Blood Relations

by Michelle McGriff

  Lawrence shrugged his shoulders. “I wasn’t on the case. I wasn’t even a detective back then.”

  “Yeah, but damn, this case was a biggie. It made the news and all that. I mean, good cops were killed. Hell, one of the killers was a cop! It was big news and you don’t remember it? Right here in your precinct and you don’t remember—”

  “It wasn’t my case—I told you that. I wouldn’t know. And at the time this was not my precinct. I told you that, too. It’s an ancient case, closed case. Why you here bringing up old stuff?” Lawrence sighed heavily. This third degree was not his thing. He could dish it out, but surely taking it was another story—one he wasn’t interested in. And this guy didn’t seem to be too overly serious about things. He was acting like it was playtime—yuckin’ it up with the chief and all that before coming out here to the pit, acting like he owned the joint. Chief just came out of her office smiling like a teenager and said, “Let him see the file.” That wasn’t like her to just give someone free reign at a file—a closed one at that. Lawrence was speechless.

  Lawrence wanted to get rid of him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure who this cat was. If Jim were here, he’d know how to get to the bottom of this. Jim was Lawrence’s partner and loved working homicide. He was kinda like this guy—full of fun all the damned time, but Jim knew when to do his job, and he was hella good at it. Lawrence wasn’t about fun, not at all. He was too serious for that kind of silliness. Besides, homicide had never been fun, and if and when they actually closed a case, he preferred it stayed closed.

  “Who are you with again?” asked Lawrence, noticing the dude’s minute size (about five six or seven), British accent, and his pretty-darn-persistent attitude. The uptight, albeit expensive looking, suit, sharply edged facial hair, and diamond stud in his ear hadn’t impressed Lawrence much either. This little white-looking guy was like a cross between James Bond, Prince, and the Hulk. Well, minus the green face and height . . . and bulk. Okay, so maybe not the Hulk ... Maybe the blond dude on that old TV show, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

  “I’m Ovan Dominguez. I’m working a special task force for the British government—I told your boss all that. I even showed her my,” the little Napoleon began, answering one of Lawrence’s many questions and looking devilish all the while, “... badge,” he said after a dramatic pause that left Lawrence feeling a little uneasy.

  “So you’re like the Euro version of the FBI? What’s going on that our closed cases deserve a once-over from you kinda guys?”

  “We think one of your closed cases might be open again.”

  “Had a bad feeling you were going to say that. Do you realize that this is homicide? We don’t like hearing that people who are dead aren’t as dead as we thought. Kinda scary ... yadamean?”

  “What soooo.” Ovan pointed at him, still balancing the open file on one of his palms. He was standing, and had been since Lawrence had made it known that Jim’s desk was not available for him to sit. Sure Jim was on vacation for a couple more days, but still. “It’s not that simple, but I feel your sentiments on that ‘dead back to life thing,’ surely I hate when that happens,” Ovan joked. “But since it has ...”

  “Why do I get the crazy feeling you’re about to ask me for some help? Why do I get the funky feeling that I’m not gonna want to do it? Why—”

  Ovan looked around and lowered his voice. “Look, Detective Miller, this case is A-1 classified and—”

  “And how did I know you were going to say that?”

  Ovan smiled wickedly, forcing Lawrence to accept the reluctant bond of understanding, despite his misgivings and note to himself to make a few phone calls after this guy left his office. Since the chief looked all twitterpatted and flush, when she came out of the office after talking to him—now that Lawrence thought about it—he had a feeling he might be alone in his suspicions. He shook his head of the thoughts connecting the chief and Ovan, and what could have possibly put that flush on her face. No, wait, that kinda thing happens in vice. This is homicide, he reasoned. What did happen in there! Lawrence would have to give Jim a call as well.

  Ovan Dominguez, the British equivalent of the FBI (or so he said) standing in front of his desk on a Wednesday evening. Yeah, this guy looked as shady as a summer lawn of a large plantation home in Atlanta—the kind his mama said she grew up in. Lawrence all but expected Mr. Dominguez to pull out his dark shades and stun gun before leaving—the kind they had in that movie. The one that made the person forget what they were thinkin’. Yeah, this Dominguez cat was up to something major. Lawrence could smell it.

