Role Play
Page 24
“Bingo.”
“Fuck, man, this is good stuff! We’ll be running all of this!” Sydney squealed.
“Whoa, a little at a time. We have to verify some of the suspicions. We’ll start with the ship manifest and I’ll work from there.”
“Of course.” Sydney smiled. “But we’ll be kicking L.A. Times in the ass with this one!” She laughed and patted his shoulder. “Get those keys crackin’ and buckle up, buddy, because once this hits, your pretty little journalistic face will be everywhere. We will own the news cycle.” She knocked three times on his desk. “Now, hurry up. I need that damn story in fifteen minutes.” She strutted away.
“Syd, I need more time than that!”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Syd—”
Her office door slammed before he could complete his protest.
Lorenz turned back to his laptop. His phone rang. “Lorenz Graham,” he answered.
“Lorenz, it’s Officer Jordan. Sheila Jordan.”
“What’s up, Sheila?”
“I’m calling to give you first dibs on another story. Something that’s about to blow.”
Chapter 54
Monty
6:31 a.m.
The glass in Brooklyn’s back door shattered and scattered onto the kitchen floor, as Monty reached his hand through the jagged opening and twisted the lock. He walked in, kicking shards of glass out of his way.
Moments ago, he’d leaned on her bell. Knocked, kicked, and pounded on her front door.
No response.
Just a few neighbors peeking out of their windows.
Monty knew standing on Brooklyn’s stoop too long was risky, so he settled on walking around back and breaking in.
Now, here he stood, in the middle of her subway-tiled floor, wondering exactly when Brooklyn’s schoolgirl giggles, sheepish grins, laughter, and lovemaking had been reduced to silence.
Not even an echo existed.
He walked from room to room, aching to find her.
His phone vibrated in his pocket as he flung open Brooklyn’s bedroom door and walked in.
Bzzz!
He looked at his caller ID. Stephen.
Now’s not the time.
He rejected Stephen’s call and sent him to voice mail.
Bzzz!
The phone vibrated again.
Shit.
He scanned his caller ID. Dominic. “Hello.”
“Governor.”
Monty sensed panic in his voice. “What’s up? What’s wrong?”
“The port.”
Monty froze. “What about it?”
“The Coast Guard and the Feds are all over it.”
A cymbal clanged in Monty’s head, causing him to squint. “Wha—”
“It’s been raided.”
Monty’s cell phone slipped from his grasp. He fumbled to catch it.
“Raided? Why? How?”
“The Feds have also raided ICC’s offices and arrested at least twenty-five of their people.”
“Why didn’t we know this was going down? Somebody had to know on the state level that the Feds were coming in—”
“There’s more.”
“What?”
Monty stumbled to the edge of Brooklyn’s bed. He spotted his reflection in her laptop and stared.
Bzzz! His call waiting beeped. Stephen again. Monty ignored the call.
Dominic continued, “Van and Johnson were arrested too.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck is right. Apparently, some shit is also hitting the paper tomorrow. The DA says they have evidence you’ve been funneling the government’s money through Elle’s charity. It’s only a matter of time before they talk to you and Elle.”
Monty felt dizzy. His ears rang. “They can’t talk to Elle.”
“Why?”
“The way she’s been acting, I don’t know if I can trust her.”
“She’s on your side.”
“I don’t know—”
Bzzz! Stephen. “Stephen keeps calling me,” Monty said.
“We need to see him and come up with a plan—”
“Screw that. I have to call my attorney, that’s who I need to meet with and come up with a plan. Fuck Stephen. If he sinks, he fuckin’ sinks. What’s on those vessels is his responsibility, not mine.”
“We need to see him.”
“Didn’t I just say, fuck Stephen?”
“If we don’t go and see him, it will definitely look like we’re behind this. And if the Feds get to him first, that ain’t gon’ be pretty for either one of us. The last thing either of us needs is him talking.”
Silence.
Dominic continued. “Do yourself a favor, go home and talk to Elle. I’ll meet you at your house, and the three of us will come up with a plan when I get there.”
Chapter 55
Brooklyn
8:37 a.m.
Brooklyn stood in the middle of her kitchen floor with the repairman replacing the glass in her back door. “All done,” he said.
“Thank you. I appreciate you coming out so early, especially on short notice.”
“I didn’t mind at all. You have to be safe.”
“Trying to be.”
She walked the repairman to the door, and Monty’s cologne hung like a noose in the air. She knew he was responsible for this, probably pissed that she wasn’t here when he came last night. She’d stayed with her sister, scared that she didn’t know what he’d do next.
She imagined him moving through her home once he realized she wasn’t here, searching from room to room.
What would Bev have done?
Fuck Bev.
She’d been relegated to the grave, or at least Brooklyn wanted her to be. And possibly, if she was really dead, then Brooklyn could pretend—in the quiet of the night, or on Mother’s Day, Christmas, Bev’s birthday, or a day like today, when she was really scared—that she didn’t secretly long for her mother. Who up until this moment, she had no desire to see . . .
But now . . .
She couldn’t shake the feel of needing to be in her mother’s arms again.
Feel her squeeze.
