What Simon Didn’t Say

by Joy Copeland

  “I think I want to lie down,” Zoie told Annette, who’d stopped flipping through a magazine and now looked half-asleep.

  “Let me get that voucher for Dr. Clark.” Annette took off for her office and was back in several minutes with a slip for the Shelter’s on-call physician. Zoie thanked her and gave her back the blue ice pack.

  “Tell the volunteers in the morning to get you some clean clothes. I doubt the blood is gonna wash out.”

  Zoie hurried back to her dorm room. The room was dark, but all the women were awake. Jazz was the first to pop out of her bunk, and Cruz followed her, went straight for the window, and looked out it. Zoie tapped Cruz on the shoulder and handed the woman back her phone. “Thanks.”

  “You okay?” Jazz asked, stroking Zoie’s arm like a mother hen.

  “Yeah. Do you see anything outside?” Zoie asked.

  “Not yet,” Cruz said. Jazz must have filled her in on the night’s happenings.

  “Those guys must still be in the house. You know Annette works for them,” Jazz whispered as if the Annette-Tarik connection were news.

  “Jazz, thanks for warning me about Annette, and thanks for all your help tonight. We may have saved a life.”

  “Look, they’re here,” reported Cruz from the window, where she was joined by Martha from the top bunk.

  Zoie moved to the window. Two police cruisers eased their way into the courtyard without sirens but with their dome lights flashing. Behind those vehicles came a fire-department ambulance.

  “Anna, are you an undercover cop?” said a cool voice in the dark. Tanisha remained perched on her high bunk, while her dorm mates crowded at the window.

  “I’m no cop,” Zoie answered. She patted Jazz on the shoulder.

  Jazz leaned close to Zoie’s ear and whispered, “Don’t worry—I won’t tell them what you really do.”

  Zoie left the women at the window and headed back to the Great Room and then out to the Pen. Jazz and several other women weren’t far behind.

  Outside, homeless men had already gathered on the loading dock. Two cops were shining flashlights behind the dumpster.

  “He’s here, all right,” yelled one of the cops. “I can’t tell whether he’s alive. Get the EMTs over here.”

  At least ten women congregated in the Pen, pressing their bodies against the chain-link fence for a better view of the courtyard happenings. Zoie, still barefoot, made her way down the steps to the courtyard. She spotted an officer standing by his cruiser. He was communicating through a shoulder mic. Compared with the others, he was older and seemed to be orchestrating things.

  “I’m Zoie Taylor,” she said. “I’m the person who called 911.”

  While the EMTs attended to Maynard with oxygen, Zoie gave the officer an abbreviated account of what had transpired that night in the small brick house—the beating and the drugs. She didn’t mention the connected crimes: Ray’s murder, the fire, the break-in, and the suspected financial fraud. The whole story (or at least what she knew of it) would have been too long and confusing. She didn’t try to explain how she’d come to be at the Shelter in the first place or how she knew Maynard. As far as this officer was concerned, she was just another Shelter resident.

  “Well, if you saw all this happen in the house,” the officer said, “how did this guy get behind this dumpster? Did his attackers put him there?”

  “No. They thought he was dead. Tarik, the ringleader, was going to get some other guys to move his body. They were going to put him on the street and make it look as if he’d been attacked and died there.”

  “Then how did he get behind that dumpster?”

  “I was hiding when I witnessed the attempt to kill him. After Tarik left the house, I moved Maynard behind the dumpster.”

  “And whose blood is that on your shirt? Are you hurt?”

  “No, it’s his blood.”

  “You say his name is Maynard?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were able to move him unassisted?”

  “Yeah, I dragged him using that tarp,” Zoie confirmed, pointing to the piece of the blue tarp protruding from the gap. Part of her wanted to give Jazz credit for helping. She caught sight of Jazz pressed against the chain-link fence, looking scared. She’d promised Jazz that she would keep her out of it. “Officer, don’t let my size fool you. I’m stronger than I look.”

  “Hmm. You must be.”

