by Evie Rhodes
Tracie, observing their reactions to the broken glass, said, “I dropped my coffee cup.”
Monica shook her head. “Hmmm,” was all she said.
Monica took in every detail of the room, including the video recorder with its red light on, recording every move. She was tempted to ask Tracie to turn it off—it made her uncomfortable—but then again, they had nothing to hide, so she said nothing.
Lonzo got right to the point with Tracie. “We’ve got a note that we think is connected to your son’s death.”
A chill found its way up Tracie’s spine.
“It was an accident. Why would someone send a note? Somebody’s probably playing games. Randi was known for sitting on rooftops and meditating. It’s part of what made him a great ball player.”
Monica was not going to play the game again with Tracie. She was growing tired of Ms. Denial. “The note said ‘atonement.’ What would Randi need to atone for?”
Tracie stalked to the door. She had no tolerance for this. She couldn’t talk to them. These fools were going to get another one of her sons killed. “I’ve heard enough. I want you out. I don’t have time for this.”
Lonzo opened the duffel bag. He removed the plastic-covered Karl Kani boot. “Do you recognize this, Miss Burlingame?”
He held the boot up in front of Tracie’s face. She was unable to hide her shock. She was visibly shaken.
“The killer had it delivered to us, along with the note,” Monica said. “They enjoy these little games. Is it Randi’s?”
Tracie couldn’t find her voice, so she nodded.
“He only sent one boot. This isn’t a game, Tracie. Nor was Randi’s death an accident. Someone murdered your son,” Monica said. She watched Tracie steadily.
“The medical examiner said there was stark terror in Randi’s eyes, Tracie. His windpipe was clogged with sunflower seeds. The bastard most likely asphyxiated him, then drained the blood from his body, for God’s sake, before flinging him from the roof.” Monica paused, out of breath because she was so upset. She was trained to stay in control, but between the horrific nature of this young boy’s murder and his mother’s aloof, supreme manner, she was definitely losing her cool.
“I don’t suppose you think Randi did that to himself. Do you?” It was all she could do to keep from screaming at Tracie Burlingame. Monica was completely exasperated with her.
“Somebody wanted him to atone for something. Any idea what that might be?”
Tracie didn’t answer. Monica advanced on her slowly.
“He drained the blood from your son’s body, Tracie,” Monica stated once again for effect.
Normally she would have withheld this type of information from a grieving parent, but Tracie Burlingame was not being on the ups with her, and she sensed it.
In fact, Tracie was making her sick to her stomach, so there would be no mercy here. She wanted answers.
Still, there was no answer forthcoming from Tracie.
Monica reached into her pocket and pulled out the plastic bag holding two pieces of a silver broken heart. “Do you recognize this?” she asked.
“No,” Tracie said.
“Damn it, Tracie, do you know what we might be dealing with here?”
Tracie’s expression was remote. It was very clear there would be no answers coming from her.
“Okay,” Monica said with finality.
If Tracie Burlingame wanted to be the ice princess, so let it be. She knew there would be a definite price to pay for her iciness.
18
In her office, Alexandra was on the phone with the mayor of New York. She told him, “I think we might have a serial killer on the loose in Harlem. Seems he possesses the traits of a modern-day vampire.
“He likes to withdraw blood from his victims before tossing them over the roof. There’s only been one victim so far, but my gut is telling me there’s going to be another one.” Alexandra stood up. She paced her office with the phone in her hand.
“Rarely do killers kill with this type of shock effect and then just back away. I just wish I knew when and where he’s going to strike next. We don’t know why he killed Randi Burlingame, so it’s difficult to anticipate his next move.
“All the signs are there, as far as I’m concerned, that he will make another move, though. It fits the profile of all the classics. He’s grandstanding and collecting little trophies for himself in the process.”
Alexandra ran a hand through her gold curls. She allowed herself a deeply disturbed sigh that filtered over the line and into the mayor’s ear.