And maybe even hear her say she could make this all go away.
She wrestled with the thought of going to the prison.
No.
Go.
For what?
She started to call Meechie, but changed her mind. She knew what Meechie would say.
Go. Mama’s not the same.
Maybe she wasn’t.
* * *
Brooklyn sat in the prison’s visiting area, rubbing her hands together and tapping one foot no less than ten times, before tapping the other. She licked her lips. Eyed the families at the other tables peppered around the room, and gave awkward smiles. Her hands shook. She slid them under her behind to keep them from trembling.
Stop it.
She placed her hands on her lap and waited.
Five minutes felt like a thousand years.
I’m leaving.
She rose from her chair. Three pairs of CO eyes shot her way.
“Brooklyn?” came from behind her.
Bev.
As if remote-controlled, Brooklyn turned around, and there was her mother. Sober. Eyes clear. Dope sores healed and faded into her skin. Streaks of gray throughout her red hair. She was shorter than Brooklyn remembered. Wider. Meechie obviously had her body, but Brooklyn had her face. The same face that had launched this prison sentence.
Brooklyn’s plan was to sit down and simply say, “Hey.”
She couldn’t. The wet clouds in her eyes wouldn’t let her.
Bev wrapped her daughter in her arms. The trauma. Pain. Cries. Screams. The love. All poured into their embrace.
Brooklyn’s shoulders shuddered, and her chest heaved as she wept in her mother’s arms, feeling like the same thirteen-year-old girl who’d wanted nothing more than to hold on to her mother’s knees and never let her go.
Tears streamed down
Bev’s cheeks, and she let them flow while squeezing her daughter tight. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Mama’s so, so sorry, baby. I should’ve taken better care of you. It was my fault. You hear me?” She lifted Brooklyn’s face from her shoulder. They locked eyes. “My fault,” Bev continued. “You were a baby. My baby. And you did nothing wrong.”
Bev took Brooklyn by the hand and guided her into her seat, taking the empty seat beside her. “I love you,” Bev said. “And I know you worried about me. I know you did. But I’m all right. Your mama is fine.”
Brooklyn released a breath. “It was hard. All those years, it was tough. I always thought you hated me. That I wasn’t good enough.”
“I love you. You’re my child. My baby. You are more than enough. You hear me?”
Brooklyn nodded. “I just wanted to save you.”
“That wasn’t for you to do. I was the mama. I should’ve saved you.”
Silence.
Bev went on, “This may sound odd, maybe even a little crazy, but being in here saved my life. I learned, through therapy, that sometimes we don’t pass on parenting, we pass on pain. And for the agony that I caused you and your sisters, I could never apologize enough. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness—”
“I just . . . I just need time, Mama. I have so much to figure out. This was a big step for me. And half of the shit I got going on you wouldn’t even believe.”
“Try me.”
Chapter 56
Sheila
The morning breeze swept into Sheila’s face as she jogged along the boardwalk, finally stopping at a park bench and sitting down. She crossed her legs and looked out at the ocean.
A black man with a silver beard, holding a paper bag, walked over and took a seat on the far-left corner of the bench. He reached into the bag, pulled out a handful of stale breadcrumbs, and tossed them onto the ground. A flock of birds landed and began eating. The man watched the birds as he said to Sheila, “Good job, Agent Jordan. All of the information you’ve given us, especially what you told us last night, paid off. The Bureau is proud of you. The raids on the port and ICC were a success. We also arrested two of the governor’s security officers, a Van Simmons and a Porter Johnson.”
Sheila contained her smile, continuing to look straight ahead she said to her supervising special agent, “Thank you, Agent Shaw. It’s been three long years.”
“It has, but we’ve got a rock-solid case to bring ICC down, stop their influx of counterfeit money and guns. Toss Himes into prison forever and make the governor and Dominic Sparks his cellmates.”
“This detail is about to end?”
“Not yet.”
“What more do you need?”
“We need to nail the governor’s wife—”
“His wife?” Sheila hesitated.
“They’ve been funneling money through her foundation.”
“I’ve been working this for three years. Nothing points to her being in on that.”
“It’s her foundation.”
“Just her face. He runs everything. Believe me. It’s him. Not her.”
“Let her lawyer prove that.”
Sheila nodded. “What’s next?”
“Each One Reach One. A team is over there, executing a search warrant.” He paused, his phone rang. He answered. “Okay,” he said, then hung up. He continued, “The team’s in, I gotta go.” He walked away, leaving Sheila sitting there, staring into the distance.
Chapter 57
Monty
Monty raced up the stairs to his and Elle’s bedroom and opened the door. His eyes scanned the space. Floor swept. Persian rug spotless. Vanity in order. Mirrors sparkled. Bed neatly made. Everything in place, except his wife.
A dull throb ran down the back of his neck. He massaged it. “Elle!”
He needed to speak to her. She’d always been the one to help him sort things out and calm him down when everything seemed to spin out of control.
“Elle!”
Nothing.
He headed into the foyer and proceeded to open every room’s door. “Ellaina, where are you?”
No answer.
He hurried into the kitchen. “Mary!”
