for what he’d done.
Aroused like never before, she squealed with delight as she thrust both her heels against his thighs, arching her body to meet his.
32
Conversation
I entered TwoCent’s home feeling my way in the dark, then turned on a small flashlight as soon as I closed the door behind me. The house was huge, a monument to the worst taste money can buy, where rapper décor met traditional, conservative architecture in a deathly collision where common sense had succumbed.
Wrought iron chandeliers with Bohemian crystal fringes hung over vaulted rooms furnished in contemporary, lounge-style couches and armchairs in fine Italian leather, while the walls hosted a vast array of street-quality prints of naked women. One wall featured a couple of platinum records. Most of the furniture had been picked up as separate pieces in different styles, colors, and finishes, and no room had a theme of any kind, other than lots of money paying for lots of things.
In the living room, on the coffee table, I found a gun and some dope, lined up nicely and ready to be snorted. I grabbed the gun with two fingers and slid it under the sofa, out of reach if things got ugly and we’d end up downstairs, clenched in some fight.
Then I continued my search.
His poor taste had stopped short of his digital equipment. His electronics were top shelf, all well-chosen, only brand names I recognized. His TV was the biggest I’d ever seen, complemented by a surround sound system, a seven-speaker Bose. It could’ve easily been used in a small theater, and I had to get closer to see the brand. The TV was Aeon, a name I’d never heard of before, because none of the things in that house were affordable on a cop’s salary, especially one who was a closet fashionista like myself.
I walked slowly, careful not to let my heels clack on the shiny marble of his floors, and checked every room, weapon in hand, making sure no one was there to surprise me. I laughed quietly seeing that he had a relatively large, octagonal room dedicated entirely to a fish tank; other than the custom-made vessel filled with many colorful, exotic fish and the Pirates of the Caribbean décor, the room had only leather benches along the walls and LED projectors on the ceiling, sending colored beams of lights to showcase the aquarium.
After all, TwoCent was, first and foremost, a bachelor and a kid who happened to have more money than he knew what to do with.
Satisfied that the ground floor held no surprises, I made for the bar and mixed Alizé and cognac in equal parts, then found a rocks glass in one of the many cupboards. Extracting some ice silently posed some issues and gave me a start, because I had to open the massive fridge door and it chimed. The alternative was to use the door ice dispenser, but those usually made more noise than a compacting garbage truck.
Satisfied with the drink in my hand, I holstered my weapon and climbed up the stairs, heading for TwoCent’s bedroom. It wasn’t difficult to find, although the second floor was as vast as the ground floor, but his snoring guided me like some kind of thunderous beacon.
Even before I reached the bedroom where the throated snorts were coming from, I sensed the smell, a terrible stench of metabolized alcohol, sweat, and junkie grime.
“Ugh,” I whispered with disgust, covering my mouth and stopping for a moment, trying to give my nose time to get used to the foul odor before I had to fake a big, wide smile.
I entered the bedroom and found TwoCent lying on his back, fast asleep. He’d fallen over the covers, still wearing his baggy jeans and an unbuttoned shirt over a sleeveless undershirt. The bed had been made neatly and the bedroom was unexpectedly tidy; he probably had house help.
I stepped out in the hallway and turned on the light, so only an indirect light came into the bedroom. It was all for the best if he couldn’t see me that clearly. I was planning to stand against the light, the contour of my body clearly visible and appetizing, but my face completely in the dark.
I breathed, getting ready for wha
t I was about to do, putting myself in character, as I’d learn ages ago, in the acting classes I took in London. Then I pushed his foot with the tip of my shoe.
He didn’t even stop snoring or skip the beat of it. I pushed again, harder, and called out. “Hey.”
He stopped snoring and started turning on his side, but I called again, shouting, “Yo, wake up. I got something for you.”
It worked. He nearly jumped out of his skin, scrambling to sit on the side of the bed, squinting and rubbing his eyes amid a slew of curses that had one overused word in common.
“Wha—? Who the fuck are you?”
