Two hours later, I sat in an interrogation room at FBI Arch Street headquarters.
I figured Jakes and Janey stood behind the two-way mirror either arguing about what strategy to use to get information out of me or they were ogling me. I gave them the award for being the two least intimidating FBI agents I’d ever met. The thought tickled me, for a moment anyway.
A fire sparked in my bones. I waved my hands together in fan fashion, trying to conjure up some breeze. Failing that, I got up and paced, waved harder, faster, gagged, sat, and spread out on top of the table, face-first.
“Can’t possibly understand unless you’re going through or been through the same,” a female agent said, entering with a glass of water. “You learn to cope.”
I nodded appreciation with a weak smile. “That’s what they tell me. You learn to cope. Right.” I drank the water and rubbed an ice cube from the glass on the back of my neck. Cooled, I resumed my position.
The agent left with, “Knock if you need more.”
I rose when I heard the door open again. My composure somewhat regained, I pushed back in the chair and crossed my legs.
Janey sat down and opened a file folder. Jakes stood at the door and leaned against the wall.
“What’s this about, Agent Janey?”
“I’m Jakes, he’s Janey,” he said, nodding toward Dumbo Ears. He pulled his chair in closer. “Mabley, this is serious. A man’s dead, and you were seen along with someone else entering the premises. What was your purpose for being at the Bryn Mawr address?”
I mirrored his glare.
I thought as dark as it was that night, there was no way anyone could identify me specifically. I brushed away the threat.
“Following a lead,” I said.
“Following a lead, huh? What are you working on?”
“Agent . . . Jakes, are you holding me on charges? If not, I’d like to go home.”
“We can hold you as long as we choose without filing any charges. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.” He pushed back in his chair. “You had a history with Mann. Did you kill him?”
“If you thought I killed Mann, you wouldn’t be questioning me. You’d be arresting me. I went to Mann’s to talk to him about Boone’s whereabouts. When I got there, the front door was open. I went inside and found Mann dead on the couch. I called in. End of story.”
“And the other person reported entering the premises?”
“Whoever killed him maybe, before I arrived, I guess.”
It was almost noon by the time I left FBI headquarters. I drove north on Seventh Street and thought a dark sedan was following me as I turned onto Fairmont Avenue. The car I focused on kept moving straight when I turned on to Cecile B. Moore, or at least I think it kept moving straight. Headlights at night made all cars look the same. I drove around awhile to make sure before I went to Calvin’s.
Calvin’s Place, a four-story brick building, housed Calvin’s living quarters on the third and fourth floors and a nightclub on the first two. It was the kind of club people waded into with their own sense of rhythm and opinions and walked away from with a semblance of sanity and satisfaction. A large oval bar, a stage area, some booths and tables, and a dance floor made up the first floor and a private party space, the second. Calvin also served the best crab legs and chicken wings in Philly.
I drove by the front on Hunting Park and made a left into the parking lot that led to the rear of the building. The night spot looked shabby compared to the happening, ritzy place presented under the veil of night. I pulled into a dirt parking lot where Calvin’s white late-model Mercedes S430 was parked at the stairs to the rear entrance. An old Chevy Malibu and Ford Mustang were the only other cars in the lot.
I knocked on the armored door fastened under a CALVIN’S PLACE sign and rang the bell. It took a few minutes of leaning on the bell before Calvin opened the door.
“Frank Mann Johnson, sound familiar? Well, he’s dead, and I want to know what your connection is to him. You smiled for a picture with him hanging on his wall, this one.” I took the photograph out of my bag and held it up. “Okay, so maybe you weren’t smiling. Remember this?” I shoved the picture at him and stormed into the club. Calvin stayed positioned at the door, seemingly stunned.
I sat bar-side. He closed and locked the door and followed.
“Drink?” He set the picture on the bar facedown.
“Coke, please.”
He retrieved a Coke from a cooler below the counter, filled a glass with ice, and set it on the bar in front of me, then popped the tab top. While he poured he said, “First off, my darling, Mann died years ago, killed in prison if memory serves me.”
“Yeah, says who?”
“You know I will do anything for you, Miss M.” He smirked, setting the glass of Coke in front of me and tossing the can in a barrel at the far end of the bar. “So why don’t you tell me what you’re into and maybe I can help.”
I gulped the Coke and savored the burn in the back of my throat. Calvin leaned forward, resting his forearms on the bar, and waited for me to finish.
“Where did you get that picture anyway?”
“Off the wall of the residence of Big Daddy Mann. Apparently the FBI lied. He didn’t die in prison. He is—was—very much alive until earlier this evening. And there you were in that picture hanging on the wall alongside all his other trophies.”
“And what, you thought I was a gangster?” He cupped my chin with his hand, forcing my attention. “Not even close, though some may think different. You are the last person I would want to think of me in that way.”
I brushed his hand away.
He backed away from the bar. “You can be so sweet, open, and warm, and then”—he snapped his fingers—“in a heartbeat, closed and so, so hard.”
My heart thumped. I resisted the urge to defend myself. “So, what’s your connection?”
