“All units. Please respond to shots fired at 1222 Riverdale,” the dispatcher announced. “Repeat. Gunshots at 1222 Riverdale. All available units in the area respond.”
Thomas lifted his radio handset. “Dispatch, this is 5721, I’m on scene at 1222 Riverdale.”
“Roger, 5721,” Dispatch acknowledged. “Use caution. Backup is en route.”
“Roger, Dispatch. Out.” Thomas hung his handset back on the radio and climbed out of his vehicle. He observed his surroundings. On the outside, everything seemed calm, even serene. That was, until he strolled into the building and was met with nothing but chaos. People were talking loudly in many conversations, giving their recollection of what they’d heard. Heading toward the elevators, he was stopped by a concierge who was at the front desk trying to answer questions from tenants.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the concierge told him. “There’s an emergency on one of the upper floors and I cannot let you go any further. The authorities are on their way.”
“I’m aware of that and it’s okay. I’m a detective.” Thomas pulled open his coat and displayed his badge, which he had clasped to his belt.
The chatter among the tenants became quiet with the knowledge he was in some type of law enforcement.
“Oh, okay. Thank you, sir,” the concierge said.
“Do you know on which floor the shots were fired?” Detective Thomas asked.
“I heard it in one of the lofts,” someone shouted out.
“I heard it below me,” another person gave their input, “and I live on the twelfth floor.”
Other tenants began to say where they heard the shot but the concierge said to Detective Thomas, “We believe it was the top floor, where the lofts are.”
“Did you see anyone leave the building?”
“Some did, but most of the tenants and visitors came down here.” The concierge nodded toward the crowd. “Others are staying put in their apartments, but they’re calling down here every chance they get.” Detective Thomas could tell the man was annoyed.
“How many security cameras do you have and where are they located?”
“Cameras are on each floor across from the elevators and the monitors are located in the security office.” He pointed down the hallway.
“Good. I’ll review the tapes in a minute, but I’ll need you to stick around to identify as many people as you can.”
“Okay, Detective.”
“Backup is on the way, so please let them up when they arrive. As far as the tenants, please have them remain in the lobby so they can give their statements.”
“Yes, sir.” The concierge nodded again.
Detective Thomas headed toward the elevator. He planned on investigating the call for shots fired but first things first. He had to talk to Q. He pressed the “up” button, and waited for the elevator to arrive. As the door opened, he coolly walked into the elevator, pressed the button for Q’s floor and waited as the elevator carried him up to the top floor. He pretty much had things figured out with Zeke’s murder. He knew that he shouldn’t go on assumption, but things were fitting together very well. Q, however, held the key to make the assumptions plausible and they needed to speak.
Once the elevator doors opened he was met by several nervous tenants standing in the hallway. Many of them pointed down the hall. Detective Thomas stepped out of the elevator and looked in the direction in which they were pointing. It was Q’s place. Shit! he thought to himself. First Ezekiel Morrison’s murder, now this.
“They’re in there!” a lady said, pointing.
“Yeah, in there!” another man confirmed.
Detective Thomas pulled out his Glock 23 and slowly crept toward Q’s front door. He waved his hand toward the tenants gathered in the hall. “Get inside your apartments and lock your door and stay away from it.”
The tenants obeyed instantly.
Detective Thomas crept to Q’s apartment and found the door slightly ajar. Carefully, he pushed it open and cautiously looked inside to see what he could. A strong odor filled his nostrils, along with the faint smell of gunpowder. With his gun drawn, he edged slowly into the loft.
“Police!” he announced. “Is there anyone in here?”
No answer.
He walked further and saw blood. His adrenaline began pumping.
“Hello?”
No answer.
“Detroit Police Department! Is there anyone in need of assistance?”
Silence.
Detective Thomas tiptoed further into the apartment, letting his weapon lead the way.
“Oh, shit,” he said when he saw Q lying on the floor of the living room with a pool of blood around him. His cell phone was in his hand.
