The I-94 Murders

by Frank F. Weber

  Sonia insisted, “Actually, it is that simple.” She paused, tamping down her frustration, which I appreciated. “Evil is out there, and you’ve got a man with the balls to fight it, but that doesn’t work for you,” she sneered a little. “You do realize that bad things happen to people who aren’t investigators. As a matter of fact, if something bad happens to you or Nora, it probably won’t have anything to do with Jon’s work.”

  The truth finally came out, “I’m terrified of losing Nora—and Jon. It’s easier to be apart.”

  Sonia hesitated and then continued. “It’s easier for you—not for Nora—and damn sure not for Jon. I would maybe understand if he did something wrong. Do you ever consider the misery he goes through for loving you? Or do you just focus on what you go through? What kind of mess would you be if the one person you loved left and took Nora? For nothing! That’s what you did to Jon. So, if he seems scary, it’s because he’s scared. Jon would give up everything for you, and you leave him with nothing. I don’t get it.”

  Sonia put her hand over her eyes for a moment and, as she lowered her head. She said, “Not having Leah to talk to anymore has taught me that time with some people is worth the pain. Jon’s got a good heart. That has to count for something.”

  I had nothing to say to that …

  9:05 P.M., SATURDAY, JULY 8,

  BLOOMINGTON

  SATURDAY NIGHT, I WAS RUNNING late for my standing date with Jon at the Radisson Blu. Nora was over-tired and refusing to cooperate with anything and everything when I was trying to leave. As I was finally ready to get out the door to bring her to my parents’, she knocked a lamp over, so I had to stop and pick up tiny shards of glass and extensively vacuum.

  By the time I checked into my room at the Radisson Blu, I was wiped out. When I reflected on my day, I couldn’t say I was surprised to see my phone had gone dead. I wearily plugged it in and decided to take a quick nap before I contacted Jon. We had a lot to talk about.

  JON FREDERICK

  9:00 P.M., SATURDAY, JULY 8,

  BLOOMINGTON

  SERENA WASN’T AT THE HOTEL when I arrived. I had been waiting for an hour in the room, aimlessly clicking through TV channels and wallowing in shameful humility. I finally accepted the possibility that we were, truly, over, and quietly left the room.

  I meandered back to my car in the hotel’s colorless, cement-gray parking garage. Serena had told me she was seeing someone else. How much more obvious did it need to get? What the hell am I doing? I swore I’d never be the “other guy” in anybody’s relationship.

  I was about to start my car when I saw Serena running toward the hotel, adorned in a sundress with green-and-gold designs. A lightning bolt of exhilaration shot through me as I watched her long curls bounce against her tanned skin. And then I saw her face. It wasn’t an I’m so excited to see you smile she once greeted me with. Instead, she looked stressed and weary, like a woman who felt an obligation to a man she once loved—a pretty woman who was offering herself out of kindness and a desire to never let me down. Serena stopped momentarily, hopping adorably on each foot as she pulled her heels off, then she started jogging in earnest.

  I knew by the time I caught up with her, she’d be in the lobby. Not wanting to create a public scene, I called her phone—my call went directly to voicemail. I simply said, “I’m sorry for not letting go sooner. I love you so much. I need to do what’s best for you, now. Thank you for caring, Serena. I wish you the best … I’m just so sorry.” I hung up. Time for me to man up—her willingness to acquiesce didn’t make it okay for me to keep asking her to do so.

  I drove home and, still restless, took a long walk. I stopped at the Blarney Pub for a cold glass of Summit’s Extra Pale Ale. It was refreshing, but I was generally a lager man. Lagers take longer to brew, but they’re smoother and have a much longer shelf life. The anguished look on Serena’s face replayed like an unwanted video clip through my mind, tormenting me. After three months of separation, I had called her to help with my sleep; I’d called her because I needed her. I did this even though she told me she needed time to heal. She suffered for it. The pub started to fill with young couples, so I slammed the bottom half of the ale and began the long walk back to my apartment.