“Care for some hair of the dog?” I asked as I handed him the drink. “Thug Passion, yeah?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, taking a couple of thirsty gulps. He was dehydrated from the solo party he’d pulled the night before. “How d’ya know?” he asked, mumbling the words and setting the glass down on his night table.
“I know things, gangsta’,” I replied, smiling widely and shifting my weight from one foot to the other, an opportunity to sway my hips a little and make him drool.
“How come you’re in here? I got an alarm,” he said, sounding more and more lucid as he continued to wake up, but at the same time, more confused.
I laughed, a quick laugh that didn’t promise anything good. I let that laugh disappear and replaced it with an expression of seriousness. “Digger sent me,” I said, hoping the well-documented grip that his former, more experienced cell mate had over him was still a fact.
“Digger? Why? What’s up?”
His reaction told me I wasn’t wrong. When he said Digger’s name, his voice climbed at least two tones higher, and an expression of concern, fear, took over his alcohol-swollen features.
“He’s hearing that you’re about to take the fall for a murder you haven’t done,” I said calmly, as if I were there as his best friend. “He sent me to help. Take care of things, if you know what I mean.”
“You?” he reacted, licking his dry, cracked lips. “How the hell can a broad like you help?”
“I got skills. That’s why Digger sent me and not some sorry-ass homie,” I said seriously, then I stayed quiet, leaving him enough time to process.
“What do you mean, I’m about to take the fall?” he finally asked the right question. “They’re about to drop the case, that’s what they’re about to do. Tomorrow we’ll bury the pig who busted me, and then I’m out. Something about the gun, and how they won’t be able to use it in the trial.”
“That’s not what Digger’s hearing,” I said just as calmly, although hearing the references to the upcoming testimony sent shivers down my spine.
The name I was so casually throwing around was that of a man serving multiple life sentences, mainly for burying people while they still drew breath. His reach, even outside the prison walls, was incontestable, worthy of all respect among those who walked on the wrong side of the line, whether they walked on the inside or outside, on the streets. No one who’d ever crossed him had lived to tell the story; most of them vanished without a trace, believed to be rotting in a shallow grave somewhere.
Through a touch of fate, Digger had been TwoCent’s cellmate and protector, taking the singer under his wing during his first stint behind bars. Now all I needed to do was convince that hungover moron he was in danger of being found guilty in court, and that only Digger could bail him out, like he’d done countless times while he was on the inside.
He didn’t disappoint.
“What’s he hearing?” he asked, wringing his hands. His forehead was scrunched together under the pressure of fear bordering on panic, elevated by alcohol fumes and the remnants of who knows what white powder was on his downstairs coffee table.
I looked at him seriously, as if terribly concerned. “The word out there is that tomorrow’s testimony will bring some new evidence about that gun. That they’ll have enough to fry you.” I let that fact sink for a moment, then added, “All that for a deed you didn’t even do. Digger isn’t too happy about that.”
“About what?” he said in a raspy, strangled voice.
“You stole cred for wasting that cop, Park, and it was some other cat’s street cred. You know how Digger is, he hates a liar, but he and you go way back, and he’s willing to forgive you. He still wants to whup your ass, though.”
TwoCent scratched his shaved scalp, then ran his fingers over his stubble.
“What other cat? Who’s sayin’ shit about me?”
I shrugged, keeping on with the act. I’d started living it, breathing it, feeling as if I really were Digger’s envoy. “He isn’t talking about you, man. I don’t believe he knows you exist,” I said casually, looking to poke his oversized ego. “He’s saying he killed that cop, and Digger believes him.”
“Why would Digger believe that piece of shit?” TwoCent asked, then quickly downed all the booze left in his glass. “He knows me, he knows I ain’t lyin’ about important things like that.”
“He thinks you don’t have the stones, man,” I said, then smiled and raised my hands to pacify him. “Don’t get me wrong, I believe you do have them, but Digger… well, you know Digger. It takes some real stones to impress him.”
TwoCent sprung to his feet and walked right past me, on his way to the living room. I didn’t want to move to a better lit area. I needed him unable to recognize me in the future, and for that, he had to stay put.
