Tossing her straight hair over her shoulder, Katherine thrust her 36DDs forward—those titties must’ve been a bonus for having a baby or implants. She straightened her five feet eight inches, then articulated, “The twenty-seven-year-old woman is a lifelong resident of Selma. Her bail is set at one million dollars. If Sarah McKenny is found guilty of killing Calvin McKenny, she could get life without the possibility of parole or worse, Sarah could face the death penalty. I’m Katherine Clinton with Morning to You, America. Back to you, Warren.”
Mona mouthed, “Sarah McKenny is innocent.” But to prove her so would bring unwanted attention to Mona and probably joy to Katherine.
That case was not worthy of national attention. Katherine probably elevated the case hoping Lincoln would be watching her. But how could Katherine have that much power? Mona never liked Katherine, and the feeling was mutual. They never had a catfight or called one another names, but if looks could kill, they’d both be dead.
Calvin’s homicide, Mona’s mother, and Katherine Clinton were the three reasons Mona agreed to move over two thousand miles from Selma. She’d abandoned her family, that didn’t matter. Her mother still wasn’t speaking to her. Left the few friends she had. And she hadn’t heard from her first love. But she still had the silver ring Lincoln gave her in her purse, along with her troll genie.
She wasn’t going to get hard-core answers about the McKennys standing in a puddle of piss. She tossed a handful of paper towels to the floor, then tramped outside the lab to her desk.
One call after another registered on Mona’s cell. First, her mother. So, now she’s calling. Then her dad. Students that attended Selma High with her called back to back. Damn! Why were they calling her? Had they heard something she hadn’t? Forget all of them. Mona prayed the tragedy would somehow reunite her with her first and only true love. Maybe Katherine had done her a favor.
There was hope in her heart. Perhaps he’d call. She prayed Lincoln wasn’t gawking over Katherine if he’d seen her on the news. Mona hadn’t seen or heard from Lincoln since graduation, ten years ago.
Removing her white lab coat, Mona flung it on the chair, hurried to her boss’s office, stuck her head through the door, then said, “I have an emergency. I’m leaving. I’ll be back in tomorrow.” Maybe.
Oh, my God, she thought. Mona prayed the video of Calvin’s murder was still in her safety deposit box at the bank.
If not, maybe she wouldn’t be back at all.
CHAPTER 16
Lincoln
May 2010
He had no place to get help.
When he was fortunate to get a job, he couldn’t keep it. Not sleeping at night. Falling asleep at home when he should be in transit to work. Sounds and smells triggered bad memories, made him do things that weren’t considered normal by those who hadn’t spent a day of their lives fighting for their country. He was on a few lists for housing assistance, but no one had contacted him. Refusing to give up on what he deserved, again today he’d seek help from his government.
He slipped on a T-shirt, jeans, then laced up his combat boots. Not a day went by since his best friend was killed that he didn’t walk in Randy’s shoes.
Lincoln opened his apartment door. Another piece of paper was taped to the front. He read the embarrassing headline—NOTICE TO COMPLY OR VACATE. This time instead of having three days to pay, he had ten days to move out.
After snatching the paper, he ripped it in half, balled it up, threw the notice on his living room floor, then slammed his door.
“This is bullshit!” he said, making his way to the VA Prime Care clinic to see his Prime Care doctor.
Damn government trying to operate like HMOs and PPOs. Constantly blindsided by what they didn’t know, the government needed to stay in their lane and focus on viably helping war vets.
Lincoln sat in the waiting area hoping today he’d get a positive response. He placed his elbows on his knees, spread his feet six inches apart, stared at his combat boots. He concealed his sniffles as tears streamed down his face. Wiping his nose with his palm, he whimpered like a baby. That wasn’t the manly thing to do, but his best friend was dead and that shit hurt more than all the enemies he’d killed.
“William Lincoln.”
Somberly, he responded, “Yeah,” rising to his feet.
The routine visit hadn’t changed much over the last two years. But he fought to remain optimistic. He followed the assistant through the door.
