by Kylie Brant
A nephew. All sorts of layers were exposing themselves in Nate McGuire today. “Your nephew lives with you?”
“My sister’s back now, too. It’s complicated.” He opened the car door and got out, leaving Risa to agree silently. She’d never had any siblings, but she could certainly attest that family was complicated.
The Thai restaurant didn’t match the address they were looking for, but the liquor store next to it did. Its flickering neon sign promising WINE, BEER, SPIRITS wasn’t a match for the one they sought, but she hadn’t expected it would be. The last telephone listing for Zena’s Place that Shroot had discovered was in the 1992 Yellow Pages.
What was even more disheartening was the fact there was no building at all directly across from it. An empty lot punctuated the street front like a gap-toothed grin, litter and rubbish piled in precarious heaps.
Without much hope, she followed Nate into the store and found him already speaking to the middle-aged eastern Indian clerk there. “We have been here nine years,” he was telling Nate. “Bad neighborhood. Very bad. I have been robbed thirteen times. My third insurance company is threatening to drop me. Maybe I will move the business. But to where? Other places sell liquor, too.”
Rather than aisles of product, he had his wares displayed from floor to ceiling behind the full-length counter. Obviously an attempt to prevent shoplifting.
“Was this place a liquor store when you bought it?” Nate asked him. A stooped, grizzled old man shuffled through the front door.
The owner shook his head. “A Laundromat. And the owner, he promised no trouble from the neighborhood. None, he said. Ha!” Without speaking to the newcomer, he went to the section that housed the vodka and unerringly plucked a bottle from the shelf. The older man withdrew an ancient wallet from his pants pocket and painstakingly counted out the appropriate amount while the storekeeper rang up the sale and placed the bottle in a sack.
“Was there a building in that lot across the street when you first opened up?” Risa asked.
“Nothing as long as I have been here.” The owner and his customer made their exchange silently.
“What about the Laundromat’s name?”
The storeowner was clearly losing interest in the conversation. “I do not remember.”
“Suds ’N’ Such,” a quavering voice put in.
Risa and Nate turned to the old man. He was trying unsuccessfully to replace his wallet in his pocket. After several attempts he finally succeeded. Looking up, he found their gazes on him.
“Didn’t last long, though.”
“Do you remember Zena’s Place being here?”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. Nice little lunch counter. Opened for dinner some nights, too.” He hadn’t bothered to put in his bottom partial plate. Or maybe he didn’t own one. “She’s been dead now . . .” He rubbed his grizzled chin reflectively. “Shoot. Since ’91 or so.”
“You’ve lived in the neighborhood a long time?” Risa thought he looked as if he could have been here when the buildings first sprang up. He wore a floor-length army green topcoat, hanging open, although the temperatures had turned much warmer in the last couple days. Baggy black pants with matching suspenders over a stained white T-shirt and boots completed his attire.
“Lived upstairs for nearly forty years. Back then this wasn’t a bad place to raise a family. Lots of poor folk but nones that’d do you no harm if you left them alone. Not like now.”
“Maybe you can tell us about what used to be in that empty lot across the street.”
“That’s been empty nearly fifteen years now,” he said in response to Risa’s question. “Was condemned long time before that. Thought the city never would get around to tearing that old place down. Were two buildings there at one time. A little shoe repair shop called Jimmy’s and a two-story building. Looked sorta like the one still standing over there.” He pointed a shaking finger to the boarded-up building on one side of the lot. “It was a nice little tavern by the name of Tory’s.” The words sounded wistful, as if he’d spent his share of time in it. “Tory and her boy lived in the apartment above.”
“Can you describe the exterior?” It was a sure thing, Risa thought, that he’d be able to describe the inside.
The old man’s shrug moved his whole body. “Nuthin’ special. Just a door to go in and a big front window. The bar was on the left when you got in, next to a storeroom where they kept the beer. Bunch of tables and a real nice jukebox. Tory liked to keep the music up-to-date, but she’d keep on some oldies for those of us who asked special.”
