The door swung open and in came Aspen. Pissed. “The mayor’s on the line for you.”
“Well, Mr. Fox,” Cash said like a no-nonsense prosecutor, “if you’re not going to inform me where we can find your wife’s body, the death penalty stays on the table and I’ll see you in trial this September.”
Aspen turned her anger on Chance. “I have a good mind to kick your ass and make you clean my camera lens off.”
“You stupid, stupid bimbo. Did you not see what I did to your partner when he tried to kick the Chancester’s ass?”
NINETY-NINE
Labor Day. Jazz lounged on the patio of her ultra-modern Spanish-tiled home that was lined with ten-foot hedges and a backyard that was exposed to the shore of Lake Erie. She soaked up the warm sun while taking in the picturesque view and inhaling the hickory flavoring pouring from a traditional kettle-styled grill. She wore a cotton-blue dainty short set with a sleeveless top. The chocolate skin of her long legs and slender arms gleamed of good health. An hour ago she had treated herself to a professional manicure and pedicure, an indulgence she hadn’t been allowed since her wedding night. She had forgotten how good it felt to be pampered until the nail technician showed up at her home. Her polished toenails and designer sandals made her pretty feet look simply adorable.
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
Her shaded gaze left the ebb and flow of the lake and found Jaden making a layup off an NBA-sized backboard she had installed when summer kicked in. That boy loves him some basketball, she thought as Cash pulled into the driveway and stepped out a convertible Lexus, wearing an eye-catching sundress and a pronounced straw hat.
“Hey girl, you look good,” Cash said, dropping her purse on an empty patio lounger.
Jazz blushed and waved her off, smile bright as daylight.
“Now if I can get you to shed that stupid ball cap and those uninspiring sunglasses, we’ll be on to something.” Then: “I’m proud of you. And I’m looking forward to seeing that vibrant girl with gorgeous hair that I met in college.”
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
Cash made herself useful by tending to the slabs of baby beef ribs on the grill.
“You’re really gonna do it next week, aren’t you?” Jazz decided to address a more pressing matter. Conversations about her appearance, she still wasn’t ready to entertain, even if the tone stunk of positivity.
Cash said, “Could we please not go there?” She rotated the meat, then based it with a barbecue sauce whose ingredients had been a secret in Jazz’s family since the turn of the eighteenth century. “I just want to get me a plate, lick this sauce off my fingers, and enjoy this day. Hope that’s all right with you.”
“This Scenario Davenport business is tearing my conscience apart,” Jazz said, ignoring her. “I’m afraid if you keep it up and go through with prosecuting Chance, you’ll regret it. We’re family. I care about you and I don’t want to see you in trouble.”
“Family?” Cash threw a look over her shoulder, then she went back to what she was doing.
Jazz saw something poisonous flash in Cash’s eyes that dropped the temperature a few notches. Jazz rubbed her arms, coaxing the goosebumps away. She had to be sure she wasn’t tripping, though. She needed to see Cash’s eyes again to be certain. “Yeah, family.”
“Tell me something, Jazz. What does family mean to you?”
The angelic sound and easy tempo of Cash’s voice made Jazz think she’d been mistaken about what she saw in Cash’s gaze. “Family is all anyone truly has in this life,” Jazz said with a smile in her voice. “And not all family is blood related. Neither is all blood relative’s family. Despite all the dregs and the dross, family means everything. Family is the reason I kept my mouth shut and didn’t go to the police with my suspicions about Yancee and my blood cousin. Family is the reason why I’m worried about your high-yellow self and this Scenario Davenport bull, Cash.”
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
“Relax or you’ll give yourself an ulcer.” Cash made herself comfortable in the patio lounger and followed Jazz’s gaze to the basketball hoop. “Everything will work out this way. Trust me. I’ll let Chance think I’m helping him get off, but I’m gonna prosecute Chance and put him away forever. In the process, I’ll get retribution for Anderson, Yancee, and that asshole Leon.”
