Guilty By Association

by Pat Simmons

  Kidd tapped his desk with a pen, mumbling, “And she’s a professional.”

  “Let’s see if he shows up again,” Parke advised.

  “Let’s not. Why wait for him to show up again—because he will show up again. I say, let’s be proactive and go looking for this dude.”

  “He could be legit,” Parke argued, but sounded doubtful.

  “There are too many chances connected with could.” Kidd didn’t have time for this. “What’s Imani’s number?”

  “Cuz—”

  “Just give me her number, Parke.” Kidd didn’t play games. And he wouldn’t allow anyone to mess with anyone he remotely cared about, especially a stroke-stricken old lady. However, her recovery was much improved, thanks to her therapies.

  Eva appeared in his doorway as he punched in the last digit to reach Imani. “One minute,” he mouthed.

  “I’ll be back,” she whispered and blew him an air kiss.

  Kidd was watching Eva’s retreat. He didn’t realize Imani had answered, until she screamed hello in his ear.

  “Ah, Imani. Kidd. What’s going on?”

  “Well, this guy—”

  “The condensed version,” he said. Softening his tone, he added, “please.”

  She huffed. “Okay,” she said with a heavy groan. “This man had trouble written all over him—from the sole of his shoes all the way up to his forehead. And wearing Stacy Adams don’t qualify him as Grandma’s kin. Plus, that old school Cadillac isn’t helping his image either …”

  As he listened to Imani finish her description of the man, Kidd wondered, What’s the story behind those men’s shoes, anyway? “Parke could be right. First things first. I’d better talk to Grandma BB and get back to you. Call me if the guy comes around again today.” Kidd recited his number.

  He had barely placated Imani when he disconnected and headed down the hall to Mrs. Beacon’s suite. Kidd needed to find out her reaction to this shady person.

  “Hi, Adam,” Mrs. Valentine greeted him, before he could knock.

  “Hello, Mrs. Valentine. Where is Mrs. Beacon—Grandma BB?”

  “In therapy.” She waved him in. “Got time for a story?”

  No. “Ah, I’ll be back.” Kidd spun around and walked swiftly to the recreational center. Mrs. Beacon could be seen through the large glass walls as the therapist worked tirelessly to challenge her.

  Kidd waited impatiently for twenty minutes, folding his arms and unfolding them. As he began to pace, he wondered if the physical therapist was stretching her treatment because he suspected Kidd wanted him to hurry up.

  Soon enough, Mrs. Beacon was helped into her wheelchair. Although in a hurry, Kidd entered the room as casual as possible. “I’ll take her back, William.”

  “Sure.” The man shrugged, then gave his attention to another resident who was waiting for his turn.

  Kidd hadn’t even cleared the door when Mrs. Beacon squinted at him. “What’s going on with you, Kiddo?”

  “What makes you think something’s wrong?” he asked, scouting out a private corner for them to talk.

  “Probably because I wasn’t born a minute before you came to escort me from therapy for the very first time.” She paused, and then continued slowly with a hint of a slur. “And since my room is in the opposite direction, that’s a clue too. Didn’t know I was that smart, did you?”

  Stopping in front of a window with a view of the miniature petting zoo, Kidd locked her wheels. He sat on a cushioned bench to face her, clasped his hands, and cracked his knuckles.

  “Okay. This is what’s going down. There’s a guy trying to get in your house. He’s calling himself your nephew, Bay-Bay.” Stupid name. What grown man went by the name Bay-Bay? “And he’s wearing Stacy Adams shoes like you.” Kidd had to ask, “What’s with those shoes?” Before allowing her to answer, he finished his report with the news, “Imani is ready to shoot him.”

  “Let her.” Mrs. Beacon seemed calm, almost unconcerned. “Tell her to give him her best shot—literally. I wouldn’t miss. Shoot, I target practiced on Cheney’s dad.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. Why would you try and kill your friend’s—adopted granddaughter’s—father? Now that is pure wrong.”

  “Stop your whining,” she said with a faint slur. “Dr. Reynolds is sitting in jail, where he should be.”

  “We’re getting off track. Do you know this Bay-Bay person or not?”

