Rest for the Wicked

by Ellen Hart

  After he finished vacuuming, he drifted through the house, surprised at how little he cared about leaving. He had a passport, as did his son. They’d be on the other side of the border before anybody knew they were gone.

  After yanking the cord on the refrigerator, Emmett carried a cooler of food down the inside steps to the garage, setting it down next to the back bumper of the rented van. As he turned to run back upstairs, his attention was drawn to shards of broken glass scattered on the cement.

  “Hello, Emmett.”

  He whirled around.

  “I had to break the window to get in. Sorry about the mess.”

  A young man stood by the hood of the car, a gun held casually in one hand.

  “Who—”

  “Who do you think?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “I’m her daughter.”

  “But you’re—”

  “An optical illusion? Yeah. It’s fun. Sometimes I’m a man. Sometimes a woman. I saved you for last. In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m going to kill you, and I’m going to enjoy it. But first—” He motioned with the gun. “Upstairs. Now.”

  * * *

  Jane roared down Fairlawn toward Washington’s house. Avi’s Porsche was parked on the opposite side of the street. Pulling up next to it, Jane lowered her window.

  Avi did the same. “That’s Dorsey’s car over there,” she said, nodding at the black Chevy.

  “He inside?”

  “I got here just as he broke a window and went into the garage.” She pointed.

  “I wonder if there’s an inside stairway.”

  “Must be. They didn’t come out. I saw them both through the picture window a few minutes ago, but then they disappeared.”

  “Listen,” said Jane, swiveling to look both ways down the street. From the west a rusted gray and white Park Avenue came rumbling toward them. “I called 911 on my way over here. A squad car should arrive any second. If it doesn’t get here in the next minute or two, I want you to call 911 again. Give them your name, the address, and tell them that the owner of the house, Emmett Washington, is being held inside at gunpoint. You got that?”

  “Sure, but what are you going to do?”

  The Park Avenue stopped in front of Washington’s house, and a young man wearing a varsity jacket and carrying a backpack jumped out. He waved to the guy in the driver’s seat.

  “Don’t forget to call,” said Jane, parking her car the wrong way in front of Avi’s. Dashing across the street, she caught the young man just as he was about to head up the steps to the front door. “Excuse me,” she said.

  He turned partway around. “Yeah?”

  “Do you live here?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name’s Jane Lawless. I came by a couple of times yesterday hoping to talk to your father.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, turning all the way around. “I heard you last night. I’m Roddy Washington.”

  Jane motioned him into the shady part of the driveway. She didn’t want to be observed from the picture window. “Look, I don’t have time to sugarcoat this. Your dad’s inside the house with a woman who wants to kill him. Is there another way in other than the garage or the front door?”

  “In the back,” he said. “We’ve got a deck off the dining room. There’s a sliding glass door.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “You going in?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Not without me.”

  Jane didn’t have time to argue. She followed him up one of the neighbor’s walks and through a rear gate, standing behind him as he pushed back the sliding door.

  “Let me go in first,” she whispered, her eyes pleading.

  “Okay, but I’ll be right behind you.”

  Holding a finger to her lips, she stepped inside. A deep voice was crying, a man begging for his life. Edging up to an archway, she saw Dorsey—Sabrina—standing in the middle of the living room, a gun held at her side. Washington sat on the floor, his back against a wall, his legs drawn up to his chest.

  “Let’s rush him,” whispered Roddy.

  She gave her head a stiff shake. Pointing at a door toward the back of the dining room, she mouthed, “Where?”

  “Leads to a pantry, then into the kitchen.”

  She motioned for him to follow.

  “I’m not interested in any more of your lies,” said Sabrina. “I came here to tell you something, so shut the hell up and listen.”

  Jane and Roddy crept silently into the kitchen.

  “Did you know she had a kid?” asked Sabrina.

  “I didn’t know her at all.”