Calmly, I dove my hand inside my cleavage and pulled my gun, aiming it at his chest. “Sit your ass down, homie.”
“Whoa,” he said, freezing in place. Then he reached behind his back, but his hand came empty. He’d left his gun downstairs, on the coffee table, right next to the partially snorted lines of snow. “You crazy or something, bitch?”
“Think of me as Digger’s extension on the outside, doing his bidding. I’m to decide whether to believe you and help you beat the wrap tomorrow or rid the world of a spineless liar who takes other people’s street cred.”
He sat back on the bed, his eyes rounded in disbelief. “How did you get in here, again?”
“I’m asking the questions,” I replied. “Why should Digger believe you, and not his new best bud?”
“I never lied to Digger in, like, never, I swear to God,” he said, and I smiled with condescension. “I popped that cop, Detective Park. It was me, no one else. He was circling my act, looking to bust me and my homies for possession and some other shit. I didn’t want to go back to the joint, not now, when I’m making shitloads of money.”
I paused for a moment, then sighed. “I don’t believe you. Tell me how you did it.”
“He came by the club, asking questions. I had my homies yap with him until he went to the can, then I cornered him in there, popped two in his chest. No one else knows he got offed in the toilet, with his dick in his hand. That proves it, doesn’t it?”
I paused again, a good second. “I don’t know, man, I still don’t see you doing all that. I think you’re just talking the talk.”
“Really?” he snapped, wanting to get on his feet again, but I gestured with the gun and he cursed, resigned to continue sitting where he was told. “That cop wasn’t even the first pig I whacked. I offed two more, two dumb patrolmen three years ago, near the Owens overpass.”
“So you say,” I laughed in disbelief. “Who can say that it’s true, after all this time?”
“I didn’t use the same gun, ’cause I ain’t stupid, but I used the same brand of gun, you feel me? I’m a sucker for a nine mil Smith & Wesson M2.0. Digger can ask around; he’ll see I’m telling the truth.”
“Well, I don’t know, really,” I said, shaking my head for effect. “I’ll have to ask Digger what he thinks.”
“Ask Digger? What do you mean, ask Digger, when I’m due in court in five hours, bitch?”
“I don’t know that I can believe you, man, that’s all. No hard feelings, nothing personal.”
“I swear I popped them, all three of them, I swear it on my life!”
There it was, everything I’d come to hear from TwoCent’s own lips. I was convinced; now I could pull the curtain on our little show.
“Okay, all right, I believe you,” I said, and he stood again. I took a step back, gun still in hand.
“So? What are you going to do for me, huh?”
“Oh, I’ll put your lights out,” I said, then whacked him in the head with my gun.
He fell with a loud thud, but then squirmed a little. He was massive and thick-skulled, while my piece was a subcompact, light and small. I hit him again with the butt of the weapon, and he stopped moving.
I killed all the lights and mostly left everything just the way I’d found it. Downstairs, I fished his gun from under the sofa and put it back on the table, next to the dope, then left the same way I’d come in, through the side door.
As soon as I got to my car, I drove out of that neighborhood, still under that strange feeling that someone was watching every move I made. But who? I frequently checked my rearview mirror and changed direction and saw no one. Eventually, I pulled into the parking lot of a nonstop pharmacy and got down to business.
First, I texted Fletcher to tell him he could arm TwoCent’s alarm system, then I fired up my personal laptop; it was time for some sound editing.
The recording wasn’t top notch; I could’ve done better with more expensive equipment. But what I had would serve its purpose, and the pauses I took each time before speaking made it easy for me to edit my voice out of the conversation, leaving only the interesting parts.
His confession sounded natural, uncoerced, albeit a little emotional, but it was still going to work. As for my voice, I laughed a little hearing myself talk in street lingo with my sophisticated British accent, a clash of cultures. Good thing I got to cut those pieces off, although I was quite proud of myself and my performance; a solid eight and a half, maybe a nine.
When I was done editing the recording, I listened to it again to make sure it didn’t include a single hint of my voice, then sent it as a text message attachment to all the players: TwoCent; his son-of-a-bitch attorney, Volo; and Gully, the ADA.