Detective Eubanks, he thought.
It was downright cruel and uncivilized for Eubanks to resort to mind games. “Fix it back,” he whispered, thinking of how he could get Eubanks back for violating the rules of engagement. Butter Bean started banging his head against the cell door over and over and over while repeating “Fix it back.”
“Get used to it, Butter Bean,” the CO said. “We’ve got the green light to toss your cell every day.”
“Can’t function…without order.” Butter Bean started hyperventilating. “You…can’t…do…this.”
“Calm down and breathe,” the CO said.
“Make it go back to normal. Make it like it was.” More head banging.
“Only Detective Eubanks can call it off. Relax some and maybe you can catch him before he leaves.”
Between breaths, Butter Bean said, “Take me to him.”
• • •
Hakeem flipped open his Palm Treo. “Communicate.”
“Where are you?” Aspen said, sounding like an angel.
“Prison interview room.” He peeped at his Patek Phillipe, 10:43 a.m., and sighed. “I give Butter Bean ten more minutes, then I’m on my way.”
“How did it go?”
“He shot me down and stormed out of here, but I’m certain he’ll warm up before I leave.”
With concern coating her voice, Aspen said, “Why? What did you do, Hakeem?”
“Had his cell destroyed. Rearranged his stamp collection. You know, scrambled his whacky world, and agitated his acute obsession with order.”
“That was dirty. Bet the little professor threw one hell of a temper tantrum. Hope you can sleep at night knowing you’re the reason he’ll spend the next sixty days going to pill call trying to get back right.”
“I’m not sleeping anyway.” Hakeem didn’t consider himself a great man—not even slightly. He just had a set of morals and principles that he wasn’t sure what kind of person they categorized or qualified him as. Always respect and never strike a woman; beat the shit out of a disrespectful man. Always tell the truth; scheme and lie through his teeth to discover the greater truth. Be loyal to a fault; betray whoever initiates the cross. “He forced me to use his Asperger’s to my advantage.”
The door swung open and banged against the wall. “You dingleberry,” Butter Bean said, soaked with sweat.
“Speak of the devil,” Hakeem said to Aspen. To Butter Bean he said, “Back so soon?”
“Call your mutts off.”
Hakeem held the phone to his ear and said nothing.
“Give me a pen and paper.”
Hakeem tore a sheet of legal paper from the Mont Blanc folder and offered him a matching pen. “You need to see these photos again?”
“I have a steel-trap memory, dick head. He’s smart. He converted the hieroglyphics to translate to pig Latin. A code within a code.”
In his ear Aspen said, “What’s he doing?”
“Writing.”
“Here’s the English version.” Butter Bean pocketed the pen and shoved the paper at Hakeem.
Family is the sacred right of
passage. Death to evildoers who
alter the course of man and
woman, the creators of child,
the key to life. Stay out of
my way, Detective Eubanks.
Law 33: Discover Each
Man’s Thumbscrew.
I know yours.
“Son of a bitch.”
FIFTY-ONE
A few ticks past noon Hakeem damn near limped out a convenience store on the corner of Euclid and Avalon carrying a loaf of white bread and a Slim Fast for Aspen. What did she need a diet drink for when she was already perfect? Women, I’ll never understand them.
When he eased onto the Hummer seat, Aspen said, “What’s up with the bread?”
“Medicine.” He nudged the Hummer down Avalon while Aspen browsed through a catalog of baby clothes.
She looked up from the catalog and frowned.
“Don’t even try to wrap your mind around it.” Then: “What’s a dingleberry?”
“I like to had fell out when Butter Bean called you that.” She laughed, giggled some, then smiled. Sheer amusement poured from her eyes.
“Mind telling me what’s so funny?” he said as he parked in front of an ailing two-story brick house with a slated roof and rusted-out gutters.
“Take your pick.” She laughed again as they got out the truck. “Either he was calling you a piece of shit stuck on an ass hair or an inept fool.”
He gave that and the Hieroglyphic Hacker’s deaths threat some serious thought as they walked onto the front porch. “Knowing Butter Bean it was both.”
