by Joy Copeland
“Oh my God! Someone’s been here!”
Panic was setting in. Could the burglar still be there? She knew she had to keep her wits about her. With eyes closed, she took a deep breath. Reason conquered her initial fear. What else had the thief taken? This was about Ray and the Shelter. Someone wanted the information on her laptop and in her briefcase. Things were clearer now. For sure Ray had been murdered. Now they were after the information she’d compiled on the Shelter. She took a quick mental inventory of what she knew to be in the briefcase and on her laptop. Even though the laptop was corporate, it held quite a bit of personal information. With a few clicks, anyone could access her personal e-mail.
“Damn,” she said, wondering what else had been taken. Whoever entered her apartment could do it again. Her apartment wasn’t safe. A chill came over her. She needed to leave immediately and get in touch with the police. In the midst of her panic, her cell phone rang. Without looking at the caller ID, she answered. “What is it, Regina?”
“Hello, Ms. Taylor.” It wasn’t Regina.
“Who is this?”
“You don’t need to know that. I trust you found things in order.” The caller’s voice was low and deliberate.
Zoie’s panic subsided as she realized she was talking to the burglar. “What do you want?”
“We want your silence.”
“Silence? Silence about what?”
“About what you think you know.”
“You murdered Ray, didn’t you?”
“Mr. Gaddis was a foolish man. However, you are much smarter.”
“Who are you?” she asked again in frustration. “If you’ve got my briefcase and laptop, you have what you want.”
“Not entirely. We need assurances. Death raises suspicions. We’d rather not bring more attention…with another one.”
Zoie shuttered. “Leave me alone.”
“That can be arranged,” said the voice.
“I…I…” she stuttered. “I won’t tell anyone what I know.”
“It’s best you remember that you don’t know anything. Right, Ms. Taylor? If you forget that, we know how to find you.” The caller hung up.
Zoie’s heart pounded. Her knees felt weak. She clung to the table where her laptop once sat to steady herself. She had the presence of mind to check her incoming call record. The last call was listed as caller unknown. She considered immediately returning the call but thought better of it.
She found the taxi driver’s card and called the number. “Uh, you still waiting?”
“Yeah, lady, but you’re time has been up. I was about to leave. I gotta make a living.”
“Listen, I really need you to wait.”
“It’s going to cost you another twenty.”
“Yeah, just stay there. Please, please. I’ll be right down.”
The mysterious caller had said “we.” How many were there? It didn’t matter. It only took one crazed individual to pull off a murder and burglarize her apartment. He had her cell phone number and knew her address, where she worked, and God knows what else. He’d gotten past the feeble lock on her door. Staying in her apartment was too dangerous.
Zoie pulled out a large denim bag and stuffed it with underwear, a few jerseys, pants, sneakers, and cosmetics. With the bag and her pocketbook over her shoulder, she headed out the door. In a reflex action, she turned the lock on her door and then wondered why she’d bothered. Obviously, the person or persons who had broken in could come and go from her apartment at will. She’d deal with a locksmith later.
Outside, the cab was parked a few spaces down the street. She scurried toward it.
“Thank you—thank you for being here,” she said somewhat breathless. She stuffed the denim bag into the cab’s back seat and then climbed in beside it. Inside the cab she felt a little safer. She took a deep breath and collapsed into the seat.
The driver’s radio blasted some exotic music. He turned it down and gave her a strange look. “K Street, right? Where on K Street are we going?” he asked as he pulled the car into the Connecticut Ave traffic.
“No, not K Street. I’ve changed my mind. We’re headed up New York Avenue.”
Chapter 30
Who Can You Trust?
Zoie’s taxi driver seemed none too happy having waited for his passenger. She handed him the promised twenty dollars sweetened with another ten.
His scowl morphed to a bright smile. “Thank you.”
Zoie’s decision to go to the Shelter instead of the Foundation was a last-minute change. But then circumstances had changed. Corporate higher-ups were waiting at work. She should have directed the driver to take her straight to the office or better still to the police to report the burglary of her apartment and the threatening call. After all, the caller all but admitted to killing Ray. But she felt trapped. The phone threat had done its job—it had secured her silence. She was part of a complicated and dangerous mess with no easy way out. For now she couldn’t contact the authorities. She’d have to take another tact.
