Cold Flash

by Carrie H. Johnson

  When I got home, I pulled into the driveway and shut the car off. I sat in the car, thinking about the feat I had accomplished. Who would think at fifty years old I would learn how to swim, and not only in a swimming pool but in a damn river? The Schuylkill, nonetheless. That was death for sure when I was a kid. I shook my head and smiled to myself. Not to be cocky—still, the event loomed. I grabbed my gym bag from the passenger seat, put my Black Dog cap on my head, picked up my teacup from the cup holder, and got out.

  I fumbled with the keys at the door, unable to isolate the house key with my available hand. I put my gym bag down and pushed the door open. I pushed my gym bag inside and pulled the door closed with my foot, hoping not to wake anyone on this Saturday morning. Some quiet time before the ruckus. I stood with my back against the door and listened to make sure the silence was still golden. I leaned forward to pick up my gym bag.

  The force of the door opening sent me tumbling forward, stopped by the wall jutting out next to the staircase. I flipped over and rolled to a standing position.

  “Police. Freeze,” a young, rookyish-looking police officer yelled, his arms stretched out and pointing a gun at me.

  “Really?” I said weakly, relieved. Dizzy from the tumble, I leaned against the wall for support.

  The pitter-patter of bare feet across the floor and Rose, Helen, Travis, and Nareece were at the top of the stairs, gawking at about a dozen police officers aiming guns up at them.

  I raised my arms to stop everyone’s action. “What the hell is going on here?” I said.

  One of the officers grabbed my arms and pushed me to the floor. I did not struggle. Too many fingers on too many guns when it only takes one who thinks it will be their claim to fame, or worse, initiation into the mightier-than-thou club; this from a fellow officer, even.

  “Someone please explain why you broke into my house,” I said loud enough for the neighborhood to hear. “Where is the warrant?”

  “Let her up and take the cuffs off,” Zoila said, strolling in with an outstretched hand holding a paper.

  When my wrists were freed, I got up and took the paper from her. I looked to the top of the stairs to see Nareece, the twins, and Travis standing like statues, with their eyes popping out and mouths hanging open. I assured them the police made a mistake and sent them back to bed.

  “You live here?”

  “What do you mean, do I live here? Yeah, I live here.”

  She almost registered embarrassment, then her demeanor changed. “We had a tip Elijah Griffin entered this residence. He is the brother of Ward Griffin, who runs Berg Nation.” She cocked her head to the side and smiled.

  I cocked my head to the left and didn’t smile. “Being the brother of a drug dealer and murderer doesn’t make Elijah a criminal.”

  “His brother is wanted for the murder of Officer Michael Aubry and Devon Taylor. He was seen with his brother a few days ago. We want him for questioning.” She stepped farther in and stretched her neck to look around. “Muriel. This is your home?”

  “This is my home? This is my home? Yes, this is my home.” I took a deep breath to smooth my ruffled feathers.

  “Pretty nice place,” she said, brushing past me, strolling through the den to the kitchen. I followed on her heels. “This is not listed as your home address, rather Esther and Elliot Washington’s residence. I thought you lived in Northeast.” She pulled out a stool and sat at the island counter.

  I took a seat across from her. With every ounce of will I could muster to control my temper, I said, “You bust through my front door without even the courtesy of a phone call and you want to sit at my kitchen counter and question me?”

  “Like I said, I received incorrect information.” She perused the kitchen and settled on me. “I’m doing my job, Muriel. The intense emotions are soaring when one of our own is murdered. I’m sorry I didn’t inquire further. Who are Esther and Elliot Washington?”

  “My parents.”

  “I see. Is Elijah Griffin here?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he? Has he been here or stayed here recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “He’s a friend of my son’s. He was homeless and needed a place to stay until he got his act together. He’s trying to break away from his brother, find a new life. We talked about this already.”

  “I’d like to talk to your son.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Officer Petro will call him, so we can continue our conversation,” she said, nodding toward the officer to leave his position at the kitchen entrance.

  “What is going on here, exactly? You’re treating me like I’m a suspect or someone harboring a fugitive or something. I’m law enforcement, remember?”

  “And I truly am sorry that we barged into your house, like I said. If I had known, none of this would be happening this way, but since we’re here, we might as well straighten it all out now rather than make your family come down to headquarters to answer questions.”

  Travis entered the kitchen in front of Officer Petro. He took a seat beside me.

  “Travis, I’m Detective Burgan of the Mobile Street Crimes Unit. I understand that you are friends with Elijah Griffin, is that right?”

  Travis nodded, focusing on me.

  “Son. Your mother is here only as a courtesy.”

  He kept his gaze on me.

  “Zoila. If neither I nor my son is under arrest, I would like you to leave. Elijah’s whereabouts are unknown. If you would like to ask us more questions, we’d be happy to come down to headquarters at some point and answer them.” I looked at the clock on the wall above the sink. “I’m going to be late for work so, if you please.” I stood. Travis stood with me.

  Zoila stayed seated for longer than I would have thought, maybe trying to make some kind of point that she controlled the situation.

