Devil in the Deadline

by Walker, LynDee

  “Making cheese is news, now?” His teeth flashed bright against his dark skin when he grinned at me. “Forgive my manners, but I’m not sure you want to shake my hand right now.”

  “No worries. Nice to meet you. And while that looks fascinating, food and wine isn’t quite my area of expertise. I’m actually looking for information on a group of homeless people. I hear y’all feed them on Friday nights.”

  Carl glanced at his boss, who nodded an okay.

  “There’s a lot of folks without a place to stay or food to eat around here,” Carl said. “Why throw out pans and pans of stuff at the end of our busiest night of the week when we can do some good with it?”

  I pulled out a notebook and pen, jotting his words down. “Absolutely.”

  “Who are you looking for?” he asked. “And why? Some of those folks got stories that make living on the street seem like a Jimmy Stewart movie.”

  I put a star by that and looked up.

  “The guy I talked to was probably twenty-three, twenty-four. Thin, with shoulder-length hair and a deep voice.”

  “Picasso.” Carl nodded. “Green combat boots, right?”

  “That’s him. They call him Picasso?”

  “He’s…different,” Carl said, continuing to work on the cheese. “Autism? Maybe slightly slow? I’m not sure. But he can draw like nothing I’ve ever seen. Makes a little money that way. In the summers, he sells sketches down in the Slip.”

  I scribbled, underlining as I went. And I thought the guy was in shock. Better than Landers, who thought he was a junkie. “Sketches. Was that what he meant when he said he was working?” I asked.

  “Probably. I don’t think any of them have regular jobs. Hard to get work when you don’t have an address.”

  “Do you know where they hang out?” I asked.

  “I never followed them away from the restaurant or nothing.” Carl gathered the edges of a long piece of white muslin around the cheese wheel and cinched them together with a rubber band he pulled off his wrist. Turning, he leaned on the wall. “Why do you care, ma’am?”

  “I’m working on a story about a murder,” I said, my eyes straying to the manager who didn’t want to know. I got that, but I needed a lead on who the victim was—and where she came from. The trick was finding out without giving these men nightmares.

  “The one I heard about on the TV this morning? The pretty blonde girl on Channel Four was down at the rocks.” Carl ducked his head. “No disrespect, ma’am. We don’t get the paper.”

  I smiled. “I understand. Yes. That one.”

  “The TV lady said the police weren’t saying much. Why do you think we know something about it? I can tell you this: the bunch you’re asking about wouldn’t hurt anybody. Not unless they didn’t have a choice. Picasso—he’s a good guy. The girls help him deal with people—he’s not great with people—and he takes care of them. Flyboy provides the muscle.”

  “Flyboy?” I jotted more notes.

  “He wouldn’t hurt nobody, either, ma’am.” Carl paused. “I’m not sure I ought to be telling you all this.”

  “I don’t think they hurt anyone, Carl.” Every word true, at least for now. “I think one of them got hurt.”

  He dropped his head back against the wall. “Lord Jesus. Who?”

  “I couldn’t get a name out of Picasso.”

  Carl sighed, pinching his eyes shut.

  I leaned on the wall next to him. “I see some pretty crappy stuff in my line of work,” I said, dropping my tone to a shade over conspiratorial and leveling a sad gaze at him. “But this is the kind of story that makes me want to trail this sicko all the way to the courthouse. She was pretty. Long, dark hair. Bright green eyes.”

  “Jasmine.” His Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow and I scribbled the name. “What happened to her?”

  “I’m not entirely sure you want to know. Any idea if that’s her real name?”

  “I doubt it. The ladies have a thing about flowers, this year. Last year it was singers.”

  Damn. “You’re sure you don’t know where they call home? There has to be a main place, right?”

  He raised his head and stared at me for a long second. “You’re not looking to get them in trouble?”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I don’t know for sure, but there are only so many places around here. And they’re always around on the weekends. If I was looking, I’d start walking.”

  I glanced down at my Manolos. Why not? “Which way?”

  “Head under the bridge. Maybe over to the canal. That’s the way they leave when Picasso doesn’t have his sketchbook.”

  “Thank you, Carl.”

  “Let me know if you need any more help.” He hefted the cheese wheel and half-turned for the walk-in cooler in the back corner. “What is wrong with people?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  The manager nodded acknowledgement as I thanked him at the front door. I stepped out into the sunshine and turned for the canal, taking the route under the train tracks and keeping my ears open. Picasso and Jasmine. Couldn’t find jobs, and didn’t have homes. Not much, but more than Charlie had. I wanted to build on it more than I wanted to go home and fetch more practical shoes.

  4.

  Suspects and stereotypes

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  I sped up, not advertising the fact that I was watching the guy as much as he was watching me. I’d trekked clear to the end of the canal and turned back with nothing to show for it except messy shoes, sore toes, and the large man trailing me for the last hundred yards. He wore a threadbare black tank and frayed cargo shorts that probably used to be khaki-colored.

  I studied the buildings dotting the street as I neared the bridges. Most of them dated back at least a century, and ten years ago they were probably an abandoned haven for folks with no place else to go. But that was before urban revitalization spread to Shockoe Bottom. Now, structures once left for ghosts sported new windows and trendy condo signage.

