by Robert Greer
They had already talked over the previous evening's events, rehashing the way they'd watched Leotis Hawkins stumbling into his apartment, fearful that Pinkie might decide to pop him on a last-minute whim. But Pinkie had simply gotten into his pickup and driven off, saying he'd be in touch. They'd even discussed the possibility that Hawkins might have died during the night. The one thing they hadn't talked about was Shandell.
Unshaven, puffy-eyed, and looking like someone with a bad hangover, Damion lumbered across the kitchen, poured a cup of black coffee, and took a sip. Surprised to see A Morning at the Office lying on the kitchen counter, he picked it up and shook his head. “This thing sure didn't tell me much, other than the fact that the main character, an office boy named Horace Xavier, didn't seem to fit in with his job—like Shandell.”
“I remembered that when I paged through the book. Not much there to go on, really.” Looking guilty, Niki said, “Babe, I still have to go to work, and I'm late.”
“Okay.” Damion took a sip of coffee, shook his head, and once again found himself reflecting on A Morning at the Office. “Turns out Horace was too black, too uneducated, too uncultured, and just too plain nappy-headed to fit in. No wonder he walked away from the job of a lifetime in the end. Trinidad—what a place to live.”
“And there's never been that kind of racism here in the U.S.”
“Of course there has. The question is, how does Horace Xavier's story dovetail half a century later with that of a future NBA superstar worth millions?”
“Maybe Horace Xavier isn't the key. Maybe the key lies with another character.”
“Nope. Xavier's the key. I'm missing the hidden tie-in, that's all. Shandell as much as told us about the not-fitting-in part with that inscription he wrote to Leon in the book. I'm just going to have to think things through a little better.”
“Then I suggest you think things through by this evening before we pick up your mother, CJ, and Mavis from DIA. I've got a feeling that when they find out about everything that's happened, you won't be doing any more investigating.”
“Yeah, I know. That's why I'm going to have Flora Jean help me get to the bottom of everything today.”
“Ambitious.” There was concern in Niki's tone. “And if Leotis Hawkins or that mobster Asalon comes after you, you'll just wave your magic cape at them and fly off?”
“Niki, please.”
“No, Damion. I've just about had enough. I don't appreciate the fact that Hawkins tried to burn down my uncle's cabin or that he tried to kill me last night. I don't like being hunted, which we still probably are, spending my free time hobnobbing with a hit man, or, God forbid, if Leotis Hawkins dies, being an accessory to a murder.”
“He's not going to die, Niki. Just hang in there with me a little longer.”
Staring intently at Damion, Niki tried to reconcile her emotions with his actions, aware that he'd lost someone as close to him as a brother. She understood and appreciated his pain. What she couldn't comprehend was what was driving him to solve Shandell's murder on his own. Rising from her stool, she slipped behind Damion and massaged his shoulders. “Why do you want to keep after this, Damion?”
“I'm not quite sure. Maybe if I tell you a story, it'll help you understand.” Damion cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. “Shortly after Shandell and I both turned fourteen, we decided to bicycle over to Skyline Park and find a pickup basketball game. We were both big enough and skilled enough to play with kids a lot older than us, and on that day it turned out that everyone there was seventeen or eighteen and they all happened to be black.
“When we chose up sides, I didn't get picked. As I headed over to a bench to have a seat and watch the game, Shandell asked a kid named Rufus Jenkins why no one had picked me. Jenkins laughed and said, ‘Because your buddy Madrid is a fuckin’ Puerto Rican, Bird.’ Shandell said if they were gonna be that way, he wouldn't play, so Jenkins grabbed him by his T-shirt and ripped it down the front. I don't think I ever saw Shandell so enraged. He picked up a four-foot length of quarter-round that was lying on the ground, the kind they use to finish off baseboards, and swung it at Jenkins. A nail happened to be sticking out of the business end of the wood, and it caught Jenkins right in the side of his neck. Blood shot out of the puncture wound like water from a fire hose.
“When everyone standing around began yelling, Shandell simply walked away. As we left the court Shandell glanced back at Jenkins, who was holding a towel to his neck, and mumbled under his breath, ‘Ignorant ass.’ I just stared at Shandell in disbelief and said, ‘You could've killed him.’ I'll never forget Shandell's response: ‘You never wanta be the odd man out, Damion. Never. Besides, I know you'da done the same for me.’”
