All of him was an alias.
A lie.
An embellishment.
A pseudonym.
Which was why he posed as Mark Artis and paid Jewel a bonus to finger an innocent man. He smiled at how he made seasoned FBI agents look like children playing cops and robbers. He was a modest man. He would respond to any acclaim with a yawn. He had no remorse for the man Ravonne represented spending time in jail before Ravonne had gotten him off.
Many wanted his government name. So did he. He had long ago forgotten. His country of origin? His vices? They all needed a number behind Interpol, FBI, CIA and the rest of the alphabet clowns, all of whom wanted a piece of him.
Mr. 357 was his moniker.
Mr. 357 was one gargantuan tandem of mystery, suspense, thriller, and a dose of comedy. He believed the FBI caper was comical. A parody. The joke was on...
...Who cared?
He was by no definition invincible. He did strive for intelligent crimes, though, which helped him thwart arrest. His crimes were plotted with droplets of sex, brilliant gun play, and Hollywood pandemonium. A web site--www.mister357.com--was devoted to theorists, propaganda weavers, and conspiracy mongers regarding his identity. He was as famous as Deep Throat. He was fortunate. He was also a slick bastard who mailed bodies to the local FBI, Interpol, and Scotland Yard at his discretion.
Like Jewel, Mr. 357 always needed personnel. No one had a recurring role in his productions. He did his own screen tests, too. He targeted a prospective thespian and then scrutinized their strengths, deducting for weaknesses. Those making the cut were compensated.
He was considering an attorney. The one he would contract when he was caught. He would be caught. Not because he would get sloppy and the police would clean up. Nooooo! He planned to get arrested on purpose. He wanted to beat the beloved American judicial system. Particularly, federal prosecutor, Matthew Meehan, for allowing Mark Artis to go free.
Mr. 357 would cast one Ravonne Lemmelle as a puppet in this production.
Ravonne was perfect for the job of the attorney in his upcoming master piece theater. Skylar Juday had studied Ravonne in court and adored the man. Ravonne proved to be smart, quick on his feet, and the man acted. Ravonne was second in his law school graduating class with job offers from New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Atlanta. Yet, he remained loyal to his city, and Skylar Juday loved him for that. Ravonne was not moved by the money that was thrown at him in law school. He had his own money, and wore it confidently, not cockily. Talks were held about adding him to the White House staff. Skylar figured that was a cheap ploy to add color to the Capitol. They wanted the crème de la crème of the coloreds. Ravonne didn’t fall for that ruse, either. Skylar had vetted the man and planned to continue to. To his estimation, Ravonne had one character flaw, which would work for his scheme. No one would believe Skylar Juday hired such a gross sinner like Ravonne Lemmelle.
Mr. 357 watched Ravonne walk away from the Wayne and Seymour Streets crime scene. He then walked to the Wayne Junction SEPTA regional rail line station, and vowed to make everyone believers.
CHAPTER 8
By early evening, I was in my office and tired of being on my feet. I had counseled a few of the area kids and went to the hospital to visit Quincy, but I only spoke to his mother and brother because he was in surgery. He had been shot in the thigh, and would be fine.
Some men were out in the arctic winter winds and heading home to their adorable wives. Some to their mistresses or the bar first, but none the less, home to be loved. I was legally married, had a son, and a relationship (not with my wife, I’ll explain later) that was on a shaking boat, which I was in no mood to rush home to until the current calmed. My comfy office would do just fine. I worked for Martir, Savino & Associates and they always welcomed me in their billing nursery. Litigation always needed nursing, and I had plenty of diapers and bottles.
Finally, I had a celebratory jubilee after winning the Artis trial. My second huge case. The first was the Bezel Brothers and that case required me to have a personal body guard. The controversy was delightful for my career, but I’ll spare the details of the case.
At the mahogany bar inside my office, I stared at myself in the mirror. I had a face that lied and claimed that I was twenty. I was thirty. No, I had not drunk from the fountain of youth. I attributed my African descent for the youthful honor. I was also exposed when I spoke. I had been accused of being a twenty-dollar word showoff. I read every night and I asked Mr. Webster to define any foreign wordage. My adjective and adverb coffer was corpulent. See what I mean.
I am five feet eight-and-a-half inches tall. Five-nine in footwear (today wing tips), and if you asked my height, I would say five-ten. I’m sleek and slender and had been hitting the gym, two , sometimes six, times a week to chisel my physique in a daring attempt to rival a Donatello. That was all coated in a Hershey Kiss chocolate complexion and expertly packaged in a European cut suit, double cuff dress shirt, and a funky tie. It had been said that clothes made the man. I begged to differ. I had a gorgeous smile, but it hadn’t always been that way. In law school I had cosmetic dental work done. That was the ticket that had gotten me into many women’s beds, but that was not where, I, Ravonne Lemmelle, wanted to be, though.
