“Toni was incredibly special,” Nelson Monroe, Director of The Broadway Shelter of Denver, told reporters. Visibly shaken by her death, he worked overtime to maintain his composure. “She . . . uh,” his voice cracked, “worked alongside me and my staff at the Shelter two, sometimes three days a week. Toni was a caring, generous person and something like this shouldn’t happen to someone like her.” He walked away, shaking his head. “It’s a shame. It’s terrible.”
Deb Byers gravely finished up her report. “Police are investigating all leads in this case, and are asking anyone who might have seen or heard anything to call the number at the bottom of your screen immediately.”
Fatema hadn’t realized she was crying. Tears streamed down her face, and she struggled to catch her breath. Disbelief wrestled with the shock of seeing Toni’s picture and hearing her name on the news in the same sentence with the word “killed.” Who would do—why?
Her phone rang and she picked it up without thinking. “Hello?” she sobbed.
It was Drew. “Did you see the news?” he asked solemnly.
Fatema couldn’t speak, but she didn’t need to.
“Do I need to come over there?” he asked tenderly.
Fatema didn’t answer, but she needed him, and he knew it.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
King of Kings
Never let them see you sweat.
Or mourn.
Or covet something you can no longer have.
Lucas Shaw sat in the study of his palatial Cherry Hills home, staring blankly at the fifty-two-inch plasma television mounted on the wall, watching the story unfold about the death of a young woman.
“Becoming Mayor is the first step, Lucas,” his father-in-law told him a year ago after he’d won his campaign for the Mayor of Denver. “The senate is calling out to you, son, and I say you need to consider answering the call.”
It was an idea he relished. One that was spoonfed to him by a man who only expected the best for his daughter because the best was what she was accustomed to. Senator Lucas Shaw was out there waiting for Mayor Shaw to catch up to him, and Lucas had been riding that locomotive to the ultimate prize for the last fifteen years of his career, allowing no one or anything to hinder his progress, until she came along.
His eyes glistened with tears as one news story melted into another, but all he could see was her face, smiling back at him. He heard her laughter in his ears, felt her touch on his skin, and tasted her in his mouth. Until she’d come along, Lucas had never known the truth of loving a woman, or being loved by one. He’d never yearned so deeply for anyone’s company, or the sound of another person’s voice. Toni had come into his life and threatened to derail him and everything he’d worked so hard to achieve, without even trying.
He closed his eyes and recalled the last time they were intimate. Lucas fought to reject this vision, but it wouldn’t let him. She was such a beautiful woman; beautiful in a natural, quiet and delicate way.
He took a deep breath, and slowly released it.
“Nothing about us should work,” she had said quietly, lying naked on top of him. He was inside her, rigid and long, wet with her juices. Making love to her was a thing to be savored and unrushed.
Her long, dark hair hung past her face and brushed lightly against his skin. Toni’s caramel complexion glistened with perspiration, and her dark, wide eyes bore into his.
“Everything about us works,” he assured her, gently rubbing his fingers along her spine, and down to the curve of her plump behind.
Toni arched her back then gazed back at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
“You’re a married man, Mr. Mayor. And that doesn’t work.”
He pulled her to him, and filled her mouth with his tongue, then rolled her over, and braced himself over her. “I work hard for you,” he insisted. “I will always work hard for you.”
Lucas knelt between her thighs and took hold of her hips. He moved down and kissed the space between her breasts, then gobbled up one nipple, and then the other. Toni rolled her hips against him, and moaned her pleasure.
The best hotels.
The best restaurants.
The best . . . the best . . . the best.
She was his delicious secret.
She helped him to maintain sanity in an insane world.
She gave him peace, where there was none.
She loved him for who he wasn’t, more than for who he was.
And then she dared to take it all away from him.
“I don’t even know you anymore, Lucas. You’re crazy, and I can’t believe I ever fell for a man like you.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? A man like me?”
“I’ve seen a side of you that—scares me, worries me—that doesn’t make sense to me. You’ll do anything to get what you want, and it doesn’t matter who you hurt in the process. Does it?”
He had no answer to give, and she didn’t wait around for one.
Lucas dried his eyes, and turned off the television. As if on cue, his wife knocked lightly on the door before opening it. “Don’t forget we have to be at the Feldmans’ at seven-thirty. It’s six-thirty now, Lucas,” she informed him, then left as abruptly as she’d come in.
He sighed, surprisingly relieved, yet brokenhearted. The thought of living without her, knowing she was living in the same city, and working in the same building as he was, and knowing that he couldn’t have her, had been incomprehensible. Lucas guessed the old adage really did hold some solace after all. He couldn’t have her, and now, no one else could either. Unfortunately, he found comfort in that.
Invisible
The cops reminded him of roaches, swarming around the place where they found that woman. Damn, he hated cops. But then, they didn’t care much for him either, he thought, smirking. Lazarus watched from a distance, failing to blend in with the crowd, but managing to be a part of them anyway. That spot down there was his favorite place at night, next to the river because the sound of the water would lull him to sleep.
