by Robert Greer
When several people looked at Damion rather than Aretha for some explanation as to why a skinny, gap-toothed white man was suddenly in their midst, Damion mouthed the word, “Cop.”
“Sorry to have to show up right now,” Townsend said, aiming his words at Aretha before he briefly locked eyes with each person flanking the coffin. “But I'm afraid it goes with the job. I'm certain you're not aware of it, but your former husband, Leon, was found shot to death earlier this morning.”
Aretha's reaction was a nod. “Don't surprise me at all.”
Before she could say anything else, Damion stepped up and draped an arm over her shoulders. The remaining pallbearers stared at Townsend, dumbfounded. Damion waved for Flora Jean, Niki, and Mario to join them. “You picked a bad time to do your job, Sergeant. In case you missed it, this is a funeral.”
“Afraid I don't get to pick the perfect time or place to do my work, Madrid,” answered Townsend, eyeing Damion's injured arm.
Slipping out of Damion's embrace and suddenly looking every bit as unintimidated as she had the previous night at the Satire Lounge, Aretha said, “No need to run interference for me, Damion. Worse comes to worst legal-wise, I can always get your mama to do that.” She locked eyes with Townsend. “Wasn't no way Leon could ever come to anything but a bad end, Sergeant. But if you're thinkin’ I had anything to do with him gettin’ murdered, you're thinkin’ wrong.” She took a half step toward the casket as Flora Jean and Mario eased up beside her.
Realizing that he was now all but surrounded by nine people, including five husky pallbearers, Townsend said, “Is there somewhere we can talk that's a little more private, Mrs. Bird?”
“Nope. We're headed for a repast. You really need to talk to me, you can do it there.”
“Can't it wait?” Flora Jean asked, staring down at the much shorter Townsend.
Aretha shook her head in protest. “No need puttin’ bad off for worse, Flora Jean. For the next couple of hours, we're gonna be celebratin’ my baby's life, Sergeant. Like I said, you can ask your questions there if you wanta. Unless of course you've got a reason to arrest me right now.”
Eyeing Townsend with the kind of disdain she reserved for the worst kind of social misfits, Alicia Phillips said, “Aretha, are you sure you want him to come to the repast? Whether you want to admit it or not, you're more than a little fragile right now.”
Aretha capped her response with a smile. “I'd have to agree with you, Doc. But you also gotta remember, I'm not one of them pampered jocks you counsel or some depressed kid who's just been told he's gonna have to ride the bench the rest of the season. No disrespect intended, but right now I don't need no head-shrinkin’.” Slipping her arm into Damion's, Aretha eyed Townsend. “We're headed for the Five Points Recreation Center, Sergeant. You're welcome to come if you want.”
Townsend glanced around at the nine sets of eyes glaring at him. Looking embarrassed, he said, “Lead the way.”
As the two lead mortuary limousines filled with family members and close friends left Fairmont Cemetery, two cars lingered: the fifteen-year-old mud-brown Honda Civic with 165,000 miles on it, which Wordell Epps prized nearly as much as his Pulitzer, and a sleek, black, late-model Corvette belonging to Leotis Hawkins. Neither man knew or recognized the other as, slouched down in their front seats eight car lengths apart, each with his windows rolled up, they considered what it was they now needed to do about their problem.
Sweating and gripping the Honda's steering wheel, Epps, seasoned journalist that he was, reasoned that sooner or later he'd figure out the answer to his. Leotis Hawkins, his head still throbbing, expected that the .357 lying on the seat next to him would be his most important problem solving tool.
The Five Points Recreation Center was a boxy, drafty, echoing two-story brick building that had served as everything from a shelter for the homeless to a polling place, dance hall, and gymnasium during its forty-year lifetime. African art and scores of black-and-white photos depicting the history of Five Points adorned every first-floor wall. The repast for Shandell was being held in a giant room with sixteen-foot vaulted ceilings. The room was hot, muggy, thick with people, and rich with the smells of black folks’ cooking. Half of the crowd had come to support Aretha and pay their respects, most of the others had come for the food, and a handful had simply wandered in.