  Beyond the ambulance was a backup force. Three officers from that contingent made their way up the driveway, leading four handcuffed men. One of the handcuffed men was Tarik. Zoie didn’t look in his direction. Even in handcuffs Tarik still frightened her.

  The EMTs removed Maynard from behind the dumpster and placed him on a stretcher, an oxygen mask still attached to his face. Zoie went up to the stretcher and touched Maynard’s arm. “How is he?”

  “His breathing is very shallow. He’s hanging on by a thread. He may have a couple of broken ribs. He could have a punctured lung. He’s lucky to be alive,” the woman EMT answered. “Someone was looking out for him…are you the one who called in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what drug he took?”

  “He didn’t take anything. The men who beat him injected him with something. I think I heard them say heroin and vodka. I’m not sure. The needle might still be in the house…where’s his binder?” Zoie asked. She ran over to the dumpster. With little explanation she instructed one of the officers to point the flashlight as she crawled back into the gap and retrieved Maynard’s binder for a second time.

  Zoie gave the binder to the female EMT. “This thing is precious to him. He must have it with him when he wakes up,” Zoie told the woman.

  The EMT agreed to guard it.

  “We’ve done all we can do for him here,” said the second EMT.

  “Where are you taking him?” Zoie asked.

  “To the level-one trauma ward at Washington Hospital.”

  They loaded Maynard into the ambulance, turned the vehicle around in the courtyard, and took off. What now? Zoie could hear the siren’s whine fade in the distance.

  Maynard, hang on!

  Chapter 46

  The Second Cavalry

  The ambulance left with Maynard and a woman, and a formidable-looking man ambled down the long driveway to the rear of the Shelter.

  “Jesus, it’s Lena,” Zoie said.

  It was Lena sporting her brand of sexy casual—khaki shorts that showed off her shapely legs and a low-cut peasant top that accentuated her bosom. She was ready for work with a notebook and serious-looking camera, which hung around her neck on a thick strap. She displayed a necklace badge that identified her as a member of the press.

  “Thank God you’re okay,” Lena said, running over and embracing Zoie. “Girl, I’ve been calling and calling. You had me worried. I kept wondering whether I’d have to use those emergency numbers to give your family bad news.” Wide eyed, Lena surveyed the scene, taking in the assemblage of uniformed cops, police vehicles, and onlookers. “What happened? And what’s with the blood?”

  “Oh,” said Zoie, looking at her blouse and hands. “It’s not my blood. It belongs to the guy they tried to kill. The ambulance just took him. He’s the one you ought to worry about.”

  “This is exciting—I mean serious,” Lena said, her expression morphing from glee to one more fitting with the situation. “You got to fill me in.”

  “I will. But first, what are you doing here?”

  “Remember, I said I had friends on the force?” Lena touched her companion’s arm. “Zoie Taylor, meet Charles Bender—Detective Charles Bender.”

  “Call me Charles,” he said, extending his hand.

  Zoie shook it reluctantly.

  “Based on Lena’s account of what’s going on, I’m glad to hear the blood’s not yours,” he said. “You’re mixed up in some dangerous business.” Detective Bender’s freshly pressed clothes and fade cut said he cared about his appearance and never missed a barber appo
intment. He turned to the officer in charge and introduced himself. “Detective Bender, Narcotics, Seventh District.” He flashed his shield for confirmation.

  “You’re a ways from home base, Detective,” said Officer Frankle. “Did you get a call about this?”

  “No, actually my presence is unofficial. I’m here with my friend, who’s doing a story. And I don’t want to get in your way, Officer.”

  “Mmm,” Officer Frankle said as he considered the matter. “If you have information that can help us understand what went down here, I’d appreciate your sharing it.”

  “Indeed, I may have some,” answered Detective Bender. Having been given the green light to add his counsel to the situation, Bender began to disclose what he knew. “There’s a lot going on here. This assault may be connected to a probable homicide of a prominent DC businessman in Potomac yesterday. The Montgomery County boys got that one. And you may need to bring in the white-collar crew to look at the Shelter’s books.”

