Citycide

by Gary Hardwick

  As he pushed the limits of propriety, the fears of many began to take shape. He wasn’t ready, just a poseur, a little man in a big body with no real ardor to propel him. As one black reporter put it, he was “all hip and no hop.”

  “Your wife’s here, sir,” said his assistant on his phone’s intercom.

  “Send her in,” said Patterson. He turned off the video game and then looked over to see Przybylski showing his wife into the office.

  Taisha Rucker-Patterson was a bold and striking woman. In her heels, she was close to her husband’s height. Her face was still high school pretty and she prided herself on dressing to impress. Her ample breasts formed the top of her hourglass figure and her narrow waist flared into round, post-baby hips, finished with long legs. She was what her husband called a dime piece, slang for a “ten.”

  Even after knowing her so long, she still made Patterson catch his breath when he saw her. He’d met her in college. She was a scholarship student and a cheerleader, two years his junior, a girl that every man on campus wanted.

  He’d fought for her and in the end it was worth it. They’d fallen in love and had some great times in school and were married soon after graduation. Two kids and a mayor’s race later, she was still with him and still just as lovely.

  Patterson had hoped that Taisha would be a good politician’s wife, that she would be like his mother, who looked upon his father’s dalliances as pathetic attempts to stay young but had no bearing on his love and devotion to family.

  But Taisha was a jealous, territorial woman who would literally piss a circle around him wherever they went. Once, when he talked too long to a cute little campaign worker, Taisha had showed up at the girl’s job at a shoe store, asked for her and then made her jump through hoops for an hour. And when she was done, Taisha had bought nothing.

  Patterson indulged his appetites but she policed them. It was a problem they had managed to keep under control, until the day he saw Valerie Weeks.

  Weeks was one of those women who exuded sexuality. She was part black, Asian and Latino with sensuous lips, a husky voice and an ass that it seemed no garment could control. Valerie Weeks literally left a trail of fire behind her everywhere she went.

  Weeks was so alluring, that he had thrown all of his caution to the wind and propositioned her. When the stuck- up little bitch refused, Patterson tried to force her and it blew up in his face.

  An embarrassing lawsuit followed but the Zulu had handled her good. When his lawyer was finished, everyone in Detroit thought he had been sexually harassed. Weeks had settled for almost nothing and quietly left city service for a local business.

  “Do you have to keep that little creep around? He could scare small children,” said Taisha after Przybylski was out of the room.

  “That little creep gave me this city,” said Patterson.

  “I don’t like him. He’s cold and sneaky and he doesn’t make a sound when he walks, like a poisonous cat.”

  “What can I do for you, dear?” asked Patterson impatiently.

  “Don’t you know?” she said as she walked over to the bar he kept to one side of the room.

  “I’m not in the mood for games, Taisha.”

  “That’s a first,” she said pouring some Jack Daniels in a glass and adding ice. “I hear you like games.” She thrust out her hip a little and the fabric of her dress showed the curve of her behind.

  “If you came here to give me some, I’ll take it,” Patterson smiled. “I assume I’m out of the dog house now.”

  “Not hardly,” said Taisha, and she walked back to him holding the drink.

  “You didn’t come here to drink, did you? And it’s too early for that anyway.”

  “Oh, this isn’t for me,” said Taisha.

  “What hell are you talking about, woman?” said Patterson, his voice rising.

  “Your little ghetto bitch is dead,” said Taisha, and she put the drink on his desk. “Someone blew her goddamned head off.” She smiled at him a little and there was enough evil in it to stop a man’s heart.

  Patterson blinked and then processed this information. He sat down in his chair slowly, ignoring the drink.

  “When?” he asked trying to sound casual about it.

  “Yesterday. It was in the papers but no one has made the connection—yet.”

  “They won’t,” he said.

  “What city do you live in? We got one newspaper with two names but every reporter on it is a goddamned bloodhound. Remember the Super Bowl?”

  Patterson had hosted a Super Bowl party at Manoogian Mansion and there had been some professional talent brought in for the men. Somehow a reporter had found out and wrote a scathing story about excess and responsibility that had featured him in a cartoon wearing a lampshade on his head in the middle of several strippers, The caption had read: “i love a political party!”

  “This is unfortunate but I’m not going to worry about it,” said Patterson. He started to take a gulp of his drink but then set it back down. “I got no connection to her.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Taisha. “Otherwise, I’d be worried about someone shooting you.”

  “You know, it would be nice to show some compassion in a situation like this,” he said. “You’re still my wife, right?”

  “Compassion? I didn’t know the woman and considering the circumstance in which she entered out lives, I’m kinda happy about the way she left it.”

  “I was talking about me,” said Patterson. “How about some empathy for your goddamned husband?”

  “That’s for people who don’t know any better, for babies and homeless people. Not for you.”

  Taisha was a very deep well as his mother used to say about her. She was obviously still very mad at him. Taisha walked over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Try to make it home early. The kids miss you,” she said.

  Taisha walked out of the office and shut the door and Patterson was reminded that at the worst of times, a mayor always governs alone.

