Darkness Descending: A Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mystery (The Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mysteries)

by Penny Mickelbury

  Gianna acknowledged the truth of that. “If we accept that Natasha Hilliard’s murder was specific to her and not a general attack against certain kinds of lesbians, Doms and Ags, then we have to accept that we may never know who killed her. Her best friend lives in Montreal and two ex-lovers that we know of live in San Francisco and Chicago. Lack of resources alone narrow the scope of our investigation.”

  “And suppose you don’t accept that hypothesis?”

  “Then we wait for the next murder to happen,” Gianna said, “and I like that scenario even less than the first one.”

  “Tell me what Doms and Ags are,” Davis asked, and at the look on her face, he gave her wry grin. “Good! You didn’t know, either. Now I don’t feel so...so...”

  “Old school would be the term you’re looking for.” And at the look on his face, Gianna began explaining, as best she could, what she’d learned of Doms and Ags, not as much as she wanted to know, but a little bit more than she had, the latest information coming earlier that day from Beverly Connors, a clinical psychologist and good friend who also happened to be Mimi’s former lover. And while Bev had insisted that her understanding of things might be flawed, it made sense to Gianna that young Black and Latina women, struggling to find a place in a society that marginalized them in the best of times, would adopt the some of the mannerisms of people, of men, especially those who seemed to garner some measure of respect.

  “And these days,” said Davis, “that would be the gangstas and gang-bangers.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Gianna responded.

  “Are these women as violent as the men?”

  Gianna shook her head. “Not as a rule. But, of course, there are exceptions. Some Doms and Ags mistreat their women, but it’s my understanding that is the exception rather than the rule.”

  Davis steepled his fingers and almost looked as if he, in fact, was seeking some guidance from elsewhere. “What do you want from me?”

  “Back-up for my female undercover at the Panther as soon as possible, and continued foot patrols and drive-bys outside The Snatch. And speaking of which, is Ferrell a good idea for that?”

  Davis’s answer was an evil chuckle. He picked up the newspaper off his desk and pointed to Mimi’s front page stories. “You have anything to do with this?”

  “Just my several ‘no comments’ strategically placed throughout.”

  Davis tapped the folded paper against the desk top. “That Patterson is a damn good reporter. And a tough one. I wouldn’t be Frank O’Connell right now for all the single malt in Scotland.”

  “Jesus Christ, Patterson, when are you gonna stop going after cops?”

  Mimi stared out at the rain water sloshing against the windows of the snug little U Street cafe. It was early afternoon and as dark as if it were dusk. The storm center had settled in over the mid-Atlantic coast and was, it seemed, making itself at home. Which is where Mimi wished she was instead of sitting across a table from Vice Squad Detective Ernie Binion. He shot her nasty look and tossed a wadded up napkin in her direction, though not exactly at her. It skidded across the table and she caught it before it landed on the floor.

  “When cops stop behaving like jerks and assholes and doing things that make me go after them,” Mimi said calmly and reasonably, not wanting to incite further ire. She needed him, needed the information only he could provide. Ernie was a source, a good one, and had been for many years. He also was a good cop, and he didn’t like it when cops went bad. He liked it even less when police department dirty linen was aired on the front page of the newspaper.

  “Well, I’m not gonna help you this time, so go away and leave me alone.” Ernie swallowed the last bite of his third lemon-filled Krispy Kreme, drained his coffee cup, pushed his chair back, and heaved his heavy bulk up to a standing position from which he glowered down at her, strands of his stringy blond hair escaping its ratty pony tail. He leaned toward her and anybody but Ernie she would have considered menacing. “You ever think that maybe some times you go too far?”

  “I think some times people like O’Connell go too far, and they take people like you with them. People who don’t deserve to get nailed to the same cross.”

  Ernie, Mimi was glad to see, was genuinely confused. “Me? What do you mean people like me? What have I got to do with any of this shit, Patterson?”

  “You’re connected to O’Connell, Ernie. Connected long and deep and tight and everybody knows it.”