She jumped, dropping the mug of coffee she held to the floor. The mug shattered and the ceramic pieces went everywhere.
He ignored Mary’s panic. “Where’s my wife?”
“Governor, I don’t—I don’t—know.” Mary’s eyes darted around the mess.
He stepped closer to her. “Did she tell you not to tell me where she was? Don’t lie to me. I see how you two are, whispering around and shit.”
“No! No, sir. After she left for the rally last night, she never returned.”
He stared. Sized her up. Then walked away.
Back in his bedroom, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Elle. His call went straight to voice mail. “The fuck are you?”
He hung up. Called again. “Get your ass home now! I need you!”
Again. “I swear to God, you better be walking in this door soon!”
Again. “Ellaina, I’m not fucking playing with you! This is an emergency!”
Again. A recorded message came on. “You cannot leave a message at this time. This person’s voice mail is full.”
“Fuck!” he screamed, tossing his phone across the room. He heard the screen crack and saw the back splinter into pieces.
He paced, then spotted the wet bar out the corner of his eye and walked over. He grabbed a bottle of scotch, cracked it open, and took a long swig, only coming up for air when fire tore through his chest.
They raided the port. Arrested twenty-five people. Van and Johnson. . .
I can’t go to jail.
My wife.
The Feds are all over Each One Reach One. Apparently, some shit is also hitting the papers tomorrow. The DA says they have evidence you’ve been funneling the government’s money through Elle’s charity. They want to talk to you . . . and Elle too.
Relax ...
Think . . .
Okay. If nobody says anything, they can’t connect it to me. I’ll say I’m disappointed by Van and Johnson. That I had no idea.
What about Elle? They can’t charge her.
They can, and they will.
Think!
“Arggggggg!” he screamed, swiping his hands across Elle’s vanity and knocking everything onto the floor.
He paced.
I ain’t goin’ down alone, Stephen’s voice ached his ears.
Monty, whatchu doin’, boy!
He fell onto the chaise and tossed the neck of the bottle to his lips. His hands trembled, and sweat drenched his face.
Rebecca . . .
Sheldon . . .
Carson . . .
Stephen . . .
They raided the port.
Monty, what you doin’, boy!
He shook his thoughts and went in for another intense guzzle. The scotch wasn’t enough. He rose from the chair and headed into the closet. He reached on the top shelf for his personal safe and pressed the numeric code. It opened, and he eased out two bags of cocaine.
He returned to the chaise, pulled the nightstand in front of him, and placed the bags atop the cherry wood. He pulled a razor blade from the drawer and shaved off a small corner. Then took a credit card and a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. With his credit card, he cut the shaved coke into four lines. He rolled the bill, then leaned in with one nostril pressed closed, and the other with the money jutting from it.
He went in for a line; the coke sending euphoric chills and sparks through him. He shivered. Went in for another line, then closed his eyes and held his head back.
Monty, whatchu doin’, boy!
His eyes flipped open. Sleep no longer wrenched his lids. Energy filled him. He was invincible; he could face the bullshit Dominic just laid on him.
He did another line and held his head back again. The scent of Brooklyn’s perfume floated beneath his nostrils.
A crook
ed grin swept across his face, and saliva dribbled over his bottom lip. He swiped it.
“Montgomery, Mama’s sweet boy!” gently dropped into his ear. He squinted. There she was, across the room, near the door. His mother. He always knew she would come back for him. The scar above her left eye glowed as she lifted her permanently busted bottom lip and smiled at him.
“Mama!” He jumped out of his seat and stretched his arms forward, knocking over the nightstand, and sending his line crashing to the floor and flying into the air like particles of white dust.
His mother faded.
“No, Mama, come back!”
Daddy, where’s Mama?
She ain’t never comin’ back.
Tears burned his lids. “Come back,” he whispered. “Please.”
She didn’t.
He fell, knees first, to the floor.
Monty, whatchu doin’, boy!
“Shut the fuck up!”
He crawled from one spot to the other, in search of the line of coke dustings, scooping what he could find with his pinkie nail and sucking it into his nose.
Monty, whatchu doin’, boy!
Bam! Bam!
Monty froze.
Elle.
No, Elle wouldn’t knock.
Bam! Bam!
“Get the fuck away from the goddamn door!” Monty spat, walking over to the nightstand and setting it upright. He opened the second bag of coke and dumped it on the tabletop.
Bam! Bam!
He took his credit card and cut the pile into four lines, rolled the hundred-dollar bill, held his head down, and just as flakes of white powder blessed his nostrils and tickled the back of his throat, his bedroom door flew off the hinges.
“FBI!”
Chapter 58
Elle
Elle’s chest felt heavy as she lay pinned to the bed, her breath labored and her movements restricted.
She was asleep, though she was desperate to wake.
Yet, no matter how she fought to move and push open her eyes, she couldn’t.
A hard and terrifying sleep like this only meant one thing: There was a spirit riding her and refused to let her go.
“Jesus!” she spat, her eyelids flipped open like a wooden puppet. She popped up, grabbing a fistful of the sheet. She panted and sweat inched down the sides of her face and into the creases of her neck.