Calvin moved around to my side of the bar. He sat on a stool next to me and spun my stool around to face him.
“This isn’t about Mann. So, why don’t you tell me the real deal.”
“Yes, it is. Mann didn’t die in prison. He was killed last night. Please, Calvin, just tell me what your connection is. I need to know.”
“Is this official? Am I a suspect?”
“I think Jesse Boone killed Mann. I also think Jesse Boone has my sister and will kill her, too.”
“Frank Mann Johnson was once a pretty decent guy. We were homies before the Black Mafia. He was more like my mentor, a big brother even. I went in the service. Mann didn’t. The Black Mafia was in full throttle when I got back from the war, killing anyone who breathed wrong, hooking children on heroin. They were supposed to help folks out of oppression. Like a neighborhood watch–type gig. Instead they became the oppressors.”
“So, where did you fit in?”
“Frank and I started a community center–type gig with a mission to protect the neighborhood, stop the crime and police brutality that grew out of the violence instigated by the Mafia.
“The community center grew into the Black Coalition with an even bigger vision: promoting the socioeconomic conditions of black folks in Philly, educating the youth, providing cultural programs. Mafia served up death threats, scared the hell outta folks. A lot of young bloods looked up to the Mafia ‘godfather,’ Sam Christian, thought he was some kind of Shaft or Superfly or some shit.
“Frank got brainwashed by the glitz—the clothes, the cash, the cows. Only takes one time stepping over the line and they got your ass. Frank took a giant step and ended up all the way in with Christian, Baynes, Harvey, Farrington, all major players. Anyway, Frank did well for himself, if you call becoming a kingpin in the kill game good. He got bagged for murder and, well, the FBI does what they want, when they want, and to whom they want. They were all over him.” He quieted and looked around the room as though sizing up its worth. “This place is what’s left of the community center.”
Mann was giving the Feds i
nformation when I was undercover, I thought. He didn’t go to jail until after I was out of play.
“How do you rate? I mean, how did you manage to stay out of the game?”
“We parted ways when Mann got involved with Christian and them. I kept the community center going, then, when that phased out, I opened this club for the community. Always been kind of a dream of mine to own a club, perform in my own place. You know.”
“What about Jesse Boone? You must have known him and his father if you were involved with Mann.”
“Boone’s a crazy bastard. He’d kill his own kid for a buck and not even blink. He’s got some kind of terminal illness. He’d always been a sickly kid. Some kind of rare disorder makes the boy smell very unsavory. There’s a name for it. Trim . . . ethyl . . . ami . . . nu . . . something. TMAU for short. I only know that because this cat who served with me in the military had it, too.”
“Like funk, only worse,” I whispered to myself. I remembered that smell in the house where Marcy Taylor died and where John was killed.
“He had a brother, Kelvin. Don’t know what happened to him. He disappeared some years ago. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jesse killed him, too.”
I wanted to tell Calvin about Laughton being Kelvin Boone but decided against it right then. Trust between us was still a bit shaky. I could not believe I’d just happened to get involved with a man connected to my past. No, two men—Calvin and Laughton.
My phone rang. I rummaged through my bag, but it stopped long before I found it. The screen showed Travis as the missed caller. I clicked the Call Back button, but Travis did not answer.
“Why does Jesse Boone care about your sister?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m going to find out and find her.” Another lie.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re working on this with the police force behind you.”
Avoiding the questions, I said, “You look good, all healed up. How are you feeling?”
“Come here.” Calvin guided me into his embrace. “Just be safe.”
I left Calvin’s and went home to shower and change. When I finished dressing, I checked my phone. Two more missed calls from Travis. I clicked the Call Back button again.
“Now, I wonder how obedient you can be,” Jesse Boone said. “Don’t say a word. Listen. You get my money—all of it. Don’t play with me, bitch, or I’ll make sure they both beg me to kill them—your son, oh, wait a minute, our son, and your baby’s mama.” His evil laugh gave me goose bumps. “Be talking to you real soon,” he said, and hung up.
CHAPTER 22
I called Laughton, and for once he answered. Within ten minutes, he was pounding on my front door like a crazy person.
“You have the money?” he asked.
“I only found out about the money when you told me,” I said. “Nareece never . . .”
“The money doesn’t really matter. He’ll kill them both anyway. I got a lead from my man where he is. He’s not at the mill building.”
“Laughton, call Cap. We might need backup.”
“No way. Someone in the department is on Jesse’s payroll.”
“But we can trust Cap.”
“No. I have reason to believe he may be the man on the inside.”
“Cap can’t be the man on the inside. He just can’t be. Cap’s been a good friend to me and Nareece. He was my father’s best friend. He wouldn’t do something like this, and besides, I’d know. Why would he turn Nareece over to Jesse Boone, or let someone like Boone go free to kill people? Not happening.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll revisit that after we get Travis and Nareece back.”
We drove to Haverford Avenue in West Philly to an abandoned factory building that used to house the Philadelphia Traction Company. Laughton cruised by the front of the building, turned the corner, and parked half a block down from the rear entrance.
“Jesse will kill her before letting anyone else have her,” he said. “And Travis . . .”