  “We trained together, we rode together for a while, and we drank together, whored around together, but that was a long time ago. Then I got married and Frank found success.” Ernie slapped his hands together in an up and down motion. “That was it as far as him and me bein’ tight. I made detective and that’s as high as I wanted to go up the ladder, which was a good thing, ‘cause that’s as high as I was ever going up the ladder. I’m not smooth and polished like Frank, I don’t kiss ass and I don’t play politics. So here I am—on the top rung of the detective ladder, hoping and praying I don’t take a bullet or have a heart attack before I get my twenty-five years and my pension. And what you’re doing to Frank just proves I made the right choice.”

  “You mean what Frank’s doing to himself, and to you and your pal, McGillicuddy, by extension.” Ernie’s face changed and Mimi’s internal self heaved a sigh of relief. She was beginning to think that either her information was faulty, or she had badly misplayed this guy, which would mean she’d learned nothing in the years she’d known him and worked him as a source. He looked around the crowded cafe, as if noticing for the first time that it was crowded, that every table and booth was occupied, that vintage Janis Ian was playing from the sound system, that the noise from the rain driving against the plate glass windows was louder than Janis.

  The waitress made a pass with the coffee pot and Ernie sat back down when she filled his cup. “I got nothin’ to do with McGillicuddy.”

  “That’s not how I hear it, Ernie.”

  “You hear it any way other than how I’m tellin’ it to you, you’re hearin’ it wrong. Listen close: I got nothin’ at all to do with McGillicuddy, and nothin’ but memories of the past to do with Frank. Like I told you, we went separate paths some years back when he found success.”

  “The way I hear it, what he found was religion. A new kind.”

  Ernie swallowed hard and put his coffee cup down in its saucer so hard it rattled and coffee sloshed out. “Is that what this is about?”

  Mimi didn’t say anything. She’d played almost all her cards, used almost all her bait. To say any more now could be dangerous. Ernie often was a jerk and occasionally was an asshole, but he was smart, and he was a good cop, whatever that meant any more. Best thing for her to do now was play it cool. She stole a glance over her shoulder, as if concerned that they’d be seen together. That got him. “I am no part of that. Never was. You hear me, Patterson? And you better not connect me to those weirdos, I mean that.”

  Mimi put some money on the table and stood up. “I think we should go for a walk.” She grabbed her raincoat, umbrella and bag from the chair beside her and turned toward the door.

  “It’s fuckin’ rainin’ cats and dogs out there! Go for a walk?” Almost out of breath from the combined effort of standing up too fast and being angry, he grabbed her arm to stop her. “Go for a walk why? Is there somethin’ I need to know, somethin’ you haven’t told me? Play it straight, Patterson.”

  She took a step toward him. “People do strange things in the name of God these days, no matter what they call their god, and think they have not only the right but the obligation to do them. The law that you and I know about means nothing to them. But you already know all that.”

  “I don’t, I tell you!”

  “I’ve always trusted you, Ernie, and you’ve always known you could trust me. We’ve never liked each other but you’ve used me and I’ve used you and we’ve done all right by each other. But I’m telling you I know how close you were to O’Connell, McGillicuddy and Bur
gess.” That was her last card. She played it and waited and he folded.

  Now it was Ernie’s turn to look over his shoulder. “Does the chief know?”

  “You know about the Chief’s Monday morning strategy meeting that all the division chiefs and district commanders attend, right? Well, at that meeting, he ordered O’Connell to come back to his office at six o’clock that evening. While Frank was at headquarters with the chief—he probably thought he was going to get promoted or something—Eddie Davis shows up at Mid-Town command with a department locksmith and a department computer programmer and his personal staff. In half an hour, the janitor had O’Connell’s name off the office door and all his belongings in a box. What do you think, Ernie: Does the chief know?”

  “I guess we better go for that walk.”