  After I’d clocked a mile, a black sedan pulled up next to me. The driver pushed the passenger door open. Inside, Jada Anderson mocked, “Hey, boy, want a ride?”

  I stood for a moment, quietly considering what getting into that car meant. Maybe I just read too much into everything.

  Jada looked good in her worn jeans and her baby-blue, oversized Twins jersey. She had just left a promotion at a Twins game. I gave in and dropped into the passenger seat, allowing her to whisk me away. Before long, I was telling her of how my desire to reunite with Serena had finally broken—that even walls fall down.

  Jada waited patiently until I was done. When she met my eyes, hers were full of compassion. “I think you’re raging inside, like any normal person would be, but you’re still trying to be a decent person to others. It’s got to be exhausting.”

  I wasn’t sure if there was truth to that, but I made a mental note to think it through later.

  Jada continued, “You need a night out—just to get out of your head for a little bit. Right now, your head is a bad neighborhood, and you’d be ill-advised to go there alone.”

  When I opened my mouth to decline, she put a palm out in front of my face and effectively shut my argument down.

  Jada drove us to the Azul nightclub where she had agreed to meet El Epicene. A young new rap band called Click Bait pounded out a diatribe against social injustice. El and I, the only white-skinned patrons, watched a packed dance floor, with supple African Americans oscillating and swaying to the beat. Watching Jada out there, waving her hands high above her head in pure joy, her body moving like a mesmerizing form of art, forced me to smile through my misery.

  El studied Jada at least as intensely as I did. El was wearing something I wouldn’t have worn, as a white person, into a predominantly black club—an oversized black Raiders jersey with a white Raiders cap on backwards and large, bright-white Nike tennis shoes, left untied. Picture a young Woody Allen in gang wear! I couldn’t help thinking that, if El’s feet were actually the size of those tennis shoes, she would have never been able to put Alan Volt’s shoes on. Jada had laughed when El walked in. After offering El a pleasant greeting, she was swept out to the dance floor by friends.

  This left me standing by her androgynous friend. In an attempt at wry humor, something I admit was unnatural for me, I asked El, “Do you come here often?” It had to be her first time, as it would be all I could do to keep El from getting beat up by one of the bar patrons for the insulting clothing.

  Barely able to hear me, she shook her head. Although I’d never excelled at lip-reading, I thought I could see her saying, “Jada is the music,” as El wistfully stared on.

  At one point, I stepped closer to El, and she yelled, “Ow! You purposely stepped on my foot.”

  I apologized. “I’m sorry.” El’s feet did full fit her shoes.

  El muttered, “What’s wrong with you? Jerk!”

  I wanted to leave, but Jada kept glancing my way to make sure I was staying put. This wasn’t an area for either Jada or El to walk to their cars alone on a Saturday night. I had an advantage, since a young, fit white male, in this club tonight, was interpreted by everyone as law enforcement. Well, almost everyone—at one point, an angry and intoxicated man of color walked by and muttered to El and me, “Slumming fucking crackers.”

  This misguided assumption brought a half-smile to my face. It was a free psychological assessment and somewhat accurate. I disagreed with the word “slumming,” but I had to give him the other two. I did come from poverty, which could be referred to as white trash or crackers, and there had been fucking. But slumming implied white privilege. The concept of white privilege didn’t occur to me when I was getting my ass kicked as a kid, or when we bought our groceries from
a coin purse that held no bills, or when the bank foreclosed on our farm.

  Still, I understand people had it worse, and that five percent of the people in every race were obnoxious, so it was best to accept that “two out of three ain’t bad,” and let it go. One of the young rappers from Click Bait approached me during a break, and we shared a pleasant conversation. We had worked at a charity event in North Minneapolis together last spring. El accepted my escort to her—his?—car, and when I returned to Azul, Jada was waiting for me. She asked in an alluring voice, “Do you want to get out of here?”

  ONCE INSIDE MY APARTMENT, Jada moved close to me and purred, “Relax. Shut your brain off for a minute. We’re both single, lonely people who were once pretty great together.” She started to unbutton her Twins jersey, but I held her hands and stopped her.

