by Evie Rhodes
A satisfied smile was making its way across Monica’s face. She didn’t really give a damn who Tracie’s mama had slept with, but she did give a damn about wrapping Tracie Burlingame up in her own little games.
Monica had known she was playing them.
“Thank you, Mr. Washington, for your time.” Monica extended her hand. “You’ve been a great help to us.”
“Well, I just hope all this was a help to Tracie,” Lawrence Washington said as some of his senility started to show through the surface. “She sure done had enough loss, losing her baby boy and all.”
“Yes,” Monica said, anxious to get away. “And again, thank you.”
Just before they stepped through the foyer, Lawrence said, “Oh? Will you still be needing to see the guest list?”
“No. There’s no need for it now,” Monica told him.
He shook his head. “Good. Cuz I really don’t be liking to deal with no house of the court and the likes. I run a nice, quiet business.”
He smiled at the irony of his own words. “And I’d just as soon keep it that way.”
“I’m sure you would. Good day, Mr. Washington.”
Out on the street, Monica turned to Lonzo. “I’m gonna secure a warrant for Tracie’s house. I’ll call you, and we’ll set up a time to meet there. Let’s pay her a little visit tonight.
“Alexandra will make sure we get the warrant, because the mayor of New York is breathing fire down her neck. If there was a conflict brewing between Tracie’s sons, then you can believe she knew about it. She’s been trying to suppress that information. Tracie’s a woman who keeps her finger on the pulse of things, only this time she’s got it on a hot button.”
“And that button is about to explode,” Lonzo whispered.
It was not going to be a pretty sight to see.
29
That night Monica and Lonzo stood on the steps to Tracie’s brownstone, waiting rather impatiently for her to answer the doorbell. The chimes resounded through the brownstone as though summoning a dignitary.
Finally, after what seemed like an interminable wait, Tracie opened the heavy, elegant brown wood door that looked as though it belonged on Fifth Avenue instead of in Harlem.
Before Tracie could open her mouth, Monica stepped to the plate. “Miss Burlingame, we need to talk.”
“There’s nothing else to talk about,” Tracie replied, her veneer of calm hiding a kaleidoscope of emotions.
Monica’s eyes flashed as if they would burn a hole through Tracie. Still she was unable to crack the supreme arrogance that surrounded Tracie like a halo. Monica sighed, enunciating her every word. “I’m afraid there is.”
“We’ll keep it short,” Lonzo said.
Tracie gritted her teeth. A brief storm of rage shone through the arrogance and played across her face. She pulled the door open, turning her back on the cops.
Monica didn’t pull any punches. “Where can I find your son, Rashod Burlingame?”
Tracie wheeled on Monica. Her eyes spit pure flames of fire. “Why?”
“Because I asked, that’s why.” Monica glided so close to Tracie, she could feel her breath on her face. Tracie didn’t back up or flinch an inch.
“I don’t know,” Tracie said with a lift of her chin.
“I think you do.” Monica served up a verbal volley.
Lonzo inserted himself between the two women, forcing some distance between them. “We ain’t going nowhere with this,” he said.
Monica reached into her vest pocket. She produced the search warrant, handing it to Tracie. She refused to waste precious minutes on the ice princess that was Tracie Burlingame. “I believe this will take us where we want to go.”
Tracie stared at the paper without touching it. “I already let you search Randi’s room.”
“I don’t want to search Randi’s room. I want to search Rashod’s room. This piece of paper says I can.”
Tracie’s first trace of real fear emanated from her. Monica picked up the scent like the true hunter she was. Like an experienced hunter, she waited until she had the prey exactly where she wanted her.
“Why?” Tracie asked.
Monica pounced. “I don’t have to explain to you, Tracie, but I will. We have reason to believe your son, Rashod Burlingame, tossed Randi from the roof.”
In one swift stroke, Monica reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of sunflower seeds, thrusting them under Tracie’s nose. Tracie began to shake violently. It started as a small tremor that birthed into a physical quake, rising into a human tidal wave. Tracie’s limbs had turned to jelly.
