The cops were there when Mimi arrived and they seemed as genuinely pleased to see her as she was to see them. Hugs all around—then she looked closely at Bobby’s eye. “Didn’t look like that last night,” she said.
He touched it and quickly removed his hand; that had hurt. “Just got a couple of stitches and the drugs must be wearing off. Hurts like a—well, you know what.”
She nodded understanding; yeah, she knew. “A fist didn’t do that.”
“You’re right,” Alice said, “it was a knife.” She said the words and watched Mimi hear and understand them.
“That bastard cut you?! That close to your eye?!” Mimi thought about everything she’d found out about Dexter Davis, and if she’d thought he was a despicable bastard before, this nailed the coffin shut. “I’m glad you tossed him down the steps and I hope he’s feeling it this morning.”
“What he’s feeling this morning is being in jail with cons who know he’s a cop,” Linda said, and they filled her in on the morning’s activities, enjoying the telling, the reliving, as much as watching the reporter’s reaction to it. Mimi had known the Chief for a lot of years, long before he became the city’s top cop, and she knew his propensity for colorful behavior as well as colorful language. But this—going to roll call and personally arresting three cops—this was new territory even for him. For sure he was sending the message that dirty cops would not be tolerated inside the D.C. Police Department and, Mimi was certain, he wasn’t finished with his message-sending activities.
“So, does this mean your job at Sunset View is done?” Mimi asked.
“Pretty much,” Bobby said.
“We’ll go back this evening and let the women know,” Alice said.
“Sonia and Virgie especially will breathe easier,” Linda said.
“You think they’ll be all right?” Mimi asked.
“Don’t you?” Alice asked.
“What do you think, Ms. Patterson?” Bobby asked. “You asked to talk to me about Alfreda, what I thought about her. Why? What do you think?”
“I don’t really know what to think,” Mimi replied.
“Give it a shot,” Alice said, challenging, provocative.
I’d like to give you a shot, Mimi thought, not charitably. “From the very beginning I’ve wondered how it could happen that an entire apartment complex, even a small one like Sunset View, could lose all of its men, making all of its women vulnerable to predators like DD and his pals. I mean, we all know that women have gotten the crappy end of the stick for so long, and have managed to make it for so long, despite the crap on the stick. So, what made this situation different?”
“And what answer did you come up with?” Linda asked, really wanting to know.
“That every system that should have provided support for them—the large systems—failed them: The military, the police department here in D.C., the police in Pennsylvania, the insurance company, and quite possibly the church, because I can’t believe that none of these women belonged to a church, and yet I’ve never heard one of them mention a church or a minister. And these are women who’ve done everything right, but nobody—no safety net—was there for them. So they gave up. They gave in. They threw in the towel. But why? That’s what I’m not getting, that’s what I hope you all can help me with. What am I missing?” Mimi looked at the cops and they looked back at her.
“What’s the one thing you want to ask all of them?” Bobby asked her. “Just one thing you want to know. What is that one thing?”
“I want to know where their mothers are,” Mimi responded. The almost universal support system and backbone for people in trouble: Mom. Mother. Mommy. It’s who almost everyone called, or wanted to call, when times got really bad, and except in the cases of the really bad ones, she always showed up, because if anybody knew how to wield a crappy stick it was Mom.
“That’s a very good question,” Alice said, “and one we happen to have an answer to—at least in the case of the three women we were responsible for. Sonia’s mother was deported. She was illegal. Sonia and her siblings got to stay because they were American-born. Virgie’s mother died of breast cancer ten years ago. And Alfreda’s mother is in prison for prostitution, drug dealing, and murder.”
“Well damn,” Mimi said, and since there seemed to be nothing else to say, they ate. The black bean burrito and guacamole here were favorites of hers. So was the homemade sangria, and if it hadn’t been the middle of the day she would have ordered a pitcher. Her enjoyment of the food, however, could not corral her all-over-the-place thoughts, especially the notion that perhaps she was being unfair to the women, that she was branding them with a women of color stereotype. Black women, Latina women were known for their strength and courage in adversity, for their endurance. Suppose that was just so much bullshit? Suppose women of color were just like everybody else: some were strong and tough and damn near invincible, and some were not.
“One thing I can tell you about Alfreda Tompkins,” Bobby Gilliam said, drawing Mimi back into the moment, “is that she is easily controlled and swayed by men.”
“Are you saying she just allowed Davis to take her sons and turn them into drug dealers, that she didn’t resist?”
“She thought he was going to mentor them, to father them. He was a cop, don’t forget. And she thought he was going to be a man to her. By the time she realized who and what he was, and what he had planned for her sons—” Bobby held up his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Tell her the rest of it,” Alice said.
“She believed that I came to rescue her, that I was there to replace Davis as the man in her life. I don’t know how she’s going to react to the news that Davis is in jail and that I’m leaving.” Bobby took a deep breath. “And that her sons, at least the older one, probably won’t be coming home.”
Now it was Mimi’s turn for the deep, heavy inhalation. “Oh crap.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Alice, who had stepped into Cassie Ali’s shoes in more than one way.