  He thought about the news his wife brought for a long while. It was a bad situation that could only get worse if he didn’t take some kind of action and he was not one to sit around and let trouble spread on his watch. He hit his intercom button.

  “Send Don in here,” he said.

  Moments later, Przybylski entered with a concerned look.

  “What did the Queen of Mean want?” he asked.

  “To punish me, as usual,” said Patterson.

  “What is it now?” asked Przybylski with irritation. “She tired of not working and being waited on hand and foot?”

  “I may need you to visit the Chief. Hopefully I won’t, but if I do, I’ll need some finesse about it.”

  “Always,” said Przybylski. “But why would I need to see Tony Hill?”

  6

  BURNT OFFERINGS

  Beyond the stink of fire, Danny smelled something rotten. Murder and fires were common in a big city but what were the odds that a murdered person’s apartment would burn days after that person was killed? Not very good, he thought as he listened to the arson detective give his account of how he thought the fire had started.

  The building was evacuated and the tenants lined the street, looking up in shock, fear and irritation.

  Erik had a group of them and was taking statements with a young arson officer. A well-dressed middle-aged man nearby yelled in a foreign language into his cell phone. The owner, Danny thought absently.

  A crowd of non-tenants had gathered as the firemen put out the last of the flames. Danny watched the people, looking for a suspicious face. Sometimes these firebugs like to watch. But he had a feeling that this wasn’t the act of some sick person but a man with a specific purpose—to hide evidence.

  So far, all they knew was Rashindah Watson lived alone. By all accounts, she was a quiet, good neighbor who almost never brought men or trouble home.

  “Started with the sofa or curtains,” said Roger Deetry, the lead arson cop. “Neighbor
s say she hadn’t been home all day. Also, she didn’t smoke.”

  “How about an intruder?” asked Danny. “He breaks in, sets the fire, then leaves.”

  “Possible. We had a firebug working this area a while ago. We caught the bastard but he got sprung by Reverend Ruth because he was only sixteen.”

  Reverend Ruth was a local celebrity, an ordained minister with a law degree who specialized in juvenile cases.

  “Check on your firebug anyway, maybe he was hired to do this.”

  “Okay,” said Roger. “But who would do that?”

  “The girl that owns the unit was murdered,” said Danny.

  “Holy shit,” said Roger.

  Danny liked Roger. He didn’t even think about the link between the two crimes. He immediately connected them.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Danny.

  Roger headed to the building and Danny followed. As he did, Danny noticed one of the tenants in the group being questioned move away from the others. She was a thin woman, about twenty-five or so. About Rashindah’s age, Danny thought. As he got closer to the building, he saw the woman slip back into the general crowd and begin to move away.

  “I’ll be there in minute,” Danny said to Roger and then he moved to intercept the woman. He cut her off just as she reached the back of the crowd.

  “Got something better to do?” asked Danny, flashing his badge.

  “Maybe,” said the woman. She showed no fear or shock. A pro, Danny thought.

  “My man back there needs to take your statement, ask you a few questions about this fire,” said Danny. “Why are you running?”

  “You fucking with me with that voice?” asked the woman. “You trying to talk the native language or some shit?”

  “Answer my question,” said Danny. He had a hard look on his face. The woman judged him for a moment, wondering if he was real, a man who was from the neighborhood or just some smartass cop.

  “You blacker than Obama, nigga,” she said finally and then she laughed.

  “What’s your name?” asked Danny.

  “Shera,” she said, pronouncing it She-rah. “I was named after that cartoon, goddess of power and shit. My moms was a comic book freak.”

  “Do you know the girl whose place burned, Shera?” asked Danny ignoring the digression.

  “Yeah, I know the bitch. Don’t like her,” said Shera. “Might as well know that right now. But don’t be thinking I did this shit. I’d smack her silly if she fucked with me but I wouldn’t burn down her crib. That’s evil.”

  Since Shera was talking about the victim in the present tense, Danny let go of any deep suspicion. Now he just needed to see what else Shera knew.

  “So why’d you try to run, then?” asked Danny.

  “I got a rep around here,” said Shera. “Don’t want nobody to think I cooperate with the Po-Po.”

  Danny had heard many nicknames for the police: the boys, John Law and Five-O, but the only one he hated was Po-Po.

  “Okay,” said Danny. “Why don’t you like Rashindah?”

  Shera broke eye contact and in the instant, Danny knew something was wrong. It wasn’t a reason decent folk talked about.

  “She take your man or were you two in business together?” asked Danny trying to push her buttons.

  “Shit, that bitch ain’t take no man from me,” said Shera defiantly.

  “You know, I’m getting tired of you sliding by my questions.“

  He contemplated telling her Rashindah was dead but that would make her dummy up completely. Murder scared the shit out of everybody and Shera just needed a little push.

  “You wanna be big with the people around here, then cool, I’ll take you back downtown with me. Everybody’s memory gets a lot better there.”

  “Fuck it,” said Shera. “She don’t mean nothing to me. She was moving some smoke for me at the place she works. She got greedy, so I fired the bitch.”