“Lady, where on New York Avenue?” asked the driver, breaking into Zoie’s thoughts.
“Umm.” Her brain was scattered. She couldn’t remember the Shelter’s address or the cross streets. “I know it’s a ways up New York. Just a second.” She dug deep into her pocketbook. “I’ve got the address.” Her search produced a crumpled business card made of recycled paper. It was Jahi’s. She pressed the card against the seat to smooth it out. More than ever she needed to find him.
“Lady, help me out. Which way am I going?”
She handed the driver the card. “It’s a homeless shelter in Northeast.”
He glanced down at the card. “Way up there?”
“Good. You know where it is,” she snapped back.
“Yes, I think I know that place.”
As the taxi made its way through the afternoon traffic, now and again she found the driver’s dark eyes peering at her from the rearview mirror. Each time she caught them, they quickly turned away.
“By the way, what’s you name?” she asked boldly.
“I am called Muwakkil.”
She looked at the taxi license. His second name was very long, with two z’s and several r’s. She concentrated instead on the first name, repeating his pronunciation of it. “Mu-wa-kkil, Muwakkil. Does it translate to a meaning in English?”
“Of course. It means ‘one who can be trusted.’”
The name impressed her. “I hope that’s true, Muwakkil, about your being trustworthy.”
“Oh, yes, of course. If that is my name, it means I have those qualities,” he said. “Parents always give a child the correct name. And I must live up to it. I cannot disappoint my parents or go against my destiny.”
“I sure hope you live up to your destiny,” she said under her breath as she played with the fabric of her denim bag. She wondered whether her mother had researched the meaning of Zoie or maybe had chosen it simply because she liked the way it sounded. As a preteen she looked it up and discovered that her name was Greek. It meant “life.” She never thought to ask Jahi what his name meant after he explained why he’d changed his name. For sure his parents had no say in choosing that name. Jahi was a name he’d bestowed upon himself, its meaning corresponding to what he thought of himself or some attribute he aspired to. Too bad the name Muwakkil—“the one who can be trusted”—was already taken.
When they arrived at Mahali Salaam, the place was bustling. A small white van was double parked in front of the Shelter. Two young men with hand trucks were unloading the van’s contents. The Shelter’s heavy doors were propped open. Some of the homeless men milled around in front of the Shelter, pacing slowly in the sun, while others anchored themselves against the building in the little bit of shade the structure provided. Dinnertime was hours away, but these folks would be first in line to get a good meal.
From the looks of things, the Shelter was getting a delivery. Zoie wondered why the van hadn’t gone around to the Shelter’s rear loading
dock.
The taxi driver pulled around the van and stopped farther down the block. Would Jahi be there? She was taking a gamble. He couldn’t avoid her forever. She mumbled a litany of profanity, a preview of what she’d say to Jahi when she found him. She exited the taxi, her free-form denim bag in tow. When she threw the bag over her shoulder, the irony of the moment hit her. She looked like some bag lady in front of the Shelter. And tonight she needed to find a place to stay. At least she had options.
Zoie rifled in her pocketbook for the money to pay her fare and had second thoughts about letting the taxi go. “Muwakkil, can you wait for me again?” she asked.
“Sure, lady. I know you will make it worth my while,” he answered.
Now it seemed he trusted her. “Muwakkil, you catch on fast.”
“And I can be trusted,” he said with a smile.
“Then I’m leaving my bag, so you know I’ll be back.” She threw the cloth bag in the back seat and left the amiable taxi driver leaning against his vehicle, with folded arms. With the front doors wide open, she entered behind several men carrying unmarked cardboard boxes from the truck. Another man followed them, navigating a hand truck with four boxes. She watched the procession for a few seconds as they made their way past the Shelter lobby and down an adjacent corridor before she approached the clerk at the main desk. “My name is Zoie Taylor, from the Crayton Foundation. I’m here to see Jahi Khalfani,”
The desk clerk was not the hearing-impaired guy, who’d failed to notice her on her last visit. This clerk was middle aged and blond, and his biceps—adorned in blue ink—matched his tank top. “You know, I’m not sure Jahi’s around. I don’t think I’ve seen him today. But let me check. Is he expecting you?”