Lonzo took her gently by the shoulders to calm her. “Tracie, sit down,” he told her. Gently, brotherly, he guided her over to the nearby sofa. Tracie obliged like a small child.
Monica headed toward the hallway in search of Rashod’s room.
Tracie pulled air into her lungs in long gulps. She shouted out after Monica, “He didn’t do it! There must be some mistake. He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t do it. Damn you, I said he didn’t do it!”
Monica halted. She turned back to Tracie. “Oh, I think he did, Tracie. I think one of your sons killed the other one, and I’m going to be arresting Rashod Burlingame tonight for the murder of Randi Burlingame. How does that play for you, Tracie? And what’s more—”
Monica whipped out her cell phone. She punched in digits. She shouted into the phone, “Put out an APB for Rashod Burlingame.”
She snapped the phone closed. “And what’s more, I think you know it.”
Tracie bowed her head between her legs, whispering, “Rashod, why did you lie to me?”
At the Harlem precinct station, police vehicles began pulling out with their sirens screaming into the night. They sped from the lot in search of Rashod Burlingame. Riot police jumped into police vans.
This search was to be a display of power. It was a stab into the consciousness of the Harlem community, that the powers that be would not allow the slaughtering of a little black boy without serious ramifications.
They would not tolerate this type of murder. It was too bold, too flagrant, too in your face, and it had the capability of tunneling the residents of Harlem into one sweeping and angry voice. That just could not be.
This action would serve as a political volleyball, and those who were really running Harlem would come up shining brightly for a change.
It was an opportunity not to be missed. And if it was brother against brother, it really didn’t make a difference. The message was simple: no bloodletting and no emotional crippling in the Harlem community. The community itself was mentally docile for the time being, and there would be no rippling of the still waters.
Alexandra was gazing out of her office window at the scene taking place outside in the police lot. She flicked her pencil in and out of her mouth. “I think my serial vampire is turning out to be a case of sibling rivalry,” she murmured.
The intercom on her phone buzzed. She hit the button. A male voice came over the speaker: “We’ve got a handle on the suspect. He was spotted in the vicinity of St. Nicholas and 139th Street. According to our sources he’s still over there.”
Alexandra smiled her pleasure. “Bring the little vampire in—now. I want him downstairs in holding immediately.”
“Got it,” the voice responded. Alexandra clicked off.
Inside Tracie’s living room, Tracie sat alone at the white baby grand piano, banging away a dark tune. Lonzo had gone to conduct the search with Monica in Rashod’s room. The notes rose and fell, rose and fell, until they felt like sweeping waves pouring over Tracie.
In the middle of Tracie’s private symphony, Monica walked up to the piano and dangled a black and gold Karl Kani boot directly in front of her face. She held the boot with the tip of her gloved fingers.
“Recognize this?” Monica said.
Tracie’s fingers halted, stiff and frozen. The notes came to an abrupt halt. Tracie stared at the hideous boot, regretting that she had been in such an emoti
onal frenzy that she hadn’t thought to get rid of the damn thing.
“I know you recognize these,” Monica said as she let a cascade of sunflower seeds she had scooped up from Rashod’s room drop over the piano keys.
Inside Alexandra’s office, the phone rang. Alexandra snatched it off the hook on the first ring. She listened for a moment, her facial features turning to pure granite.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she said into the phone.
Taking a deep breath, Alexandra disconnected the caller and hit the intercom button on the phone. “Maya, get me Monica Rhodes on the line. Now!” she barked. “She’s at the Burlingame residence.”
Monica’s cell phone rang, interrupting the cat-and-mouse game she was torturing Tracie Burlingame with. “Yeah. This is Monica.”
An ashen look of disbelief crept across her face. She cupped her hand to the phone. “What? Are you serious?”
Suddenly there was a shift in temperature in the room, causing both Lonzo and Tracie to stare at Monica. “We’re on our way,” she said into the phone.
Monica clicked off. She looked at Lonzo. “That was Alexandra.”
“What did she say?”