“How are you feeling today, William?” she asked.
Biting his bottom lip, anger looming in his eyes, he stared at her without blinking. “How the fuck you think I’m feeling? You tell me.”
She wrapped the pouch around his biceps. “I’m going to take your blood pressure.”
“Why?” he asked. “So my doctor can prescribe more medications that keep making me feel worse than when I come up in here? Y’all trying to kill me so you don’t have to help me get better? What? What! Am I a burden to my country now? Being a fucking war vet don’t mean shit!”
She jumped when he yelled.
He snatched the pouch from his arm, threw it on the floor.
Calmly she said, “Why don’t I take you to the doctor’s office,” leading the way.
Her soothing voice subsided his anger. He didn’t mean to yell at her. “Look, I apologize.” His mental instability, nightmares, and paranoia weren’t her fault.
“It’s okay, William.”
He hoped she didn’t say, “I understand.” If she did, he was going to lose it for real. He followed her down the hall.
She entered the doctor’s office before him, then turned. “My husband was in Iraq too. Have a good day, William,” she said as she left.
His doctor greeted him. “Hey, William. How’s it going today? How are you managing your PTSD?”
What the fuck is he so cheery about? This isn’t some damn joke. Bet if I kicked him in the head with this boot, I’d knock that stupid grin off his face.
“Look, man, they put a notice on my front door this morning. I’ve depleted all the money I saved while in the military. I’ve got my last eight hundred in my pocket. It ain’t enough to pay my cell phone, electric, rent, and still eat this month. I have no place to go. I don’t have any friends here in Seattle. Man, I’m telling you, I’m a few days away from being homeless. I need a housing voucher or something from the VA ’cause none of those places I’ve applied to have called me back.”
The doctor stared at his laptop computer. “So for today your contact information, cell phone, and address are the same. Right?”
For today? “Yeah, man, but what about tomorrow?” Still staring at his damn computer, the doctor said, “Well, we have to house the homeless vets first.” He scribbled on a blank sheet of paper. “Here, call this number. They might be able to partially pay your rent for this month. I can refer you to the housing authority too, but let me warn you now,” he said, stretching his arms wide, “their waiting list is extremely long.”
Lincoln felt as though every place he called or went to had some sort of pecking order that placed him at the bottom. The media made it seem like all you had to do to get a spot in the apartment complexes built to house veterans was be a veteran. Then when he showed up to apply, veterans who were homeless with families or just homeless had priority over him.
“Why can’t you just get me a housing voucher, man?”
The doctor looked at him for three seconds, then back at his screen. “It doesn’t work that way, William. There’s a process. You see, one federal government agency can’t give money to another federal agency. HUD gets all the federal funding for housing. Then HUD allocates a set number of vouchers—say, twenty thousand—that go to participating PHAs, that’s public housing agencies. Those vouchers are specifically for homeless veterans. And once the county or the city gets the money, they can issue through HUD-VASH a housing choice voucher. That’s Housing and Urban Development and Veterans Affairs Supportive Housing. But you’re not homeless
yet, so you wouldn’t qualify.”
This is the bullshit I’m talking about! Lincoln was not impressed with how much the dude knew. If there wasn’t a voucher with his name on it, none of what he’d said would keep Lincoln from being homeless before the end of the month.
His government took care of women choosing to have baby after baby by different dudes, giving them housing vouchers, food cards, WIC, and all kinds of shit. Their babies’ daddies didn’t have to give them a dime. But his government couldn’t keep a roof over his head, let alone food in his stomach.
That doctor had better be thankful. The one thing the military taught Lincoln was self-discipline. Through all of his anger, he killed to protect, never to prove his point.
Glancing at his watch, the doctor said, “William, it’s time that I refer you to the Trauma Recovery Program.” He scribbled on a piece of paper, then continued, “Are you able to sleep at night? Do I need to prescribe you more sleeping medication? Do you have a preference? If the Ambien I prescribed isn’t working for you, I can put you on Desyrel. What about pain meds? You need more of those?”