Detective Thomas instinctively reached toward his shoulder for his radio, but it wasn’t there. He was in plain clothes so he grabbed for his cell phone and called dispatch.
“Dispatch, this is Detective Thomas responding to a call at 1222 Riverdale. There’s a gunshot victim. Please send paramedics, ASAP.”
Detective Thomas quickly searched the remainder of the apartment, sweeping through the kitchen, bathrooms, then the bedrooms. Finding nothing, he returned to Q and spied the wound in his stomach.
“Please help,” Q called out weakly. He began to cough and blood spurted from his mouth.
“Hold on, man,” Detective Thomas told Q, looking for something to put pressure on his wound. Just as he reached to take Q’s cell phone out of his hand, a voice bellowed out.
“Freeze!” Police officers appeared at the door. “Hands behind your head!”
“I’m a cop!” Thomas shouted. “I’m the one who answered the call.”
Paramedics came barreling through the door, bent on doing their job.
“Hands!” one of the officers shouted, not believing what Thomas said. “Let me see your hands!”
Disgusted, Thomas looked at the three officers in the door, guns drawn, and didn’t recognize any of them. He cautiously raised his hands and stood while the paramedics tended to Q. “Sir, can you hear me?” he heard one of the paramedics ask. “What’s your name, pal?”
“His name is Quentin Carter,” Thomas said loudly to the paramedics, then spoke to the officers. “Look, I’ma show you my badge.”
“Careful, buddy,” one of the officers told him. “No sudden moves.”
“I can’t believe this shit,” Thomas mumbled to himself. He knew the drill, so he slowly reached down onto his belt and pulled out his badge.
Just then a familiar face appeared. It was his partner, Detective Joshua McDonald, and behind him was their boss, Lieutenant Darrell Connelly, who was also a longtime colleague and friend.
“It’s okay, boys, lower your weapons,” the lieutenant ordered.
The officers followed the command and began searching.
“Hey, wassup, T,” Joshua acknowledged, walking up to his partner. They tapped shoulders. “Nigga, I told you I didn’t wanna do a lot of work this week,” he joked. “What’s going on up here?”
“Man, I was coming by to talk to this cat about his boy’s case, you know, the one we investigated a while ago, but a call came through over the radio about shots fired and this is the shit I run into.” Thomas shook his head.
“Is it clear?” an unknown officer asked. Thomas looked at him and instantly knew he was a rookie. Young, eager, but afraid of the unknown.
“I believe so. I went through real quick so I could get back to the victim,” he confirmed, “but you can check it again.”
Tense and cautious, the rookie combed the apartment. Detective Thomas made a mental note to stay away from him. He didn’t have time to babysit.
As Thomas, Connelly and McDonald continued to talk, the paramedics were quickly trying to stabilize Q. They had IVs running in one arm and were about to intubate him when he grunted and pointed.
“Detective Thomas, I think Mr. Carter is trying to say something,” one of the paramedics called out.
When Thomas rushed to his side, Q
pointed toward his cell phone. Thomas took the phone and flipped it open. Immediately, he pushed “talk,” to get Q’s last number called. It went to his voice mail. “Damn, he was checking messages,” he said out loud. Then he went to Q’s incoming call list. His number was the last one.
Watching Q closely, trying to read his eyes and his hand gestures, Thomas asked, “What are you trying to say? Give me something to go on, man.”
Suddenly Q began to grunt, and he coughed up more blood and began choking. Frantically, he pointed toward his cell phone and then the bedroom.
“There’s nobody in there,” he told Q.
• • •
Q closed his eyes in despair. He was trying to communicate that it was the enemy who slept in his bed, but nobody understood him. His thoughts became entangled and twisted as he was overcome with dizziness from the amount of blood loss.
