Another knock on my door made me start. The police? The FBI? What the hell would I tell them? And how would I get them off my back?
“Bill?” It was Marvella Walker, my neighbor from across the hall.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. I turned around, peered through the spyhole again, and saw that she was alone. I unlocked the deadbolts and pulled the door open for the second time that morning.
“You should be in church,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
“I could say the same about you.” She gave me a worried look. We had a checkered relationship, she and I. When we first met, she hadn’t approved of Laura, saying some things that I thought would end our friendship.
But her cousin had nearly died one night, and Laura had saved her life. From that moment on, Marvella and Laura became friends; not good friends, but friends who understood each other. During that period, I realized that I had underestimated Marvella as well.
This morning she managed to look stunning, even though she had clearly just woken up. She was wearing a batique caftan that looked authentically African, and her eyes were late-night puffy. She’d run a pick through her ever-expanding afro, but it hadn’t done a lot of good. Tufts still stood up in the back, a sign that she hadn’t looked in the mirror yet.
“I saw your visitor,” she said.
I bit back a curse. I had hoped that somehow no one had seen him.
“Everything okay?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t ask him to come here. He wanted to hire me.”
“Really?” she asked.
I nodded.
“You didn’t take the job?”
“He’s too high-profile for me. I don’t want anyone thinking me or Jim has anything to do with the Black Panthers.”
Marvella let out a small breath, almost as if she’d had a realization — and maybe she had. She knew me a lot better now than she had last year. She’d seen me at my worst, and she knew what I was capable of.
“You think everyone’s gonna know he came here to see you?”
“I don’t think he talks to Blackstone Rangers who aren’t in the Main 21.” The Main 21 was the Stones’ ruling council.
“That kid hasn’t lived upstairs in months,” she said.
“See?” I said. “Who else would he visit but me?”
She put a hand on her hip, and gave me a sultry smile. “Why, Officer,” she said, in a good imitation of a Georgia accent, “that sweet boy just come to see me. Even revolutionaries need a little … comfort now and then.”
I grinned in spite of myself. Marvella wasn’t a hooker, and to my knowledge she’d never taken a young lover. She had, however, been married several times, and she had mastered a look that went all the way down your spine.
“Nice try,” I said, “but that young revolutionary is going to be a father in a few months.”
She let her hand slide off her hip, and the entire pose went away with it. “Who would have thought? I thought he was making war, not love.”
“Apparently he’s doing both,” I said.
“And he’s not afraid to bring a child into his gun-soaked world?” she asked.
“I have one in mine.” That came out bitter. I hadn’t meant it that way. I’d meant it as banter.
Marvella’s gaze softened. “I’ve never seen you with a gun, Bill.”
I had one. I kept it in the glove box of my van because I didn’t want it in the apartment.
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t used one,” I said.
“But you’re not carrying it around like it’s the Second Coming of Christ.”
“Neither is he,” I said, not sure where this urge to defend Hampton had come from. Maybe that last speech he’d given me. Maybe the guilt I was feeling for not taking the case.
“Sounds like he got to you,” she said.
“He had a good argument,” I said.
“And you’re still resisting.”
I nodded.
“Good for you.” She ran a hand through her tufted hair. “Now, I’m going back to bed. I had a late night, and I planned to sleep until noon. Your friend got in my way.”
“Mine too,” I said.
Her sultry smile returned. “If we’re both going to bed, we may as well share.”
A little shiver of shock ran through me. Marvella hadn’t flirted with me in months — not because we’d worked together, but because she’d gone through a lot of family tragedy. I hadn’t seen her smile like this since December.
“You seem to be better,” I said.
“I heard from Val,” she said, referring to her cousin, Valentina. “She’s settling into Madison, wants me to join her.”
“Are you going to?”
“And miss all the excitement around here? You’ve got to be kidding.” She flicked her caftan at me, that light mood helping mine. “Sure you don’t want to change your mind?”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“You’ll regret it,” she said.
“I’ll just add it to my list,” I said. That list seemed to be growing longer by the minute.
I only wished it was full of offers like Marvella’s instead of missed opportunities like the one I’d had to turn down with Hampton.
I should have recommended someone else to him, but I hadn’t thought of it at the time. All I’d wanted was to get him out of the apartment.
Maybe I’d talk to Minton. He was in contact with the family. He could point them to one of the other fine detectives who worked the Black Belt.
Maybe then the Soto brothers would find some justice.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The next morning, a black sedan followed me as I drove to the Grimshaw house to pick up the children. The tail was so clumsy that even Jimmy noticed, nodding his head toward the side mirrors I’d installed for safety and asking, “You see that car?”
“I do,” I said.
“You gonna lose him?”
He’d definitely been watching too much television. The new after-school teacher didn’t assign as much homework as Grace Kirkland had, and I hadn’t taken the time to fill in the gap.
Looked like I was going to have to.
“What’s the point?” I asked. “He’ll see my exciting taking-the-children-to-school routine.”
