A tight Commander Toepani keyed the mic on his headset and asked, “Alpha and Charlie units, are you holding position?”
A resounding “Affirmative, sir,” echoed back through his earpiece from the leaders of both three-man units. Their job was to make sure that the suspect didn’t get out of the house without being apprehended. They wanted her alive but knew that she was armed and dangerous.
Toepani then gave the order to the remainder of his men. “We breach the doors on my command. . . .”
Inside of the house, a loud, shrill noise shattered the comfortable silence. Sitting at the kitchen table, Mickey jerked his head toward the ringing cordless phone. The poor man’s nerves were shot to hell. He felt like he’d been running barefoot on razor-sharped blades ever since Peaches burst into the house at two in the morning, wearing mangled clothing, crying, talking about how she had murdered some men. At first he thought he was hallucinating or she was playing a trick on him, but the girl wasn’t that evil to do something like that to him.
Peaches was Mickey’s only daughter and only child. He never had interest in any kids. But after Emma’s, the love of his life and Peaches’s mother, fatal overdose, he raised her by himself the best he knew how. He’d had his own struggles with drugs, which he kicked the day Emma died, but he couldn’t seem to shake off the lure of the streets. It wasn’t always easy for Mickey being a single dad from the streets. Dragging around the little girl from drug houses to Narcotic Anonymous meetings, whorehouses, gambling joints to after-hours spots not only wasn’t easy, but it also wasn’t conventional. No one knew that better than Mickey, but he knew no one could protect her from the mean world like he could. He would have rather died and went to hell than to have been separated—by any length of time—from his little girl. Seven hours away from her while she was away at school was enough to make him miss her immensely, but he knew it was not only mandatory by law, but also the best thing for her . . . and being around other children would help her social skills.
In addition to making sure she was on top of her schoolwork, Mickey taught her every hustle and con he knew of, and persuaded his friends to school her on the ones he didn’t know. But Mickey didn’t educate his daughter from the school of hard knocks to be a predator; he did it so she’d never be anyone else’s prey.
He knew that life could be extremely difficult for a kitten in a dog-eat-dog world. And if a cat didn’t know the nature of the game, the ultimate cost could be life. It wasn’t right in some people’s eyes, but he never cared what others said. This was his child and she would be well rounded and wouldn’t fall for the okey-doke.
The phone rang for the tenth time before Mickey finally answered it, “Hello?”
It was Nita, one of the neighbors from across the street.
“Hey, Mickey. Real quick, ’cause I know you busy. In case you didn’t know, half of the damn Richmond police squad is outside of your house. I just wanted to make sure you and Peaches were okay. And they look like they coming to kill somebody and—”
He knew this woman could talk until the cows came home. Time was of the essence, so he cut her off, “I couldn’t be better, under the circumstances,” he exaggerated. “As for Peaches, she isn’t here, but whenever I do talk to her, I will be sure to tell her that you called to check on her.” Before hanging up, he added, “Thanks for the heads-up, sugar. I’ll talk to you later.”
Only half the force, huh? he thought as he shook his head and put the phone back on the hook.
Mickey had been expecting that much, plus some, ever since Peaches had filled him in with the gory details of the night before and all she’d been through. As far as he was concerned, a few dead cooked-up bastards was better than his daughter being gang-raped any day. The only problem was without any actual physical evidence, Peaches didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of proving she was about to be raped. It would be her word against the reputation of men who were looked up to as model citizens in their city. And the fact that one was a judge’s son, he knew his daughter would never get the opportunity to tell the truth to set her free.
Mickey prayed, wished, and pleaded with God that there was a way that he could somehow say that it was he who actually pulled the trigger. In a perfect world he would trade places with his daughter at the drop of a gavel.
But the world wasn’t perfect, especially the one he lived in, but lucky for him he learned many moons ago to play the hands he was dealt.
“One.”
Commander Toepani and his men were ready to enter his premises.