Red betrayed him to the fullest. Under any other circumstances he would hold his water and take care of her himself, but this was different. He wasn’t sure that he would still be around to do it and just in case he wasn’t, he wasn’t going to let that bitch get away. Or Bacon. Fuck them. Fuck her! He wanted to wring that bitch’s neck and he wanted to blow that nigga Bacon’s head clean off. But that could happen only if he survived what they had done to him. He had to survive. He couldn’t let that dirty bitch get the last laugh.
In one last attempt, Q stretched out his hand toward the bedroom but the blood loss was too much and the pain was too excruciating. He tried to speak again but it was too late. He slid into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER SIX
Bacon quickly drove his black Range Rover onto the entrance ramp of the freeway once he was certain he wasn’t being followed. Turning the radio down, he drove at a steady pace and looked at Red.
“So, how does it feel?”
“How does what feel?” Red snapped, angrily.
“Killing someone. It’s your first kill,” he told her. “It’s powerful, isn’t it? You blasted old boy then you turned around and tried to blast me. Yeah,” he yelled, “that’s the kinda bitch I want by my side! Someone who will kill for her man!”
Red leaned her head against the window and her thoughts ran rampant. She could see herself squeezing the trigger over and over. Each time she heard the gun pop, she shuddered. What the fuck did I do? she thought. This nigga gonna hold this shit over my head and I know he’s going to use it to his advantage. Bacon now held the keys to her future and Red knew it. He was already torturing her with it, and he wasn’t going to let it go anytime in the foreseeable future. The only way that she could be free again was if she once again seized control of her own destiny and got away from Bacon. In order to do that, she would have to rid herself of his slimy ass. But how? It surprised Red that all of the thoughts that ran through her mind ended in death, but could she kill again? Was she really becoming a killer like Bacon claimed she was? She knew she was capable of doing dirty shit—but killing someone in cold blood wasn’t her MO. Her actions were merely done out of necessity and she reveled in her victims knowing that she, single-handedly, did the dirty shit. If necessity meant ending a life, then so be it.
How in the hell did I miss? Red asked herself while closing her eyes, playing back that moment in time. When Q and Bacon were fighting, Red had actually aimed for Bacon. She figured if Bacon died, she could come up with a scheme to get his money. When she closed her eyes to shoot, Bacon was on top of Q, but when she pulled the trigger, that was when they must have switched places.
As they rode in silence, Red glanced over at Bacon through calculating eyes. I want this muthafucka dead, she thought. Look at his ass grinnin’, ole bastard. You ain’t gonna control my life and I ain’t gonna be your slave, and you definitely ain’t holding this shit over my head. You’re getting out of my life, permanently, you bitch-ass nigga—by any means necessary.
Red continued to stare at Bacon while he drove and wondered if she could methodically plan a murder.
Weaving in and out of traffic, Bacon reached over to Red and patted her on her shoulder, hard.
“’Sup, killa,” Bacon chimed, taunting and breaking her out of the reverie she was in.
“You make me sick,” Red spat.
“Why? That’s yo’ new name, isn’t it? Killa Red.”
“Bacon, don’t. Stop it, just stop it!”
“Stop what, Red?” Bacon asked. “The truth? Is that what you want to stop? If so, I got bad news for you, sweetheart, you can’t stop the truth.”
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t!” Bacon laughed hysterically. “Yes, you did! You shot that man. Killed him in cold blood, sweetheart.”
“If you didn’t—”
“If I didn’t what? No one made you do it, Red,” Bacon told her, cutting her off in mid-sentence. “You did it on your own because you’re a self-righteous bitch who shits on muthafuckas if they can’t do you any good. That broke-ass nigga tried to fight me because of you. Nigga almost took a bullet over you and you repay him by”—Bacon put his two forefingers together and mocked a shooting motion—“blasting his ass.”
Red turned her head in disgust.
“You killed a man, because you want the life of luxury and he couldn’t give it to you. You want the life that I can give, but then you fucked up, Red.”
“Nigga, fucked up how?” Red looked at him with her lips twisted up in a snarl.
“You pointed the gun at me and pulled the trigger. You know what that’s called, Red?”