Jazz didn’t flinch or become uncomfortable at the mention of Leon’s name. She showed no emotion just like she didn’t show any at his funeral.
Cash said, “This way I can personally save myself and the past can finally be the past.”
“What happens if Chance tells after you convict him?”
“He’ll sound like an insane serial killer saying anything and no one will take his ramblings serious. Just like no one’s trying to hear anything Charles Manson has to say after the fact or Jeffrey MacDonald.”
“Jeffrey MacDonald?”
“Murdered his whole family thirty-five, forty years ago. Said Charles Manson followers did it. Anyway, he still is coming up with media coverage today with tall tales about how it really happened. The same thing will happen to Chance if he says anything after conviction. And trust me, even if someone does listen to him, it’ll be fifty years from now and it won’t matter because we’ll all be ready for the grave or already in it.”
Shaking her head, Jazz said, “I don’t like it.” She got up. “Watch the grill for me. I’m going to pick up my mom and them from the bus station.”
“Sure.”
“Jaden,” Jazz said, “you wanna ride?”
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
ONE HUNDRED
On September 9, 2011, Criminal Defense Attorney Stormie Bishop watched with rapt attention as County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport made the young man in the witness box look like a Boy Scout who helped little old ladies cross busy streets. Her manila complexion exaggerated the color depth of her golden gaze, which sparkled and cut through the courtroom like a hypnotizing light show. Stormie liked her style. She was a formidable opponent, and her good looks and high-end clothing made Scenario a complete knockout.
She turned her back on him in such a way that Stormie understood that she was telling him to kiss her ass. He had used the tactic several times during his career. She calmly took her seat at the state’s table and threw her golden gaze his way.
“Your witness, Counselor,” she said.
It was nothing for Stormie to make the man in the witness box look like a complete liar and the dope fiend he really was, who couldn’t be trusted, but Stormie would take a different approach. He consulted his notes as Chance whispered something to him. Stormie shook his head, then rose from his seat.
Stormie Bishop was a master at commanding attention and casting spells on those who observed his magic. His white hair made people assume he was older than his forty-one years, but the chic way he wore it slicked back made him come across as hip as a twenty-six-year-old. He wore a pair of jeans, a Ralph Lauren button-down, and a pair of expensive loafers. He knew that by presenting himself as laid-back and at ease in a formal setting, the twelve people he needed to persuade to deliver a not guilty verdict would be comfortable listening to him.
Stormie leaned on the witness box as if he and the young man were old buddies who were about to reminisce about the time they’d gotten pissy drunk at an Indians game. “Hello, Mr. Bradshaw,” Stormie said, giving the audience his profile view and the jurors firm eye contact.
“Hi,” he said with a shaky voice.
Stormie knew the young man was worried about if he’d be able to remember everything the prosecution had coached him not to say on record. His skin was so flushed from nervousness that he looked like a chemo patient.
“Your nickname is Scratch, right? Mind if I call you Scratch?”
“That’s cool.”
“Scratch, you just shared with the court how you came to be in possession of Mr. Yancee Taylor’s cell phone, correct?”
“Yeah, I stole it out of his car.”
<
br /> “Other things happened that day, didn’t they, Scratch?”
“Objection,” Scenario said. “He’s leading the witness, Your Honor.”
“Don’t worry about it, Your Honor. I’ll rephrase.” Stormie focused on Scratch. “On Sunday, April twenty-fourth of this year, you were arrested by Detective Eubanks and Detective Skye. Do you remember that day?”
“Yeah, somewhat.”
“In an interview with the detectives you made several statements—”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Scenario shot to her feet. “The record will show that Scratch was under the influence of heroin during the April twenty-fourth interview. Therefore the information gleaned from the interview is inadmissible and has no relevance to these proceedings.”
“Your Honor, I am duty bound—not to mention it’s my right—to prove to this court that my client, Mr. Chance Fox, is not culpable for the murders of Yancee Taylor, Anderson Smith, or Leon Page.”