“Yes,” she lied, slightly hesitating, looking at her watch to appear casual.
The clerk picked up the phone and punched in a couple of numbers. “Tell Jahi he’s got someone here from the Crayton Foundation named…”
“Zoie Taylor.”
“Zoie Taylor,” he repeated. He hung up. “It’ll be just a moment.”
Awkwardly Zoie pressed against the high desk as she waited for Jahi to show. A new batch of boxes passed by them, on the way to the back. She turned to the desk clerk and asked, “Are those the new pillows?”
“Nah. Are we supposed to be getting new pillows? I believe that’s donated stuff for the women’s section, probably clothes. I’m not sure. It’s not my department.”
“Oh,” she responded nonchalantly, remembering that she’d missed seeing the women’s section of the Shelter during her visit.
“Jahi should be here in a few minutes,” the clerk told her. “You can have a seat over there.” He pointed to one of the church pew benches.
She was about to sit down when she saw a young man emerge from the corridor and head in her direction. “Ms. Taylor, good to see you again,” he said, offering his hand. She recognized him as the young man who completed her tour of the Shelter when she was there weeks ago.
“You’re Tarik,” she said, shaking his hand, his dark eyes like pools, his physique still reminding her of a long-distance runner, slight but strong.
“Good memory, Ms. Taylor. Our meeting was many weeks ago, and you still remember.”
“I’m here to see Jahi,” she said right away.
“Unfortunately, he’s not here today.”
“So where is he?” she asked without equivocation.
Tarik appeared a little startled by her directness. “I’m not exactly sure. He checks in though. You know he’s running for the city council. The campaign keeps him away a lot.”
Zoie frowned in disappointment.
“Ms. Taylor, Jahi depends on me to run the day-to-day operations. Whatever you need, I can probably help,” Tarik said.
“And I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job.” Her tone was almost dismissive. “Perhaps I could talk to Hank, the cook.”
Tarik looked offended. “You mean Hank Townsend? Why him?”
“We had a nice long talk in the kitchen the last time I was here. And this is personal.”
“Hank? I believe he’s off today. I think he’s helping Jahi on the campaign.”
Zoie remembered the waiting taxi driver. She was batting zero. What should she do next? Where would she sleep? What was she going to tell the Crayton folks waiting at the Foundation? She checked her watch again.
“Ms. Taylor, I can give you any information you need.”
“This is not about you, Tarik! I need to talk to Jahi! Preferably in person!” She looked over to see the desk clerk’s look of horror. She was being nastier than she’d been with anyone in a long time. Furious with Jahi, she was now taking it out on Tarik, though he had been a little too smug.
Tarik winced and ran his hand through his tightly curled hair. “You’re upset. I really wish I could be of more help. Things must be difficult at the Foundation with Ray Gaddis’s death.”
“What! What are you talking about? How do you know about Ray?” Zoie blasted.
She caught the entire room’s attention. Tarik’s dark eyes widened. “Ms. Taylor, the story of Mr. Gaddis’s death is being covered on radio and TV. I’m so sorry.”
“Ahh, you tell Jahi Khalfani that Zoie Taylor is looking for him!” she shouted, pointing at him as she headed to the doorway, just as another stream of mysterious boxes made their way in. Focused on Tarik, she backed straight into a woman who was attempting to squeeze through the traffic at the entrance. The woman was slim, dressed in tight-fitting jeans, wearing a snug blue-and-white head wrap, which was knotted on one side. “Watch out!” the woman cried.