“Two.”
Twelve men who made up his elite and special weapons and tactical team all carried standard-issue M-16’s, submachine guns, and wore standard-issue armor under their black windbreakers. They were trained for terrorist and hostage situations; but like most of their brethren all over the country, they were mostly used to raid the homes of drug dealers in the name of the “war on drugs.”
“Three.”
Battering rounds simultaneously knocked the front and back doors clean from their hinges. M-16’s drawn, teams stormed up the interiors of the house in a manner that could be called controlled chaos.
Before Mickey or his nephew could finish their bowls of cereal, the members of the SWAT team aggressively barked out orders: “Get on the floor! Hands by your side! Lay down!”
With a gun to the back of his head, Mickey, acting as surprised as he knew how, asked, “What is this all about?”
“You know! Where is she?” Toepani asked.
“Where is who?” Mickey played dumbfounded.
“Peaches Alize Brown.”
“She’s not here. In fact, no one’s here but me and my nephew.” Mickey nodded toward the young boy lying on the floor to his right, which wasn’t an easy task with his forehead planted firmly against the oak wood floors. “And for Christ’s sake, take the guns off of the youngin’; he’s only thirteen years old. You got the poor child scared shitless,” he said, wanting them to lighten up on his nephew.
Three men from the team searched and secured the upstairs while the others continued checking the closets, under the sofas, anywhere else a person could attempt to hide downstairs while purposely knocking anything glass or breakable over by “mistake.”
“And I see you people on the news saying you are trying to build a better rapport with the youth. This damn sure ain’t no way to do it.”
Commander Toepani told Corporal Hempstead, “Get Mickey and the boy to their feet.”
Toepani gave Mickey a no-nonsense glare once he was standing. “It’s real simple, you answer my questions truthfully or be charged with accessory after the fact to a double murder and a laundry list of other charges. Your fucking choice, man?”
Mickey stammered, “M-Murder?” as if he was taken totally by surprise.
“Where is your daughter? Peaches Brown, Peaches Alize Brown.”
Mickey acted astonished that the commander would use Peaches’s name and the word murder in the same breath. “What does Peaches haft to do with a murder?” He looked dumbfounded.
Toepani wasn’t falling for it, he had seen it all before and he wasn’t buying Mickey’s act. If a father didn’t know that his daughter wasn’t alive and well, his first response should have been to the effect of, “Is my daughter okay?” Mickey taking the defense was all he needed to know. He was quiet for a second. “You can bet your ass we ain’t gon’ find her here. He’d be stupid to keep her here; she’s probably long gone.”
At that time, three SWAT officers who had been searching the upstairs came back down empty-handed. “All clear, Commander.”
“I knew it,” he nodded. Then Toepani addressed the nephew, “Hey, son. How you doing?”
The boy nodded his head with tears in his eyes.
“You got a name?”
The boy nodded his head a second time.
“Unless you are a mute or something, I would like to hear you say it.”
“M-my . . . n-name . . . is . . . L-Lamont
,” the boy stuttered.
“Nice to meet you, Lamont. I want to ask you a couple of questions, okay?”
Lamont nodded.
Toepani tried to ease the boy’s nerves a little. “How old are you, son?”
“T-th-thirteen.”
Toepani cracked a smile. “I have a son your exact age. Tell me, Lamont, when is the last time you seen your cousin Peaches?”
Wearing baggy jeans, Air Jordans, a Philadelphia hooded sweatshirt, and fitted hat, Lamont looked to his uncle for help.
“Come on now,” Mickey said to Toepani. “Now you interrogating a kid without his guardian’s permission.”
Commander Toepani pressed on. “You don’t want to lie to me, Lamont. I’m here to help out.”
“Not since yesterday morning, Friday,” Lamont said.