Niki shook her head. “It's not always tit for tat in this world, Damion. You're twenty-two years old now, and that's a long way from fourteen.”
“It's still tit for tat until my trip out to DIA tonight. After that I'll leave it alone, okay?”
“Promise?”
“Yes. But until then I plan to go at this full bore, and like it or not, I'm going to need your help.”
“How?”
“I need you to call Connie Eastland. Find out everything you can about her and Shandell's relationship. Find out whether they fought when we weren't around. Ask her what kinds of gifts Shandell gave her, how expensive they were, and where she thought the money was coming from to buy them. I'm looking for a link to Garrett Asalon, Niki. There has to be one.”
“You're asking me to find out things I doubt Connie will tell me, Damion.”
“I need to know, Niki.”
“Then perhaps there's another way. One that'll prove more productive than me going one-on-one with Connie.”
“What?”
“I can call some of Connie's sorority sisters and ask them about Shandell and Connie's relationship. Trust me, they'll know things you and I wouldn't. And they'll be a lot more candid than Connie; count on it.”
“Fine. How many can you round up?”
“A couple, I suspect.”
Looking puzzled, Damion asked, “Why would they know things about Shandell and Connie that we wouldn't?”
“Because they're Connie's sorors, Damion. Sisters in a society with arcane oaths and secret handshakes.”
“What makes you think they'll talk to you?”
Niki smiled. “There's a chance they won't. But I'll give them my best Oprah Winfrey dish-the-dirt-girl arm-twist. I'm bound to find a nugget. Let me make a few phone calls and get dressed, okay?”
Damion shook his head and chuckled as Niki left the room. He knew that with her brand of dogged determination, there was no way Niki would fail to come up with something.
Damion's four quick calls to Jackie Woodson's and Rodney Sands's apartments and cell phones yielded but one recorded answer: “Rodney's not in. Talk to me, bro.” He couldn't be sure if one or both of them were screening their calls. He had the uneasy feeling that they both knew more about Shandell's involvement in point-shaving and about his murder than they were letting on.
When he caught up with them this time, he'd have better control over his emotions, he told himself. He'd learned a valuable lesson about pursuing suspects from his earlier mistakes. Smiling, he recalled something CJ had insisted he master when he was first learning to fly-fish: “Remember to always cast your line lightly, Damion; otherwise you're bound to spook the fish.”
Niki, it turned out, was more successful in her attempt to track down Connie Eastland's sorority sisters. One of Connie's closest friends during their days at CSU had been a woman Niki had been friendly with as well. She now worked for a software firm in Broom-field, a twenty-minute drive from Niki's office in downtown Denver. The woman had seemed surprised by Niki's early-morning call, but she'd been cordial and even forthcoming after Niki had explained that she was helping Damion try to find Shandell's killer. She'd agreed to meet Niki for lunch at a sandwich shop at the Flatiron Crossing Mall, a few minutes from her Broomfield off
ice. Cradling the phone and rushing back out to the kitchen, where Damion sat practicing mock fly casts, Niki said, “Think I've got something.”
“Hope it's better than what I came up with. I'm batting zero.”
“I talked to Maria Carpenter. She's the only person I could reach.”
“And?” Damion asked, recalling the skinny, serious blonde with knobby knees and a peekaboo boy's haircut who'd followed Connie around like a puppy during most of their time at CSU.
“And for your information, Dr. Madrid, we're having lunch at noon.”
Suddenly wide-eyed, Damion planted a kiss on Niki's forehead. “Did she tell you anything that might help us out?”
“Not really. In fact, she seemed a little hesitant to talk. It was almost as if she didn't want to be accused of telling tales out of school.”
“Then maybe she knows something.”
“Guess we'll simply have to wait and find out.”
“It's one more lead than we had, anyway.”
Niki eyed the antique school clock on the wall and grabbed her purse. “I'm afraid I have to head for work, Damion.”
“Think you're up to working after only four hours’ sleep?”