“Listen, Alexandra, I appreciate your keeping me up on things. But you must understand that Harlem is a community that is recognized around the world. It is not like the rest of New York. That means no serial killers or vampires allowed.
“Do you know that all kinds of implications could come of something like this? I will not tolerate it. Randi Burlingame was a legend in Harlem. My phone has been ringing all day. Now, there are lots of deaths that take place in Harlem that I never hear about, but this is not one of them.
“I want you to put a stop to this. There’s only been one murder, and I don’t want to hear anything about serial killers and vampires. Understood?”
Alexandra began to nod, remembered to whom she was speaking, and then answered, “Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Good. I also don’t want to see those words in the newspaper, hear those words over the radio, or glimpse those words being spoken by a television newscaster. Get me the murderer straightaway. He’ll never see the light of day again, and then we will close this case. Good day, Alexandra.” The line disconnected in her ear.
“Damn,” she swore while replacing the receiver in the hook.
Before she could recuperate from her call with the mayor, her assistant, Maya, stuck her head in the door. “I just thought you’d like to know that Ms. Virginia was found dead in her shop this morning.”
Maya knew that Alexandra was paranoid about Harlem and wanted to know every little tidbit of information, even if it didn’t relate to anything in particular. She just wanted to be up on things. Maya was competent as well as nosy, so generally she had no trouble accommodating what she considered Alexandra’s fetish.
Alexandra frowned in puzzlement, wondering what Maya was talking about.
“Ms. Virginia, the old woman who owned Visionaries, the bookstore over on 125th Street,” Maya said.
“Oh, yeah,” Alexandra tuned in. “She was a very sweet lady. What happened to her?”
“Looks like she died of a heart attack,” Maya hesitated. “But there was one strange thing.”
Alexandra’s eyes turned to slits. She glared at Maya. “I don’t want to hear any strange things. She died of a heart attack; that’s a very natural way to go.”
“Yeah, I know, but that’s not really it. Well . . . I don’t know how to say this . . .”
“Just say it,” Alexandra spat the words at her. If there was one thing she hated, it was procrastination, and Maya well knew that. It was a waste of valuable time. What the hell was wrong with her?
“It was the books in her store.”
“What about the books, Maya?”
“Well, all the books in the store are missing the words.”
Alexandra began to laugh; she couldn’t help herself.
“Is this a joke? There’s never been a book printed without words in it, Maya. That’s what makes up the books—the words, get it?”
“Yeah. That’s why it’s strange. The covers of the books are all there, only the words are missing on the pages of every book in the store. Every page, inside every book, is blank. There are no words on the pages,” Maya enunciated every word for emphasis.
Alexandra, for once in her life, was speechless. Maya took full advantage of this. She actually enjoyed it, even though she was unhappy about the circumstances. Ms. Virginia would be missed. She was like the heart of Harlem.
“I bought a book from her just yesterday morning, Alexand
ra. My book has all the words in it.”
Maya took a last look at the shocked disbelief on Alexandra’s face and backed out of the office, closing the door behind her.
For the second time that morning, Alexandra ran a hand through her blond curls. How the hell could the words be missing on every page of every book, in a bookstore that sold books for a living?
That was impossible.
19
The unmarked car flew over the roadway of the Hudson River Parkway. Monica’s hands gripped the steering wheel. Her knuckles were turning a dull pink.
Lonzo looked at her face, which looked as though it were carved out of stone, and decided he might as well kick off the tantrum that was brewing. No sense in wasting time.
“What the hell was that all about at Tracie Burlingame’s house?”
“What?” Monica asked through clenched teeth.
“Don’t play me, Monica. I ain’t seen you playing hardball with a dead boy’s mother before.”
The car raced over a ramp, and Monica’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“That’s because I haven’t seen that many dead boys asphyxiated, with their throats stuffed with sunflower seeds, and the blood drained from their bodies before.” She pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
“Gunshot wounds and stabbings, yeah. But somebody tossed that boy like a bag of potatoes over the roof. After draining his blood, like they were collecting some kind of sadistic souvenir. The blood wasn’t found at the scene, and it damn sure wasn’t in the body. So what the hell is he doing with it?”
