Mecca's Return

by Anna J.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Tashy was startled at Ruby’s sudden outburst.

  “What?”

  Ruby slammed the paper down on the bed and began dressing quickly. Tashy looked down at the headline in big, bold letters on the front page. BROOKLYN BLOODBATH. Underneath it continued, “Three adults, two children, slain by decapitation. Story on page three.”

  “Ruby, what happened? Do you know about this?” Tashy asked while getting up and putting on her robe.

  Fastening the button and zipper on her pants, Ruby answered, “That’s my boy Breeze and his family! I was just with him last night. He was telling me how the cops raided the spot I had up in Brooklyn. The article said it happened last night. That had to be right after I left him. I got to see what the hell is going on!”

  “You want me to come with you?” Tashy asked.

  As Ruby walked toward the door, she turned to face Tashy. “Nah. What I need is for you to get that work for me so I can pop the spot over here. I’m really done with Brooklyn.”

  “I’m on it. Call me.”

  Ruby walked out the door.

  A young Mecca and Dawn, who Mecca had thought was a friend but who was her sister, stood on the corner of Rockaway Avenue and Dumont, watching a funeral procession of luxurious and average cars following a hearse. The day was bright and sunny. The streets of Brownsville were alive at their usual pace. The corners, Chinese stores, liquor stores, and bodegas hosted the usual street corner congregations. People froze to watch the procession, as if it were the West Indian Day parade going through Brownsville.

  It was common to see funeral processions come through the neighborhood. The dead were always driven through the place they lived before being buried. It was a way of letting the deceased and the deceased’s neighborhood say good-bye to each other. Unfortunately, Brownsville was a place where death was a common occurrence. Mostly because of drugs, AIDS, and murder.

  Mecca watched as a couple of guys on the corner across the street from where she stood poured beers on the ground. Some threw up peace signs with their fingers toward the hearse. Another guy walked up to the corner where Mecca and Dawn stood and placed his fist against his chest, then held up his own peace sign and said, “Peace, Wise.”

  Mecca looked at the hearse and thought about what the guy had said. She exchanged a glance with Dawn, who wore the same expression on her face. They remembered.

  Nothing could erase the memory of Mecca and Dawn mistakenly walking into the scene of a murder. They’d rounded the pissy, graffiti-littered hallway steps after hearing the sound of something tumbling down the steps. They were startled when the body of a man landed in front of them, faceup, with eyes open. For a moment Mecca didn’t recognize the man, because she had not seen Ruby’s ex-boyfriend in a long time. He had been in jail and had just recently gotten out. When she looked up, she saw Ruby with a gun in her hand, standing next to Monique.

  Back on the corner, Mecca looked at all the cars in the procession and admired the Benzes and other European sedans that drove by. She watched as a wood-brown Chevy Nova cruised slowly by.

  The car meant nothing to her, but the person in the front seat did. Once again, she stared at those hazel eyes that shined like wet crystals when in the sun’s light. It was the same blank stare Mecca had got from the girl in the mall. When Mecca looked closer, she saw the girl was crying. Obviously, Wise was somebody close to her.

  “Mecca!” Mecca’s attention was broken by a call coming from behind her. When she turned, she saw Ruby walking up the block with Monique. She waved her over. “I got to talk to you. Come here!”

  Mecca turned to look at the hazel-eyed girl one more time and was shocked to see the girl out of the car, with a gun in her hand. She was no longer staring at Mecca, but her eyes were focused on Ruby and Monique.

  She pointed the gun and started walking toward them while they were distracted by a group of women sitting on a project bench. When Mecca realized Ruby and Monique were the intended target, she yelled, but the sound of the gunshots overpowered her scream.

  The scene disappeared. Mecca found herself sitting in Lou’s office, on a leather-cushioned chaise lounge. Lou had his feet propped up on his desk, hands folded across his lap, watching her.

  “Are you ready for the answer?” Lou asked.

  “The answer to what?”

  “The girl with the eyes. Aren’t you curious as to who she is?”

  “You figure?” Mecca said sarcastically.