  “Muriel, I thought we could put this all away now, friendly-like, since we are fellow workers and share the same desire to catch the bad guy.”

  “We do, but apparently we prefer different methods.”

  She stood and stared. I stared back, in an exaggerated kind of way.

  As soon as the house cleared of police, I was on Travis. “Where is Elijah?”

  “He didn’t come back last night. Went to hang out with some friends, he said, and then didn’t come back.”

  “Do you know if he’s been in contact with his brother at all?”

  “Why would he, after Ward said he’d kill Elijah if he came back around?”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t make it so,” I mumbled to myself.

  On the drive to the lab, I called Dulcey. She was being discharged today.

  Hamp answered her phone. Before I could say anything he said, “Hold on.”

  Calvin got on.

  “I’m moving Dulcey and Hampton to a place in Fort Washington. They’ll be comfortable and safe there. You and your partner . . . You trust him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meet me at my place tonight after work. There’s some things going on you and your partner should know about.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Now’s not the time. Please come to the club later.”

  A few seconds passed while we listened to the hum of silence in the receiver. I heard footsteps, and other hospital noises—muted voices, phones ringing, doctors being paged.

  “Muriel, I never meant to hurt you. This might not be the time, but I would give anything to begin again. I am so sorry that the situation . . .”

  “We’ll stop by after work. I gotta go,” I said, and hung up.

  “Good morning, Officer Mabley,” Parker chirped as I rushed by his cubicle. “Fran’s in the lieutenant’s office. They’re waiting on you.”

  “Thanks, Parker,” I said, then rushed down the hallway to the lieutenant’s office.

  “I understand you had uninvited guests this morning,” Pacini said.

  “Uninv
ited is right. I wasn’t given a clear explanation about why, either.”

  “It seems you have a houseguest that the narcotics and gang units have had under surveillance. Your guest was in direct contact with Ward Griffin and a member of a Mexican cartel—this guy, Montero Reyes.” He pushed a photograph across his desk, of Griffin, Reyes, and Elijah. “We have more than our share of work. There were 280 murders in the city last year, of which eighty-five percent involved firearms. Corruption in the narcotics division has resulted in 167 overturned convictions so far. I am not looking for any overturned convictions because we did not do our jobs.”

  I was not feeling listening to the lieutenant’s rantings.

  “Lieutenant, Elijah is a good kid. He’s staying with me because he wants to stay away from his brother and Berg Nation and the whole damn scene. His brother threatened to kill him if he ever went back.”

  “Well, it looks like he went back. That picture was taken two days ago. All I’m saying is that you need to question this. Cut the boy loose if he’s involved and just do your job. Don’t get caught up in this damn war. The DEA, FBI, all are out for blood to take this junk off the streets and avenge the death of one of our own.”

  It was almost 5:30 by the time Fran and I left the lab to go to Calvin’s Place. The traffic was at the height of rush hour, so moving was slow on Interstate 76.

  We turned left on Haverford and into the back parking area at 6:38; more than an hour to make a twenty-minute drive. Calvin’s Mercedes was the only other car in the lot, though usually at this hour the dinner crowd would be here opting for the best fried chicken wings in Philly.

  As I stepped out of the car to the other side where Fran waited for me, I said, “I’m saying that what’s going on in the department now is only because it has gone unchecked for so long. I don’t even want to think about all these kids and adults dying, and it doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or poor, the heroin mixed with fentanyl does not discriminate.”

  Fran walked a few steps ahead of me. “It’s never going to end. I mean, folks are going to use illegal drugs until the end of time. That said, if sellers can make more money from cutting the goods with whatever, it’s going to happen. Always has, always will.”

  “So what are you saying? We can’t just stop . . .”

  The explosion sent us both flying. I lifted my head to see the building engulfed in flames and Fran unconscious a few feet away before I passed out.

  CHAPTER 21

  My eyes burned with the heat from the flames pouring out of the first-floor windows. I raised my arm to block the heat from my face. When I lifted my head and tried to move, a spinning sensation forced me to lie back and cover my ears to lessen the ringing. I looked to both sides of the lot, trying to remember what happened. Elijah appeared at the street end of the lot. Panic surged when I located Fran, who was motionless, his face pressed into the gravel. I sat up, and using my heels and arms, pulled myself over to him. I reached out to him. Fran rolled over and began coughing.

  Another smaller explosion. “Calvin.” The word scorched my throat and drowned in the noise of firetrucks arriving. Then Elijah was there helping me and Fran up.

  “Is anybody else in the building?” a fireman asked.

  “Calvin Bernard,” I said.

  The fireman yelled to four other firemen, who put on their oxygen masks and charged up the stairs and into the building, defying the flames. Two of the firemen emerged a few minutes later. A few more minutes passed before the other two emerged carrying Calvin.

  “He’s barely breathing,” one of the firemen said.

  They laid him on a gurney. An EMT climbed on top of him and began chest compressions. Another attendant wheeled the gurney to the back of an ambulance and pushed it inside. I climbed in with them.