Red took her eyes off him and looked straight ahead.
Bacon took his right hand off the steering wheel and grabbed Red’s jaw. “I said, you know what that’s called?”
“What?” Red answered through a constricted jaw, courtesy of Bacon.
“It’s called biting the hand that feeds you.”
Bacon released her face, exited the freeway and drove along some backstreets until he pulled up to a seedy motel and parked in front of a room that looked like it should be condemned.
Red stole a quick look around the motel and a cold chill ran up her spine like spiders. Prostitutes strolled through the trash-strewn, pothole-filled parking lot, intermixing with the base heads and die-hard crack fiends. A couple of drunks shared the sidewalk with a couple of passed-out junkies. The half-working neon sign at the motel’s entrance broadcast to all that the place had vacancies.
It looked like something on a hard-core heavy metal album cover, or a Bram Stoker nightmare. The only things missing were the evil-looking spires, spooky stone towers and frenzied bats flying around. The sound of gunfire erupted a few blocks away.
Bacon turned toward Red and continued. “You know what happens to a bitch that snaps at her master?” Red didn’t answer. “She gets disciplined. That bitch gets put in check by her owner. And I own you now, so I gotta make sure that you never snap at my hand again. Now, get the fuck out,” he ordered. Red could see the gun in his hand.
“For what, Bacon?” Red asked seriously, looking around. “I’m not going in there. Can we talk about this, please.”
“If you don’t get out,” Bacon said through clenched teeth, as he pulled back the hammer on the pistol, “I swear, Red, I will shoot yo’ ass out here and no one would give a shit. Or you can go inside. Which one do you want, because right now, I could give a fuck.” I’ma shoot you, or you can go inside.
Reluctantly, Red got out of the truck and Bacon exited, too. He chirped the alarm, then walked over to where she stood, clasped her arms forcefully. After mumbling something to the fiends, Bacon pulled her into the dilapidated room. Red scanned the interior. Holes were scattered throughout the plastered walls; a rat scampered in the corner and ran back into one of the holes in the baseboard. She looked upward and saw black mold across the ceiling. Looking straight ahead, she noticed several roaches scurrying across the floor into the bathroom, but what really caught her attention were the duct tape and extension cords lying across the messed-up looking bed.
Befor
e Red could look at Bacon, he backhanded her, sending her flying into the wall.
“You fuckin’ bastard!” Red yelled as she scrambled to her feet. She tried to run but Bacon backhanded her again.
“Shut up, bitch!”
Crying, Red dropped to one knee and held her hands to her face. She knew that she was in trouble, big trouble.
Bacon grabbed Red’s arm, lifted her up and shoved her into the bathroom.
“What are you doing? Stop!” Red yelled at Bacon as he began to rip her clothes off. Red’s first thought was that he was going to rape her. She tried to fight him off but he was much too strong for her.
Bacon grunted and gritted, ripping off the last of her clothing, then shoved Red into the dirty shower and cut the cold water on.
Red’s second thought was that he was going to wash any trace of his DNA off her and just shoot her in the shower. Either scenario was a bad one for her.
Bacon shoved a cheap bar of motel soap into her hand. Red dropped it. Bacon backhanded her hard, sending her slamming against the moldy, stained tile wall inside the shower. He picked up the soap again and placed it in her hand. “Hold it in yo’ muthafuckin’ hand, bitch,” he ordered.
Again Red dropped it.
Bacon became furious. He wrapped his hand around her neck, choking her, slapping her with his other hand until blood shot from her lip and her nose.
Just as Bacon had arranged, three of the fiends from outside walked into the musty room. Stumbling over one another, they made their way to the bathroom and looked on. The stench of their body odor filled the air and each of them looked at Red with something in their eyes that scared the shit out of her.
Red broke down in tears.
“Wash your funky ass, Red!” Bacon picked up the soap and slammed it into the palm of her hand.
The Dirty Red Series Page 43