We sat in silence for at least an hour. Waiting. Watching. I flipped through everything that had happened in the past month, twenty years’ worth of ugly crammed into four weeks.
“Laughton, do you know anything about my parents’ death? Nareece said it was because of her involvement with Jesse.”
He shifted in his seat away from me. “Dad remembered your father from the old days, before the Black Mafia got outrageous. Your dad and my father had a connection early on when folks were about making the neighborhood a safe place to live. Your dad was a good guy, always helping folks out. When things got funky with drugs and shit, your father walked. Funny thing, Pop always respected your father for his decision to walk away from that life. Your father had a fit over Jesse and Carmella hooking up. He asked my father to stop it, but Pop refused. Your father threatened to go to the police, since Carmella was a minor.”
“So your father had him killed.”
Laughton did not respond.
“Where were you in all of this?”
“I was around, going to school, learning the business. I met Marcy during those days. I loved that woman. We were married on July 17, 1971.” He stayed quiet for a few minutes, remembering. He shifted in his seat again, this time facing front, sat straighter, and started talking again.
“Richard jumped up one side of Jesse and down the other to leave Carmella alone, not because of your father’s threats, but because of who he was and how much he respected him. Richard always got on Jesse about everything and nothing. Anyway, after Carmella destroyed the drugs and took off with the money, Richard did a one-eighty and told Jesse he’d kill him if he didn’t take care of her.”
“How come you didn’t stop him?”
“Carmella called me, out of her mind with grief, and begged me to help her get away. Like I told you, I hid her in a hotel in Jersey, but she insisted on going back home. Said she couldn’t leave without making things right with you.”
“That’s when she came home and Jesse tried to kill her. Thought he had killed her. She was waiting for me.” I rested my head in my palms, trying to absorb the insanity. My brain started flashing pictures again. This time of the crash site where my parents were killed, Nareece’s battered body, my mother’s smile, the funny face Dad made when in his silly mode. The screen went black, and I took my hands away. Laughton sat motionless, staring down into his lap.
I growled and lunged across the console, punching and clawing at Laughton’s face, wanting to make him bleed, to leave a scar so deep the world could see it. For the second time that day, I wished him dead and gone.
“Muriel, stop, don’t do this shit again,” Laughton shouted, struggling to grab my arms. When he finally captured them, he pushed me back in the seat. “Don’t pretend you’re innocent in all of this.”
“What does that mean?”
“You could have told her to return the money.”
“I told you, I didn’t know about the money until now, or even about Jesse and Carmella. None of it.”
“Look, it’s all going to end here, and you and Carmella can go on living your lives and not have to worry. Jesse Boone is going to be gone. If I had just stepped up years ago, none of this would be happening.” Laughton cocked his 9mm Glock and turned to me. “I’m sure it’s pointless, but I’ma tell you anyway, stay in the car.”
Twenty years as a weapons examiner and I’d never chased a bad guy, never even had a fight other than with Jesse Boone after he killed the college student. I could kick some butt now, but the opportunity had never presented itself. And I’d only fired my weapon once. I turned toward Laughton. His lips were moving, but I could not hear his words, only the ringing in my ears until he shouted my name.
“Don’t even think about going alone,” I said.
I stopped talking as the same black SUV that I had seen many times, along with a silver Mercedes, drove up to the rear of the building. Three men got out of the SUV, one of them Jesse. He helped Nareece out of the back. By “helping,” I mean she seemed willing and at
ease, letting him guide her by the elbow, but not in a dragging or threatening manner, what I would have expected. I sensed she was drugged.
Laughton pushed the door halfway open and moved to get out, then stopped and said, “We might as well finish it right here.” He closed the door. “Is Travis Carmella’s son?”
I could not answer.
“Carmella said she was pregnant the night she called. You never talked about going through pregnancy or childbirth. You never talk about the boy’s father, whether you loved him, why you split from him, nothing. Seventeen years—seventeen years we’re partners, together every damn day, and yeah, you’re right, we don’t have a clue about each other.”
My throat tightened.
“You trusted me with your life every day, but never with your heart.” Laughton took his cell phone from his pocket and made a call. “Come in guns blazing, man. I’ll get them out front, then just do it,” he said into the phone, then clicked off and threw the phone onto the dashboard. “Trust me now, M.”
No more, I thought. “Let’s go,” I said, and we got out of the car.
Laughton led the way to the rear of the building, where a man stood guard. Laughton signaled to hold up behind a car parked across the driveway. He holstered his gun and walked up to the guy, then exchanged greetings and more mumblings before Laughton knocked him out with a single punch. He waved me forward. I stepped out and stumbled, twisting my ankle. Laughton rushed back to help me and held my arm. I pulled away and moved on, faking it through the pain from my ankle. It was not bad enough to be a sprain, but it still took a minute for me to adjust. There was no way I was not going in with Laughton.
We entered a darkened hallway. A hundred yards down was an entrance that led into an open area, empty with at least forty-foot ceilings. To the right, was a staircase—a long, steep staircase. Voices came from above. Laughton motioned me to stay behind him, as he approached the staircase, seemingly the only way up.
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