“Mr. Bradshaw and his interview with the homicide detectives are not on trial here,” Scenario said. “Mr. Fox is. Therefore, the interview is not relevant.”
Judge Ronald Adrine smacked his gavel down. “You’re in my castle, Ms. Davenport. I am capable of running it and I will run it.”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
“Objection overruled. Tread lightly, Mr. Bishop.”
“Scratch, a couple of hours before Yancee Taylor’s time of death, did you see him alive and well?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you tell the homicide detectives this when they interviewed you?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“You also told them you saw Yancee with someone. Share with the court who you saw Yancee with before he was murdered.”
Scratch shrugged. “I don’t know who she was, but she was a beautiful woman. Couldn’t tell if she was white or mixed, but they drove off together.”
“No further questions.”
ONE HUNDRED ONE
Jazz left the witness stand forty-five minutes after Scratch. She was so blown away by Cash’s disorderly conduct, Jazz knew it was time to restore order in her life. She settled herself in the seat of her computer station.
Buank—
She shot a look toward the room’s threshold.
“My bad,” Jaden said, entering her home office. “What are you doing?”
“Blowing the dust off this thing.” She set her tea cup on the desktop.
“Straight up?” he said, fingering the spine of a Brenda Hampton book on the shelf.
“Yeah. It’s time. I feel it.” She pulled up a blank screen and positioned her fingers over the home row keys.
“Can I watch for a while?”
“As long as you don’t start running off at the mouth and disturb my groove.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
Jazz took in a deep breath and slowly let it go along with the hang-up that underlined the stagnation of her career. Her fingers started moving and it felt damn good.
HARM’S WAY
By Jazz Smith
CHAPTER ONE
Onica Everheart’s life was in greater danger than ever before. She didn’t know it, though, until she awoke to a raccoon clearing snow away from her face with its gross tongue. She screamed, then instantly started shivering from the thirty-seven-degree temperature. Then she screamed again through chattering teeth. The critter hissed and scurried away. Pissed that its lunch all of a sudden became uncooperative.
Onica couldn’t feel her extremities; she was packed in snow the way meat was packed in a deep freezer to be kept fresh. Through her weakness and immense pain, a discomfort she didn’t know the source of, Onica managed to pull herself free of the wintry grave. Although her head was smoggy and she definitely felt the side effect of a drug surging through her veins, she was acutely aware of the pounding of her heart. She heard it in her ears like a romantic whisper.
She was vigilant. Sepia eyes keen, scanning the woods for trouble. Then, Onica took off in a full-stride sprint. The fact that she was barefoot and naked didn’t matter. She ran for her life and for the life of her unborn child, never once flinching when the forest floor tore into the pads of her feet. Adrenaline and the pure will to survive pumped her slender brown legs until she collapsed on the sleet-covered emergency lane of Interstate 90.
Jazz stopped typing for a moment to glance up at Jaden. He stood over her shoulder, reading. He smiled his approval.
ONE HUNDRED TWO
The tension in the courtroom smothered the air like the seconds before the execution of a death row inmate.
“Call your next witness, Ms. Davenport,” Judge Ronald Adrine said in his thick rasp.
“The state calls Homicide Detective Hakeem Eubanks.”
The audience burst at the seams with members of the press looking to sensationalize murder, transform the despicable act from a sin to an art form, and elevate Chancellor Fox to perverse stardom in the process. Hakeem hated the media. He glanced at Gus Hobbs and did everything in his power to bite back his anger. Aspen gave him a gentle rub as he rose from his seat. Except for Chance’s, every set of eyes in the place were on Hakeem as he passed through the gate, backing a pitty-wielding bailiff off with a head shake.