  My shadow’s sneakers whispered over the gravel faster. The guy had three inches and probably thirty pounds of muscle on me. He inched up on my left. I folded my hand into a fist, spinning on my heel.

  “Can I help you?” I bit the end of my tongue, the words sharper than I wanted. No need to go looking for a fight.

  He jumped back three feet. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, raising both hands in mock surrender. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. It’s just—this isn’t really a great place to take a walk alone.”

  I let a controlled breath out. “It’s the middle of the day.”

  “Even so.”

  I smiled. “I appreciate the thought,” I said.

  He eyed my shoes, his eyes traveling slowly up over my tangerine sundress. “Are you the lady from the hospital?”

  My eyes widened, Carl’s words floating through my thoughts. “Flyboy provides the muscle.”

  I put a hand out. “Nichelle. And you’re Flyboy?”

  Nodding, he shook my hand, his fingers rough on my palm. “Why are you here?”

  I softened my face and my tone. “Y’all called her Jasmine, right?”

  His face fell, his eyelids working overtime.

  “But that wasn’t her real name.” I didn’t bother to inflect the question mark.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t really know.”

  “Do you go by your real name?”

  He snickered. “Flyboy? No. I used to want to do that. Fly. I was headed for the Air Force Academy, but—” He stopped, shaking his head and dropping his eyes to the dirt.

  “But?”

  “It didn’t work out that way.”

  I filed that away, afraid to pull out a notebook.

  “What can you tell me about her?” I asked gently.

  “What do you want?” He narrowed his eyes.

  “To help you.” I met his gaze head-on.

  “How?”

  “Well, I thought I might start by helping the PD fi
gure out who killed your friend. Maybe keep them from doing it again.”

  He tipped his head to one side. “Why?”

  “Because it’s the biggest story I’ve seen this year. Maybe ever. And it has the bonus effect of saving lives.”

  “You think our lives are worth saving?”

  I blanched. “Of course.”

  He stopped blinking, and I shrank from the pain in his dark eyes. His face was younger than mine. His eyes were not.

  I stood up straight and arranged my features into a smile. “It’s not what gets done to you. It’s what you do with it.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like something my granddad would’ve said. Hard to remember sometimes, though.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He scuffed a toe in the rocks. “Me, too.”

  “How long were you and Jasmine friends? Or maybe a little more than friends?” I ducked my head and caught his eye. “Not that I couldn’t be reading it wrong.”

  “You’re not.” He sniffled, looking around. “We’ve been together since last summer. We were going to get out of Richmond. Jazz—she kept talking about getting us the cash we needed for a new start. Bus tickets, a car, a cheap apartment for a while.”

  Solid plan. And finally, something I could work with. Where would a homeless woman get a big chunk of cash?

  Probably nowhere good.

  “And did she?” I asked. “Get the money you needed?”

  “Not yet. She said it was coming.”

  “But she didn’t say from where?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Of course not.

  “Where were you going?”

  “Colorado. She loved the mountains. Said they felt like home.”

  I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

  “No cameras.”

  “Of course.” I nodded, scribbling about money and mountains. “Can you tell me what happened last night? When was the last time you saw Jasmine?”

  He raised his head, his eyes focusing on something behind me. “Friday afternoon. I got picked up to go on a crew to the Fan. Remodeling job at one of the big houses over there. I get day-labor construction crews sometimes. The pay is shit, but it’s cash. Keeps us fed, mostly. She was watching Picasso sketch the rocks. I got back and he said she took off after food about dark and never came back. We looked all over. All night. All day yesterday. Nobody saw her.”

  “And you were the friend who went to the shelter?” I guessed.

  “I wanted a shower.” His voice thickened and he cleared his throat. “It’s been so warm out. I didn’t know she was in trouble. I never would have…She was my girl, you know? It was us against the world.”

  “Did your friends keep looking?”

  “They were tired. Picasso is—when he gets tired, he’s no good to anyone. So I told them to go. I said, go to the old switch house. No one is ever there at night. It’s quiet and cool and they could sleep.”

  I sucked in my cheeks, biting them to keep my jaw from falling open. He sent them to the murder scene? I couldn’t tell if that was damning or the craziest actual coincidence I’d ever seen.

  I scooted back a small step, leaning against the bridge support and scribbling. My thoughts raced ahead.

  Could desperation and frustration, and not a Charles Manson wannabe, be responsible for that bloodbath? Maybe. I pinched my lips together, looking up. But why not just strangle her and dump her in the river?

  I tucked my pen away, wondering how fast I could get back to my car and get a hold of Aaron. Carl the cook didn’t think this guy could’ve done it, and I’d pass that along—but I had to tell my cops about this chat.

  “Do you have any idea what happened to her? Anyone who might have had a fight with her? Wanted to hurt her?”

  “I can’t.” His face twisted into a Braque portrait, the features blurring into an olive mask of grief. “Violet said they cut her up. And lit candles. She was the sweetest, smartest girl I ever met.”