“Oh, excuse me,” Zoie said, realizing only a part of what had happened. At a minimum Zoie unwittingly elbowed the woman in the chest, stamped on her sandaled foot, and shoved her into the pile of boxes on a handcart. Realizing what she’d done Zoie locked eyes with the woman for a fraction of a second. The woman’s eyes were fierce and so forceful that no one could have stared into them for long. Zoie was the first to turn away. The woman sucked her teeth in disgust.
“I’m so sorry,” Zoie said, sincerely apologetic. The woman, however, didn’t look at her again and didn’t respond to her apology. Instead she helped the man with the handcart restack his toppled boxes. Tarik witnessed the whole thing but said nothing.
Zoie rushed outside. She looked down the street. Her waiting taxi and its driver were nowhere to be seen. For a moment she experienced that stomach-dropping sensation like being on a roller coaster. Had her driver left her hanging? Absconded with her things? With all that had happened that day, this was the last straw. Everything she needed for the next few days was in the taxi’s back seat. Angry words turned into tears of frustration as she scanned the street, half-blinded by the bright sun. There was no taxi. She was about to give up on her self-proclaimed trustworthy driver when she noticed him at the end of the block. She squinted to see him better. He waved at her from the midst of a crowd of men who were gathered around a crate of bottled water, in the shade of the building. He hustled down the street toward her with an offering—a bottle of the water.
“It’s pretty hot out here,” he said, not apologizing. He didn’t know that his potential disappearance had added to her stress. He didn’t notice her tears.
She calmed herself, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and took a long swig of the water. “Where’s your car?”
“Around the corner.” He pointed down the street in the opposite direction.
“I was worried. I thought you left.”
“Ye of little faith…” he said with a serious face. “Since I am Muwakkil, the one who can be trusted, I would never do that.”
“Right.”
“So where to now?”
“Let me think.”
“You know, lady, it would be cheaper if you hired me for the day.”
“I don’t know. I got to think,” she answered. For now she was just happy to not be alone.
Chapter 31
; On Guard
Queen’s second-floor bedroom was at the front of the house, two doors from Mrs. Woods’s bedroom, at the back. At night she was close enough to hear the older woman’s coughs and labored breaths, sounds that could be heard despite the incessant chatter and canned sitcom laughter from the old TV.
Queen had retreated to her own room to see Days of Our Lives while her charge sat up in bed, engrossed in Wendy Williams. In the comfort of her lounge chair, Queen sipped the last of her ginger beer and used a wet finger to collect the crumbs from her plate of her spicy meat-patty lunch.
The hum of her oscillating fan competed with the TV. The monotonous drone could grate on a person’s nerves, if one had the mind to let it. It had been that way all summer. But for Queen the extra sound no longer registered on her conscious mind.
Days of Our Lives was at its cliffhanger point when the usually quiet dog next door let out a high-pitched howl followed by nonstop barking. “Now what?” Queen asked herself before her attention drifted back to the final minutes of the program. But the dog’s incessant barking could not be ignored. Queen turned down the TV, shut off the whining fan, and moved to the window to look and listen.
No one was on the street, and the same cars she’d noticed earlier in the day were parked in their same spaces. She heard rustling in the bushes below. Someone or something was out there. Was it two legged or four legged? Perhaps it was just another dog or a cat. Queen knew that raccoons or deer often wandered out of nearby Rock Creek Park. She once saw a raccoon for herself, and Mrs. Woods often talked about the deer that sometimes paraded down the middle of the street. But today all she could see were the cars going to and from Broad Branch. And the dog kept barking.
Bam! It was a crash like a metal garbage can being overturned. The sound came from close by—maybe from the side of the house, an area with a small porch off the kitchen. “Oh, Lawd,” Queen sighed. She slipped into her leather scuffs and descended the staircase. “Whoever messin’ around here gonna be sorry.” At the front door, she retrieved the baseball bat from the umbrella stand. She remembered that there were big knives in the kitchen as she peeked out the clear glass panel in the front door, hoping no one would peek back. The front porch was empty. With the baseball bat raised ready to strike, she tiptoed to the kitchen. The dog’s rant got louder as she neared the part of the house nearest to the neighbor’s fence. Outside there was the squeal of tires. Someone was making a fast getaway.