  “I was eight years old. Eight. She took me with her when she worked. Couldn’t afford a babysitter. I’d sit in a cubby under the bar with a coloring book, some crayons, and a flashlight. She’d pass me stuff to eat. Maraschino cherries. Orange slices. Olives. Sometimes a cup of peanuts. I loved that cubby. It was my special place. I felt safe there—until the night you guys came in. You were loud and said bad words. I could tell my mom was afraid, that she was trying to be nice so you’d leave her alone. When it was time to go home, she told me to stay inside the roadhouse until she got the car unlocked. I was supposed to run out and get in and we’d drive home. Except when I came out, I saw you dragging her across the road into that patch of woods. I ran across and ducked down behind a tree. I saw everything.”

  “Then you know I never touched your mother,” said Emmett. “I should have stopped the other guys, sure, but it was four against one. I was drunk. I was weak.”

  Jane felt Roddy move up next to her. As she turned from the scene in the living room to face him, she couldn’t miss the horror in his eyes.

  Sabrina went on. “You all took her, one at a time. Again and again and again. When it was over and you’d all driven off in your trucks, I thought she was dead. She didn’t move for such a long time. I gathered up her clothes, her bra and underpants. I’m not sure how we made it home that night. She went to bed and didn’t get up for three days. On the fourth day, I came home from school and found her in the shower. She spent hours in that shower rubbing her skin raw.”

  “I’m sorry,” screamed Emmett, “but it wasn’t me.”

  “It wasn’t?” asked Sabrina. “You’re saying you were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “They were my friends, sure, but I wasn’t like them.”

  “No? Let’s think about it. Five guys. Four white and one black. Funny how that works. My mom was white. I’m white. Nine months after my mother was gang-raped by everyone but you, she gave birth to my brother, DeAndre. By the way, he was black.”

  Before Jane could stop him, Roddy rushed into the living room. “That’s not true,” he screamed.

  Sabrina turned and pointed the gun at his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks.

  “My father never touched your mom. Did you, Dad? Tell him. Tell him.”

  “It’s sad that you never got to know your half brother,” said Sabrina, swinging the gun between Emmett and Roddy. “He was a wonderful, talented man. I told him that, one day, I’d find his father. He wanted that so much. I wanted it, too, but for different reasons.”

  Emmett was crying now, his face pressed hard against his knees.

  From outside the house came a voice over a loudspeaker. “This is the St. Paul police. Mr. Dorsey, I’m John MacAvoy. I’d like to talk to you. Just so you know, the house is surrounded. You can’t get away. I don’t want this to end badly, Mr. Dorsey. I’m asking you to throw your weapons out the front door, then come out with your hands up. Nobody is going to hurt you, I promise. We just want to talk.”

  “Like hell,” said Sabrina, edging closer to the picture window. “Four police cars and a paramedic van. They must think I’m going to blow up the entire neighborhood.”

  “What are you gonna do?” asked Roddy, inching toward his dad.


  “Good question. Never been in this situation before.” She felt for the curtain cord and pulled it. “Gotta think this through. You got anything to drink in this house?”

  “You mean like alcohol?”

  “Yeah, I mean like alcohol.”

  “I think my dad has some Scotch in the kitchen cupboard.”

  “Go get it,” she ordered

  Roddy raised his hands and backed his way into the kitchen. As he opened the cupboard, Jane moved up next to him. “See if you can get him to come in here,” she whispered.

  “How?”

  “Leave through the patio door and slam it on your way out. That’ll get him moving.”

  “What’s taking you so long?” called Sabrina.

  “I’m coming,” said Roddy. “I’m not leaving,” he whispered to Jane.

  “Stop arguing and just do it.”

  He struggled with the idea for a moment but finally disappeared into the pantry. A second later, Jane heard a loud thump. She hid next to the refrigerator.

  “What the hell?” called Sabrina. She came into the kitchen, holding the gun in front of her.