“How come you got a tail?” Jimmy asked. “Is it that job for Laura?”
I didn’t want him to worry about that. “No, I think it’s connected to a job I turned down.”
I hadn’t told him about Fred Hampton, and I didn’t plan to. Jimmy’d seen Hampton speak once too, and was a bit too awestruck for my tastes. I wanted to keep them as far apart as possible.
“How come you turned it down?” Jimmy asked.
“Because I had a hunch the guy who wanted to hire me was being watched. Now I know my hunch was right.”
“What’re you going to do?” Jim’s voice wavered just a bit. He tried, gamely, to put up with my work, but I’d been injured too many times, and his life had been too unstable. He was terrified that I would die, and nothing I could do would make that fear go away.
“I’m going to let him follow me for a few days,” I said.
“Why?” Jim asked. “Shouldn’t you shake him?”
I shook my head. “Shaking him would be more suspicious. Instead, I’ll let him see that I’m a hard-working American, and he can go bother someone else.”
Jim grunted, and the conversation was mostly forgotten by the time all five Grimshaw children had settled in the van. Jimmy did double-check the mirrors once or twice, and I heard him whisper to Keith that we were being tailed, but he didn’t sound alarmed by it.
I was, a lot more than I’d let on when I spoke to Jim. I didn’t want the tail to run a background check on me and discover that there wasn’t much to know about Bill Grimshaw before 1968. I also didn’t want him to follow me to the Queen Anne.
I would have to lose him, but I’d do it in the natural flow of traffic and make it seem accidental.
I also did a few uncharacteristic things. I sat in the school parking lot longer than usual, as if it were part of my routine, just so that sedan would get a bit complacent. Then I took off quickly to make him worry that I’d spotted him and decided to lose him.
Finally, I waited at a nearby stoplight until I saw him round the corner, easing his mind (I hoped) so that he simply thought I was an inconsistent driver instead of an alert one.
I stopped at the apartment for a few minutes, packed my lunch and ostentatiously carried it to the van, along with a briefcase filled with another new coverall. Then I sat inside for a few minutes, got myself settled, and listened to the traffic reports on WVON.
The best place to lose the tail was downtown. By the time I pulled out, I had planned my route and my backup, in case my first attempt didn’t work.
It did work. I didn’t have a black sedan — or any other kind of car — follow me to the restaurant where I picked up LeDoux. That relieved me. The tail wasn’t the sophisticated kind the FBI sometimes used, the kind where one car traded off with another because they were in radio contact.
LeDoux got into the van, looking tired. His normally neat gray hair was mussed in the back, as if he’d forgotten to comb it. He had purchased some casual clothes — tennies, jeans that were so new they crinkled as he moved, and a denim workshirt.
He looked like a man who was trying to dress down instead of someone who was comfortable in his grubbies.
As we drove off, I checked my mirrors. Nothing suspicious. No one had seen me pick him up.
He leaned his head against the back of the seat. “You got me watching baseball.”
I grinned. The Mets had won the day before. Jimmy had danced around the living room as if he were a diehard New Yorker, instead of a transplanted child of the South, and I had to admit, the win gave me that momentary feeling sports sometimes meted out — that you could do anything if you only believed.
“It was something, huh?” I said.
“Christ,” he said, running his hand through his hair, explaining the mussing. He’d obviously been having this conversation all morning, probably to anyone who would listen. “Made me wish I wasn’t alone. I was screaming like an idiot in my apartment.”
“I think half the world was screaming like that,” I said.
“And the other half were Baltimore fans? How could that be?” LeDoux asked and gave me a real smile — a warm, friendly smile — for the first time since I’d met him.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
He laughed, and we talked about the game for the rest of the drive. Almost as if we were two painters heading to their job for the day. It felt odd, having this camaraderie with LeDoux, but it felt good at the same time.
I kept my eyes on the mirrors as I drove, but no one else followed us. I had lost the sedan for the time being, but I knew if I went home, the watchers — whoever they were, whatever government organization they belonged to — would find me again.
The Queen Anne looked as foreboding as it always did. The early morning cloud cover didn’t help. The air was pregnant with moisture, and the slight wind had a chill that suggested an impending storm.
LeDoux and I went through what had now become a routine, taking in ladders and toolboxes and extra gallons of paint. He’d slipped on his coveralls in the van and tugged his painter’s cap over his head like an old pro.
We got inside, the faint smell of death assaulting us, and the laughter faded as if it never was. I had managed not to think about this place through most of the weekend, and it had felt good.
Once LeDoux was set up, I got back into the van and headed to Poehler’s. Minton was standing in the back, smoking a cigarette. When he saw me, he dropped it and stomped it out.
“What do I need?” he asked, leaning into the driver’s window.
“Body bags. Transport.”
“Gurneys?”
“At least one,” I said.
He frowned. “What’re we talking here? How many dead are there?”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly.