  It was still raining steady and hard, but the wind wasn’t howling and turning umbrellas inside out and blowing buckets of water down the backs of coat collars, so foot traffic on U Street was moderate, though light for a Saturday afternoon in what was becoming a trendy neighborhood. They walked side-by-side, slowly, heads down, hands stuffed in their pockets, both hoping not to be recognized. City Hall was a couple of blocks away in one direction, the city’s gay and lesbian newspaper office a couple of blocks more in the other direction, with a subway stop that could discharge almost anybody from almost any where in the middle. Mimi rationalized that few people could distinguish both of them for what they really were. They were just a guy and girl walking in the rain on a Saturday afternoon, not a newspaper reporter and an undercover cop talking about cops at the highest level in the police department committing crimes in the name of a god created especially for them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE STREETS THAT TIME FORGOT

  By M. Montgomery Patterson

  Staff Writer

  Harley Street. Lander Street. Nobody who doesn’t

  live or work in the area would know where they are.

  The general area is Mid-Town. Both streets are in what

  the bureaucrats like to call working class neighborhoods,

  though there are more working people on and near Lander

  Street than there are on or near Harley Street. And for a

  very good reason: Most of Harley Street burned to the

  ground in the 1968 riots following the assassination of

  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Despite more than 30 years

  worth of promises and hundreds of millions of dollars

  spent and misspent since, vacant, weed-and trash-

  filled lots proliferate on Harley Street. An encampment

  of the homeless recently spawned on one of the empty

  lots, the one adjacent to the gas station that doubles

  as a betting parlor, two blocks from where 29-year old

  Natasha Hilliard was murdered a week ago.

  The people who live on Harley Street rent from

  people who live in the suburbs and who haven’t stepped

  foot on their property since those riots way back when.

  The people who own businesses on Harley Street eek

  out a meager living by charging too much money for

  sub-par goods and services to people who have too little

  money but who are willing to pay for the convenience

  of shopping close to home. There are no chain restaurants

  or stores within two square miles of Harley Street.

  Lander Street is posh in comparison. It’s closer to

  the Mid-Town commercial district, there are no vacant

  lots, and the people who live in the area are, for the most

  part, homeowners. Low and mid-level government and

  office workers who cut their grass and paint their houses

  and pay their taxes. People who don’t complain about

  the presence of two liquor stores, three carry-outs and a

  nightclub in one three-block area. People who appreciate

  the dry cleaners, grocery store, cafe, churches, day care

  centers, barber and beauty salons that make this a

  vibrant neighborhood. People who either didn’t hear

  or didn’t care to hear the cries of a 39-year old woman

  who was raped and beaten in an alley not 50 feet from

  somebody’s living room window.

  The best thing on Harley Street is The Snatch night

  club, a renovated warehouse whose owners last year

  paid more than $100,000 in various taxes to the city.

  The worst thing on Lander Street is the Pink Pussycat,

  a dilapidated structure whose owner hasn’t paid taxes

  to the city in three years. Both streets and both

  night clubs are located in the Mid-Town Command

  District of the police department. Both night clubs cater

  to homosexuals. Women were attacked within two

  blocks of both clubs two weeks ago, chosen as victims

  apparently because of their sexual orientation.

  The police department’s Hate Crimes Unit is

  investigating the murder of Natasha Hilliard and

  the rape of Jane Doe (this newspaper does not

  print the names of rape victims.) Lt Giovanna.

  Maglione, who heads the Unit, won’t say whether

  there are suspects or motives, but it is believed that

  HCU is finally getting the necessary cooperation

  from the Mid-Town police precinct, now under the

  leadership of Insp. Eddie Davis, who recently replaced

  Insp. Frank O’Connell in the wake of allegations that

  he ignored incidents in the area that could have been

  considered hate crimes. No charges have been brought

  against O’Connell and he’s made no comment.

  “How does she know the stuff she knows?”