Sergeant Townsend's presence curtailed Pinkie's and Mario Satoni's stay. They left with Styrofoam containers piled high with fried chicken, greens, cornbread, butter beans, and coleslaw. As they moved to leave, Mario pulled Flora Jean aside to let her know he had Pinkie covering Damion's overeager and very unschooled rear. Advising her not to be too hard on Damion for not telling her the truth about his rendezvous with Hawkins, he offered some advice. “Damion's new to the game, Flora Jean. And he's thinking that just like in college, through sheer force of will, he can move things his way and on his own. Hopefully that ten-inch-long knife wound running down his arm will remind him for the rest of his life that he probably can't.”
With Pinkie trailing behind him, casting a final glance in Townsend's direction, Mario gave Flora Jean a parting reminder. “Now that Pinkie's given us all the lowdown on Asalon's possible part in all this, we've got a leg up on the cops. But remember, you've got Damion helpin’ you, not CJ. If you need backup, let me know.” Winking at Flora Jean, Mario caught a glimpse of Townsend staring at him, as if trying his best to place the face, before he headed down the sidewalk to his car.
For thirty minutes after that, Townsend made his rounds, talking briefly to everyone he thought might be able to help him with his investigation into the Shandell Bird and Leon Bird killings. Now, as he sat at a long folding table that was draped in grease-stained, waxed butcher paper, staring at Damion, he had the sense that he was just a few questions away from leaving. Bookended by Alicia Phillips and Connie Eastland to his left and Flora Jean and Jackie Woodson to his right, Damion found himself nervously rubbing his wounded arm, thinking about Shandell, and eyeing Aretha who was seated across from him. Suddenly Townsend asked, “Are any of you familiar with that book I mentioned? The one Shandell signed for his father?”
Connie Eastland's response was a forceful “No.” Everyone else either shook their head or shrugged.
“I see.” Turning to Aretha, Townsend asked, “Was your ex-husband much of a gambler?”
“Afraid I don't know, Sergeant. Until last year we'd pretty much lost contact with each other.”
“What about Shandell? Did he gamble?”
“We went through all that when you came by my house yesterday. I told you, my boy didn't gamble. Why you so intent on puttin’ a gamblin’ monkey on my dead baby's back?”
“Yeah, why?” asked Damion.
Avoiding any mention of his conversation with Theo Wilhite, or the fact that he'd found a dozen gambling slips in Leon Bird's motel room, Townsend said, “Point-shaving is in the air here, folks. No need pretending. I think we all know that.”
“There wasn't any point-shaving going on on our team,” Damion said, looking at Jackie for support.
“No way,” Jackie chimed in.
“I'd have to agree, Sergeant,” Alicia Phillips said indignantly. “The psychological makeup of the team wouldn't have allowed for that.”
“Oh, I see,” Townsend said sarcastically. “So I take it you've got a crystal ball that allows you to look deep inside people's heads, Dr. Phillips?”
Alicia Phillips's face turned pink with embarrassment as, gritting her teeth, she lowered her eyes to the table.
Realizing that he'd worn out his welcome, Townsend said, “We're not adversaries here. We all want the same thing—to find Shandell's and his father's killer.”
“Or killers,” said Flora Jean, eager to send Townsend on his way. “You've said your piece, Sergeant, and we've all sat here and listened. Time you take your show on the road.”
“Are you threatening me, Ms. Benson?”
“Nope, just searching for that one drop of humanit
y I know you must have somewhere inside you.”
Townsend stared at the sad, unforgiving faces at the table. Thinking to himself that there'd be other days, other times, and other places, he rose. “Okay. I'm leaving. But trust me, we'll talk some more.” He slipped his BlackBerry out of his pocket, turned it on, and scrolled down the list of phone numbers he'd taken from the people seated around him. “I can reach you at 970-221-3795, right, Mr. Woodson? And Madrid, 303-722-9669?”
Looking nervous, Jackie Woodson nodded. Damion's response was a defiant stare.
“Like I said, we'll all be talking later.” As he moved to leave, Town-send cast a final glance at Damion's injured arm. “Must be one nasty wound you're carrying around under that dressing, Madrid. Still intent on keeping what happened to yourself?”