  Jada’s every movement was seductive artistry, and painful to resist. She stepped closer, and with her glossy lips inches from my ear, she breathed, “Let go.”

  I nodded to the mirror on the wall. “Behind that mirror is a camera, one that records everything at the door.”

  Jada’s laugh was rich and throaty, “You didn’t change the locks?”

  “No. I’ve been daring someone to enter since.” I took a deep breath then, and succumbed to her invitation, but added, “We’re not going in the bedroom.”

  Jada nodded, “I know.”

  I have a variety of odd rules I lived by. I only slept in a bed with one woman. I think sharing a bed is a big step, so before I invited a new person into my bed, I made myself buy a new mattress. It forced me to seriously consider the choice. Plus, I was, admittedly, a bit of a germaphobe.

  I WOKE UP WITH JADA SNUGGLED against me on the couch. I got up and carefully covered her. I then went to sleep in my bedroom, leaving the door open so I would wake if we had a visitor.

  6:30 A.M., SUNDAY, JULY 9

  WHEN I DID WAKE, IT WAS to the sound of the door of my apartment unlocking. Thinking Jada was leaving, I threw a t-shirt on and went to say goodbye. When I entered the living room, Jada was just stirring on the couch. Seeing my door come open, I quickly went for my gun.

  I stood in boxers and a t-shirt, holding a Glock 22 pistol, facing Serena, who was walking through the door.

  Serena looked me up and down, then glared at Jada. With the blanket still wrapped around her, Jada casually slid off the couch. She retrieved her clothes unapologetically and sauntered into the bathroom.

  I asked Serena, “How did you just get in here?”

  Dumbfounded, she responded, “I found my key. What the hell, Jon? I was waiting at the hotel.”

  I was tired of all of it. My pent-up frustration was now unfiltered and poured out. “Are you kidding me? You’re seeing another man! It’s really none of your business who’s here.”

  I set my Glock down on the counter, but I wasn’t done. “And you know what else? I’m broke. I’ve been sending you all my extra money to help take care of Nora and to make sure you get the help you need. I paid for a hotel room because you felt meeting me here compromised your freedom. I can’t afford that anymore. Eventually, I’ll be walking around like I was in junior high—carrying a billfold with only a one-dollar bill inside.”

  Serena looked confused and stood mute, keys still frozen in her hand.

  Jada was now dressed, and as she walked to the door to leave, asked me, “Are you okay?”

  I nodded briefly, “Yes. Thank you for being there for me.”

  She responded, “Call me.” Jada turned to Serena, “Don’t worry, your bed is still yours.” She exited quietly.

  Serena glanced back at the door Jada had just exited and then turned back, “How can you afford to build a house, then, if you’re so broke?”

  I slowly responded, “It’s being paid for by my private investigative work.”

  Shocked, Serena said, “You should have told me. I’ll start paying rent.” She made a move to reach in her purse.

  Having purged my frustration, I felt contrite. I softly responded, “No, don’t. Helping you and Nora is the one thing I’ve done right. I’ll let you know when I need it.”

  Serena started to reply, but I felt the need to explain further. “You set your engagement ring on my dresser and walked out with our daughter, making it clear you didn’t want me in your life. And now you’re seeing another man? What did you expect? I waited for you for six months.”

  “I’m not seeing him anymore.” Serena’s eyes welled up, “Where is my ring?”

  “It’s on my dresser next to our engagement picture, right where you left it.”

  She turned away.

  Sadly, for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to console her. I wanted her to feel my sorrow—my hopelessness. I simply said, “I need to shower and then I’m going into work. Lock the door when you leave …”

  28

  JON FREDERICK

  8:30 P.M., MONDAY, JULY 10,

  MINNEAPOLIS

  JADA INSISTED ON STOPPING OVER. She believed if we were going to have any chance as a couple, we needed to discuss Saturday night, tonight. I honestly wasn’t sure how I felt, but I did know a forced decision would guarantee failure.

  Jada was clearly second-guessing this as well, and stood cloaked with uncertainly in the doorway. She hesitated when I invited her in, but relented and carefully perched on the corner of the couch.