  “So, Mr. Euro, what do we know that you guys don’t know that has you looking for a haunt? And, more importantly, whose haunting the halls—Dominguez?” Lawrence wanted to say his name again, too. Britain and the name Dominguez just didn’t play the same tune in his mind.

  “Someone who is a one- or two-time killer, Detective Miller, and if I’m right, he’s going to kill again.”

  “Is that right. And you know this how?”

  “Because he’s never stopped killing.”

  “Your killer got a name?”

  “Yes ... he does,” Ovan answered. He was toying with Lawrence now, and Lawrence was not too cool with that.

  “Speaking of names, where did a guy like you get a name like Dominguez?”

  “My father, I suppose. Look here, Detective Miller, before we become best friends I need to know I have your support on this case. Your superior assured me your cooperation.”

  “Really. She did that, huh? Well, she shoulda checked my calendar.”

  “Fine, then what I’m really asking, I guess, is that you don’t get in my way.”

  Lawrence burst into laughter. “Me in your way . . . doubt that.”

  “Good. Then we have an understanding.”

  Lawrence was now sure he’d be seeing more of this guy, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Chapter 7

  Flexing in the mirror, Reggie stood tall and handsome. He looked much older than most kids his age, but he knew it to be because of his height and probably his features, too. Dark eyes and sharp, chiseled jaw, thick neck and big hands, he looked very different from most of his family. His mother was tall but had really light eyes, almost gold colored, and her features were soft and pretty. He didn’t have any uncles, so he really didn’t know what the Ams men looked like, short of a photo of his grandfather—the one he was named after, and that Reginald Ams wasn’t all that big. But none of that mattered; Reggie was destined for greatness. He knew this. He was gonna play ball—pro ball. At first he thought it might be a dream, but not since getting that call from the athletic department of University of Oregon. “Inviting me to take a look at their team! Me!” he told his reflection. “How many people get invited personally to a school to look it over—specifically their athletic department—without that being an unsaid promise of making the team? How many?” He smiled broadly and again wondered if he maybe looked like his father. It wasn’t as if he knew who his father was. His mother had apparently been a wildcat back in the day—sleeping with men she didn’t know. Go figure. Considering how uptight she was now—can’t imagine it. But, she was old now, Chance was old now—Juanita was old now too, despite how she acted. They were all old and fulla farts. And it was time for him to blow this stank joint.

  Just then there was a banging on the bathroom door. “God, Reg! I gotta pee fa real!” Rainey bellowed. He yanked open the door. His half sister was fourteen. She normally had a quiet nature—except when her bladder was full.

  She looked and acted nothing like Junior, nothing like him. Funny, now that he thought about it, as strange as it seemed, he and Junior looked and acted more alike than Rainey did to either of them. It was almost as if she was the stepchild.

  “If you were a boy you coulda just peed outside,” Reggie teased, pushing her forehead tauntingly before brushing past her. She swung at him and missed before slamming into the bathroom.

  “Gross!” she screamed from inside
.

  Chapter 8

  Ovan left the station house. He’d made his point—and new enemies. That was fine. He’d rather work with people who didn’t like him but respected him and what he was doing, than those who just carried on brainlessly following stupid rules they didn’t understand. Lawrence wasn’t a brainless follower—Ovan could tell. Behind that staunch demeanor was a cop who wanted justice. “And that’s just the kind of guy I need on my side,” he said aloud before patting his stomach, realizing his hunger. But he’d had a plenty of exercise today: a little flirting with a female precinct captain, a little dancing with the enemy (he had to view Lawrence that way until something dictated otherwise), and a full day of hunting the devil—Allen Roman. Tomorrow he’d head down another road. He needed something substantial to prove that Allen Roman was truly here in the city, and some stronger leads on him. He’d have to be living somewhere. Surely Roman would not be able to resist a scholarly environment too long. Perverted though it may seem, he could easily be drawn back to his own stomping ground: Moorman. Back to his old obsessions, like Rashawn Ams. The case made it clear Roman had a thing for her—in a big way. Roman never went anywhere without a purpose, and there was a reason he was here in California. “It won’t hurt to see if Rashawn Ams has anything to do with his trip here. Craven all but admitted that he was in need of some big time surgical procedure—Maravel should have his medical records by now. After dinner I’ll head over there. We’ll see what’s wrong with him ... besides insanity.” Ovan mumbled.