Lincoln sarcastically said, “How about a prescription for cocaine?”
Some vets were self-medicating with street drugs like cocaine and marijuana just to cope with the madness. Others had become alcoholics. He didn’t want to take that route, but for the vets that did, he understood.
Lincoln also understood the new recruits’ reasons for taking cocaine and smoking marijuana. Failing their drug test during boot camp meant they could get discharged. What was worse? Getting kicked out of the military with a dishonorable discharge and having a hard time finding a job or risking going to war, being killed, or coming back mentally fucked up for the rest of your life? The new recruits weren’t dumb. They were actually smarter than him. Look at what eight years of service had done for him. And the second four years his government held him hostage.
The doctor shook his head. “William, I am not the enemy. I’m on your side,” he said, handing him three prescriptions.
Lincoln stood, took the prescriptions, said, “You, sure? I can’t tell. ‘America! America! God shed His grace on thee. And crown thy good with . . .’ yeah, right. What the fuck ever, man,” Lincoln said, walking out of the doctor’s office.
He’d drop back in tomorrow praying for better results. He had faith in the Obama administration. One day his government would give him the help he deserved.
That day just wasn’t today.
CHAPTER 17
Mona
May 2010
Among her peers, Mona Lisa was best known for finding that one speck of blood that linked murders to the scene of the crime. But she’d stopped investigating crime scenes when they’d left Selma.
If the forensic specialist assigned to Calvin’s case had collected and tested blood samples from the base of Calvin’s head, they might’ve found two types. Calvin’s and the man she was headed home to. When Steven punched Calvin in the back of the head, Steven’s knuckle bled. She knew because she saw the cut on his hand and there was blood inside one of the plastic gloves Steven put on after hitting Calvin but before shooting him.
Working at the lab in Bakersfield was less stressful than working for the police department in Selma. Mona was skillfully trained in identifying fingerprints and palm prints, photographing and videotaping crime scenes, collecting evidence, attending autopsies, and testifying as an expert on many court cases. Depending on what lead was allegedly sent, it could attach her to the crime. If it was tangible and submitted as an exhibit in court, she could ultimately end up being an accessory to three murders.
Halfway home Mona realized she hadn’t completed the drug tests. Sure the remaining hairs were floating on the table or scattered on the floor, she knew by now all of the affected samples were tainted.
Errors and omissions were inevitable in laboratories and in courtrooms. Specialists never wanted to appear incompetent, but like with the OJ trial, experts were fallible too. Whomever those potential employees were, they might get a needed break, as the test results would be labeled inconclusive.
En route to her home, she stopped at her bank, checked the contents of her safety deposit box. The video camera was there. She was partially relieved.
One block from home, she heard her phone chime two times, signifying she’d received a text message. The cell was inside her purse; she’d check it later. Mona zipped into their driveway, turned off her engine, left her key in the ignition, then hurried into their bedroom. She shoved panties, bras, socks, shirts, a pair of jeans, a sweat suit, and a pair of tennis shoes into a black overnight bag, then hurled the bag onto her shoulder with no intentions of ever coming back to him. No note. No good-byes warranted.
After swiftly turning to exit the bedroom, she screamed “Ahhh!” In the blink of her eyes, she felt like she’d collided face-first into a brick wall. Mouth wide open, she held her breath. Her heartbeat tripled.
“Leaving without telling me?” he asked, blocking her exit. “It’s because of Sarah McKenny, isn’t it?”
Tears streamed down Mona’s cheeks as she exhaled. “I can’t do this anymore, Steven. I just can’t. You sent Davenport that lead, didn’t you? But why frame Sarah? You know she doesn’t deserve this. And what was the lead that you sent? I know you. I know you did it. But I can’t believe you sent something without my knowledge and consent.”
Pounding on his chest, Mona yelled, “Why didn’t you talk to me first? Tell me! Why?” She fell to her knees. “Oh, Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?”
She’d always followed Steven’s lead. She wasn’t in love with him, but she did trust him. Until now. He used to tell her everything first. Not anymore. Now he held secrets? Tears filled her eyes. “So now you’re hiding shit from me, Steven? Things that could send me to prison!”
