I consider what a night in a lonely hotel room with a minibar might do to both my sobriety and my mental state.
“I’d love to,” I say. “Mind if I bring a friend?”
“Of course not. The more the merrier.”
In the late afternoon, early evening, I locate and attend a meeting, visit with the Paulks, drop in and check on Miss Ida, call and setup my plus one for dinner tonight, go to Jordan’s and Martin’s graves, leaving flowers at Jordan’s and a basketball at Martin’s, marvel at both the city’s explosive growth and extraordinary change, drive by a few of the places that hold good memories and no haunts for me, and call and check in with Anna and the girls. Then, on a last minute whim when I realized how close I was, visited the grave of JonBenét.
And then, after all of that, with some extra time on my hands that I didn’t want to spend alone in the hotel room, I drive.
And drive.
And drive.
As the last of the light fades from the summer sky and the million billion city lights blink on below, as the traffic thins, in the midst of white and blue headlights and glowing red brake lights, I drive around the perimeter and through downtown streets.
Driving and thinking. Thinking and driving. Missing and mourning, feeling the bittersweet homesickness this city inspires in me, feeling nostalgic for what was for only the briefest of moments and will never be again.
Atlanta Nocturne.
Soft piano on the FM.
A trippy, atmospheric reinterpreting of Claire de Lune.
The city at night and I’m navigating its dark streets.
My head is filled with images, my ears ringing with information—playing basketball on the outdoor courts at Trade Winds with little Martin Fisher, finding Nicole Caldwell’s dead body in my chapel office, Mariah Evers singing and dancing with her dad in the music video for Never Leave You Again, JonBenét in an elaborate pink and white ruffled costume complete with white cowboy hat and boots performing I Want to Be a Cowboy’s Sweetheart, as snatches of conversation from today form a single continuous conversation.
Avoiding certain haunted places, like Memorial Drive, Flat Shoals Parkway, Stone Mountain, I speed through the city in what seems like slow motion, making my way to the Landmark Diner.
The streetlight-dotted night, the empty town, the skyline in the distance combine with the frame of mind I’m in to create a familiar mesmeric quality.
I’m reminded of the hypnotic ride I took with Summer Grantham after one of our meetings about the Atlanta Child Murders in the late 80’s. We were in her Ted Bundy Bug and our ride through Atlanta at night was as hypnotic as she was.
My dinner date for tonight is Frank Morgan, the GBI agent and friend of my father’s, who cared for me like a father when I lived here, taught me about being an investigator and a man, and saved my life more than once and in more ways than one.
Frank had recently lost his wife of nearly fifty years and I thought this little late-night outing might do him good.
He’s waiting for me out front when I arrive.
The Landmark Diner is brightly lit, its neon-outlined exterior a beacon against the black night sky. The Greek-influenced, New York-style diner, which opened in 1994, is open twenty-four hours a day, and is my favorite late-night eatery in the city.
As I walk up to it after parking on the side I recall bringing Susan here at midnight on the start of her birthday, celebrating her being in the world with lamb chops and chocolate cake.
Frank and I embrace like old, close friends unaware of the quarter of a century that separates us.
Inside, we find Deidra Baxley and Sandy Pickler at a booth beneath a hanging blue light.
Tonight the Landmark is quiet and mostly empty, its mirrored services reflecting other objects instead of patrons, its glass and metal surfaces having very little conversation reverberate off of them.
“Sandy, John,” Deidra says. “John, Sandy.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say and shake her hand. “Deidra, Sandy, Frank,” I add. “Frank, Deidra and Sandy.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a late supper with ladies so lovely,” Frank says. “Order what you want ’cause tonight dinner is on me.”
I blink back tears as I remember the times when I was a seriously broke college student that Frank not only took me to eat, but slipped a twenty or fifty or hundred in my pocket.
As I had hoped, Frank and the two lovely but broken ladies become fast friends and before long Frank is volunteering to help with security and some light maintenance at Myra House.
“I still have friends on the force,” Frank says, “so I can also help deal with anybody who’s harassing or threatening y’all too.”
“Keep it up,” Deidra says, “and I just might ask you to marry me.”
He smiles and maybe even blushes a bit, but acts as though she’s joking, which I’m pretty sure she is, but even if she isn’t, Frank’s feelings on the matter are unalterable. He’s had his one great true love and will only have it again if there’s a life after this one.
Beneath the table, I pull out my phone and text Susan. I’m at Landmark Diner. Remembering your birthdays here and so many of the great times we shared. Just wanted to say I’m grateful for what we had and the amazing daughter we produced.
After we’ve all eaten more than we should have, and Sandy is working her way through the largest slice of coconut cake in the metro area, she says, “I want to live again.”
“You will,” Deidra says. “You’re on your way. Think about how far you’ve come.”
“But I’m so . . . weak and needy. If I didn’t have you to prop me up. I’m like Myra House in that way—fall apart if you’re not around. You can’t go away without us falling to pieces. You’re gone for a few days and we—”
“Survived just fine,” Deidra says.