When Aspen rang the doorbell, a Monte Carlo with twenty-four-inch rims turned into the driveway. Its stereo system was pumping Young Jeezy’s “Go Crazy.” The music abruptly stopped. A lady with an unattractive ponytail bound together with a yellow scrunchie stepped out the car. Two handsome twin boys climbed out the back seat and dashed up the street.
The lady looked Hakeem and Aspen up and down. “What y’all want?”
Then the front door swung open. An elderly woman with a milky film on her irises said, “Barack Obama send you with my stimulus social security check?” She flashed a toothless smile.
“Go back in the house, Madear. I got this.” To Hakeem and Aspen, the lady with the bad ponytail said, “I said what y’all want? Y’all deaf or something?”
Hakeem pulled back the lapel of his Givenchy suit so the gold badge clipped to his crocodile belt would speak for itself. Aspen flashed her badge as well.
“We’re detectives with the CPD,” Hakeem said. “Hakeem Eubanks, and this is my partner, Aspen Skye.” He offered his hand.
“Aw shit,” Madear said. “I’m busted. I’ve been through this before. Give me a second.”
“Are you Mrs. Taylor?” Aspen said.
“Yeah, I’m Africa Taylor. Is this about Madear calling the CIA the other day? She doesn’t have much left upstairs if you haven’t noticed already.”
“Mind if we talk inside, Mrs. Taylor?” Hakeem was a veteran. He knew to never inform a family member of a homicide until after he conducted an interview and garnered as much info as he possibly could. Once a person became emotional, there was no point in trying to extract useful information.
• • •
The inside of the Taylor home starkly contrasted with the outside. It boasted a motif of money-green Italian leather furnishings, mahogany wood grain, and frameless tempered glass. The hardwood floors were polished to a mirror shine. Beautifully woven asymmetrical rugs were strategically placed throughout the dwelling. An overstuffed sectional with mink throws draped over it hugged the khaki-colored walls and faced a large plasma TV. Hakeem and Aspen relaxed on the sofa in front of a glass coffee table with a built-in saltwater aquarium stocked with a spectacularly colored coral reef that served as a backdrop to robust triggers, clownfishes, damselfishes, and lionfishes.
“Forgive me for being all ghetto outside,” Africa said, placing ice-cold bottled waters on coasters for the detectives. “I’ve been stressing lately. Between my senile mother-in-law, my bad men children, and my cheating-ass husband, I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Hakeem and Aspen made eye contact, understanding that they possibly had another woman to investigate. Hakeem watched Africa with pessimistic eyes. She showed no obvious signs of deception. Her eye contact was firm. Confident. Concerned. Nothing like the gaze of a woman who was a cold-blooded killer. But then again, maybe she’s just a good liar, Hakeem thought.
“Mrs. Taylor, boys will be boys.” Aspen sipped her water.
“Girl, call me Africa. Mrs. makes me sound like I got grandchildren.”
Hakeem said nothing.
“About Madear calling the Secret Service or the CIA,” Africa said, “She—”
“Okay, you busted me red-handed. I won’t put up a useless fuss,” Madear said, coming into the living room as nake
d as the day she was born eighty-four years ago. Her loose skin was wrinkled and distorted like a crumpled brown paper bag. “I know the drill. Been arrested plenty enough when I marched with Dr. King and the Civil Rights Movement.” She opened her mouth so Aspen and Hakeem could see inside her toothless hole, pulled her ears back for them, and spread her fingers apart. Then she proceeded to turn around, spread her cheeks, squat, and cough. Madear went through each step of a cavity search like a seasoned convict.
Hakeem couldn’t take another moment of it. He skirted his eyes. Aspen’s mouth fell open; Hakeem knew she had no desire to stop looking. Africa didn’t seem surprised at all by Madear’s behavior. Her face drew tight with anger.
She leaped off the sofa and wrapped Madear in a mink throw. “That’s it!” she spoke through her teeth. “Pack your shit. I’m dropping your ass off at the nearest old folks’ home. Let them deal with you ’cause I’m through.” She led Madear to the sofa. “You hear me? I’m through with you embarrassing the hell out of me. You just don’t let up.” To Hakeem and Aspen, she said, “That’s what I’m talking about. Madear didn’t mean any harm when she made that call.”