  Eric asked what everybody was wondering and all of them, except Eric, looked toward Gianna for an answer. She knew they knew about her relationship with Mimi although Eric was the only one of them with whom she ever discussed her personal life, and that’s because they’d been discussing their personal lives with each other since their training academy days. They also knew that Gianna maintained a strict separation between her professional obligations and her personal relationship with the newspaper, though not even Eric would ever know how precarious that balance sometimes was.

  It was noon on another Sunday in the Think Tank. They all had cups of coffee and muffins or Danish or doughnuts, and they all had a newspaper with M. Montgomery Patterson’s story on the front page. Gianna had read it the night before, when Mimi brought the early edition home with her, and she, too, was impressed, both with the amount of information Mimi was able to collect, and with the way she arranged it into the kind of stories that always demanded action or reaction.

  “Reporters have sources just like cops have sources,” Gianna said, repeating what Mimi had told her on more than one occasion.

  “I wish she had one who’d tell us where to look for Natasha Hilliard’s killer,” Tim McCreedy said. “I don’t think we’ve ever worked a case where we had absolutely no leads, have we, Boss?”

  “We got leads, McCreedy,” Cassie said in her deadpan tone of voice. “We just don’t know where they are yet.”

  “Too bad Fang can’t talk,” Tim said.

  Gianna looked momentarily puzzled, then she got it, and displeasure replaced puzzlement. “You’re not supposed to still have that dog.” Cassie and Tim had fallen in love with Natasha Hilliard’s dog, a shaggy-haired mutt of indeterminate mixed heritage with a sterling personality.

  “We don’t, Boss,” Cassie quickly interjected. “The sister came and got him. Jill, the older sister.”

  Gianna looked from Tim to Cassie.

  “Honest, Boss,” Tim said, and raised his right hand. “Though I wouldn’t have minded being able to keep him.”

  “Me, too,” Cassie said, then ad
ded, “I don’t know why some stupid humans think animals are dumb. That dog knew something was wrong.”

  “Like I said, too bad he can’t talk.”

  Eric gave Tim a look. “We’re not that desperate, McCreedy.”

  “No, we’re not,” Gianna said. “So, let’s get to it. Eric?”

  “So far, everybody that we know about who knew Hilliard is accounted for at the relevant times, and we haven’t found any connection between her and any of the people at The Snatch except for casual contact, Lili Spenser being the exception. She’s been very cooperative, under the circumstances. What are the chances, her mother and her lover die the same night? Talk about a bummer.”

  There was a moment of silence, as if somebody in charge had asked for it, then Eric resumed. “There’s no hint of discord at the University. The important people in her department knew she was a lesbian and considered that no big deal, but they didn’t know about the Dom/Ag thing. The dean and the department chairman both allowed as how that could have presented a problem, but since it never came up, it was only speculation as to how they might have responded if presented with a Dr. Hilliard dressed like a dude, and blah, blah, blah. The only loose end in this whole thing is a—” He struggled to recall a name, then flipped a folder and pulled out a sheet of paper with a photograph attached. “Here it is...Stephanie Blackstone. Lot of calls from Hilliard’s home and cell phone to her. She, too, is a professor of history—European—but she’s been on sabbatical since the spring, somewhere in Europe. Everybody who knows this woman also knows we’re trying to reach her. We’ll hear something soon, tie a knot in that loose end, and then we’re officially and completely screwed.”

  Eric stood and took a bow in the midst of the cheers, jeers, whistles and cat-calls that greeted his presentation and final pronouncement. In the middle of all that, the door opened and Detective Alice Long walked in. “I’m glad to see y’all, too,” she said in her distinctive South Carolina Gullah drawl, and it was several minutes before something like order was restored. They all were genuinely glad to see Alice, who had been assigned to help the Hate Crimes unit on two previous big investigations. She was older than most of them, and more experienced, seasoned by both undercover and special ops experience. She fit in easily and worked well within the Hate Crimes structure. Alice wanted full time assignment to HCU but there was no money in the budget for that. Only if someone left could Alice come in and she wasn’t crass or cold enough to wish Cassie Ali’s injury had sidelined her permanently.