Lazarus killed a man and his little girl not far from here years ago when he was a young man. Back then, he drank too much when he drove, and smashed up his 1980 Thunderbird sedan and those people right along with it. He’d always thought it a shame that he managed to walk away. Spent plenty of time in prison, though, but he shouldn’t have been the one to live.
He wondered sometimes if he had kids of his own. Lazarus couldn’t remember children, at least none that looked like him anyway. His memory was sketchy at best, though, filled with blank and empty spots; he’d lost track of time, and eventually figured that time had probably lost track of him too, so him and time were even as far as he was concerned.
Eventually, the cold started getting to him and Lazarus knew he needed to walk before his joints grew stiff. Another reminder that he’d been living out here too long. Lazarus was fifty-nine or sixty. He wasn’t sure which, but he knew he was one or the other. He was old enough in years, but his body felt like it was even older.
He enjoyed this time of year, though. Pretty Christmas lights hung overhead, folks stood in the streets singing for no other reason than the season, and bells rang from every goddamned where. Lazarus startled some people walking ahead of him when he let out a hearty laugh. They turned and looked at him, and he looked right back, and nodded his acknowledgment. Naturally, they hurried along to try and get away from him. Had his knees not hurt so bad, he’d have hurried right along after them just enough to scare the shit out of them.
As he scuffled heavy-footed along the 16th Street Mall, people instinctively made wide paths around him. Anybody else might’ve taken it personally, but Lazarus appreciated the extra room. “Got a lotta snow for this time of year!” he said much too loudly to no one in particular. Of course he didn’t expect anyone to respond, but if someone had, he’d have ignored them. Lazarus never had been much of a conversationalist, and he didn’t care too much for people. So most of his conversa
tions were between Lazarus and himself, just in earshot of everybody else.
Everything he owned he carried in his backpack: some extra socks which didn’t match, a thin, worn coat that made a better pillow than something to keep him warm, an empty pill bottle with his real name on it. He ran out of pills a long time ago, but kept the bottle to remind him of who he’d once been. And a broken yellow crayon. He found it on the street once and kept it because—hell—he liked yellow. And he carried a key. For thirty years he’d been trying to remember what it went to. He held on to it, though, just in case.
“Got snow I say,” he muttered again. Cold seeped in through the bottom of his boots. The soles had worn thin and he needed to get another pair soon. Sometimes they gave them away at The Broadway, or he’d have to go digging around in the trash to find a pair. People were wasteful, throwing away perfectly good shit without even thinking about it, but it was all good if it meant finding a decent pair of shoes.
He was tired as hell, walking from dawn to sunset, stopping long enough to check for food where he knew people sometimes tossed it. Stopping long enough to stare at his reflection in the windows of the buildings, wondering what he must’ve looked like before he became the man he was now. Lazarus stared at the ground as he walked. People dropped things—change, something good to eat, and they walked over that shit too, because they were too busy to notice. He noticed, though. Lazarus noticed most things, and by the end of the day, he had a nice chunk of change jingling in his pocket. He stopped in a coffee shop and ordered a cup of hot coffee and a donut. Then Lazarus sat down on one of the benches, and stared up at the Christmas lights above his head.
He tried not to think about her. The police had come and picked her up early, like he knew they would. Lazarus had covered her up, nicely, though, with something to keep her warm. He’d been a hell of a man in his day, he thought proudly. Women like her practically threw themselves at him, because he was so good-looking. Too bad about what happened to her. Hell, he thought they were getting it on, which is why he let them be. If he’d known the mothafucka was killing her, he’d have done something. His mind went blank as to what. He’d have done something. If the cops knew he’d been there, they’d probably think he did it. Which is why he wasn’t trying to tell them a damn thing. They were always trying to throw his ass in jail for one reason or another. He wasn’t about to make it easy for them.
“The police can’t stand a mothafucka!” he spat, startling some woman walking past him.
The brotha cried when he walked away from her. Like his heart was broken and like he was sorry. Lazarus watched him leave, and turn one last time to look at her. He never saw Lazarus because it was so dark and Lazarus knew how to lie still so people would keep on walking and not bother him. Lazarus knew who he was though. His ass had been in the paper, and he’d seen him someplace else too, but damned if he could recall where. That woman looked familiar too. Only she looked even prettier when she wasn’t dead.
Hidden Treasure
“My father is an important diplomat. I’m sure he has half the world out looking for me.” Alina’s Russian accent was almost too thick to understand, but Ivy listened intently, hoping that she was telling the truth. “I came here to attend American university—Brown,” she continued talking in a low voice. “Have you heard of it?”
Alina was nineteen, two years older than Ivy, and she was beautiful, tall—at least five-ten, thin, with silky brown hair cut short, and crystal blue eyes. Ivy had lived in the basement of this old house for months, and she’d seen people from all over the world come and go. Most of them couldn’t speak English and the few who did didn’t say much because they were afraid and confused. Alina was different, though, and she spoke like royalty. “When my father finds out what’s happened to me, he’ll have their heads. All of them.”