After the initial shock of Madear’s lewd striptease wore off, Hakeem decided to do a little probing. “You called your husband Yancee a cheat.”
“That’s right. The fucker hasn’t been home in two nights. I know he’s creeping with this Terri chick that moved here from Philly. Ain’t the first time he ain’t come home because of that home-wrecking slut.” Then: “Wait a minute. What the hell does this have to do with Yancee?” Now Hakeem could tell that Africa seriously contemplating their presence in her home and that her defenses had shot back to the roof.
“Will I be in jail before supper time?” Madear said, watching the aquarium as a clownfish frolicked with the stingy tentacles of a sea anemone.
Aspen said, “Africa, we’re here to speak with you about your husband.”
Africa’s brows formed a single dark line. “What about him? Yancee stopped selling drugs when the twins were born. He ain’t in jail, is he?”
It was too early in the game to dismiss Africa as a liar or a suspect, but Hakeem’s cloud of suspicion started to thin. She definitely didn’t strike him as the Hieroglyphic Hacker. Accomplice? Maybe. But she seemed genuinely clueless to the matter at hand. No artifices seeped from beneath her skin. “When was the last time you saw your husband?” Hakeem opened the Mont Blanc, a pen he borrowed from Aspen poised over the paper.
“Wednesday morning when he left for work. A little after nine. Why?”
“I’m gonna need commissary money when I go to jail.”
No one paid Madear any attention.
Aspen leaned forward. “Bear with us. We’ll explain everything to you. But it’s very important that you do your best to answer all our questions first.”
Worry crept across Africa’s face. A moment of silence turned into a long minute of uncertainty. She studied them then reluctantly said, “Okay.”
Aspen continued with her line of questioning. “Do you and Yancee regularly speak on the phone when he’s away from home?”
“Yeah, unless he’s screening his calls because he’s laying up with that bitch Terri.”
“You know Terri’s last name? Phone number? Address? Where she works?”
“Yeah, Yancee doesn’t know that I know, though. It’s Dunlap.” And she gave them the rest of the info she had on Terri Dunlap as Hakeem sat in silence and wrote it down.
Aspen said, “When was the last time you spoke to Yancee?”
“His lunch break, Thursday. He called me from his cell phone.”
Hakeem jumped in. “What’s his number?”
Africa rattled off the digits, then she said matter-of-factly, “You’re starting to scare me.”
“I’m scared too,” Madear said, rocking in place, her bare knees poking out from the mink throw. “I don’t want to go to jail. It’s only a little pot I got from the boy on the corner for my cataracts.” She gave Hakeem a conspiratorial wink and let the mink slip from her shoulders to expose her breasts. “Take me to my bedroom and we can work this out.”
“Stop it!” Africa covered her back up. “Stop being nasty.”
Hakeem could tell that Madear lived a full life, that she had marched for the equal rights of Blacks, and had endured the isms of the world long enough to see she hadn’t marched in vain. He’d be willing to bet that when Barack Obama won the election for the presidency of the United States of America and the First Black Family filled her TV screen, she understood that the very definition of what it meant to be black in America had changed forever. That she knew it was no longer wishful thinking that her grandchildren would one day be judged and selected for the content of their character and intelligence and not dismissed for the color of their skin. There was no doubt in his mind that she now knew that her grandchildren could truly become whomever they aspired to be.
“According to the DMV,” Aspen said, “Mr. Taylor has three cars registered in his name. You pulled up in the Monte Carlo. Where are the other two?”
Africa nibbled at a cuticle. “His sixty-seven Buick Riviera is in the garage and he drove his sixty-seven Camaro to work. He restores old school cars from the sixties. He’s showing the Riviera next week at a car show in Detroit.”
Hakeem wished that was true, but he said nothing.
“Why am I naked?” Madear said, looking down at herself. “Somebody broke in here and stole my clothes.”
“Does Mr. Taylor have any enemies?” Aspen capped her water.
“No.”