  Lou pointed to the wall, where framed pictures hung. Mecca turned to look at a picture of the same funeral procession. The girl’s face in the Chevy Nova was different from the one in her dreams. Her jaw fell into her lap.

  Awakened by the shaking of the Alitalia plane during a flight to New York, Mecca looked around, confused. A white woman in a blue business suit sat next to her, rapidly pressing letters on her laptop. Mecca noticed the woman had a New York Daily News folded beside her.

  “Do you mind if I look at the paper?”

  “Sure,” the squeaky-voiced woman answered.

  The bold letters on the front page immediately screamed out to her. After seeing the “Brooklyn Bloodbath” front page, she turned to page three and read. Her heart fluttered after she realized what she’d started. Guilt set in.

  She didn’t think mailing those pictures and that letter to Daphne would cause something like that to happen to Breeze’s family. Especially those children. Mecca put the paper down beside the lady.

  “You can keep it. I’m done with it,” the woman said.

  “No thank you.” Mecca half smiled, then excused herself to go to the bathroom. Once inside the small, disinfectant-smelling bathroom, she vomited in the toilet. She rinsed her mouth out and stared at her reflection in the small mirror. Her skin was darker than usual from her days in Italy.

  Leaving the bathroom, she made her way back to her seat and sat down, looking out the window at the New York skyline. She began to regret trading the Roman winter for the brutal New York winter. Was warning her aunt about what she helped put into play between Daphne and her worth leaving behind her wonderful fiancé, traveling, and relaxing in places of romantic bliss? She took a deep breath and rationalized. She would just have to find out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For he comes out of prison to be king, although he was born poor in his kingdom.

  —Ecclesiastes 4:14

  The federal prison in West Virginia looked more like a college campus or retirement community surrounded by a barbed-wire fence than a prison. The clean, cemented pathways cut through manicured grass and led to a red and tan two-story, brick, cottage-like building.

  Agent Doyle, accompanied by Detective Levy, paid the prison an official visit. Both men came dressed like underpaid public defenders, with their cheap suits that resembled Salvation Army giveaways. They had spent the previous night in a motel in Ohio, after spending the day at the women’s federal prison, interviewing guards, a prison psychiatrist, and inmates who knew and associated with Ruby while she was an inmate.

  Doyle knew some of the inmates there either from previous cases or from them being informants. The ones he’d put there that associated with Ruby were happy to tell him to go fuck himself; the informants, on the other hand, had no valuable information, because, as one of them put it, “She was usually a loner, and when she talked, she never got personal.”

  Doyle felt that they would get lucky at the West Virginia prison. It was a less secure jail than the one in Ohio. The inmates in the West Virginia prison were mostly short timers there for white-collar crimes, and a lot of them were snitches. Ruby had been brought there when her court hearings started, and Daphne had been there when her time was getting short. Another plus for Doyle was that he knew the psychiatrist at the prison on a personal level.

  She was a former agent at a New York field office with whom Doyle on occasion cheated on his wife. When she’d become tired of chasing criminals, she’d put her degree in psychology to use an
d got into the minds of criminals. The FBI used her expertise from time to time, when they needed the profile of a potential suspect, usually a multistate serial killer.

  The mention of Ruby’s name to certain staff members caused them to sigh, shake their heads, and grimace. Only a few of them smiled. A captain, who was an overweight redneck, said Ruby was a real cocky bitch with a stink New York attitude. Then he added a wink and said, “No offense, fellas.”

  The interview with the inmates did not go as expected, until a Spanish girl from Washington Heights, who was being held for cocaine distribution, overheard Doyle ask another New York girl about Ruby. She managed to maneuver her way over to Doyle and Levy when they were in the receiving area.

  “Can we talk?” Doyle asked the five-foot-two, black-haired, light-brown-skinned girl.

  Levy immediately noticed the three parts in one of the girl’s eyebrows. Her eyes were chinky and brown, and she had a full set of lips and a pretty oval face. Though she was petite and was covered with baggy prison clothes, he could see the nice legs, plump rear, and tight, flat stomach that were her body. She spoke with a tough, cocky New York accent.