“Enough of this bullshit,” Mickey said. “You got my nephew shook up, and my sister is a reallll cuckoo bird, and she’s one of those people always looking for a lawsuit. Now, I don’t play about my Peaches, but she . . . now she’s a real bitch and her kids are a whole other story. So that you don’t waste more of the taxpayers’ money, leave the kid and me alone.”
Toepani thought about what Mickey had said, “We’re wasting time. Let’s get out of here. Take the father with us; we will question him further at the station and we will book him.” The last part he thought would intimidate Mickey a little, but it didn’t. “Call your momma, boy. I’m not going to take you downtown. You old enough to get home, right?” he said. “And remember the police are here to protect and serve.” He patted Lamont on the back and exited out the house.
From beneath her “Lamont” disguise, Peaches watched the elite trained officers perp walk Mickey from the house in plastic flex-cuffs. She watched all the officers clear out.
She knew that they would try to pump him for information—information that he would never give—before they released him. Or eventually book him on a bogus charge of obstruction of justice. She took a deep, sympathetic breath due to the trouble she was putting her father through, having him hauled off to jail for her madness. Then she removed the fitted cap and the cutoff stocking that practically concealed her face by holding down and hiding her shoulder-length auburn hair.
Peaches cursed herself for wrapping the ace bandage so tightly around her breast that she could hardly breathe. But it had worked. It was impossible to tell that a set of 34Bs were being suffocated under the tight green Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt she was wearing. She knew it was risky to unwrap herself, but she needed to breathe just for a second.
Over her dead body, she thought, would she ever turn herself in to the police and do even one day for killing that asshole who had tried to attack her. And for the others, she didn’t give a flying fuck if they all had planned to join in or not. As far as she was concerned, rooting for the bastard, and doing nothing to stop it, made them just as guilty.
The burning question was, What do I do now? The answer: exactly what you and Mickey discussed, she talked back to herself. Get the hell out of Virginia until one of them could figure out a way to convince the authorities to believe the truth. You better pack a lunch, she told herself.
3
God Helps Those Who Help Themselves
Peaches exited the cab a few blocks away from the docks. What happened from here on out would determine her destiny. Mickey told Peaches that a man in a black hoodie would assist her. He would know who she was and that she was just to go to the dock in Hopewell and wait on the far east side. Even though it looked a little dangerous, she knew that her father would never steer her wrong.
She went to the designated spot and looked around for the person who was supposed to find her. The only problem was that all of the men were wearing navy and black hoodies at the docks. There were huge ships and vessels in the water by the dock. Peaches didn’t have a clue why her dad would send her here. How would she escape Virginia by boat?
Still dressed as Lamont, her heart was pounding as she nervously stood by a ship on the east side until she heard noise come from over her shoulder. “Pssst, pssst.” It startled her. “You Mickey’s peoples?”
She was almost scared to answer the grungy-looking man. She had seen too many cop shows, and her emotions and imagination were running wild. Could it be the police on her trail? Had the person she was waiting for been made by the police and now this was an undercover? Then she took a deep breath and tried to get her mind right. Or was it the man her dad wanted her to meet with?
“Yes, Mickey sent me.” She turned around to get a better look at the frail, older white man who only stood about five foot five with blond facial hair. He introduced himself, “I’m Frank, come on.” He motioned and then started walking.
Peaches followed Frank through what seemed like a maze, passing various workers and countless boxes and freight in the shipyard. He walked her down to an area with huge cranes and big metal boxes the size of a two-level building. Peaches by now had figured out she would be riding with the man Frank to another city. However, he stopped before the boat she thought that they were heading to.
“This is where you will be staying. Get in here,” he directed her, pointing to a cramped space in the front of a large metal box.
“In where?” she asked, dumbfounded. “It’s dark in there,” she said, glancing around, “and there is barely any room. Is there any air in that thing?”