Her voice crawled to a tone that prickled Hakeem’s body hairs.
She said, “I ain’t answering another motherfucking question about my husband until one of y’all tell me what the hell is going on. It’s that or get on the other side of my front door.”
Africa took a firm stance and ended the interview before they could pry deeper into Yancee Taylor’s life. Who were his friends? What type of person was he? Where did he hang out? Hakeem knew that the answers could somehow connect Yancee to his killer, unless Yancee was purely a victim of randomness. For now they would have to work with the information they did get. Hakeem hated to be the bearer of bad news, but he never let the burden fall on Aspen’s shoulders. They naturally fell into pseudo husband-and-wife roles and played their positions because they cared about each other.
Hakeem pulled in a deep breath and let it go with a sigh. “Africa, I hate to inform you of this, but your husband was murdered.”
Madear came back to the sane part of the world. Her eyes fastened on Hakeem and singled in on his eyebrows and goatee. “Damn liar. My son will be home any minute. Now get the hell out of my house with your hurtful lies before I call the cops.” Then: “Damn liar. He called Africa’s phone this morning and got disconnected.”
FIFTY-TWO
The thrill of the hunt leaked endorphins into their systems like good dope. With their cell phones stuck to their ears, Aspen and Hakeem left the Taylor residence high on information.
Hakeem, always the chivalric gentleman, opened the Hummer door for Aspen and helped her inside as he spoke to a police dispatcher. “This is Detective Hakeem Eubanks of the Cleveland Homicide Unit. Badge number six-ten.”
“Hold for verification,” an overworked dispatcher said without much enthusiasm.
On the inside of the Hummer, Aspen spoke into her phone: “Tony, we may have something on the Hieroglyphic Hacker’s whereabouts.”
“Caught a break within the first forty-eight, huh?”
“Too soon to tell. I need you to triangulate a cell phone call for me and get me an address.” She gave Tony Yancee’s cell number and Africa’s cell number and the time Yancee’s phone last dialed Africa’s. Tony would pinpoint the cell towers the call bounced through and then use Google Maps to locate the address the call was made from.
The weary police dispatcher said to Hakeem, “Go ahead, Detective Eubanks.”
“Run a nationwide AP
B on a sixty-seven Camaro. Registered owner Yancee Taylor. Black on black. Vanity plate number, ALL HERS.” He hung up and looked at Aspen. “Are we thinking the same Terri Dunlap?”
• • •
Detective Leonardo Scott—fortyish, sinewy, sunburnt—looked like an old western gunslinger straight off the set of a Gunsmoke episode. His blond mustache was entirely too thick to be comfortable, and it had the nerve to be discolored from Red Indian chewing tobacco. He wore a Stetson hat with a high crown and an extra wide brim that must have cost him a week’s wages. Even his cowboy boots were decked out with spurs. A .38 Smith & Wesson was holstered low on the hip of his denims. Aspen wondered if he had a stallion tethered to a parking meter out front.
Aspen and Hakeem sat quietly in the Homicide Unit’s conference room while Detective Scott studied their file. After perusing the autopsy report and comparing their crime scene photos with a few of his, Detective Scott spat tobacco juice in an empty Pepsi bottle, then looked up at Aspen and Hakeem through a set of seaweed-green eyes.
“It’s him,” Detective Scott said. “It’s our boy. After six months of silence, he’s finally decompensating.”
Hakeem said nothing.
Aspen stubbed out her cigarette. “What makes you so sure?”
“ ’Cause he’s making mistakes. Seven flawless murders in Denver and not one piece of trace evidence until now.” He dug into a leather cache bag and dropped his thick files on the table with a thud. “See for yourselves.”
FIFTY-THREE
“Go away.”
Jazz sauntered into the bedroom full of grace and confidence anyway. Had she known that she’d leave humiliated, she would have listened to Jaden and kept going. She came with the intention of finding a middle ground so things could be settled between them. Deciding how hard to push Jaden was the problem. Too much torque and he’d sink deeper into anger and drive the wedge between them to the hilt. Not enough pressure and he’d never take her seriously, leaving them in a never-ending state of dysfunction.
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