Across the room were two women and one man, sitting huddled together speaking in Chinese or some other Asian language. “They took my passport,” Alina continued, hardly noticing that Ivy hadn’t said a word. “There were four of us who came here to attend university, and they took all of our passports. When I protested, one of them hit me. Can you believe it? He hit me!” Her clear blue eyes clouded over and she pressed her hand against the side of her face. “I told him, my father is Ambassador Petrov, and if he finds out what you are doing to me—” Alina started to sob quietly. “What do you think they will do to us?” she finally asked Ivy.
“I don’t know,” Ivy shrugged. Alina had the benefit of being a diplomat’s daughter, but Ivy was no one’s daughter. She’d run away from home two years ago. Her mother had been a heroin addict and her father, whom she barely knew, had another family altogether and wanted nothing to do with her. Someone had offered her a ride once, and she made the mistake of taking it. She never knew their names, and the faces were always different. But Ivy was a commodity. She’d heard them call her that once, and she was a hot ticket on the Internet. They’d made her strip down to her bra and panties at the first place they stopped, made her swallow a handful of pills and took her picture. Not long after that, the men started coming and doing terrible things to her and there was nothing she could do to stop them. That’s what they did to her. But she didn’t tell Alina because her rich father might be able to save her and there was no sense worrying her needlessly.
Since Ivy had been in this place, though, she’d been pretty well taken care of. They’d starved her before, but here, she had plenty to eat, and the men hadn’t come at all. But she wasn’t allowed to leave. The people here were nicer than the rest, but it was still a prison and Ivy wanted her freedom more than anything.
“If she’d have gone for help, the police should’ve been here by now,” Alina’s voice quivered. “Don’t you think? Maybe she’s one of them. I think she might have been.”
The night before, a pretty black woman had crept down the stairs and seen Ivy and Alina in the basement chained to the radiator by the ankles. She’d gasped at the sight of them, and started to speak, but the sound of voices came from somewhere in the house, and the woman ran away.
“I don’t think she’s one of them,” Ivy whispered. “She didn’t look like somebody who’d do this to us.”
“She should have gone to the police, then. And she should have told them where we were and—”
Alina stopped speaking when she heard the door at the top of the stairs open. Heavy footsteps slowly descended down the stairs. Everyone in the room stared at the man as he approached Alina and Ivy and stood between them. He dropped a newspaper on the floor and without saying a word, left as abruptly as he came.
After he closed the door behind him, Ivy tentatively reached across the floor and picked up the paper. On the front page was a picture of the woman they’d seen the other night. She wouldn’t be going to the police after all. Hope sank like a ship in Ivy’s stomach, as she covered her mouth with her hand and stifled a cry.
Denver Woman Found Murdered
Ivy looked at Alina, who knew instinctively that no one would be coming to their rescue today.
The Gathering
After the funeral, family and friends gathered at the house where Toni grew up. Esther and Thomas Robbins were gracious people despite the tragic loss of their oldest daughter. Everyone ate and drank and reminisced about Toni, but Fatema didn’t have much of an appetite. Since Fatema moved to Denver from Alexandria, Virginia to attend college, the Robbinses practically had become family, and Toni was as much her sister as her real sisters were back home. They’d grown apart these past few years for different reasons and in different directions.
Toni majored in sociology, but ended up working in the planning division for the city. She’d never gotten married or had children, but she was the one who loved the idea. Between the two of them, they both figured she’d be the first to settle down, but the task fell in Fatema’s lap to everyone’s surprise. They drifted apart after Fatema and Drew got married, but Toni had been her maid of honor, and she had been slated to be godmomma
too, if Fatema had given into Drew’s whim to start having babies right away.
The old Park Hill home, was still the most warm and inviting place she’d ever known. The Robbinses were stuck in an eighties time warp, with their decor. The pink and sea foam green striped wallpaper and that atrocious rose-colored carpet made her smile, recalling how wonderful it was that they’d left well enough alone. Fatema fought back tears the way she’d been doing all afternoon, when Tracy, Toni’s younger sister, sat down beside her on the loveseat in the family room.
“It never ceases to amaze me how anybody could have an appetite after a funeral,” she said, grabbing hold to Fatema’s hand. “I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.”
Tracy was five years younger than Fatema and Toni, and when she was a kid, Fatema couldn’t stand her. Thank goodness they grew up. Tracy was a younger version of her sister, just more random. She wasn’t as refined as Toni, choosing to wear sarongs, or tattered jeans, and pulling her natural hair back into a puff. She was as beautiful as her sister, though. Toni had been the shorter of the two, more petite, and Tracy was dangerously curvy. If she wasn’t careful, she could easily cause a traffic accident.
“She called me about two months ago.” Fatema swallowed hard. “Left me a message, and I never called her back. I kept meaning to, but—”
Tracy looked at her with tears in her eyes. “Shame on you.”
Fatema squeezed her hand, and smiled weakly. “I know. I suck.”
Tracy managed to laugh. “I always thought so.”
This time, Fatema laughed. “You never did like me.”
“You’re like my sister, Fat Ema,” she quipped. “And I didn’t like her much either.”
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