Frank leaned in and looked her dead in the eyes. “Listen here, from what I understand you don’t have no time to be asking no questions whatsoever. I’m only doing this ’cause I owe Mickey a big favor. Now, this ain’t first class I know, but there’s no other way. If you go to any airport, bus terminal, or train station, you will be made. Do you understand? This is the only way out of the bear trap that they got set up for you. The choice is yours, but I advise you to jump in before they lift this cargo or you won’t be able to make it on this shipment to Miami.”
Peaches looked around, still unsure if she could trust Frank or if being locked in a hot metal box was a good idea.
He saw her thinking. “Now go on, get in now, gal. I’ll come and check on you to see if you are okay. In the meantime, to try to pass a little time.” He went in his pocket and passed her a pocketsize, handheld, battery-operated television that doubled as a radio.
She could not hide the uncertainty written on her face; although reluctant, she jumped in and he closed the heavy metal door. All she had was the dark and her thoughts to get her to Miami.
Soon after, Peaches felt the crane attaching to the box she was in, and seconds later, the box lifted with her inside and it dumped on to the boat. The noise rang her ears. She could hear commotion of all the workers giving directions, making sure the boxes were level. Peaches broke into a sweat. She was scared and fearful for her life when another box was placed on top of the one she was in. She wondered what she would do if her container collapsed from all the weight. But as she heard the squeaky noise of another container being placed beside hers, she knew there was nothing she could do—she was trapped in. There was no turning back.
If she made any noise or didn’t calm herself down, she would be facing life behind bars; she had to take the chance of possibly being crushed.
How did her life get to this point? Mickey taught her everything she knew and he never prepared her how to run for her life; the problem was there was absolutely nowhere to run to.
Instead of driving herself crazy, all she could do was pray to God. He had saved her before and hopefully He would spare her again. Hopefully He would send someone to save her, like He had sent when she was seven years old when her mother was laying on top of her for two days dead.
She pulled out her headphones from her bag and tried to get a channel on the handheld television.
“Richmond’s most brutal and baffling murder of this decade,” is how the Times Dispatch described it, and the local news stations couldn’t get enough of the story. Without fail, each time any of the networks recapped the horrific
crime, they rolled footage from in front of Tony’s bail bondsman business, cordoned by the all-so-familiar yellow police tape. Halfway through the segment, the image was replaced by a shot of Beauty Boutique and its owner—Peaches Brown—with the word SUSPECT prominent above the television screen. Out of all the cute pictures on her Facebook page that she had posted, they selected the worst. The not-so-attractive picture they used was one that someone had tagged her in.
Three days had passed since the ordeal, but with Peaches the images nesting in her head were still as vivid and graphic as the moment they’d happened. Like right now, she could still smell the liquor wafting from Tony’s hot breath. Though she wanted so hard to block it out, she could feel his arm braced against her neck, the other pawing at the waist and button of her jeans. The noise wouldn’t stop. She could still hear the others cheering him on. Eric calling for next, then Mark going back and forth about if he’d be next, like she was a new Porsche they were test driving. She could still see the wild, hedonistic glint in their eyes as she begged for help.
She, a helpless rabbit caught in their snare.
But the mirth quickly drained from their faces once the rabbit got her hands on the gun. Her father always said, it ain’t never fun when the rabbit got the gun. The first shot, muffled by the inside of her purse, sounded like a firecracker. Her wrist barely jerked, the nine ejaculated the first bullet through the hole of the barrel, piercing the leather of the purse, then Tony’s navel. Even right now, inside the eight feet by forty feet cold, dark, metal prison she’d been confined in for the past ten days, she could still smell the pungent odor of the gunpowder from the next fourteen shots that were fired.
When Tony was hit for the first time in the chest, he screamed out, “My God!”
Peaches whispered, “God helps those who help themselves,” and continued to pull the trigger. Tony ate three more hollow points before meeting his God in person. Mark’s fate was the same, and Eric’s destiny was still unclear. As far as she knew, besides Peaches the only other person breathing after the smoke cleared was Charles, the judge’s son, and he was on life support.
Most Wanted Page 11