“Wouldn’t say just fine.”
“Well, you did.”
“Not everyone did. Two of the women actually left. Went back to their batterers.”
“You’re stronger than you think you are,” Deidra says. “You’ll only need our support for a little while and then it’ll be you supporting others. Just wait. You’ll see.”
My phone vibrates and I pull it back out of my pocket. It’s Susan texting back. Wouldn’t change a thing. Except maybe it ending. But no regrets. Thanks for thinking of me and appreciating us. Eat a big piece of cake for me.
“That’s an awful lot of pressure on you,” Frank says to Deidra.
Deidra smiles. “Nice to be needed.”
“We’re like the needy children she never had,” Sandy says.
“Maybe I can help with some of that pressure,” Frank says. “And I know some kickass female cops who would love to volunteer—mentor, help in any way they can, teach self-defense classes.”
“Self-defense would be good,” Sandy says, “but the most important thing is us learning what good, decent men are and how to be attracted to them.”
“I think Special Agent Frank here will help with that,” Deidra says, a certain twinkle in her eyes. “Think havin’ him around will help with that just fine.”
“He’s truly one of the best men I’ve ever known,” I say. “Can’t think of a better man for the job.”
37
Mariah’s funeral service is as heartbreaking as any I’ve ever attended.
It’s inside the small chapel of Williams Family Funeral Home in Decatur.
I’m sitting toward the back on a pew with Frank Morgan, Deidra Baxley and her parents, Pick and Rhonda Baxley.
The small sanctuary is filled with invited family and friends whose names are on a strictly-enforced list. Several reporters, armchair detectives, and morbidly curious crashers who attempted to sneak in were turned away by Merrill and other security guards working the door because their names weren’t on the list.
Merrill is one among many bodyguards and security guarding all the entrances and escorting the family in and out.
Ou
tside, there are more media vans set up than the parking lot and surrounding area can accommodate. We all entered the building to the sounds of cameras clicking, reporters both broadcasting and yelling questions at us.
Trace, did you kill your daughter?
How did Mariah die?
Is it true she was found naked tied up in the bathtub?
Was duct tape found in her esophagus?
Is Mariah the black JonBenét?
Investigator Jordan, are you here to arrest Trace Evidence for the murder of his daughter?
Was this a gangland style hit? Trace, was this a message? Is your past catching up with you?
What about the rumors that you’re gay? Is Ashley just your beard? Was this the work of one of your gay lovers?
Is it true Mariah isn’t really dead? Did you fake her death for the publicity?
Does rap music promote violence? Did your music and lifestyle lead to your daughter’s death?
After an awkward greeting from a shaky elderly minister who has some connection to the family through Trace’s grandmother I believe, and the reading of the obituary, two large women in dresses several sizes too small sing a soulful, a cappella version of Amazing Grace.
At the conclusion of the song, a large screen descends from the ceiling at the center of the platform and a professionally produced montage video that includes both pictures and home movie footage is projected onto the screen from a projector mounted on the ceiling.
It’s difficult to watch, impossible not to. And the disconnect between watching this energetic, enthusiastic little full-of-life performer and knowing her lifeless body is inside the too-small coffin below it causes an existential dissonance like few I’ve ever experienced.
On the other side of Frank, the stoic Baxley family shed silent tears, their devastation no less real for the quiet nature of their dignified mourning. And seeing the kind of people they are and how they carry and conduct themselves convince me all the more that Trace hasn’t been truthful with us.
Others throughout the congregation cry loudly, sobbing and saying Je-sus often.
The eulogy is far better than I expected it to be, and includes the reading of letters from Mariah’s classmates who genuinely seem to adore her. The speaker, Mariah’s school teacher, Miss Amy, captures the kind, funny, precocious child, who we learn was an accomplished prankster and a bit of a tomboy, better than anyone else could.
When Trace, Ashley, and Brett rise, each with a single white rose in their hand, and walk toward the small coffin, I get my first real look at them since the service began. Ashley is hidden beneath an enormous black hat and veil, Brett, who doesn’t look like himself without a handheld video game device in his hand, is holding his mother’s hand and appearing disaffected, but Trace, whose knees buckle as he places the rose on the coffin, is clearly visible, the dark shades he wears unable to hide the obvious pain and genuine anguish etched on the brittle, too-tight skin of his face.
As he falls, he grabs Mariah’s tiny coffin for support.
I can’t imagine the stand the coffin is on is strong or stable enough to support him, but it does, and Trace remains upright.
Though slow to respond, Ashley eventually reaches over and offers support.
When they arrive back at their seats on the front row, Brett still has his rose. Ashley leans down, whispers something to him, and he takes a few steps forward and tosses the rose at the coffin.
The rose hits the side of the small coffin and bounces off, landing on the floor, as Brett returns to his seat.
In a sudden burst of anger, Trace steps over, grabs Brett by the arm, and snatches him up off the pew and drags him over to the rose. Shoving him down toward the rose without letting go of his grip on his arm, he yells Pick it up, then, after Brett has the rose in his hand, drags him to the coffin and waits while he carefully places it on top with the two others.