He stared at me for a minute. “Jesus, man, what is this?”
“You’ll have to see. And we’re taking the van.”
He chewed on his lower lip, just like Jimmy did when he was nervous, then he nodded. “You gotta help me carry a few things.”
I parked right where I was, pocketed the keys, and followed Minton into the funeral home. No one was working this early in the morning, which surprised me. I would have expected a mortician dealing with one of the bodies resting on the tables.
When I mentioned that, Minton said, “Monday’s our slow day. Most folks take it off. The weekends’re always busy, and even though Death never rests, we do.”
“Or at least some of you do,” I said rather pointedly. He wasn’t resting.
“Yeah, well,” he said. “Some of us are on a mission to save the world. Being a superhero and a mortician doesn’t leave you a lot of time for sleep.”
He’d meant that as a joke, but I knew what he was referring to. He was still shaken by the Soto case.
He handed me several body bags, and I slung them over my arm. They felt like garment bags, only heavier and longer, and I knew I wouldn’t carry clothes in quite the same way again.
“You find anything on Michael Soto?” I asked.
“Any unrefutable proof that he was murdered?” Minton’s voice was bitter. He was facing away from me, rummaging in a closet of stuff. “Besides the bullets in his body, you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” I said.
“Yeah.” He stood up. He had a box of gloves, and some evidence bags just like the ones LeDoux used. “Short of finding a note inside the poor guy saying that he’d been shot in cold blood, there’s no way to prove that the shooting was one kind or another. It’s all circumstance. We said versus they said. And I can’t show whether or not Michael Soto was carrying a gun. All I can show was what direction he was shot from, how close the cops were, whether the evidence jibes with what they say.”
“Does it?”
He shrugged. “They’re not talking much about the actual shooting itself. Only that he had a gun and was planning to use it. Until I learn whether they say they were ten feet away or two feet away — if they ever say it — I can’t figure out whether the evidence jibes or not. And if they’re smart, they’re gonna stay quiet about the whole how-when-what part of the case.”
We stared at each other for a moment. Then he clasped the box of gloves to his chest.
“Hear you had a visitor Sunday,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Hear you said no to taking on the Soto case.”
“Yeah.”
“How come I should help you then? Hmmm? Those brothers were good men.”
“You’re friends with Chairman Hampton?” I asked.
“Fred’s a good guy. He gets written up as this big revolutionary, but he just cares about people. He’s trying to save the world, just in his own way.”
“He’s fond of guns,” I said.
“He’s fond of self-defense, and who can blame him? He was an honor student once, you know that? Star athlete, one of the most popular kids in his community. He was going to college, prelaw, before all this.”
“He should’ve stayed there,” I said.
Minton shook his head. “A couple things happened — nothing major, stuff we’ve all gone through — and he lost his faith in the law. He come to realize that the only ones who’ll ever take care of us is us, just like you and I are now.”
I was beginning to like Hampton more than I already did, which was more than I wanted to. Staying out of cases like this was not my strong suit, but it had to be this time. Too many police, too many journalists, too much explaining to do.
“I know Hampton’s trying, and I know you want some justice for the Sotos.” I ran my hand over the body bags, trying to smooth them out. “It’s just too high-profile for me.”
“High prof
ile?” Minton said. “Since when is that a consideration?”
“Since I became a father.” It was the first time I’d ever used that word in that context, but it applied. Jimmy was my son, just not legally, because we didn’t dare make it legal. But I was as committed to him — more committed to him — than any real family he had.
“Your kids’ll thank you for taking this on,” Minton said. “Someday — someday soon, I hope — we’ll get these dirty cops. We’ll stop them, we’ll show the world what they’re doing, and things’ll change.”
I stared at him for a moment. He believed that. He’d just autopsied two boys shot by the police, probably for no reason except that they were “troublemakers,” people who didn’t know their “place,” and he thought that someday, someone would stop that.
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “But until things do change, I’ve got to keep a low profile.”
“For heavens’ sake, why, man? What’ll it gain you? More dead kids, that’s what. And if you’re not careful, one of those kids’ll be your own.”
I stared at him. Minton flushed, but didn’t look away.
“What’re you doing this for?” I asked him. “This work. How come you’re not a detective or a Panther? How come you’re in this basement on your day off, coming to help me with a case that could be as important — just not as high profile — as the Soto brothers?”
“How come I dig through the evidence?” he asked.
“Not just the evidence,” I said. “The evidence as it manifests on dead bodies.”
He sighed and grabbed a small bag of equipment, slinging it over his shoulder. For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer me.
Then he said: “Emmett Till.”
I looked at him. Was poor Emmett Till Chicago’s only frame of reference in the recent race wars?
“What about him?” I asked.
“You know what happened, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
Probably better than he did. Definitely better than he did. My parents died a death very similar to Till’s. And so many other people I’d met over the years had died the same way and for the same kind of non-reason.
“Then you understand,” he said.
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