  “About Ruby? What’s in it for me?”

  “What do you expect?” Levy inquired.

  The girl rolled her eyes. “Look around. Does this look like a place I want to spend another ten years in?”

  “Is the information that valuable?” Doyle asked.

  “Depends on what’s valuable to you,” she spat.

  “Who were Ruby’s closest associates?” Levy asked.

  He didn’t want to play games with the girl. He knew these convicts would tell them anything they wanted to hear to get them out of jail. It didn’t matter to them if they were lying; it was part of the deal.

  It was up to the cops to sift through the tall tales to find the truth. Doyle could tell that the Spanish girl was most likely one of those jailhouse snitches who would sell her own children to get out of her situation. Knowing Ruby, there was no way in hell she would share anything incriminating with this girl.

  “She hung with Daphne and Tashy the most,” the girl announced.

  “You wouldn’t be talking about Tashy Williams, would you?” Doyle asked, wide-eyed.

  The girl looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear her, then continued. “Yeah. Tashy from Harlem.”

  “And who else did you say?” Levy asked.

  “Daphne. She’s from Brooklyn.”

  Before going to see the psychiatrist, Doyle had the records of all inmates named Daphne in the jail at the time Ruby was there pulled by the prison administrators. Doyle found out there had been fifteen Daphnes in the jail. Five from New York. There was only one from Brooklyn. Daphne Carter. After reading her file and finding out why she was convicted, Doyle had a big smile on his face.

  “Looks like our dear Davidson made some interesting connections here.”

  “Shower Posse.” Levy read the file. After a minute of reading, he looked up at Doyle with the same smile.

  “You got it,” Doyle blurted.

  “Who is this Tashy Williams chick?” Levy asked.

  “You’ve heard of Scooter Williams? Big fish uptown, rubbed shoulders with Frank Matthews back in the day?” Doyle shook his head no when Levy shrugged. “Before your time. Plus, you were confined to Brooklyn. Listen, I’m going to make some copies. I’ll explain it on the way back. First, let’s see this shrink.”

  Margaret O’Connely’s office looked like the office of a CFO for a Fortune 500 company rather than a prison psychiatrist. On her mahogany desk a gold-plated nameplate stood out amid the neat clutter. Tiffany floor and table lamps, upholstered gold silk sofas and chairs, and other French furniture sat on top of a beige carpet by Edward Fields. Her floor-to-ceiling bookshelf was filled with leather-bound books and occupied a whole wall in the spacious office.

  Directly behind her large desk chair was a wood-paneled wall with her many achievements on display. Degrees in psychology, behavioral science; awards as an FBI agent; photos of a younger O’Connely with J. Edgar Hoover and former president Jimmy Carter.

  When Doyle and Levy entered the office, they no longer felt like they were in a federal prison. The office was warm and cozy. Margaret O’Connely’s light-scented perfume permeated the air. She sat at her desk, in a tan business suit, which Levy immediately noticed. The woman’s curly reddish brown hair reached her bony shoulders, and he reasoned that it had to be a wig.

  Her penetrating blue eyes caught everything that went on and spoke volumes of confidence under the rimless spectacles. With an erect posture, she gave no illusion of who was in charge. Though her skin was pasty and showed signs of a few face-lifts, Levy figured she’d been one of those classic New York debutantes.

  “Miss O’Connely, I would like you to meet—”

  “Cut the crap, Phil. You never called me Miss O’Connely in your life. Don’t start now,” she said with a strong Irish/ New York accent.

  Doyle cleared his throat. “Marge, this is Detective Levy. Brooklyn Homicide.”

  Levy reached over the desk and shook her hand. Her pale, vein-filled hand was swallowed in his massive paw. To him, it felt like he was holding four cold French fries in his hand.

  “Strange. I swear I had a premonition that you guys would be coming to me, asking about Davidson,” she announced, shaking her head. Doyle and Levy exchanged curious glances.

  “I don’t understand,” Levy announced.