  She forced a smile. “The way you handled El reminded me why I’m attracted to you. El insisted we go to Azul. I ran into some friends there, and El shows up, wearing wannabe gangster clothing. I don’t know what to compare it to—like a black man showing up to a redneck cowboy bar in a brand-new cowboy getup with shiny silver spurs.”

  I laughed, “El was worse. There were black cowboys, but there were no white gang members near Azul Saturday night.”

  Jada nodded with a soft chuckle. “I’m embarrassed to say it, but I just stayed away from El. I felt like she was making fun of us, even though I’d like to believe it was out of ignorance. And you just stayed right there—likely the only reason El didn’t get an ass-kicking. I can imagine how painful it was, knowing she can’t stand you.”

  I sat back at the other end of the couch, “She really likes you, though. That’s got to get uncomfortable at work.”

  Jada considered this. “We work well together. El has good insight, and we both focus on the task at hand. This is what makes her oppositional dress style so weird. Part of me feels El has to know that the clothing choices she makes are offensive to some people.”

  I knew Jada wasn’t here to discuss El, so I waited quietly as she began to pick nervously at the frayed openings on the knees of her jeans. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse, and her arms rippled with tension as she continued picking.

  Jada looked up and gave me a small smile. “I feel the need to clear up a conversation we had a couple years ago. I’ve never been comfortable with the impression I might have left. I told you people are too sensitive about the way some black parents discipline. What I meant was, the dangers in some neighborhoods are so great, with drugs and gangs—parents need to respond in a fervent manner. I’m not an advocate for hitting children.”

  Jada had been raised in Chicago by a father who was a maintenance worker at O’Hare Airport, which is a job that, even now, only pays twelve dollars an hour. Her mother cleaned houses for types like the Mayers. They wanted better for their children, so socked their wages away to give their kids a better shot than they’d had. What they couldn’t afford was a move to live in a better neighborhood. So, while saving, they survived in an environment fraught with gang activity and the temptation of drugs, with claws that were always beckoning to unhappy adolescents. Jada’s parents—along with others in the community who wanted better for their children—came down on their children harder and with more aggression than I could justify. While I once resented, and later forgave, my father for his over-the-top discipline, Jada vigorously defended her parents. Jada felt I’d never be able to understand—gr
owing up where I did, with the parents I had, and with the color of my pale skin. We had ended up in a pretty heated discussion about child-rearing when we were dating. I believe that over-the-top punishment contributes to violence rather than preventing it, and what she was seeing was that children who received excessive punishment fared better than children with no discipline. Both of us parted in frustration with the other, but I think somewhere in there, we each silently acknowledged we couldn’t possibly understand each other on the subject.

  I nodded.

  Jada continued, “We still have the same issue, Jon. I’m not going to take time off and have a baby right now, but I’ve hit thirty and am honestly not sure what the future holds. I’ve always made it clear I want to take my career to the next level before anything else.”

  I leaned toward her, elbow on knees. “I have a child, and I don’t ever want to be less involved with her.”

  Jada reached over and placed her hand on my knee. “I’m okay with that. I know I can’t replace Serena as Nora’s mother. I can be a gracious aunt, though, and allow you whatever time you need with your little girl.” She gave my knee a quick squeeze then sat back. “But I need to know where I stand. I loved it when I could stop over anytime, day or night, and it was just us. I don’t want to do this if Serena’s going to be in and out of your life—and your apartment.”

  She paused for effect, then said, “I guess I’m telling you that you need to get a new bed.”

  Jada was a great model of a strong, independent woman for any girl, but my partner still would need to be a mom to Nora. I responded softly, “I’m not ready.”

  Jada groaned in frustration, “I don’t have time to develop a relationship with your daughter. I’ve been talking to WGN in Chicago, and they may offer me an anchor job on the nightly news if my work on this investigation continues to go well. So, either we’re doing this, or I’m gone.”

  She grasped my hands excitedly. “Come to Chicago with me, Jon. Start over.”