  The siren sounded far away and dreamlike. One attendant put pressure on a gunshot wound in Calvin’s left chest while the other covered his face with an oxygen mask and gave him a shot.

  Calvin’s face, charred from the fire, appeared ghoulish. The color matched his forearms below the fold of his rolled-up sleeves. He wore a white shirt, sooty and bloodied, and creased Levis. One shoeless foot bobbled each time the EMT pressed his chest. The other foot had a two-tone loafer on it, stuck in the gurney’s frame, which kept it stationary.

  I sat on the other gurney beside him, willing him to wake up again. I swear he squeezed my hand. My imagination. I squeezed back. The irregular beep of the heart monitor became a constant whine. The attendant shut the heart monitor down and removed the clip from Calvin’s forefinger. The siren went silent as we pulled into the hospital emergency entrance.

  The attendants lowered the gurney with Calvin’s body and rolled it away. One attendant said, “He didn’t make it,” to the doctor at the door when it opened. “Gunshot wound to the chest, severe burns and smoke inhalation.”

  I jumped down from the ambulance where Fran and Elijah waited.

  We sat in Fran’s car outside the hospital of the University of Pennsylvania in silence. A thousand questions clogged my brain. My emotions would not allow me to ask them out loud.

  “Miss Mabley.”

  I put my hand up to stop Elijah from speaking. He got the message.

  My phone vibrated. Dulcey. I ignored it. She called again.

  “I’m watching the news and they’re talking about Calvin’s Place burning down.”

  “Where are you guys?” I asked.

  “At Calvin’s place out in Fort Washington. He’s not answering his cell.”

  “He’s dead, Dulcey. He’s gone,” I cried.

  “They didn’t say any of that on the news. They said everyone got out safe.”

  I sneezed. Fran handed me a tissue. I put the phone down and blew my nose. I picked it back up to hear Dulcey still talking about the news report. I waited until she quieted.

  “Calvin asked Fran and me to meet him at the club. We almost reached the door when the blast happened. They carried Calvin out. I went in the ambulance . . . we didn’t make it to the hospital in time . . . I don’t think time mattered. He died.”

  “Oh Muriel, girl, I am so sorry. I want to be with you. Where are you?”

  “We’re at the hospital. Getting ready to leave,” I said, nodding to Fran to drive off. “You two need to stay put until I call you back. Calvin’s men still standing guard?”

  “Yes. BJ, Calvin’s main man, he said they’re going to take Hamp to make his statement tomorrow, orders from Calvin. I think Calvin knew something might go down because all his men are acting like something was expected so everyone was, is, on guard. Now, the major thing is getting Hampton to the place Friday as Calvin instructed.”

  “I’ll call you later. Stay put.”

  “I love you, girl,” Dulcey said in a weepy tone.

  “I love you too.”

  I turned around to face Elijah sitting in the backseat. “Elijah. How did you happen to be at Calvin’s Place?”

  He looked away out the side window.

  “Elijah, look at me.”

  He turned his head to face me. “I had met with Mr. Bernard about working at the center. I stopped in the sub shop at the corner and then the explosion happened. I ran back and saw you and Mr. Fran. Scared the hell outta me.”

  “Does your brother run Berg Nation?”

  “Well, he’s the one that everybody goes to, listens to, takes orders from.”

  “So there’s somebody else? I mean like somebody he answers to?”

  “I think so. I mean, I’m not sure. I used to hear him talking on the phone to someone, like answering to a boss man, the way everybody else talks to him.”

  “You can’t tell us anything else?”

  “One time I saw WG talking to someone in a car on the side of the road, but I couldn’t see who it was.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A black Town Car.”

  “How come you didn’t meet with Calvin at the center?”

  “He said he had an appointme
nt and he needed to be at the club in case his appointment arrived early, so he asked me to come to Calvin’s Place.”

  “Did his appointment show up before you left?”

  “No, but I did see a guy going in when I left.”

  “What guy? What did he look like?”

  “Big, like Mr. C. I think he works for him, because he’s been to the center a few times.”

  “How long before the explosion?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “You didn’t notice anything unusual, or anybody who looked suspicious?”

  “I freaked out with the fire. I recognized your car and freaked out even more.” He whimpered. “I can’t believe Mr. Bernard is gone. Those young dudes from the center will go back to the Berg and War will beat them down.”

  “One more question. Where do you go at night? Where’d you go last night?”

  “My girl lives over in North Philly with her parents.”

  We arrived home to a quiet house. The sixty-five-inch television screen hanging on the far wall of the den like to swallow up the audience made up of the twins, Nareece, and Travis, who sat right up on it, engrossed in the news about Calvin’s Place. The twins noticed us first when a commercial came on. They ran to me, yelping like puppies.

  “Auntie, you look like you need a drink,” Helen offered as her and Rose each took a hand and led me to the couch. I fell into the seat.

  “A glass of water, please,” I said. Helen ran off.

  Elijah moved to the loveseat where Travis sat engrossed in the news report. Elijah leaned in close and whispered something to him.

  “Is Mr. Calvin all right, Auntie?” Rose said, sliding in beside me. “The news didn’t say anything about him.”