“Three, Mr. Whirling Dervish. And yes.” She flashed Damion her best tough-as-nails smile. “So what's next on the agenda?”
“Think I'll call Coach Horse, tell him what I saw on those game tapes, and see if he can't give me his take on what might have been going on. Then I'll head on over to Flora Jean's office and beg for some help.”
“She might not be real willing, considering your past lack of candor.”
“Yeah.” Looking worried, Damon said, “But maybe I can twist her arm.”
“If you think so,” said Niki, thinking as she moved to leave that very few people, even on their best days, could twist the arm of the no-nonsense six-foot-one former combat marine.
“You wouldn't have the sense to come in out of the rain if someone told you a tidal wave was coming, Sands.” Looking thoroughly displeased, Garrett Asalon sat comfortably in a wingback leather chair in his library, clipping his fingernails as he talked to Rodney Sands on the phone. Craigy Theisman stood a few feet away in a half slouch, looking dour and subordinate. Trying to contain his anger, Asalon said, “But I'll take the blame on this. Uninsightful old me. How was I to know you had an entrepreneurial spark bouncing around inside you? I give you one of my best sources for a few performance-enhancers for our boy Jackie Woodson, and you decide to use that information to start your own drug-peddling business down in Five Points, using a dimwit like Leotis Hawkins to push the product and Shandell Bird as your poster boy. Are you there, Sands?” Asalon asked, listening to the silence on the other end of the line.
“Yes.”
“Well, get this. You're cut off forever. It wasn't enough for you to simply get the stuff to Jackie so he could put a little icing on his game. You had to cut Bird in on the deal. Dumb move, Sands. Especially since I have a feeling the cops are eventually going to look my way.”
“I was only trying to make a few extra bucks.”
“And in doing so, you just may have derailed a gaming venture I've been working on for years. You take the cake, Sands. Was Jackie Woodson in on your drug-peddling scam?”
“No. I just gave him his regular monthly supply of hGH, and he was happy.”
“Nice to know. I wouldn't want to have to flog the wrong horse.” Asalon clipped the nail on his right pinkie and tossed it aside. “I'm thinking you and Jackie are in need of a come-to-Jesus meeting. So I'm going to send an associate of mine up to Fort Collins to have a talk with you both today. I'll put him on the line in a moment, and he'll set up a time. When did you last talk to Woodson, anyway?”
“I haven't talked to him since Shandell Bird's funeral.”
“Best run him down and let him know he's got a meeting to attend. Are we clear?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on for my associate Mr. Theisman.” Asalon covered the receiver with his hand. “I hate to add to your list of things to do, Craigy, but when you talk to Connie and Alicia Phillips I'm going to need you to …”
“Yeah. I heard, boss.”
“Good. We'll need to talk about how to handle each of our four wayward children if the necessity arises.” Asalon handed Theisman the phone.
Theisman quickly made arrangements to meet with Sandy and hopefully Jackie that evening, hung up, and turned to Asalon. “So how should I hit ’em? High or low?”
“High enough to get their attention and low enough for them to worry about their nuts, I suspect.”
“And what if one of ’em decides to hit back?”
“It's summertime, Craigy,” Asalon said with a smile. “And in the summertime we swat pesky flies.”
Frustrated, Damion flipped his cell phone closed and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Gunning the Jeep's engine just to punctuate his upset, he turned off Colorado Boulevard onto First Avenue and sped into surprisingly light midmorning Cherry Creek shopping center traffic toward Flora Jean's office.
He couldn't help but marvel at the fact that, seemingly full of energy, Niki was on her way to work, ready to take on the day. At noon she was going to link up with one of Connie Eastland's old sorority sisters, and maybe even dig up an all-important lead on who might have killed Shandell. And what was he doing? Still batting zero. The one person he'd been able to get in touch with was Coach Harold-son. He'd just hung up after talking with the low-keyed, genial, basketball fundamentals guru and no-nonsense disciplinarian. He'd caught the coach just as he was getting ready for a team shoot-around, and they'd exchanged small talk before Damion had gotten up the nerve to mention his point-shaving suspicions.