There was a light knock on my glass door before it opened without my permission. I planned to create a verbal agreement with the space invader to assure that breaking and entry did not reoccur. Recognizing the throwback took me a moment. I hadn’t seen it, I mean, her, in years.
Five.
“Yoo-hoo. It’s me. Ariel Greenland,” the woman told me as if I gave a damn.
She was all toothy, and showcased a better veneer job than my own. She had a smile that mirrored Oprah Winfrey’s. A smile suited for a coy woman who was refined and not murky, just like archaic wine. Her beauty rivaled a muntjac. Behind her emerald eyes were not a pretty deer, but a serpent, though. I could have gone another half-decade without her return. Or her silky ebony hair and svelte frame which carried a gargantuan ass.
“Hello, Ariel.”
I imagined that I said that as smoothly as Dr. Lecter.
“What brings you here? It’s only been ten years,” I told her and proffered her the same smile that I passed along to prosecutors.
I wanted to gag off the politeness.
She glanced around my marble and glass office. “Impressive. And it’s only been five years, smart ass!” she corrected me.
“Oh. My apologies.” I had to humor myself. “I spend 70 plus hours here a week and, well...” I stopped talking because, I asked, “You know, what brought you here where it snows?”
Skip the small talk. I offered her a seat on a mohair sofa and then commanded my surround sound to quietly play Robin Thicke. What I really needed was that drink that I was after before she barged her beau monde ass into my office, but I sat at my desk with no desire to offer her cocktail. She didn’t deserve one.
“Well,” she said, and squirmed in her seat. Her shifting came as a shock to me. “Let’s go for dinner and drinks.”
I needed an ear waxing. She was kidding, right? “What’s on your mind? What brought you into my office? The real reason.”
That meeting had started interestingly. Ariel Greenland, head cheerleader of the Georgetown Hoyas needed help, I presumed. And of all people’s, Ravonne Lemmelle’s. Help which brought her crawling 3,000 miles from her sunny Los Angeles digs to mine in Philly. I was so uninterested in the whole shebang.
“What happened to the phone-a-friend lifeline?” I joked reluctantly.
I had to refrain from exploding.
“I need you.”
“Nice!”
“My life is not what it used to be.”
I was perplexed.
“And what might that have been?”
Evil me playing a con on her emotions. Her earlier decision had rendered me a single father.
(The only reason I’ve decided to privilege you to the balance of this exchange was to
give you an understanding of my complex life. I have decided to be brutally free from deception with this outline of my life.)
“You know...” she stammered.
“I don’t.” I lied.
She wanted my help. Needed it. But was morbidly pained to ask for it.
“Oh. Alright,” she said boldly. “Kimmie is missing.”
“Translation. She’s been kidnapped? Or she dumped you and now you’re living on the dole?”
“The latter.”
“Now you...”
The bitch cut me off.
“Now I need help from my husband!”
CHAPTER 9
“Pump your breaks,” I said and stood. I really needed that jubilee. “Ex-husband. Drink?”
“We’re still married.” She corrected me and waved her ring finger in the air. “Gin and tonic.”
“Only on paper. Rocks?”
She nodded. I mixed our libations and passed her a G&T with ice. I then went to my mirror. I wanted to watch myself when I said, “Like I needed you to leave my world with a baby during the fall semester of my last year at law school. I had to drop out a semester, you know? I had to set the baby up at my grandmother’s.”
“Look!”
I nipped that attitude in the bud.
“Don’t come in here being disrespectful, Ariel. I’ve been congenial. It’s best that I don’t turn into a chimera.”
“Okay! Our marriage was one to accommodate both of us, and I thought that you would leave me. I just beat you too it.”
(If you’re on an empty stomach right now, fix that. The rest of this exchange was en route to chaos and the revelations were best served on a full tank.)
I sat next to her and looked deeply into her eyes. “We were inseparable friends. I loved you, Ariel. You walked out on me with a baby. Now you have the heart of a lioness to come in here as if everything is just great. You have a lot of nerve.”
“Look, Ray-Ray. I was childish. Immature. And a wreck in college. I am sorry about Harvard, but I thought that you would leave me for one of your boy toys.”
I warned you, but anyway.
I replied, “Please!” with a chuckle.
It was hardly a laughing matter, but I needed it, though.
“I needed and loved you more than I needed any expression of lust for a man. True our marriage was one of convenience, but I remained loyal to our agreement.”
“Bravo for you. I need you now, though. My husband.”
“Like my son needs you. Now! You have some dildo strapped on to come in here demanding help. Did you help my son learn his ABC’s or how to tie his sneaker? You know--”
My news flash was interrupted by my legal assistant. She tapped on my office door and I signaled for her to come in.
“Sorry. Didn’t know that you had a client,” she said and batted her thick lashes at me.