  Jane lunged at her arm, spinning her around as she tried to force the gun out of her hand. Sabrina pulled away and fired wildly. Lunging a second time, Jane dragged her down onto the floor. This time, the gun skittered across the linoleum. They fought to reach it, squirming against each other, each looking for an advantage. With her fingers mere millimeters from the handle, Sabrina screamed and rose up. Jane bucked away from her as Roddy dragged her free and fell on top of her, his hands squeezing her neck.

  “Roddy, don’t,” said Jane, trying to pry his hands off. “She’s not worth it.”

  “Piece of shit,” snarled Roddy. “Filthy piece of shit.”

  “Listen to me.” She grabbed his head and pressed her fingers close to his eyes, forcing him to look at her. “If you want to help, flip him over, pull his arms behind his back, and then sit on him. Don’t let him up.” Roddy outweighed Sabrina by a good seventy-five pounds.

  Standing with some difficulty, Jane scooped the gun off the floor on her way into the living room. Emmett was still on the floor, though now he was on his side, curled into a fetal position.

  Jane opened the front door and tossed out the gun. A second later, she stepped outside. From then on, everything moved quickly. Three officers charged up the steps past her and into the house. Jane stood to the side holding her arm, realizing for the first time, as blood oozed through her fingers, that she’d been shot.

  An officer came up to her and asked if she was okay.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Let me help you.” He put a strong arm around her waist and helped her down the steps to where another officer, this one in plainclothes, was waiting.

  “Ms. Lawless?”

  “Yes?” She was feeling a little woozy.

  “I need to talk to you about what happened up there.”

  “Good, I’d like to talk to you, too.”

  “The paramedics should take a look at you first.”

  As Jane crossed the street, Avi ran up and threw her arms around her. “I was so scared.”

  Jane’s arm didn’t hurt so badly that she failed to notice the warmth and passion of their first real kiss.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “A shot clipped me when I was fighting Sabrina for her gun.”

  “Is she—”

  “She’s alive.”

  “And Washington and the young man you talked to—”

  “Everyone’s okay.” That wasn’t entirely true, but true enough for the moment.

  “You going in there like that was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen.”

  “Could also be stupidity. Of course, if brave gets me a few gold stars, I’ll cop to it.”

  Avi kissed her again and held her tight.

  Jane had to ask. “You’re … not put off by my being a PI?”

  “No way. I think it’s beyond cool.” Cupping Jane’s face in her hands, she narrowed her eyes and said, “What are you thinking?”

  “Just something silly.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “That of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world … I walked into yours.”

  “Casablanca. How romantic.”

  “You make me feel romantic.”

  “You’ll be busy for a while with the EMTs, and then the police. I already gave a statement.”

  “I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

  “You better,” she said, backing up, a relieved smile on her face. “You are truly something else.”

  Something else, thought Jane as she stepped up into the paramedic van. She could work with that.

  40

  “Okay, so I was wrong,” said Sergeant Kevante Taylor. “I shouldn’t have brushed you off the way I did.”

  Jane and Taylor stood in a rear hallway at the Ramsey County jail, waiting for one of the guards to come and usher Jane into a meeting room. After spending most of the afternoon talking to officers from various local police departments, Jane was exhausted.

  The EMTs had examined her wound as they drove her to an emergency room, where she’d been treated by a young doctor who had cleaned and bandaged it. He’d called it a “through-and-through”—the bullet had entered and exited without making contact with anything important. She’d lost some blood, but not enough to cause a problem. While the wound would hurt for a while, the doctor said, her arm would heal and be as good as new. He prescribed antibiotics and painkillers. A nurse gave her a couple of shots, showed her how to use the shoulder sling they suggested she wear for the next couple of days, and eventually sent her on her way.

  Taylor continued, “You have to understand, Ms. Lawless. Police don’t usually develop close relationships with PI’s. We did appreciate your tips. Also, you should know that you made the right decision, turning that netbook over to us.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  “Look, I’m happy to give credit where credit is due. You cracked the case before us. That’s rare.”