  Zoie didn’t track all of the conversation. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of Maynard, who was in route to the hospital, stubbornly clinging to life. He had never wanted to come back to the Shelter. He’d proclaimed it evil. But she’d wrangled him into it—that is, she and Simon. And where was Simon? She had to let him know that his friend was in serious condition. Zoie took a deep breath. What a strange turn of events. Her plan had been to find evidence of likely Foundation kickbacks. No progress there, but she’d uncovered so much more. Lena’s showing up with the cavalry after the fact hadn’t been part of the plan.

  “Lena, I’m glad to see you, even though I asked you not to set off alarms unless you hadn’t heard from me.” Zoie took a deep breath. “So what brought you here?”

  “Zoie, cool out. After you took off in that getup, I got nervous about this whole scheme. So I called Charles and filled him in on your plan to infiltrate the Shelter.”

  Zoie frowned. Infiltrate? Why had she ever believed that she could share things with Lena in confidence?

  “Now, Zoie, don’t be mad,” Lena continued. “I know I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. But you’ll thank me later. Charles is a really good guy.”

  “I’m not mad,” Zoie said with an expression that did not match her words.

  “Wow, let me explain. When I talked to Charles, he thought you were crazy to try this on your own. But he promised not to interfere. Now I didn’t ask him to, but being the detective that he is, he did some checking around. And he came up with info pointing to some really funky happenings here tonight. Then he got a tip from an informant who seemed to know that you were here. Your cover was already blown.”

  “But how could that be?”

  “Maybe somebody recognized you. I don’t know. But when Charles found out that a 911 call came in reporting an assault at Mahali, he figured your being here undercover and the assault report were too coincidental. He swung by and picked me up, and here we are.”

  “So Charles knows more?”

  “Girl, I’m not sure what he knows. I know that he’s one of the good guys.”

  “Like Jahi, huh?”

  “Look, sometimes I’m wrong.”

  “And Charles?”

  “Hey! We’re talking about the police here. Anyway, Charles will have to tell you what he knows. In the meantime you gotta fill me in. Remember that you promised me an exclusive.”

  Zoie laughed to relieve the tension. She was exhausted, and her knees felt like they were about to buckle. “Someone out there knows how this all fits together, and it ain’t me,” Zoie said.

  “Girl, you’ve cracked a case,” Lena said. “Hold on a minute—I need some pictures.” Lena backed up and starting snapping, first capturing Zoie in her bloodied clothes against the backdrop of the police cruisers, then taking a shot of the homeless onlookers congregated on the loading dock.

  At Detective Bender’s behest, Officer Frankle gave Zoie and Lena the okay to sit in the back of his cruiser. Feeling safe, Zoie let her head fall back against the seat. She closed her eyes and mumbled, “Lena, there’s so much to tell you. There’s more going on here than I ever suspected. There’s a big-time drug operation running out of this place. These criminals beat my homeless contact without mercy. I heard them talking about going after me. I’m sure they’re responsible for Ray Gaddis’s death and the break-in at my apartment. My laptop and briefcase are here.” Zoie’s voice trailed off.

  “My God! What you did was so dangerous. Hopefully the madness stops here, now that the police have them in custody.”

  “They only have some of them,” Zoie said, sitting up again. “I’m still afraid. I don’t know how wide or how deep this goes. I don’t know how many people who work in the Shelter are involved. It even goes to the residents. More folks are involved, more than those four thugs. Even my assistant at the Foundation may be involved.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were. And Sister Te’s in this for sure. She’s got to be one of the ringleaders, along with her son.”

  “And Jahi?”

  Zoie felt a chill at Jahi’s mention. “Lena, you tell me. How could he not be involved? How could all this criminal activity go on under his nose and he not be in the middle of it? For all I know, he’s the grand pooh-bah of the whole operation.”