Marsha was no ordinary legal admin. assistant. She commanded admirers and had blonde hair and blue eyes. Cliché, I know, but Marsha was brilliant.
“Oh, this is no client. She’s Brandon’s mother. The absconder.”
Marsha’s terrific tan had blanched. She said hello to Ariel and then stated her business. “I completed the Johnson motion. You-know-who is on the line. I informed him that you were in the library. He countered and told me that he knows I’m covering for you, and he knows that you’re in your office ignoring his calls. I’d have security sweep for bugs.” She joked and chuckled.
I laughed.
Ariel would swear that I was fucking Marsha, but she would be wrong.
“See you Monday.”
I knew she would call me for that 411 later that night, though.
“Eight sharp, Marsh,” I warned.
She was beginning to set her own schedule, which was tardy.
I turned to Ariel and told her, “thanks to you I have to deal with this bullshit,” as I sat down at my desk.
(The conversation that transpired is going to be mind blowing. I assure that. I also assure you that I am in a very serious homosexual relationship, which I have proven not to be monogamously challenged. My DNA did not have that defective strain. All of us are not promiscuous club hoppers, who live ten deep in an efficiency. Some of us gays do reside in the top drawer. And by the end of this narrative you would have learned that and a few other factoids to win a battle over common gay myths. My purpose of this warning was to promise my lifestyle has never stolen the thunder from my career. I could’ve kept all this a secret, but why lie? I am a grown ass man.)
I hit the speaker button and asked, “Can I help you, Mr. Jones?”
“You’re ignoring your cell. Your secretary lies to me. At your command, I am sure. And you have an attitude.”
It was as if he had founded a medical breakthrough on par with a breast cancer vaccine.
“My cell has been off since court. I forget to turn it back on.” I lied.
He gave me a you’ve-gotta-be-kidding giggle, which I happily volleyed.
“Why haven’t you come home? I’ve cooked sautéed chicken breast with grapes and grilled corn on the cob and cheese cake with fresh chocolate sauce to celebrate your win. I mean, acquittal.”
“Working.”
He hated one word answers.
“You know what?” He snapped.
“No, I don’t. Tell me, sir,” I said smiling.
“When your so very busy schedule makes room for me...”
“Okay. Bye.”
I hung up. Believe me. He would have gotten me. Besides, I had company (You included) and he was making me out to be the bitch, as if both of our costumes did not consist of pants. There were no queens in our condo.
I looked over at Ariel Greenland, absconder-at-large, having forgotten momentarily that she was there. My angry level was code orange. Or whichever color Homeland Security had assigned the highest security threat level. I begged myself to downgrade a bit. At that point, I was in my professional raiment, but I would brandish my inner thug as soon as I exited the office. Couldn’t let the white folks see me act a fool outside of the courtroom.
“Damn,” Ariel said. “What was with that?” she asked. “Five years passed, but I know you, Ravonne Lemmelle. You love hard and do not take shit. You tolerate very little.”
“Did you think of that before you flew here?”
“Anyway. Who was that?”
“Dajuan. And if you know so damn much, why am I a gay man and no longer bi?”
“Dajuan Jones, as in the singer?”
“Great catch, huh?” I joked with a mock smile on my face.
Her little recital moments ago showcased concern, but I wasn’t fooled. Nor did I miss how she slithered away from my question.
“What did he do, cheat?” she asked.
I looked at her perplexed and she concluded, “He cheated.”
She then asked, “Why” as if she cared. I hated fakes.
“My work habits are a tad avaricious. He thinks that when he’s not on tour, my law career stops. Thinks that I should go into private practice rather than slave at the largest firm in the city, so that I can make my own schedule. Around his schedule. That and he was drunk.”
“Everyone cheats when they’re drunk. Even...”
“You!” I snapped and pointed an index finger at her. “You can say it. You left me for the same reason that he may. I’m too ambitious. Why that is so profoundly obnoxious to my paramours is insane. When NASA finds life on Mars, I pray that planet has appreciative denizen.” (Or, Isaac Asimov’s Solaria.)
She sat there silent, which was expected. I knew she was never prepared for me. She should have stayed in LA. I dashed to my walk-in closet, shut the curtain and left her there to ponder.
I had dreaded that encounter, but I had handled myself remarkably well. I emerged from the closet sans tie, trousers and wing tips. They were replaced with Jeans and sneakers. I un-buttoned my dress shirt two buttons, and kept on the blazer. I am a great chameleon.
“Where are you staying?”
I asked and grabbed my briefcase.
I tossed on a Yankees fitted cap. No, I am not a Yankee fan, but I loved the stripes.
“The Lowes.”
“Let’s take this chat there. I would invite you to my home, but I need to prepare Brandon for the shock,” I said, walking toward the elevator.
“Uh...” she stammered dumbly.
“Um, my ass! Surely you had plans on meeting Brandon?”
Murder in Germantown Page 3