Everett Mason was the name of the perp who had spotted their cameras and blown their op and allowed the child sex traffickers to escape. It had taken them a full twenty-four hours to find his sorry ass, and then another hour to get him into custody and to HQ for questioning. They had arrested some badass perps before, but nothing like Everett Mason. First, he kicked and screamed and flailed around like a spoiled brat four-year-old having a tantrum. Then he cried. Then he prayed. Then he cried some more. Finally he fainted, and it wasn’t a swoon or a fake; the chump fainted dead away like a distressed damsel in a Renaissance romance. Jim Dudley, Tony Watkins, and Tim McCreedy stood looking down at him, not believing their eyes. They knew what to do with a perp if you had to knock him out to subdue him. But if somebody fainted? They took advantage of the opportunity to cuff his hands behind his back and to join his feet with some plastic cuffs.
“Water,” Dudley said, and Tim trotted to the car, grabbed a bottle of water, and tossed it over to Dudley, who quickly opened it and splashed most of it into Everett Mason’s face. He came back to consciousness confused and sputtering, but as soon as his eyes focused and he realized who was staring down at him, he began squirming, as if he wanted to return to tantrum mode. The realization that he was immobilized caused a major shift in his demeanor. He went from sniveling and pitiful to furiously mean and nasty. He cursed them and spat at them, coming too close for comfort to Tony, who smacked him upside the head. Then they hauled him to his feet and tossed him into the back of the squad car. With Tony driving and Jim riding shotgun, they headed for the station. Jim called Gianna to let her know they were headed her way with Mason, and he began howling. Jim ended the call, turned around, and smacked Mason. He shut up and they rode in silence for a while.
“I’m going to be sick!” Mason wailed. “I don’t feel good and I’m going to be sick!”
“If you puke in here, I will put my fist to your nuts so hard you’ll feel ’em in your throat.” This from Tim McCreedy who was ri
ding in the back with Mason. Since the back doors in squad cars didn’t open from the inside, he knew that if Mason really did throw up he’d never get out of the way in time. But Mason didn’t throw up. In fact, he didn’t do or say anything else until he sat, handcuffed and shackled and facing Gianna, in an interrogation room.
“I have the right to an attorney,” he said.
“Indeed you do,” Gianna replied. “We’ll have you transported to Central Booking and Holding while we wait for your attorney. Have you already called him? Or her?”
“I called my wife. She knows what to do.”
Gianna had done more than call his wife. She’d been to see her, armed with photographs and Everett Mason’s laptop and cell phone. Unlike many women, who refused to believe the worst of their husbands, Rachel Mason seemed unsurprised to hear what Gianna had to say. Which is not to say that she wasn’t furious. Disgusted and furious. “What should I do?” she asked.
So Gianna listened politely as Everett Mason refused to speak until the lawyer he thought his wife was sending arrived to offer counsel and post his bail. What his wife was doing while Everett waited was emptying their bank accounts and credit cards, liqui-dating their assets, filing for divorce, and preparing to take the children and leave town. “Take him to Central,” she said to Dudley. “And make certain everybody knows why he’s there.”
“You can’t do that!” Mason cried, and Gianna heard the underlying panic.
“I can and I will. I think you need to know how those little girls feel when grown men invade them,” Gianna said, and walked out. The words and the images they produced made her ill. She was glad to be away from Everett Mason. Being in the same room with him made her ill, too.
The unit was buzzing with activity despite greatly reduced ranks, though they’d be back to full strength by tomorrow when Bobby, Alice, and Linda would be back. Tim, Tony, and Dudley would return in a couple of hours, after leaving Mason at Central, though she fully expected that they’d have to retrieve him before dinner was served in the cellblock.
“Anybody need me or may I go to my corner and the mountain of paperwork waiting for me?” She walked among them and felt them liking her as much as she liked them. She knew all their names and she was learning their strengths. The veterans among them thought she might be the best Boss they’d ever worked for. The newcomers didn’t have any basis for comparison but if what they’d seen so far was what working for Lieutenant Maglione was going to be like, they were in for a hell of a great ride.
“We might need you, Boss.”
“We’re not really sure. Not yet.”
Gianna walked over to stand behind and between Archie Ames and Annie Andersen, known as “The A’s.” The other similarity they shared was that together they probably didn’t weigh 200 pounds—skinny as a twig, both of them. He was as dark as she was fair, he ran marathons (which quickly endeared him to Alice Long), and she was a yogini. And, funnily enough, he was a Buddhist and she a Baptist. Sgt. Tommi had assigned them to be eyes and ears at Metro GALCO because they both were gay—something they hadn’t known about each other until the assignment. They’d become fast friends in the two weeks they had worked together, reminding the original HCU team of the bond that had existed between Tim McCreedy and Cassie Ali, but it wasn’t something any of them would ever mention to Tim. Besides, he’d been so occupied with the takedown and subsequent events at the sex-trafficking warehouse that he hadn’t spent much time in the unit, and therefore would not have noticed the growing relationship between The A’s. Gianna hoped—futilely, she knew—to keep it that way. At least for a while, until Tim could begin to heal from losing Cassie.