“What happened to it? Why was it condemned?” Nate asked.
“Fire gutted the place back in ’86. Burnt the repair shop, too. Cavanaugh’s there repaired and reopened for another dozen years or so. Tory and the boy weren’t hurt but never did see them after that, neither.”
A car went by outside, rap music blaring, the hind end bouncing on tricked-out hydraulics. A beer bottle went sailing out the window, landing squarely on the driver’s side of the Crown Vic before the car full of teens took off, hooting and catcalling.
The old man watched the scene, his mouth working silently. Then, “Nope. It wasn’t a bad place to raise a family. Not back then.”
When they returned to the vehicle, Risa observed, “This car should qualify for battle pay.”
“It’s not going to get better treatment where we’re headed next.”
Juicy’s address, she recalled. At the rate they were going, they’d be lucky to have a vehicle to get them back to the station house. “It works, what the old man told us.”
“Tarrants.”
She nodded. They’d gotten his name and address before letting him leave; he’d been visibly anxious to get back to his apartment. “The rest of the places Shroot found will have to be checked out to be sure . . . but a bar could easily have been the scene of that video clip featuring Johnny and Roland Parker.” The table had looked to be large. Littered with beer bottles. And a neon z and p reflected in the front window.
“Not to mention the way it was destroyed.”
Exactly what she was thinking. “Too many coincidences to be entirely comfortable with,” she agreed pensively. And far too many threads in the investigation, none of which could be tied up nicely yet.
The area didn’t improve in the seven blocks or so to Juicy’s address. The curbs had cars lined up along them. Rather than searching for a spot, Nate reached beneath the seat for a portable LED dash light and put it on the dash, setting it to strobe, and double-parked. The group of youths on the stoop of the building in front of them stopped talking and stared as they got out of the vehicle.
“It’s the po-po.”
“Back to the cop shop, man, we ain’t doing nuthin’.”
“Yo, where’d you get your car door detailed? I want me some of that.” Raucous laughter accompanied the words.
“We’re looking for Javon Emmons,” Nate said evenly. “Juicy. He live here?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Juicy? You looking for Juicy?” One of the young men with his baseball cap twisted backward nudged his neighbor. “Juicy is that fine thing you got with ya. Can’t get juicier than that. Mm-mm.” He licked his lips suggestively.
“Unless you want your tongue ripped out and handed to you, you’ll answer the question,” Risa told him. “Or get out of the way so we can go in and look for ourselves.”
“Ooh-hoo, you got dissed!” A chorus of jeers bombarded the speaker. But they moved aside for Nate and Risa to move up the middle of the steps and push open the door to the apartment building.
Nate flipped the light switch inside the darkened hallway, to no avail.
“Two eighteen is upstairs,” he murmured, and they turned to the littered stairway to begin the climb.
“If Juicy is as high on the feeding chain as Randolph indicated, why’s he living in a place like this?” she muttered. A man was curled up on the first landing, snoring softly. Risa decided he must be sleeping off the effects of something
. The noise inside the building should make sleep impossible. The cries of babies, shouts of children, and a shrill argument melded together for a near-deafening din.
“It’s his territory. He’ll live in the center to exact his control over it. No absentee businessmen in his line of work.”
Two eighteen was at the end of the hallway, to the left of the lone window. Nate knocked at the door. Once. Again, this time harder. “Javon Emmons,” he called.
Someone was moving inside the apartment. After several minutes the door swung open and a young woman stood there, one hand on her hip and the other clutching the edge of the door. After one quick glance, she dismissed Risa and focused all her attention on Nate. “Why you yelling at my door?”
“We’re looking for Juicy,” he replied, and tilted his head to look inside the apartment. “Tell him we’d like to talk to him.”
“Everyone looking for Juicy.” She sighed, skating one hand over her waist, which was left bare between her lowriding shorts and short top. “He ain’t here. You can look. That’s what the rest of them do.”