She blew the hair out of her eyes.
“Damn, Lonzo. I mean, he really stuffed his windpipe with sunflower seeds. What the hell is that all about? Even the ME couldn’t come up with a rational explanation for that one, and he has the whole damn medical and scientific community at his disposal. So why the hell did he do that?”
Lonzo glanced sideways at her. “How do we know it’s a he?”
Monica looked at him like he was crazy. “What the hell? Didn’t you read the criminal profile report?”
Lonzo snorted. “Textbook theories. Could be anybody on the street at this point.”
“Well, ‘anybody’ also had the balls to remove his boots first.”
“Yeah,” Lonzo replied.
“A damn street psychopath. Come on, man, you know it’s not a woman. No woman could do that kind of damage to a strong, healthy male without shooting him first. Look, psychopaths and profiles aside, this is probably a street killing,” she speculated.
“Why the hell would he take his shoes?”
“They’re jacking and killing each other for their damn sneakers, for goodness’ sake. Whoever did this probably thought he was cute, adding a bit of a serial twist to it. Most likely he’s a very clever, MTV-bred, Michael Jordan sneaker-wearing baby. All the signs are there. And you would notice them if you’d stop daydreaming about what’s under Tracie Burlingame’s skirt.”
Monica wheeled the car off the ramp. It flew under an overpass, hitting a couple of speed bumps. The car leveled off on a side street. Lonzo held tight to the door frame as he slammed against it, feeling Monica’s fury at the wheel.
Pissed off, he said, “You want me to daydream about what’s under your skirt instead?”
He hated working with women cops. Why the hell hadn’t they given him a man for a partner? He didn’t need this grief from this wannabe female.
At his words, the car jerked to a halt. Monica threw it in park. In one swift motion she backhanded Lonzo in the mouth and jumped from the vehicle. She had totally lost control. A second later she couldn’t believe she had hit him, but it was too late.
To her surprise, Lonzo jumped out of the car after her. Instead of being angry, he was actually contrite. “I’m sorry, Monie. Maybe I deserved that.”
She pushed him. He stumbled backward. “You deserve a lot more than that, Lonzo. Tracie Burlingame is a liar. Point-blank. She’s holding back—I feel it. Whoever killed her son is a monster.” She grabbed him by his jacket and shook him. “Do you get it?”
“Yeah.”
“A monster. Monsters have to be taken down or they grow into bigger monsters. I’m not going to let the killer get away, Lonzo. That boy was only sixteen years old. He was in the prime of his life.”
Lonzo eyed her, shrewdly tapping into a place that she would rather not have gone. “This isn’t about your father’s murder, Monica. And finding all the murderers in Harlem won’t make up for not finding his.”
Monica’s father was a slain police officer, killed on the streets—case never officially closed, murderer never found.
Monica took a step back as though he had slapped her. She withdrew. “Just do your job, Lonzo. Do your job. Because daydreaming can get you killed. And if you blow this case, Alexandra Kennedy will have one of your balls for lunch and the other one for dinner. My girl ain’t about to get played out of lunch with the mayor of New York. You’d do best to keep that in mind.” She whirled on him and sauntered to the car in a languid motion he had never seen on her before.
Women.
However, she was right about Alexandra Kennedy, and his balls were something that he always had under protection. You never knew when someone would come along and try to cut one of them off.
20
After getting rid of those two damn pests of detectives, Tracie definitely needed to run. If she didn’t blow off some of her pent-up energy, she was going to hurt somebody.
When she reached the park, she pushed her body through hurdles and then broke out in a fast run, whizzing past trees, other joggers, roller skaters, and skateboarders.
She was breathing harshly from the sheer speed of her run, but she didn’t care; she pumped and pumped, and pumped. She ran until she felt like dropping.