  Well, hell. Thank you, Dr. Jekyll.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I tucked the notebook away. Aaron had his work cut out for him. And so did I, because these people would trust Landers about as far as they could shot-put him.

  “Thank you.”

  I fished a card out of my bag. “If you think of something that might help, or if you see anything, give me a call?”

  He shoved it into his shorts. “Picasso said you were nice. He’s good at reading people.”

  I smiled. “I am, too. Or at least I like to think so.”

  He looked up at the rusted underside of the train trestle, watching the sunlight flash as a string of cargo boxcars roared overhead.

  “Wait,” he said.

  I leaned forward, not sure I’d heard him over the clatter of the train.

  He straightened, his gaze searching my face for something I wasn’t sure I could offer.

  “Wait here. Just for a minute.”

  I leaned against the track support, hoping I was right to trust him.

  Less than ten minutes later, I heard his voice again. Sort of. He was a touch out of earshot, so I strained to eavesdrop, but only got about every third word. Like listening to an out-of-tune radio.

  Flyboy’s tone was heated, insistent. The other voice was female, and uncertainty rang from it like the last bell before summer vacation—high, shrill, but full of promise.

  It had to be Violet.

  I grabbed for my notebook. The men might not know where Jasmine was from, but women talk to each other. I just needed this one to talk to me.

  A few long heartbeats later, he dragged her around the train trestle and clamped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side to hold her in place.

  The dewy look that came over her face as she melted into his ribs made my stomach twist.

  “This is Vi,” he said.

  “I’m Nichelle.” I put a hand out and smiled over the unease. Other woman. Who appeared off-her-nut infatuated with the dead chick’s boyfriend. Oh, boy.

  She brushed her fingers against mine, not meeting my gaze.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.

  She shrugged.

  Flyboy nodded. “We’re a family.”

  The way she gazed up at his jawline, Violet did not want the role of little sister.

  Her head bobbed like she’d read my mind. “Jasmine was the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had.” Violet cast her eyes at the dirt, her voice monotone. Detached. Creepy.

  “By all accounts, y’all were very close. I’m trying to figure out who she was. Make the story more about her life than her murder. But I need you to talk to me.”

  “About what?” She looked up at me, finally, a sparkle missing from her blue eyes.

  “How old was she?” I asked.

  “A little older than me, I think. Twenty-four? Twenty-five? We don’t exactly throw birthday parties.”

  I glanced to Flyboy and he nodded.

  She leaned harder into his chest. He squeezed her shoulder and she smiled. I got very interested in my notes, because I didn’t have to be psychic—or even very perceptive—to see he was trying to comfort her, and she was reading way more into it.

  “How old are you?” I asked, feeling my brow furrow.

  “Why?” her voice found an edge.

  “I’m just—I can’t figure out how y’all ended up here. You don’t have to tell me anything, of course, and I don’t have to print everything you tell me, but I’m trying to understand what’s going on.”

  She glanced back at him, but he was drawing a pattern in the dirt with the toe of his sneaker. I knew he didn’t want to answer me. I hoped she’d want to talk about herself, and maybe then she’d talk about her friend.

  “I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen,” she said. “I put myself through school with scholarships, work study, and student loans.”

  “You have a degree?” Landers’s words from the night before flashed throug
h my thoughts. “In what?”

  She snorted. “Economics. Fat lot of good it did me. I graduated and got a job waiting tables. Then I got a second job pushing fast food. Then I started selling makeup.”

  The pen stopped moving, my eyes pulled up by the pain in her voice. “What happened?”

  “It wasn’t enough.” She shrugged. “My roommates moved away, so my rent tripled. Credit cards. Student loans—most of mine were private, and there were so many bills. I lost my apartment, and then my car broke down and I didn’t have a way to get to work.”

  “Your family? There must be someone?” I forgot to take notes, my heart hurting for her.

  She shook her head. “There’s not.” Something in the tone told me not to push. “This is my family.”

  “You’re all pretty close?” I asked, dropping my gaze back to the paper.

  “We are. Were.”

  “How did she end up here?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “She didn’t talk about her past,” Violet said. “Like, at all. Ever. She said the present and future were where the good in her life lay.”

  I got every word of that. Where the hell had this woman come from that living on the streets gave her hope for a better future? My fingers itched to call Aaron. Surely they had an ID by now.

  I glanced up to thank them and Flyboy smiled, his eyes welling up.

  “Just like Jazz. Always scribbling in her books.”

  “What books?”

  “She kept journals,” Violet explained. “Never could be without a book and a pen. Even if it meant she didn’t eat.”

  “I didn’t let her go hungry,” Flyboy said softly, and Violet stiffened. He didn’t appear to notice.

  “Do you—” I paused, clearing my throat and fighting to keep the excitement from my voice. “Do y’all have her journals? And could I borrow them, maybe?” I smiled my most earnest smile at the cloud that flitted across Flyboy’s face. “I’ll take good care of them. And I’ll bring them back.”

  “You think they might help someone find out what happened to her?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  Violet leaned away from him. “I’m not sure Jazz would like that,” she said slowly.

  He tipped his head to one side. I held my breath. And my tongue.