  Stepping off the curb, Ovan noticed a dark sedan parked on the opposite side of the small park. He didn’t know why the car drew his attention. It made his skin crawl and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Dusk was falling and making it harder to see. He stood staring for a moment at the parked car in hopes of focusing on and making out the driver—no luck.

  Crossing the street, he took his car keys from his pocket and headed for his car, thinking he’d just drive past the car and get the license number, or perhaps a better look through the eyes of a computer run on the plate. As he started his car, turned on the radio, fooled with the mirror, and primped just a tad, he hadn’t noticed that the car had moved from its spot and, was slowly creeping around the park. Looking up, he saw the sedan coming toward him. The driver slowed down and lowered the window as he passed.

  “The chase begins,” was all Allen Roman said before speeding off. Stunned, and slightly in shock, Ovan spun a hard U-turn in the middle of the street, screeching his tires. His fancy Porsche with the specialty muffler, flow meter, and standard manifold replaced with custom headers set off car alarms for three blocks, gaining the attention of plenty of on-duty cops who immediately joined in the chase.

  “Dammit!” Ovan roared, noticing that Roman didn’t gain any attention in his plain car. He turned off the main drag they had been on. Sirens blasted and patrol cars were in chase of Ovan now as he lost the tail. Before he could turn the same corner as Roman, Ovan was cut off by a patrol car. Slamming on his breaks, his belt jerked him roughly back from the steering wheel. “You idiots!” he screeched.

  “Get out of the car,” the officer said, drawing his weapon. There was plenty of commotion with the sounds of the car alarms and people coming from their homes to shut them off.

  “Why are you stopping me? Did you not see that I was in pursuit?”

  “Duh! Put your hands up.”

  “I was in pursuit!”

  “Of who?” the officer asked, pulling out his tablet.

  “The sedan. I know you saw him speeding. I was chasing him.” Ovan was attempting to gesture with one hand up.

  “Nope, we didn’t see anybody speeding but you.” The officer patted Ovan down. Fortunately, he’d tucked his weapon under his seat earlier that day. He was free from an arrest—at least for the moment—unless they searched his car for some unknown reason.

  Reaching for his wallet, Ovan fussed, “Can I at least give you my ID ... Can I do that?” The officer nervously jutted the gun in his face. He handed the officer his ID.

  “Is this legal in our country?” the officer asked his partner.

  “Of course it is! Can one of you call Detective Lawrence Miller? Can you just do that so we can get on with our evening?”

  “Oh, you know Miller? Does he know you?”

  “Oh, good Lord!” Ovan sighed heavily.

  The officer shrugged and reluctantly walked back to his vehicle while the other, the one holding the gun, stood with Ovan.

  After a moment or two, the officer came back, laughing. “Lawrence said we should beat him up and then let him go,” he joked. Both officers got a hearty laugh now. “Nah, he’s okay I guess. Miller said he’s some big shot FBI agent from England.” The officer holding the gun finally holstered it. “I guess you’re one of us—sort of. Sorry, about that.”

  “Sorry my arse! Bloody well cost me the entire case. Who knows if I’ll see that guy again before he ...” Ovan snatched his wallet back from the officer, cursing bitterly under his breath.

  “Look here, you’re in America now so you better get a clue how we do things around here. Get get this bucket fixed, or you’re gonna be getting stopped often,” the officer explained as Ovan climbed back behind the wheel. Out of spite Ovan sped off, revving the motor and setting of several more car alarms.