A quick scan of the rooms in the apartment ascertained that the woman was telling the truth. Nate handed her his card. “Give him this and ask him to come in to see me. I’d like to ask him a couple questions.”
“Mm-hmm. People all the time wanting to ask Juicy questions.” She ran the card through her long fire engine red nails and gave him a smile from lips slicked in the same color. “I’ll tell him you was here.”
Back outside Risa gave a silent sigh of relief to discover the car where they left it, looking untouched. The same guys sat out front and immediately started messing with them when they came outside.
“Hey, there was someone gonna steal your po-lice car and I run ’em off. I should get a reward.”
“Shut it, that was you, man.”
“You don’t have to leave with him, sugar. You want to set your fine self down and let me show you ’nother use for your handcuffs.”
Risa didn’t bother to point out that she wasn’t carrying cuffs and that the suggestion wasn’t especially original. The young men found it hilarious, though, as she and Nate picked their way down the narrow path allowed through the bodies.
When they were on the sidewalk again, she turned to face them. “Any of you know anything about a bar that used to be in this neighborhood?” She recited the address. “It burned down around 1986. Called Tory’s.”
“Eighty-six?” The speaker wore a do-rag and a large tat on the right side of his throat. “Man, I wasn’t born ’til ninetyone.”
She slanted a look at Nate. “Geez, they’re all fetuses.” He’d tensed. A moment later she noticed why.
The stranger approaching them was at least a decade older than the ones on the stoop in years, far more in experience. It was in his eyes. In the flat, hard expression with which he regarded them. “You don’t got business here.” The stranger wore a thigh-length black leather jacket and low-brimmed hat and held sunglasses. She’d lay odds he was carrying.
“Now, how would you know that?” Nate asked, the slightest edge to his voice. “You have a name?”
“They looking for Juicy,” one of the stoop sitters offered. “They already been inside and talked to Jasmine.”
The man’s head jerked toward the speaker. “Nidge you better shut it before I bust a cap in your ass.” The crowd on the porch went silent again.
“Tell Juicy I want to talk to him. My card’s inside.”
“I don’t take orders from you.” The stranger spit on the sidewalk, narrowly missing Risa’s shoe.
“No, I’ll bet you take orders from Emmons, though.” She smiled at him, mockery dripping from her words. “I’ll bet you jump through every hoop he holds out.” The tightening of his lips was evidence that her words had found their mark. “The longer he takes to come in, the more company you’re going to be getting in this neighborhood. That can make it difficult for things around here to get back to normal.” She shrugged. “If that’s what Juicy wants, no problem.”
They moved away toward the car. Got in. As they drove off, the unidentified man on the sidewalk was still staring after them. “No matter how high he is in the organization, it’ll be Emmons making the decision about whether to come in or not.”
“I’m guessing they’re starting to think about what constant visits from the force will do to their ability to conduct business. At least we can hope so.” She turned to cock a brow at him. “What’s next?”
He was silent for a moment. Then, “How about we make the rounds in a radius around the convenience store and collect any security tapes we can find before heading back for the briefing?”
“Only if you promise to let me run into the convenience store for a hot sandwich and restroom break.”
“I’ll do better than that.” He shot her a grin as he nosed the vehicle through a green light. “I’ll buy you popcorn for when we go over the security tapes later.”
Risa leaned her head against the seat rest and smiled. “I have a feeling that’s the best offer I’m going to get all day.”
He’d waited for the old lady to leave the house. Drove behind her for a couple blocks and saw her sitting at the bus stop. Once she’d actually gotten on the bus, he circled around and parked in back of her block. Cut across the yards and headed for her back door.
It was just past dusk, but Chandler’s car wasn’t out front yet. He had time. Just enough for a peek inside the house, a quick look through her things. He hadn’t decided yet if she posed any particular threat. Had almost dismissed her. She didn’t seem like anything special. But he’d never been caught because he didn’t overlook anything. So he’d be thorough.