Haroldson hadn't seemed particularly surprised; he'd intimated that after reviewing the UCLA game film, he'd also had the feeling that Shandell and Jackie Woodson might have been “altering the flow of the game.” He admitted to having had nightmares about that game ever since Shandell's death, although he'd been quick to point out that a single game didn't necessarily prove that there was point-shaving going on.
They'd spent a few more minutes discussing their suspicions, including the fact that, whether the questions came from Damion or the cops, sooner or later Jackie Woodson was going to have some things to explain. When Haroldson, suddenly sounding like a man concerned that his coaching legacy might end up tainted, had ended the conversation, saying he had to go manage the shoot-around, Damion's heart had sunk. Sounding guilty, Haroldson had added that he thought Damion needed to speak directly to Jackie Wood-son about his point-shaving suspicions, or better still with the team psychologist, Alicia Phillips, who he was certain could provide more insight into what had been going on inside Shandell's head than he could.
Cruising around a slow-moving Volkswagen whose driver appeared to be looking for an address, Damion told himself that his disjointed investigation of his best friend's death was almost totally out of sync. Coach Horse's abrupt termination of their conversation had made him suspicious. Jackie Woodson and Rodney Sands were nowhere to be found, and suddenly a man without an ounce of nonsense in his bones was touting the team psychologist as the person most likely to have an answer to Shandell's head problems, and maybe even his death. Hopeful that Flora Jean could help him sort things out, he sped up, praying as he eased his foot down on the accelerator that Coach Horse wasn't somehow involved in Shandell's murder.
“I'll help if I can call the shots, Damion.” Stern-faced, Flora Jean stared Damion directly in the eye. “That's it. No need for he-saids or she-saids at this point. We're startin’ out fresh. No glancin’ back over our shoulders lookin’ for a sackful of don't-matters.”
Eyeing the battle-tested Persian Gulf War veteran, Damion nodded and said, “Okay.” For the next twenty minutes he brought Flora Jean up to speed on every facet of his disjointed investigation into Shan-dell's murder, including all that had happened from the time they'd left Shandell's repast until he'd left Niki's duplex that morning
.
Now as he sat in the wobbly chair that CJ's late Uncle Ike, the man who'd taught CJ the bail-bonding business, had reduced three inches in height by sawing off the legs so that any prospective client would be forced to look up at him, Damion had the sense that he was about to learn a few much-needed investigative lessons.
Adjusting herself in her chair, Flora Jean said, “So now that you've painted me the big picture, sugar, whatta you propose doin’? I'll give you my take soon enough, but first I want yours.”
Damion eased back in his seat and thought for several seconds before answering. “Since Niki's working on that Connie Eastland angle, I'd say we head back up to CSU and run down Jackie Wood-son.” He eyed Flora Jean tentatively, uncertain of the correctness of his answer.
Flora Jean nodded and cleared her throat. “Reasonable but unnecessary. At least for the moment. From what you've said about what you saw in those game tapes, Jackie's not goin’ anywhere. Nobody's come after him so far. I'm guessin’ he may feel a little pinched but not painfully uncomfortable. And since somebody with muscle, Asalon more than likely, owns his butt, I'm thinkin’ your friend Happy Jack Woodson is feelin’ real protected. He'll be there when we need him. And so will Coach Haroldson. As for Dr. Phillips and Garrett Asalon, they've both got too much at stake to run.”
“So what do you say we do first?”
“We go back and look under a rock I didn't turn over completely the first time.”
The look of puzzlement on Damion's face, a look that said, But I've checked out everything already, caused Flora Jean to smile. “You're lookin’ a little confused, there, sugar. I know you've been tryin’ real hard, but I got a few more miles on these treads of mine than you've got on yours. Let me wipe your confusion away. First off we're gonna pay a visit to somebody who lost a friend, somebody just like you. That pothead reporter I told you about, Wordell Epps. He knows more than he told me the other day when I talked to him—bet on it. Besides, I saw him hangin’ around the cemetery during the interment ceremony. Slouched all down in the front seat of his car thinkin’ that somehow he was invisible. Bad way to make a funeral showing, especially around an overly suspicious former intelligence op like me. So we talk to him first, and then we head up to Fort Collins to try and run down Jackie and Sandy.”