  Shera had shifted back on her feet and Danny knew she was lying. If a dealer copped to selling weed, then they were selling a lot more.

  Shera didn’t look like a hard case. She was well-dressed and had an immaculate hairdo, long and silky, it was a high-class weave.

  You could tell a lot about black women from their hair. Shera’s was about a hundred or two for the hair and another hundred to put it in. Danny thought Shera had to have some cash to keep that hair looking so good. Weed didn’t cover it and Shera knew no self-respecting cop would ever bust a woman for selling marijuana.

  She was good-looking enough to be screwing a dealer or maybe a couple of them, Danny thought. Maybe Shera got a discount on the drugs or they were traded straight up for sex.

  “All right,” said Danny. “I’m not interested in that. Does she have a man she hangs out with here?”

  “Naw, ‘Shindah’s too smart to let men know where she live. But there was one guy who came here a couple of times, dark, real nice looking.”

  “You talk to him?” asked Danny.

  “Shit, I gave that nigga my number but he never called.”

  “Did he give you his name or say anything you can remember?”

  “He did say his name but I forgot it. Something with a ‘K’ I think. But he didn’t stop to talk, just took the number and kept it moving.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “No,” said Shera. “Shindah under arrest for this? She probably did it herself, probably got insurance.”

  “No, she’s not in custody,” said Danny. “Thanks for your help. Now, you can curse me out then go back to your people with respect.”

  Shera smiled then yelled “Screw you,” so that a few people turned around. She walked back to the other tenants. One of them high-fived her.

  Danny went inside the building. Rashindah lived on the second floor of the three-story building. Her place was a mess. Everything was black and burned.

  Danny could tell that the apartment had been tossed before it was burned. But what had they been looking for?

  “Looks like he searched the place before he set it,” said Erik from behind Danny.

  “Searching for what?” asked Danny. “He took her purse and we assumed he wanted her cell phone. But if he did this, then whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it in the purse.”

  “Unis are finishing the statements,” said Erik. “Who was that girl you talked to?”

  “Our victim’s ex-business partner. They sold drugs, probably at that strip club and split the proceeds. And she had a friend who came here a few times.”

  “Boyfriend?” asked Erik.

  “No, he was gay,” said Danny. “But the girl I talked to didn’t know that.”

  “Okay,” said Erik. “Then how do you know he was?”

  “She told me she was feeling him and he took her number but he didn’t even look at it. And then, he left without even trying to find out if she had a baby, a man or anything. A woman that nice looking? A man tries to see how hard it’s gonna be to get some and what the consequences are. He didn’t.”

  “Don’t necessarily mean the man’s a fag,” said Erik.

  “And how often do you let a pussy opportunity go by?” Danny asked.

  “You got a point,” said Erik. “So we’re looking for a gay man without a criminal record who pisses his pants at the sight of a gun. Don’t suppose he had a name.”

  “He did but she didn’t remember it. She said maybe it started with a ‘K.’”

  “That’s no help.”

  “You notice there’s no computer here, no box, no blank CD’s, DVD’s not even a flashdrive,” said Danny.

  “Who could tell in this mess?” said Erik.

  “If she didn’t have a computer,” said Danny, “then maybe she did everything from her phone. They make them like goddamned computers now.”

  “We’re checking all the phone companies for her account,” said Erik.

  “We’d appreciate Homicide not stomping through our crime scene,” said a woman’s voice fro
m behind them.

  Danny turned to see a hefty white female forensic officer and her team. She did not look happy.

  “Lead arson cleared us,” said Danny. “We’re from the SCU.”

  “And in case you haven’t noticed, there was a little fire in here that burned all the evidence to hell,” said Erik. “What kind of magic are you gonna do to find anything?”

  Danny smiled a little. He loved it when his partner took other people apart.

  “If you find any evidence of a computer or any computer materials, please let us know,” said Danny. He handed the tech his card.

  Danny and Erik went outside where some of the tenants were being allowed to return.

  “I guess we should pay a visit to that strip club,” said Danny. “We still don’t have a lot on the witness.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” said Erik. “Let’s hope nobody has clothes on.”

  Danny and Erik left as the arson’s forensic team got to work. They got into their car and started off. Danny was hoping that something would lead them to their witness before the killer found him.

  7

  iDT

  Jangle Kingston pulled up his truck to the vacant lot. He got out and then looked for the object. Sure enough, there was a big rock with a small red strip on it. Under the rock was his dope, the same brown bundle with the twine wrapped around it. Inside, he knew what he’d find, three neatly wrapped packs of coke and one of heroin.

  His supplier always came correct, always on time and the product was good. This supplier was raising the game to a whole new level.

  And no one knew who he was.

  The people in the game called him iDT because he sent text messages from unlisted accounts. The messages were always innocent, giving a cop nothing he could use but to a dealer, it was clear instruction.

  The name was clear. The “i” was for his tech-savvy proclivities and DT stood for Detroit Thug. But he only dealt on the east side of Detroit for some reason. The west was still wide open and they had barely heard of the man. Whoever he was, he was a damned genius, Jangle thought.