When Trace releases Brett, he runs over to his mother, who wraps him up in her arms and comforts him.
Trace returns to his spot on the pew and for the rest of day he and Ashley don’t touch or speak.
38
Merrill reacts first.
Frank and I shortly after him.
Then the other bodyguard Trace employs.
We have just reached the parking lot out in front of the funeral home, witnessed Mariah’s coffin being loaded by the pallbearers into the glass horse-drawn carriage that will transport her to the nearby cemetery.
As soon as the door of the carriage is closed, the reporters begin to yell their questions.
How was the service? Trace? Trace? What do you have to say to those who say you should be in jail instead of out here at your victim’s funeral? Where will Mariah be buried? Will she be laid to rest beside her mother? Trace? Did you kill her mother too?
Everyone is rushing to their vehicles to avoid the assault of the reporters and their cameras that make what are normal reactions to the vile questions they’re asking look irreverent or suspicious or worse.
Thankfully most everyone is in or near, and therefore shielded by, their vehicle when it happens.
I’m scanning the area as Deidra is helping her parents look for their car when it happens.
I see Merrill reach for his gun and move toward the street.
I follow his gaze as I reach beneath my suit coat and withdraw my weapon and begin to yell for everyone to get down and take cover.
Frank does the same.
A big black SUV with illegally dark tinted windows cruises by out on the small side street that fronts the funeral home, its back passenger side window rolling down, the barrel of a rifle being brought up and out.
I shove Deidra and her parents and few others around me down and continue to yell.
Screaming.
Running.
Falling.
Ducking.
Jumping in vehicles. Ducking behind them.
The moment the first round is fired, Merrill fires back.
Panic.
Pandemonium.
The pool of reporters is caught in the crossfire. Some turn their attention and cameras toward the SUV. Others drop to the ground. Still others knock over tripods and lights and mic stands in attempt to get to the nearest place of cover.
Merrill is running toward the SUV, firing as it does.
The shooter in the SUV fires the rifle a few times, picking and choosing his targets carefully. Most of his rounds go into the limo Trace and his family hide behind.
Several of Merrill’s rounds hit the SUV.
As the back window of the vehicle rises, the SUV speeds away.
All of us strain to see the plate as it does, but there isn’t one.
Less than a minute after it all began, it’s over.
We walk around surveying the damage as the reporters begin broadcasting live.
Deidra’s dad has a gunshot wound to his left hand and Trace has fragments of asphalt and shards of glass from rounds ricocheting around him in his face.
All other wounds appear superficial and self-inflicted.
39
“See?” Deidra says. “You thought I was being paranoid.”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t.”
She and her mother are standing at the back of an ambulance where EMTs are working on her father’s injury.
“I told you he’d try something, didn’t I?”
“He got hit too,” I say, turning toward another ambulance across the way where EMTs are picking glass and bits of rock out of Trace’s face.
“Which was either an accident or a brilliant cover,” she says.
Against the advice of the EMTs, both Pick and Trace are refusing to go to the hospital, opting instead for some minor triage so they can attend the graveside.
Pick had said, “It’s just a scratch. I’m fine. Lot of blood, but it’s just the tip of my little finger.”
When Deidra had turned to her mom and said, “Tell him he has to go to the hospital,” Rhonda had shaken her head.
<
br /> “I can’t get him to do anything, you know that,” Rhonda said. “Besides, I understand what he’s saying. We haven’t seen our granddaughter since she was a baby and we’re going to miss part of her funeral . . . I don’t think so.”
Trace had said, “Nigga with a gun not gonna run me off from laying my little girl to rest. Promise you that. They gonna have to kill me to keep me from burying my baby.”
While they’re getting treated, Merrill, Frank, and I step away from everyone to talk.
“Nice work out there,” Frank says to Merrill.
“You too.”
“We were just following your lead.”
I nod.
“Just hope I didn’t just help save the life of a child killer.”
“There were a lot of lives at stake,” I say. “Not just his.”
Dekalb Sheriff’s department is looking for the vehicle,” Frank says. “Sure it’s stolen and will be empty by the time they find it, but . . . could lead us to the shooter.”
“Not your typical drive-by, was it?” Merrill says. “Shooter fired very few rounds and at specific places.”
I nod.
“Usually see an automatic or semi-auto and the shooter sprays the crowd,” Frank says.
“More a hit than a drive-by,” I say. “Or supposed to look like it anyway. Not sure exactly what that was.”
“I’m gonna find out,” Frank says. “Got some friends at the bureau . . . call in some favors.”
“Need to look at Rondarious Swaggart,” I say. “Rapper that goes by the name Little Swag. He’s made threats against Trace. I’ve tried to see him since I’ve been in town, but haven’t been able to.”
“Leave it with me,” Frank says. “I’ll track down Little Swag.”
Blood Ties (John Jordan Mysteries Book 16) Page 14