The security system was better than decent but his skills were outstanding. He wasn’t standing outside any longer than someone having difficulty with his key. Still he resolved to be quick inside, in case one of the neighbors got nosy.
The first bedroom was the old lady’s. He swiftly went to the next. Found the tailored suits and bright tops in the closet and knew he had the right place. He looked around for a computer and realized disappointedly she’d probably have it with her.
There wasn’t much else to see, but he went through her drawers, checked her closet to be sure. Found nothing of interest, because she was of no interest. No threat. Not even worth the time wasted thinking about her.
He grinned, cocky now. His plans were set and neither she nor McGuire could prevent the inevitable. In an effort to be meticulous, he opened the drawer of the bedside table. Whistled soundlessly when he saw the holstered weapon there. It was impossible to resist taking it out. Drawing the gun from the holster and sighting it.
The Beretta was a bit too small in his hand but probably was a good fit for the woman. Checking, he discovered it was unloaded. Either he’d overlooked a magazine in his search, or she didn’t have ammunition for it. Either way, it didn’t worry him.
He replaced the weapon and started to head out of the room, brushing a pad of paper off the bedside table to the floor. He picked it up, searched for the pencil that had gone rolling. Everything had to be left exactly as it was found.
Idly, he flipped through the pad, and when he saw the sketches, he stopped to look more closely. Then felt the blood congeal in his veins.
The fire was so real he could hear its crackle and hiss, even in the black-and-white drawing. The trees hemmed the clearing, not so close that the fire would be in danger of spreading to them. He hadn’t made that mistake twice. He turned the page, saw a sketch of the old oak with the crossed branches.
Everything inside him went still. He stopped breathing for a moment.
And there he was. A black silhouette against the flames, arms out-flung in exultation over what he’d accomplished.
The pad started shaking. It took a moment for him to realize his hand was trembling. She knew everything. Had seen everything.
Frantically, he flipped through the pictures, examining every page with desperate eyes. He wipe
d a hand over his face, fought for calm. The drawings were all of the same scene. Painstaking details of Christiansen’s death. It was as if she’d been there, documenting how it went down.
But that wasn’t possible.
It wasn’t possible, he assured himself and worked his shoulders impatiently. The bitch wasn’t there because nobody had been there. He’d made damn sure of that. If she had been, if she’d been close enough to see the detail for these sketches, she’d have seen him.
And if she’d seen him, he’d be in jail right now.
The logic of it calmed him as nothing else could. It was just a figure of a man. The details didn’t identify him. Of course. She was working on the case. She’d seen pictures. Maybe even been to the scene. It’d take nothing but memory and a little talent to draw a visual of what must have transpired that night.
He’d almost believe that. He looked through the sketches again, his heart still racing. If it weren’t for the figure she’d drawn. The familiar pose of it. And try as he might, he couldn’t find a reasonable explanation for that portion of the sketch.
With quick, jerky motions he shoved the sketchpad under his sweatshirt. Strode toward the kitchen. He had to get it together. Too many years had been spent planning. Chandler wasn’t going to interfere with that. There was nothing here to convince him to deviate from his schedule. Preparations were made. Everything was set.
But there was enough, more than enough, to convince him that once he’d dealt with more pressing issues, Chandler would have to die.
Chapter 12
The detective pushed the door shut behind him and locked it before dropping his keys on the wicker table nearby. He hated wicker. Even the name sounded wimpy, but Cheryl had insisted that decorating the house was her domain. If the house were her domain, he’d have figured the bedroom was his. But a year ago he’d found out she was using it with their accountant to go over more than their numbers.
It’d seemed only fair then that he’d kept the house. Or probably she just hadn’t given a damn. She’d moved in with the boyfriend in the suburbs. When the divorce was final, he was going to load up all the shit she’d bought. Every last damn flowered curtain, vase of dried flowers, and for damn sure, all the wicker. He’d haul it to her new home and dump it on the front lawn for her fuck buddy to deal with.