“Sure am, Sergeant.”
“Fine.” Townsend broke into an all-knowing smile. “Sure hope your injury isn't tied to my case. Take heed, Madrid, especially since you're headed off to medical school. Doctors and hospitals keep records. If push comes to shove, I can find out about that arm.”
Damion returned the smile as he recalled the very calm and collected Dr. Carlo Bottone. “I'm well aware of that, Sergeant, but I might be out of medical school by then,” he said with a grin, knowing Townsend would never be able to determine how he'd gotten injured. “Have a nice rest of the day, and while you're at it, don't trip over the paperwork.”
Chapter 18
Sergeant Townsend had been gone for close to half an hour, and the crowd at the repast had dwindled to a hardcore group of twenty people, when Jackie Woodson, feeling pressured by Damion's incessant questioning, looked defiantly at Damion and said, “I told you six ways from Sunday, Blood. I wasn't shavin’ no points.”
Rodney Sands, who had joined Damion and Jackie at the table when all the women save Niki had left to go to the bathroom, quickly came to Jackie's defense. “There wasn't any point-shavin’ goin’ on, Damion. Lighten up.”
“Yeah, just like you said there wasn't any drug dealing going on, Sandy.” Damion glanced briefly at Niki, trying to gauge how long she'd indulge his CJ Floyd impersonation, then fixed his gaze back on Jackie and Sandy. “One of you primed Leotis Hawkins to take me out last night. Who's feeling confessional?”
“Wasn't me,” said Sands. “All I did was set up the meeting.” He eyed Damion's injured arm. “Besides, I warned you that Hawkins was into knives.”
“Me either,” said Jackie.
“So a little birdie did it, then.” With mounting frustration evident in his voice, Damion said, “No matter. I'll find out, and then we'll talk. And so you both appreciate the gravity of the situation, I'll bring along somebody from Mario Satoni's shop with me when we do.” He glanced at Niki for her reaction to his threat. The look on her face told him he'd pushed things to the limit. Sensing that she was right, Damion asked, “Either of you know anything about that book, A Morning at the Office, that Townsend claimed he found Shandell's signature in?”
“Never heard of it,” Sandy and Jackie said a half beat apart.
“It's a book about a group of office workers in Trinidad and what their daily lives are like, as I recall,” Niki said, surprising all three men.
“You've read it?” asked Damion.
“Yes. In high school. I'm originally from Venezuela, in case you've forgotten.” She flashed him a quick wink. “The Caribbean's not that far away.”
“So why didn't you tell Townsend you'd read the book when he asked?”
“Because that's not what he asked. What he asked was whether any of us was familiar with the book he'd found.” Niki smiled. “I wasn't. I'd never seen that particular book before.”
Damion burst into laughter. “If I didn't know better, I'd swear you've been taking witness-coaching lessons from my mother.”
“I haven't. But don't forget I've got family members who are lawyers too.”
Aware that Niki's father and older brother were attorneys in Venezuela, Damion said, “Touché. Looks like I've got some reading to do in addition to looking at game film.”
“I told you, you won't find nothin’ in those films, Blood,” Jackie said, slapping his palm down on the table to hammer home the point.
“Maybe not, but since you and Sandy insist there wasn't any point-shaving going on, I thought I'd have a look just to make sure. Especially since I've never looked at those tapes with the idea of point-shaving in mind.”
“I told you, I wasn't shavin’ nothin’,” Jackie said defensively.
“And I heard you. But you never know. Maybe somebody else was.”
“Besides Shandell, you mean?” Sandy asked with surprise.
Jackie locked eyes with Damion and said, “Yeah. Who's to say it wasn't you who was shavin’ points, Blood? Could be you're the one who got Blackbird killed, and you're tryin’ to point fingers to cover your tracks.”
Damion scooted over to Jackie and draped an arm over his former teammate's shoulders. “Just be certain when all's said and done that my finger isn't pointing at you.” Glancing at Sandy, he smiled and said, “Ditto,” just as Alicia Phillips and Connie Eastland walked back up to the table.
“Real chummy there, aren't we?” asked Connie. “What did we miss?”