“What is it you’re not sure about?” Gianna asked, and they told her about a group of five people who frequented the center regularly—three men and two women, all apparently in their twenties, all white—and not one of them, The A’s were certain, was gay.
“You know what that place is like, especially on weekends,” Archie said, and Gianna did know: There were at least a couple dozen organized activities every Friday, Saturday and Sunday—workshops, classes, club and organization meetings, and social gatherings of every kind and description, for every kind and description of group . . . for women, for men, for transgender women, for transgender men, for teen women, for teen men, for transgender teens, for parents of all of the above. Several AA and NA groups held meetings at Metro GALCO, as did a variety of AIDS-related groups. And then there were the people who just came to hang out, who didn’t attend anything, who just came to meet friends or lovers or people they hoped would become friends or lovers. People milled about in the hallways inside the building, and on the patios and walkways and grassy areas outside unless it was raining or snowing.
“These five people come at different times,” Annie said. “They don’t talk to each other. They just watch. One of them will go upstairs and walk around for a while, looking in classrooms but not going in any of them. Then another will go downstairs and do the same thing. One of them will sit on the steps outside and just watch people coming and going. They make eye contact with each other but they never speak. And always, all five are there at the same time.”
“Do they carry anything? Backpack, briefcase?”
“Notebooks,” Archie said.
“And they write in them,” Annie said.
“We don’t like it,” The A’s said in unison.
Gianna didn’t like it, either. Not a damn bit. “How do they arrive?”
“We’ve never seen them arrive,” Annie said with a frown.
“Take opposite ends of the block. Get in place early. Get the sergeants to give you surveillance vehicles and a backup with a camera.” And she outlined for them a three-night surveillance plan that would have them watch how the subjects arrived, and that would capture any vehicles and/or associates. Once the subjects were inside, The A’s would enter as well and continue observing. I should have insisted on a visible police presence, Gianna thought. If I had, whoever these five are, they wouldn’t be in play. Her phone rang. Dudley. “Good work, you two. Really good work,” she said to The A’s, crossing to the corner of the room that was her office.
“Boss!” Dudley exclaimed as soon as she answered. “Your boy wants to talk! He says he’ll tell you whatever you want to know. He’ll tell you everything he knows. Just please don’t leave him in Central with animals who want to hurt him. His words, Boss.”
Gianna disconnected that call and made one to the Chief who, since his return from roll call that morning, had been occupied with the return of the sex traffickers from their trek along I-65 in Virginia, and overseeing the evidence collection process in and on their van. Two of the Virginia State cops who’d assisted in the apprehension had journeyed north to D.C., at the Chief’s invitation, to witness the interrogation as well as to find out what the contents of the van revealed. Yes, it was in part a thank-you for their assistance, but more than that, it was concern—fear, even—that a group of international sex traffickers had a bolt-hole in Virginia. Did that mean they also had an operation there, as well? So far, however, the traffickers had refused to speak. Not a word. The Chief didn’t even know if they understood English. His mood improved greatly after speaking with Gianna.
“Are you certain that Everett Mason character can name these bastards?”
“I’m fairly certain that he can tell you how he knew when and where the Broad Street warehouse went into operation. These people have networks of people like themselves. Of course, it all may be dependent on leaving him in the care of Dudley, McCreedy and Watkins, with the return to Central an ever-looming possibility,” Gianna said. The last thing she heard was the Chief laughing.
That got a laugh from Mimi. They were stretched out on the benches in the steam room of the gym, which they had to themselves that evening, though Mimi was worried that wouldn’t last. She had told Gianna about Evie’s fears and concerns—and her pain—about the deterioration of her relationship with Alice Long. What if Evie,
a regular to the gym and the steam room, saw them and wanted to ask Gianna about Alice? “I’ll tell her the same thing you did. Now relax.”
She’d also told Gianna about her conversation with Alice and wished she hadn’t in the wake of the wiseass response she received: “That’s very good advice you gave her, sweetheart. Gaining some wisdom in your old age?”
Mimi let the old-age crack pass and instead congratulated Gianna on the successful completion of two major operations, and sang the praises of Alice Long, Linda Lopez, and Bobby Gilliam. “Not only are they first-rate cops, they are truly fine human beings. I feel better knowing they’re out in the city fighting on the side of the angels,” Mimi said, and meant it.
Gianna thanked her, with reservations. “I keep hearing what you said and realizing how right you were. I was thrown into the deep end of a pool of watery shit and I’m damn lucky nobody drowned, especially me. I’m also damn lucky that I have a few really good additions to the new team and that the one screw-up revealed himself early on.” And she filled Mimi in on the hapless Officer Johnstone. “I turned him over to IA, but after this morning, he won’t be at the top of their to-do list.”
They lay in companionable silence for several long moments, both remembering but not at all regretting the time they spent keeping the details of their work lives separate for fear that one or the other of them would be compromised. Cops and reporters were notorious adversaries, and in the early days of their association they had almost killed the relationship before it became one, trying way too hard to maintain what they believed should be the proper distance between their lives and their jobs. Both had come to realize, though neither had articulated it, that despite how important their jobs were to them, they cared more about each other than they did about their jobs.
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