She couldn’t pace herself. She needed to feel the pain. The muscles in her legs screamed in protest as she pushed herself to an astonishing degree never before reached in her running. The sweat dripping, the focus, and the discipline were exactly what she needed.
When she was finished running, she headed home. She spotted the ice cream truck. She just waved to Anthony. Disappointment flashed across his face when he realized she wasn’t coming his way. She wasn’t in the mood for any frozen refreshments or the banality of a conversation with Anthony. She didn’t want to cool off her body; she wanted to feel the suffering. In fact, she was slightly dazed and confused. She wasn’t even sure she could string together two sentences properly.
So, it was best to avoid Anthony today. Besides, she didn’t want to hear one more word of sympathy about Randi’s death. If she did, she was going to scream. She just couldn’t stand to hear it anymore. All it did was ram home the reality to her that he was gone. She was having a hard time dealing with that.
As she walked along, she could hear the killer’s voice. It reverberated in her memory as though it were on automatic remote. She remembered him saying he would send clues to the police. Just this very morning they had shown up with Randi’s Karl Kani boot, a note, and that damned silver heart.
There was only one person she knew who could be connected to the silver heart. The thought was just too incredible. She wouldn’t even consider it. What was wrong with her?
Tracie pulled the scrunchie from her ponytail, letting her hair fly free. She ran trembling fingers through it, trying to think. Her thoughts were all over the place. How the hell could she be expected to think when her world was crashing in? This was crazy.
She stood up and stretched. She knew what she needed. She needed some good old girlfriend chatter to calm her nerves. She had to talk to somebody, or she would go crazy. Renee was just the person she needed, and she was trustworthy. She hadn’t really been able to talk to her at Randi’s services. Maybe she wouldn’t go home after all.
Tracie punched in her number, willing her to be home. She was probably caught up in the throes of some brainstorming or otherwise hot concept. Tracie knew she would either be on top of the world or
totally down in the dumps, depending on the circumstances.
Renee was one of Tracie’s closest friends. She was a screenwriter. Her workplace was at home. Renee answered on the third ring. “It’s your quarter; speak,” Renee said flippantly into the phone.
“Renee, it’s Tracie. Listen, I wanted to stop by for a few minutes. Can you spare the time?” Tracie was respectful of her schedule because she knew Renee hoarded time the way some people would hoard gold pieces.
The flippant voice changed to instant warmth. “Girl, you know I’ll make time for you; get your behind on over here. What are you waiting for?” Renee was a fast talker, partly due to her Hispanic heritage.
Her father was Hispanic and her mother was African-American. She spoke fast and fluently, and whatever came to her mind usually flew out of her mouth, such as her reference about Rashod at Randi’s burial.
Tracie smiled. “I’m walking, girl, as we speak. If you’ve got any Rémy Martin, break it out. I know it’s early, but I need a stiff one. No ice, straight up.”
Renee frowned. “Just call me Dr. Renee. It’ll be sitting on the bar when you get here.”
“Thanks, girl, you’re a real friend.” Tracie hung up.
As promised, when Tracie reached Renee’s apartment on 138th Street in the Old Strivers Row section of town, she found a snifter full of Rémy Martin waiting for her.
Spying it from the doorway, Tracie didn’t even greet Renee. She headed straight to the bar, perched on a stool, and downed the hot brown liquid in one swig.
Renee closed the door, walked behind the bar, pulled out the bottle of Rémy Martin, and set it in front of Tracie, saying, “Help yourself. There’s plenty where that came from.”
She took a seat at the bar, next to Tracie. Renee swigged from a bottle of V8 juice. She watched Tracie closely, pain welling up in her chest for Tracie’s loss.
Renee decided that her course of action would be not to treat Tracie any differently, because from what she could see, this might send her into a collision course of no return.
Renee was a snazzy, jazzy, light and lively sort of person, so she hated depressing scenes anyway. Unless, of course, she was writing a script in which she needed to make people cry buckets of tears on her way to box office success.