  After a fruitless endeavor of cruising the streets a bit, Ovan headed back to his hotel. Entering his room, he saw the light on his phone blinking. He rushed over to hear the message. His gut was telling him, before he pushed the button, who the call was from. For the last year, since Roman had discovered that it was Ovan on his tail, he’d made sure he got as close as he could to him. It was as if they had established their own game rules. Ovan had broken many rules, though—and planned to break a few more before this was over. “Stay out of my way, Dominguez; this doesn’t concern you.” Allen Roman’s voice was deep and distorted, as if spoken through a disguising device. He could only assume it was a device that would block the location of the call as well.

  Roman was a maniac, but not an idiot. He had a reason for everything he did or said. “If it doesn’t concern me then it must be personal to you! Thank you for answering my question about Rashawn Ams,” Ovan laughed. Roman had covered his steps well, and although Ovan knew he was behind the killings of the doctors, he was still hoping to figure out the bigger reasoning behind the illegal experiments on human subjects as well. Because of Allen Roman, one too many lives had been destroyed. Tying those two crimes to Roman would give Ovan’s mission some legitimacy. It was the least he could do before killing Roman for his own personal reasons. Ovan needed a bit of a cover-up for his own evil. Finding out why Roman was doing what he was doing was as good as any ... At least, he hoped it would be a good enough reason to justify blowing his brains out. Yes, Ovan had a game plan too. It was all a game, one that was coming to an end. He picked up his phone to call Maravel.

  “Ovan, what is it?” she asked, sounding as if she’d been breathlessly awaiting his call.

  “Roman. I saw him today.”

  “My God.”

  “You say that like you’re surprised. Like you didn’t think I was right.”

  “No, Love, I knew you were right. I had just prayed you were wrong.”

  “So he is here, just as I thought, and now I think I know why. Get me some information on Rashawn Ams. Also, I hope you got those medical records.”

  “Yes, I did. It seems our Dr. Roman is a pretty sick man.”

  “How so?”

  “Sick enough to be looking for a kidney donor.”

  “Interesting ... Well, his brother’s dead. Who else?”

  “My guess is he has someone in mind.”

  Chapter 9

  “Remember that Christmas we conceived Junior?” Juanita flirted, hanging tinsel on her tree. She had saved the duty until Chance arrived, bringing Junior home. It wasn’t much of a tree anyway, just a little tabletop, but it was something. She started stringing the tinsel as so
on as he had walked in. She hoped he’d catch on and give her a hand—or more.

  “It wasn’t Christmas, it was right after Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, you remember,” she said, purring just a little, feeling the heat rising up.

  “Yeah, because me and Rashawn made our thing official right after that,” Chance remarked, smiling wickedly.

  “Why you gonna ruin the moment bringing her up?” Juanita choked. Tossing the tinsel at the tree any ol’ kind of way, she realized now how this attempt to involve him wasn’t working. He stood by the door with his hands in his pockets. Why did he bother to even come in? He should have just waited in the car. But no, he always came in. It was his house, after all.

  “I miss us,” she said before rethinking the statement.

  Chance’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked in the direction Junior had gone. Sure, he had ear buds in place, but ...

  Chance pointed, whispering loudly, “He could have heard you. Are you nuts?”

  “Call me crazy. I don’t care.” Juanita realized suddenly how good it felt to speak her heart. She’d been off her medication for a while and maybe it was starting to show. She had been on Zoloft for a while now—it wasn’t working, not as far as she could see. But for the first time in months she was feeling more like herself again, so maybe it had been. She giggled at the thought.

  Chance went for the doorknob. “I’m leaving, Nita.” Juanita rushed over to stop him, making sure her body made contact. She was wearing his favorite perfume. She always made sure to spritz it on when she thought she might see him.

  “I’m sorry, Chance. Don’t go. Just stay with me for a minute. I’m sorry,” she begged. She hadn’t meant to scare him off. Maybe she had lost her touch—maybe the meds had messed her all up. Chance shook his head, and in his normal mannerism when nervous, pushed his glasses up higher on his nose with his middle finger.