Hakeem was overly self-conscious about his lilting gait. Because of Chance, his leg was no longer able to fully straighten, which made him dependent on a walking cane to do simple things like walk from his seat to the witness box, a journey he’d made more times in his career than he could count. And now that he was saddled with a few extra pounds because the lame leg slowed him down didn’t help matters. Hakeem looked the part of a veteran detective and seasoned trial witness: stony expression, sharp haircut, and an even sharper four-figure suit, but lurking closely beneath the iron-clad exterior was an exhausted man, worn out by the demons that stalked him during the night.
After he was sworn in, County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport approached the witness box. “Detective Eubanks, would you please state your occupation for the record.”
“I’m a homicide detective for Cuyahoga County. I work out of Cleveland’s Homicide Unit.” He wished that Aspen was on the stand. But since she couldn’t control her temper, Davenport decided to call her only if necessary.
“And because of your job, you and your partner, Detective Aspen Skye, were charged with investigating the Hieroglyphic Hacker murders?”
“Yes.” Hakeem couldn’t help but to admire her beauty. Anyone in their right mind would take a few moments to appreciate the work God put into her creation.
“How did that investigation lead you to suspect Mr. Chancellor Fox is the Hieroglyphic Hacker?”
Hakeem fixed his stony expression on the defense table. Chance sat there with a gleaming bald head and a suit just as expensive as his own. “Ultimately the initials ‘C.F.’ made him good for it.” He wanted to knock that silly grin off Chance’s face.
“A set of initials? How so, Detective?”
“Early in our investigation, Mr. Fox became a person of interest. We traced him to the secluded area Yancee Taylor’s body was found in.” He saw Africa Taylor wipe her tears. “Only natives of the area knew it existed.”
“Would you be more specific, Detective Eubanks?”
“Three decades ago, the middle-schoolers of Cleveland Heights cut through a wooded area that encases a synagogue as a shortcut to get to school. They made a path.”
“Only kids used this path?”
“Yes, and it’s still used as a shortcut today. Our profile suggested the killer was a white male in his early thirties, which means he would have used the path between nineteen ninety and ninety-five.”
“What did you do with that information?”
ONE HUNDRED THREE
Already Chance was sick of listening to the twit in the decked-out suit. He really wished he could kick Detective Eubanks’ drawers up the crack of his ass in front of the whole courtroom and show everyone how easy it was. This time, though, he’d apply Law 15: Crush
Your Enemy Totally. Chance whispered a very detailed set of instructions to Stormie, then he forced himself to tune into Detective Eubanks’ baloney.
“Actually,” the twit said, “it was Aspen who put us on the scent of Mr. Fox. We learned from Yancee Taylor’s autopsy that the hieroglyphics cut into his body were done by a skilled surgeon’s hand. Some sort of doctor. Detective Skye cross-referenced all the male students who went to Monticello Junior High School in the early nineties against those who turned out professions in the medical/health care field. One of the two white males who made the list was Mr. Fox, because he’s a practicing veterinarian. But that dead-ended on us.”
Aspen’s a smart little cunt, Chance thought. He made a mental note to himself to never again dump a body anywhere that the location could come back and bite him on the turd cutter no matter how remote the possibility.
“Would you tell the court about the evidence discovered on April twenty-seventh of this year.”
“We located Yancee’s car.” The twit paused for a brief moment, as if he were remembering the day. “Inside the car we found a note Yancee had written to himself.”
“What was on the note?”
His wife played her role to a tee; it made Chance grin.
“It had the words ‘wood chips 4:30, Thursday,’ written on it. Yancee went missing on April twenty-first, which was a Thursday.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes, he wrote the initials C.F.”
Chance whispered to Stormie again as the star character of his production, County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport, collected a document from the state’s table.
She approached Bridgette, the clerk of courts, a bimbo with bee-sting tits and a cottage-cheese complexion who wore a skirt too high above the knees to be considered appropriate. Chance had been imagining different ways he could fuck her ever since they led him in the courtroom. Each time he winked at her, she smiled. He dug her lip piercing, and the bottled auburn hair let him know that Bridgette had a little wild in her blood.
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