  Mrs. Beacon slightly moved her hand that was affected by the stroke, as if she wanted to tap her fingers. “I remember accepting a friend request from a Bay-Bay on Facebook.”

  “Facebook!” Kidd shook his head. “And parents worry about their children getting in trouble on the Internet. How many friends do you have on that thing?”

  “At last count, two thousand. The requirement to be in my circle of friends is having the latest pair of my favorite shoes. If a person has more than one pair, he’s a gold member of my Stacy Adams fan club.” She frowned. “Why does he want to get into my house?”

  Kidd huffed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Glad you’re now concerned. What have I been trying to tell you for the past fifteen or so minutes?” Evidently, she had a bout of memory loss.

  “I need to get up out of here. I know that.” She gripped the chair’s arm rests and fought with herself to stand. Gritting her teeth, she struggled to balance herself.

  “No need. I’ve got this.” He guided her back into the chair.

  “Let that fool break into my house, if he’s stupid enough. Silent Killer will be waiting for him. Imani better be feeding my dog and letting him run loose in the neighborhood for exercise. I know she tries to look cute in them stilettos, but have you ever seen a dog walk a person?” She tee-heed.

  Kidd stood, unlocked the chair’s brakes, and made a quick U-turn. “I’ll take care of this myself.”

  “Yeah, but you might need some backup. Man, I hate I’m going to miss this. Take pictures for my Facebook and Twitter home pages.”

  Hurrying Mrs. Beacon back to her suite, Kidd weaved around workers and residents who were enjoying leisurely walks with the aid of a wall or riding in their wheelchairs. While his adrenaline was pumping, he wanted to get the job done. He was serious about making a commitment to God, but he would have to put that on hold for now.

  Kidd was almost outside the building’s entrance when Eva called him. “Kidd, where are you going? I thought we were doing lunch.”

  Slowing down to respond, he took a moment to drink in the beauty of this woman. He had never forgotten about any plans he’d made with her. Kidd waited at the door, as she walked to him with a slight sway of her hips. He enjoyed watching her, whether she knew it or not.

  “I have to take care of some business. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Tilting her head, Eva gave him the oddest look. “As long as it doesn’t involve four women and flowers, I guess I don’t have to follow you.”

  Kidd loved her sass. “How about I bring you some Popeye’s chicken back?”

  “Hmmm. My favorite.” Her eyes danced. “I know.”

  “And don’t forget the biscuits.” Blowing him another kiss, she turned and hurried down a hall.

  Now, on to extinguish this fire so he could get back to his woman. He knew Popeye’s was running a special—two legs—mild, with a biscuit. Eva’s favorite.

  Mentally, Kidd was composing a profile of his intended target. Imani had given him the description—Stacy Adams shoes, bling drooping from his ears and swinging from his neck. Oh, he forgot about the printed boxer shorts. If the guy was bold enough to show up, evidently he was bold enough to terrorize anyone who got in his way.

  Kidd’s nostrils flared and he laughed. It had been a long while since he’d sparred with someone. And practice makes perfect.

  No time to waste; he had other priorities. Eva wanted chicken, and he planned to get it for her. Reluctantly, he punched in Parke’s cell number. Kidd liked being in charge and working solo. He was confident he could take on the
imposter without any problems. When Parke picked up, Kidd didn’t waste any time.

  “I can check this out right now. Where exactly does Grandma BB live?”

  “Just come over here first, and we’ll go together.”

  For once, Kidd didn’t argue. He would save his energy for Bay-Bay. Soon enough he turned onto Parke’s street. When he unlocked the front door and stepped inside, the living room was a beehive of activity. Parke and Malcolm were hovering over some man’s shoulders, as he sat tapping on a computer keyboard.

  “What’s going on?” Kidd asked, locking the door.

  “My friend Duke is running the license plate number of the guy. Imani called in. He’s back, sitting in front of the house. She’s keeping an eye on him from her window. Imani still wants to confront him. She talked about getting her repo truck and dragging the car away with him inside it. I suspect Grandma BB didn’t know this Bay-Bay.” Parke straightened and waited for Kidd to confirm it.

  “Nope.”