He pulled her up. “You weren’t crying when I gave you that hundred grand six years ago. Or when I gave you another hundred Gs or that last hundred thou six years ago. Besides, I told you to stop watching the damn news at work, but no, you won’t listen!” he scolded, removing the bag from her shoulder.
He’d changed. She’d changed because of him. Mona buried her face in her palms so she wouldn’t have to search his eyes for lies or the truth.
“Baby, this new guy Daniel was put on the case and came calling, questioning me about my whereabouts the night of Calvin’s murder. Said someone reported seeing my SUV parked in Calvin’s yard. Wasn’t hard for him to single me out, being I was the bounty hunter looking for Calvin. You saw the whole thing. You were there too. You saw Calvin get his gun.”
And she had proof of who pulled the trigger. What was the lead he’d given? That she was there? Mona uncovered her face, narrowed her eyes at him. “And Katherine? How is she involved? She just happened to be the reporter on this?”
“What? I don’t know; it’s her job. She’s still the lead anchorwoman in Selma, isn’t she? She reports all of their big cases. You’re not still bitter about her taking that Lincoln dude from you, are you? Is that what this is about? Katherine?” he asked, facing his palms up and at her. “Lincoln?”
“Fuck you, Steven!” she yelled, slapping his hands away from her. “You’ve always been jealous of my relationship with Lincoln. This here conversation is about you giving that detective only God knows what. I demand to know what it was!”
His lips tightened, eyes narrowed. “What, what was?”
“You bastard. Don’t play mind games with me. After all I’ve witnessed because of you, I have to live with myself. But I don’t have to live with you.” How dare his ass try to hide shit from me.
Steven dropped her bag to the floor, embraced her. “Baby, what was I supposed to do? Let him shoot me, shoot you? You’re just as guilty as I am. A simple-ass failure to appear for a DUI, Mona. Granted it was his fourth time driving under the influence. But Calvin should’ve taken his ass to court. Sarah should’ve left Calvin behind bars instead of putting their house up as collateral.
Now his stupid ass is dead and this is what his wife gets for bailing him out. You can’t feel sorry for people like that. So, yes, I had to give Daniel information that would take the focus off of us.” Us?
CHAPTER 18
Steven
May 2010
Talking wasn’t going to make things better between them. He knew what she needed and exactly when to give it to her good. Right now.
Sex was a sedative for Mona, especially her favorite, oral. No man could make love to her better than him. He’d learned all of her erogenous zones. Could polish her pearl to perfection. Make her come fast or slow. Hard or soft. He controlled her pussy.
Steven pressed his lips to Mona’s forehead. Trailing kisses to her nose, he moved to her lips, sucked tenderly before gently luring her tongue into his mouth. “Everything’s gonna be all right, baby.” The tip of his tongue danced along her cheek, outlined the perimeter of her ear, then slowly penetrated her ear.
Mona grunted, then moaned.
The welcoming sounds resonating in his ear made his dick grow tight in his pants. He squatted to align his mouth with her breasts. Opening every button on her white blouse, he lowered her lace bra beneath her titty, then clenched her nipple between his teeth. Firmly, he cupped her pussy into his palm, lightly scratched his middle finger along her shaft.
Mona whispered, “Steven, don’t,” as she squirmed in his hand.
The moisture from her excitement soaked his palm. “That’s my girl. Let it flow for your husband. I got you.”
Steven kneeled before Mona, unzipped her pants. Lowering her thong to her thighs, he teased her clit with his tongue, allowing her juices to saturate his palate. “Relax, baby. Let go,” he said, laying her on the bed.
After removing her pants, he released his manhood, tossed their clothes to the floor beside the bed. Burying his face in her pubic hairs, he inhaled, filling his lungs to capacity. He held his breath, savoring her sweet fresh scent of cocoa, then blew cool air on her clit. Mona Lisa smelled and tasted just like chocolate. The only taste he preferred more than hers was whiskey.
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