“Not much. Just reminiscing.” Damion moved away from Jackie and turned his attention to Alicia. “Have you had time to think about what I asked you on the limo ride from the cemetery?”
“I've thought about it. But I'm not sure I can share some things with you. Most of it is privileged, and I'm afraid neither the university nor the state board of clinical psychologists would look very favorably on my discussing Shandell's case notes with you.”
“But Shandell's dead.”
“That doesn't matter. There are rules. What I can tell you is that Shandell had his share of problems last year.”
“Problems related to what?”
Alicia took a deep breath and sighed. “Most of the issues I helped him with centered around his relationship with his father. That's all I can tell you.”
“Why on earth did he let Leon slip back into his life in the first place?”
“I can't answer that. I can tell you, however, that he and his father were trying to work things out.”
Damion glanced up at Connie, who stood next to Alicia, nervously rocking from side to side. “Did Shandell say anything to you about the problems he was having with his father?”
“Not really. But I knew Leon was stringing him along, trying to make him feel as if Shandell was in part responsible for their estrangement.”
Damion lowered his eyes and shook his head. Once again he had the feeling that everyone had known more about what had made his best friend tick than he had. It was almost as if Shandell had purposely tried to keep him as far away as possible from any dark side he may have had, and from his problems. Problems that had apparently involved not only point-shaving and drug dealing but an estranged, conniving father. Somehow he had the feeling that even those weighty issues represented less than the whole story. There had to be something else, something so overwhelming that it had cost a father and son their lives.
Feeling dejected, Damion had the sense that for the first time in his life, he had no one to lean on. CJ was in Hawaii enjoying a honeymoon that should have come twenty years earlier. His mother was in San Francisco at a national trial lawyers’ convention, and Flora Jean, the person he should have been counting on the most, was still upset with him.
Warding off the sudden feeling of self-pity, he glanced at the people around him and realized that they'd all lost something too. Connie had lost her lover. Jock-sniffing Rodney Sands had lost his opportunity to rub shoulders with celebrity and fame. Jackie Wood-son would more than likely lose his scholarship and a spot on the team once all the issues surrounding performance-enhancing drug use surfaced, and Dr. Phillips, who'd likely missed the mark with Shandell and underestimated the gravity of his personal problems, stood to have her reputation tarnished. In the end, nobo
dy could possibly come out a winner.
Sensing that Damion was as confused as he was hurting, Niki took his hand and squeezed it. “I think it's time we go,” she said, watching a member of the catering crew remove the butcher paper from the next table.
“Think you're right,” Damion said softly.
“I'm headed home too,” said Connie. “You and Damion are welcome to come by if you like.”
“No, thanks,” said Niki. “Think we'll just rest.”
“I'm headed back up to CSU,” Dr. Phillips said, patting the despondent-looking Damion reassuringly on the shoulder. “If you need me, Damion, don't hesitate to give me a call.”
“I will,” Damion said as Jackie and Sandy stood, tapped fists all around, and offered their good-byes.
“Take care of that arm,” Sandy said, walking away, leaving Damion and Niki staring pensively at one another.
“What now, my love?” asked Niki, hoping the question might help get Damion back on track.
“Don't know, babe. Right now I'm running on fumes.”
“I've got a suggestion. What say we head up to the cabin? It'll be peaceful up there.”
Damion flashed Niki a guilt-ridden smile. In compiling his list of people who had something to lose because of Shandell's death, he'd somehow excluded her, completely overlooking the woman who'd first convinced him, a bookish, basketball-crazed kid from Five Points, that there was a world beyond his neighborhood. In an attempt to suppress his grief and prove to himself with some silly list that he was on top of things, he'd discounted the person who was his rock. Suddenly he found himself thinking about something CJ had said to him a few days before he and Mavis had left for Hawaii. “Hang on to Niki for dear life, Blood. Nothing trumps the love of a good woman—trust me.” Realizing that he hadn't responded to Niki's question about going up to the mountain cabin in Nederland that her uncle, a University of Colorado engineering professor, used as a retreat, he said, “I'm game, but you better call your uncle and see if he's using the place.”