  “Instead of planning a covert operation, why not call the Ferguson police. They get paid for carrying a gun and investigating suspicious activities,” Cheney suggested, with her arms folded. She appeared to be the only rational one in the house. Sitting calmly in an armchair in the corner with one leg crossing over her knee, Cheney was annoyed. “Humph. Men and their muscles.”

  The guy called Duke shook his head. “You don’t have to be a private investigator like me to know that, if no crime has been committed, he’ll be released and maybe come back. That’s not good enough. We want him gone. Period. Who knows, the guy could prey on other elderly residents.”

  A private investigator? Kidd said to himself. Parke, Malcolm, and their friend were wasting time. It didn’t take all that.

  The phone rang and Parke answered. He listened and then hung up without a greeting or good-bye. “That was Imani. She thinks there are two of them now.”

  God, please look the other way. Kidd cleared his throat. “Listen, I’ve got this. I’m going to grab my gun from upstairs and somebody show me where Grandma BB lives.”

  “Gun!” Cheney shrieked and leaped out of her chair, as if she was propelled like a cannonball.

  Suddenly, Kidd was the center of attention.

  “You have a gun in my house? Around my children? Are you crazy?” Parke held Cheney back, as she scowled at Kidd. “That’s it. I’ll pack your bags myself and put you out. Do you know how many children die in gun-related deaths?”

  “Almost a thousand, just last year,” the private investigator answered in a matter-of-fact way.

  Kidd ignored the PI and observed Cheney, who was almost hysterical by now. Pandemonium exploded around him. Finally, Duke managed a whistle that silenced the group.

  “Man, don’t let your eyes fool you. It may look like I’m holding Cheney back, but actually her grip on me is tighter. I can take you on and then go over to Grandma BB’S house,” Parke said through clenched teeth.

  Hallison peeped out from the kitchen and matched Duke’s whistle. “This is getting out of hand. Let’s pray before there is any bloodshed.”

  “There is no need to pray,” Kidd snapped, convinced there was no place for religion in every situation.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. We’re going to calm down and pray!” Hallison shouted.

  Malcolm stared at his wife, and then took on a menacing look. “Consider it done, babe. Go pack your piece, man, and then we’ll pray before we all leave here.” Malcolm’s voice dared anyone to argue. “Thank God the children aren’t here.”

  Kidd huffed and took deep breaths. He didn’t take orders. He was a one-man show and only called for backup when he thought he absolutely had to. Taking his time going upstairs to his room, he assessed his belongings. He didn’t realize he had accumulated so many ties, suits, and shoes since his arrival months ago. It didn’t matter.

  With one sweep, he yanked an armful of clothes off the hangers in his closet and threw them into a garment bag. His underwear and shirts went into his duffel bag. Whatever didn’t fit, hung out, caught in the zipper. The ruckus was still in full swing when he returned downstairs fifteen minutes later.

  “That’s what took you so long? You were packing your clothes?” Malcolm asked incredulously. “We said the gun, not your bags.”

  “I got everything. Make no mistake about this. Wherever my gun goes, I go.”

  “Yeah, right,” Parke assured him, as he bumped everyone into a circle. Bowing his head, Parke took a deep breath. “God, we’re ashamed that we stand before You in dishonor. You say a house divided can’t stand. Lord, help us to resolve this unsettling situation without bloodshed and forgive us for our sins. In the name of Jesus. Amen.”

  Following the chorus of “Amens,” Kidd left without looking back. When he got to his car, he realized he still didn’t have the address.

  “Follow me,” Parke said, as he walked up behind Kidd. Malcolm and Duke climbed into Parke’s SUV.

  Parke pulled up in front of Mrs. Beacon’s brick story-and-a half bungalow. Kidd parked behind him and jumped out first. He didn’t have time for amateur backup escapades. A black Escalade with dark tinted glasses and an old-school Pontiac were posted there. The Delaware license plates stuck out.

  Duke got out of Parke’s vehicle and glanced inside the Escalade, then the car. No one was inside. Kidd and his cousins shook their heads at Duke’s theatrics as he danced across the front yard, pulling out his gun as if he was auditioning for an episode on a crime series. Parke and Malcolm headed around the back.