  “So a little respect after this might be in order,” said Jane.

  “Point taken.” Taylor checked his watch. “Sabrina’s been processed by now. She did the smart thing—listened to her court-appointed lawyer.”

  “You going to offer her a plea bargain?”

  “That’s not my call. Bottom line, she’ll go to jail for the rest of her life if she stays in Minnesota. If Missouri gets their hands on her, she could be sent to death row. Her lawyer was quick to put a deal on the table. That’s why you get to see her before she’s arraigned. It was part of what she asked for.”

  A woman emerged from a door a few feet away and called Jane’s name.

  “That’s me.”

  Taylor stuck out his hand. “Friends?”

  “Take my calls next time.” She shook his hand and then followed the woman back through the door and down a long hallway to another door.

  “If you’ll take a seat inside, I’ll bring her in.”

  Jane thanked the woman.

  The room was tiny, with nothing on the walls but peeling paint. The only furniture was an old wooden table and four orange plastic chairs. Was there a camera somewhere, Jane wondered, ready to record anything they said? An expectation of privacy in a situation like this was undoubtedly misplaced.

  When the door finally opened, Jane stood up. It was the same Dorsey who stood before her, the one she’d come to know, yet subtly changed. Gone were the glasses, the dark scruff, and the layered clothes. Underneath was an androgynous, terribly thin, desperately sad-looking woman. Jane had to get used to thinking of him as Sabrina. She, not he.

  They sat down.

  Sabrina spoke first. “I asked to see you. You probably want to know why.”

  The voice was different, too. Softer. A shade higher.

  “I’m sorry for what I did to you. You weren’t part of this … this vendetta of mine. I didn’t want to hurt you. Yo
u were so kind to take Gimlet. But you were always in my face. I knew you wouldn’t give up until you figured out who I was.”

  “It was Avi,” said Jane. “She put it together.”

  “Yeah, so I heard, but you were right behind her. I’m sorry you got shot. I’m sorry for so much.” Her face flushed and she looked away.

  “Can I ask a couple of questions?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Did you lace my drinks at the club with ecstasy?”

  “Yeah. That was me.”

  “And the cocaine in my car?”

  “I’ve already given the police the name of the cop I paid to plant it and then arrest you. Again, I was trying to get you off my back.”

  “How did you convince him to do it?”

  “He was a regular. I’d done him some favors. I also knew that he bought his drugs from Shanice Williams.”

  “The head chef? Are you kidding me?”

  “She’s been selling out of the club ever since she arrived. Didn’t handle it herself. For a cut, a couple of the waitresses set up the deals. They passed on the product in the upstairs bathrooms right before closing.”

  “Do the police know about it?”

  “They do now.”

  “Shanice’s days as a chef are over. GaudyLights will likely go down, too.”

  “Not my concern.”

  Changing gears, Jane said, “About the men you murdered—”

  Sabrina’s mouth drew together as she spit out the words. “The ones who raped my mother? There was no way on earth those monsters were ever going to be held responsible for what they did. It was up to me. I stood at my mom’s grave and swore to her that I’d go after them.”

  “Was Emmett Washington DeAndre’s biological father? He said he was there, but he also insisted he didn’t take any part in it.”

  “He’s lying—or living in a dream world. Do the math. Like I said, four white guys and one black guy. I know what I saw. It’s not the kind of thing you’d ever forget. I hope he rots in hell.” She lowered her head, massaged her temples. “My mom and me, we had to move in with my grandmother—her mom—after my mom lost her job. She couldn’t work anymore. She said it was nerves. I was pretty small, but I understood what my mother and grandmother were arguing about the first month we were there. Mom wanted an abortion. Grandma wouldn’t hear of it. We were Catholics. Abortions were abominations. Then nine months later when my brother was born and he came out black … well, right around that time I heard my grandmother shout that my mom was right. She should have aborted ‘that thing.’ We moved out a few weeks later and never went back. I don’t think my mom ever spoke to her again.”