  “Ooooweee! Mr. Wannabe City Councilman. Sorry to hear that,” Lena said with a moan. “I held high hopes for that man-child. I had him pegged for one of the all-time good guys. Gee, too bad. How could I have been so wrong?”

  The courtyard was somewhat lit by police lights. Someone turned on the lights on the men’s loading dock. From the cruiser window, Zoie watched as two officers stuffed a handcuffed Tarik and his cohorts into a police van.

  “I need some air,” Zoie said.

  Zoie and Lena emerged from the cruiser. As Lena moved around the crime scene snapping pictures, Zoie braced herself against the cruiser and looked back at the Pen. Filled with women pressed into its fencing, it reminded Zoie of a scene from a concentration-camp documentary. Although the Pen’s door to the courtyard was ajar, none of the women ventured out into the yard. But someone was coming into the courtyard from another Shelter door. It was Sister Te, late to the party and accompanied by none other than Annette. For a few minutes, Zoie had forgotten about these second-tier characters. In regard to Annette, her appearance was very late. Zoie expected to see the night counselor swoop in long before this. But Annette had taken her time, probably so she could alert Sister Te. The two had probably needed to coordinate their alibis before showing their faces to the police.

  Sister Te and Annette descended into the courtyard, and Zoie latched on to Lena’s arm. Sister Te and her accomplice went straight over to Officer Frankle. They ignored Zoie and Lena.

  “I understand you have arrested my son. I’m not sure why you have taken him into custody, but may I speak to him?” Sister Te said to Frankle.

  Lena dragged Zoie back a few yards, far enough away that Zoie missed hearing Officer Frankle’s reply to Sister Te’s request. Zoie knew that if Sister Te had a chance to speak to her son, she’d do so in Amharic. She’d feed him the “communal lie,” and the police would be none the wiser. While Zoie was focusing on trying to hear what was being said, Lena was having her own panic. She redirected Zoie’s attention to the latest addition to the courtyard’s loading dock—Jahi Khalfani. He was near the double-door exit from the men’s Shelter, speaking to several of the men assembled there.

  Zoie, feeling that she needed some independent protection, was glad that Detective Bender was close by. How are these fast talkers going to get out of this one? Zoie beckoned Detective Bender. “What now?” she asked, her voice defiant.

  “I told Frankle who you are and explained that you were here as an unofficial undercover investigator, working on behalf of your Foundation. Just so you know, the men who attacked Maynard are now under arrest.”

  “Thanks, Charles, but what about the whole khat operation? What about the rest of the sk
ullduggery going on here?”

  “Is there someone else that you can identify as being involved?”

  “Where do I start?” Zoie answered with disgust. “There’s Sister Te, the woman over there with Frankle. She runs the women’s section of the Shelter, and there’s Jahi Khalfani, director of the entire Shelter.”

  “Now that dude’s name is familiar.”

  “That dude is all in the news. He’s running for the DC Council. And let’s not forget Sister Te’s sidekick. Her name is Annette.”

  “Whew!” Detective Bender exclaimed. “If all of this is true, they’re going to need another paddy wagon. Did you witness their involvement in the assault or drug operation?”

  “Well, no…not exactly. I overhead their names mentioned by Tarik, one of the guys they just caught. He was discussing his illegal activities on the phone. And by the way, Tarik is Sister Te’s son.”

  Charles rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Zoie, you’re a wealth of information, an investigator’s dream for providing all of these leads. But I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know, Detective? I know what I heard. Oh, there’s another man named Asad. He’s on his way to New York City to pick up more khat from a Queens dealer. He’s the one who beat Maynard with a broomstick. I witnessed that beating from where I was hiding. In fact, Asad probably took the Shelter’s van for his drug run. You see that the Shelter’s van isn’t parked here.”

  Charles jotted notes on a small pad and then looked up. “Okay, Detective Taylor. Got it. I’ll let these guys know.”

  “And can I get my laptop and briefcase back? They stole it when they broke into my apartment this morning. It’s in that house where they beat Maynard. I saw it.”