  Kidd grunted. If these men were bold enough to park in plain sight, they probably were bold enough to enter through the front door. Although they had no right to do so, audacious criminals believed their might alone gave them the right. Being streetwise himself, Kidd decided to take the direct approach, walking the short path to the front porch.

  The sound of tapping on a window got his attention. Suspiciously, he glanced around. Following the sound, he looked up. Imani was next door in her upstairs window, grinning and pointing to the gun in her hand. “Put that thing away,” he mouthed to her and then proceeded on his mission.

  Opening the screen door, the front entrance door was ajar. “Fools,” he mumbled. The thieves he knew back home preferred climbing through windows. Evidently, these crooks were out of shape. Kidd strained his ears and pulled out his S&W 638 Airweight. The house was quiet, but there was a trail of blood on the floor. Humph, he thought. Someone had beaten him to the punch.

  Quietly, Kidd followed the trail, mindful of Grandma BB’S dog, Silent Killer. The blood stopped in a puddle in front of the kitchen. At that point, it split into two paths. A set of bloody shoe prints suggested a pair of Stacy Adams might be ruined on the sole.

  The gory trail stopped at the open window. Commanding voices came from outside—someone had called the police. It appeared the escapees—definitely amateurs—had landed themselves into the hands of the cops. Evidently, Delaware criminals didn’t graduate with proper training.

  Kidd peeped out the window. The police had the pair in handcuffs. The drama would have appeared to be over, but something seemed amiss. Why were there three trails of blood? Imani must have batted an eyelash and one slipped under her radar, or the other crook thought he could get away, reconsidered, and followed his accomplice. To be sure, Kidd followed the blood into a sitting room. Stretched out on a dark sofa was the dog—Silent Killer—posed as if he was waiting for the press or a photographer. Lifting his head, he licked his jaws.

  Great. Kidd groaned. “Please don’t let me have to shoot Grandma BB’S mutt.” Kidd frowned and tilted his head down toward the floor. There was a pair of Stacy Adams jutting out from the other side of the sofa. He squinted and leaned closer. There had to be feet inside those shoes.

  Kidd took the safety off his gun. “I see the shoes, so I know you’re behind that couch. Put both hands up and scoot from behind there—now!”

  “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot! Get rid of the dog, man
. That monster bit me on the leg and on my—”

  “Shut up, man. Silent Killer,” Kidd called and the dog’s ears perked up, “come sit by me, boy.”

  The dog started wagging his tail. Then he jumped down and methodically approached Kidd, who wore a guarded expression on his face. Both he and the dog seemed distrustful of the other. Hesitantly, Silent Killer sniffed Kidd’s shoes and pant leg. Kidd determined he wouldn’t shoot the dog, but crack him on the head if the mutt even thought about sinking his teeth into Kidd’s new, Banana Republic, pinstriped dress pants. Amazingly, the dog finished his assessment and sat down.

  “Okay. I don’t care if you have to wiggle your tail out, but I got a date with my lady, and I don’t like to be late. So it’s me or the dog. You’ve got five minutes. Scratch that. You have thirty seconds. I’m impatient.”

  “I’m coming, man. Don’t shoot, and keep that dog away from me!” His voice trembled. As Kidd watched ankles emerge, it reminded him of the scene from the Wizard of Oz when the house landed on the wicked witch.

  Slowly, the crook’s legs and backside appeared. There were several rips on his pants. With his behind in the air, the intruder wormed his way out until finally, a head came into view. The man moaned as he struggled to get up and keep his hands in the air. Pitiful. If the dude was going to break and enter, at least he should have been equipped with more meat on his bones.

  “Get on your knees,” Kidd ordered, as Silent Killer locked eyes on his potential prey’s every move. “Hold it.” With the gun pointed at the man, Kidd pulled his iPhone off his waist belt with one hand, while he kept the gun aimed at his target.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  “It’s a phone, you idiot! Now, be still!” Kidd clicked and snapped a picture. “It’s for Facebook. Now get up slowly, or you’re bound to make the dog nervous. And walk toward that door.”

  Silent Killer growled.

  Timidly, the man followed orders. Kidd and Silent Killer followed him out the house where the police were interrogating the other suspects.