  Folding her arms and hands across the desk, Margaret spoke frankly. “When Phil called me and said he wanted to speak to me off the record about an inmate named Ruby Davidson, I thought maybe the FBI had a hard-on for this woman. I mean, she threw their conviction right back in their face. That her name came up in some Brooklyn homicides didn’t surprise me, and I’ll explain why.”

  Margaret reached in her desk and pulled out a yellow folder with black letters written in Magic Marker and handed it to Levy.

  “You know you owe me, Phil. You know this is against the law and unethical. This is privileged information.” Margaret took back the file and opened it on her desk. Before reading it, she removed her glasses and looked at Levy.

  “Detective, I grew up in Hell’s Kitchen when the neighborhood lived up to its moniker. I saw treachery at its worst. I grew up vowing to one day return to that kitchen and clean it up. When I joined them, that’s exactly what I did. I put some mean sons of bitches away. I psychologically evaluated some crazy people. Some of them scared the crap out of me. I’m saying this to say, Davidson didn’t scare me. She’s tough, no doubt about it.

  I know what those Brownsville streets can turn a good kid into, or anyone, to say the least. Al Capone grew up on those streets. Davidson is hard on the outside but would melt in your hands on the inside. She is controlled by emotions, and her emotions get the best of her. From what Phil told me, you are investigating some pretty brutal murders. What was it? A beheading and stuff like that?”

  “A whole family, children included.” Levy nodded.

  Margaret bowed her head slightly, shaking it in disbelief. “Do you suspect Davidson is the murderer?”

  “No. We suspect she is involved. We know she is not the actual killer,” Doyle answered. Margaret sighed. To Levy, it seemed like a sigh of relief.

  “Well, if it would help, she once told me that she wanted to get revenge on the people responsible for shooting her niece.” Margaret put her glasses back on. “If any of those people were responsible, you may have your motive.”

  “From what I gathered, there was only a rumor of who was responsible for that. It happened out on the Island,” Levy stated.

  “Out of your jurisdiction,” Margaret said abruptly.

  “They never named suspects, anyhow.” Levy acknowledged that fact with a nod.

  After the meeting, while Doyle and Levy were preparing to leave, Margaret walked them to the door. She grabbed Doyle by the arm and stopped him.

  “Why haven’t I heard from you?
You don’t even return my calls.”

  “My schedule has been hectic and—”

  “Don’t lie, Phil. I can tell when you’re lying. You can’t look me in the eye,” she growled and waited. When Phil was not forthcoming, she continued, “I understand. You can’t afford a scandal before you retire. Just remember, I’m always a phone call away.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed. He returned the squeeze and smiled.

  During the ride back to New York, Doyle explained to Levy, who was driving, who Scooter and Tashy Williams were.

  “This Frank Matthews guy was the largest heroin dealer, well, black one at least, in the country during the sixties. The guy was big. The government busted him for trafficking and other charges related to drug distribution, gives him a quarter-million-dollar bail. It gets posted, and he disappears, never to be seen again.”

  “A quarter million?”

  “Cash,” Doyle replied.

  “Who brought that type of cash to bail him out?”

  “Scooter Williams. Matthews’s partner. The partner the government could never touch. The man is well connected at all levels. This guy could run for mayor of New York City with campaign money financed by drug proceeds that everyone knows about and win. They paint this guy as some type of Robin Hood of Harlem. He even let his daughter take the fall in a case of money laundering.”

  “That’s this Tashy Williams?” Levy asked as he swerved as a deer ran across a stretch of the Pennsylvania highway.

  “Correct,” Doyle answered. “Now, this Daphne Carter. This is interesting.” Doyle opened the copy of Daphne’s file. “I don’t know how dangerous she is, but the people she’s involved with are extremely dangerous. I haven’t seen this name in years.” Doyle pointed.

  “Who is that?”

  “Junior McLeod.”

  “Daphne is Wise’s little sister.”

  “What! Wow, do you know that?” Ruby asked Mecca over her cell phone while driving on the FDR Drive on her way to Brooklyn.