Monica pulled him out of Tracie’s earshot without excusing herself. She glanced over briefly at Tracie, who was still sitting on the piano stool, staring in disbelief at the sunflower seeds.
Monica spoke barely above a whisper. “A body was just discovered on St. Nicholas Avenue . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She tossed a look at Tracie Burlingame.
“It’s a positive ID. Rashod Burlingame. He was thrown from a roof on St. Nicholas. His shoes are missing. There are sunflower seeds stuffed in his throat. The blood has been drained from his body. Same MO as his brother.”
“Son of a—”
Monica cut him off.
She stole another glance at Tracie. “There’s a serial killer on the loose in Harlem. Maybe I was wrong about Randi’s death being a street killing. There’s a profile emerging here. Whoever the killer is, the offspring of Miss Burlingame seem to have his attention.” Monica spoke the prophetic words without having any way of being aware of their full meaning.
“We’ve got to tell her.” As soon as Monica spoke the words, Tracie rose instinctively, regally, from the piano stool. Her eyes found Monica’s.
Monica cleared her throat. For the first time she felt a stab of empathy for Tracie Burlingame. “Tracie I, ummm . . .” Monica closed her eyes, shocked at the impact of her own feelings.
“I’m sorry to inform you . . .”
Tracie was caught up in a tidal wave. She felt as if she were being smothered. Waves of water rippled over her. There was a current of diseased information floating through the air. She could feel it. She could taste it. She didn’t want to hear whatever it was.
Maybe if she resisted it, it would go away.
She backed away, fighting against the disease of truth that was reaching out its arms to her, trying to spread its poisonous tentacles through the recesses of her mind.
Lonzo touched Monica briefly on the shoulder. He zoomed in on Tracie Burlingame. The only way to deliver bad news was just to deliver it. Period.
“We’re sorry, Tracie—”
Monica regained her composure. She cut Lonzo off in midsentence. She would have to finish what she had started. She wasn’t a runner.
“Your son, Rashod Burlingame, is dead, Tracie. We need you to confirm identification for us, but we’re pretty sure it’s him. I’m sorry.”
Tracie stood like a statue. Monica’s words closed in on her mental recesses. They squeezed until there was barely any air left. They squeezed until the only word she could hear was Death.
Death. Tracie accepted this. She now understood it was her mantle to wear.
Her seed had the shadow of death on it.
30
Tracie Burlingame, Monica, Lonzo, and the medical examiner stood in the morgue in the same positions they had taken earlier, when Randi was murdered. Their joining together in this room was starting to feel like a regular occurrence. It was an uncomfortable occurrence, to say the least.
Both Dre and Michael were blessedly absent. The ME slowly unzipped the black body bag. The zipper scraped with a loud sound that grated on Tracie’s nerves. It made her want to screech.
Lonzo viewed the damaged body with a silent inward sigh. He marveled at the sheer audacity of the killer’s handiwork.
The medical examiner shook his head without even being aware of the gesture. He was a trained professional. It was an unconscious move on his part, but between the damage Tracie Burlingame was witnessing and the depth of her loss, which hung in the air like a blanket, well, it was enough to move even a hardened veteran like himself.
Monica closed her eyes, then glanced at Tracie, nodding her head. Tracie looked at the damaged, skeletal-thin remains of her son.
He looked small and vulnerable to her inside the clinical bag. He had the wispy air of somebody who had lived and died without anybody caring. She knew that wasn’t true, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that swamped her as she stared at the visual ruins of her son.
She had tried time and time again to get through to him, but he had moved further and further beyond her reach.
Though she hadn’t really wanted to admit it to herself, Rashod had been the one blight on Tracie’s false sense of happiness. Now he was dead.
Worst of all, she couldn’t even feel his spirit in the room. There was simply nothing left of him. He was gone, like ashes blown away in the wind.
Recollections of the last time she had seen him barged into her memory banks. Guilt gripped her, making her wish it had been different. She couldn’t believe that it was only yesterday morning she had seen him. It seemed like an eternity to her.
Unlike with Randi, she didn’t even reach out to touch him. She couldn’t touch him even if she wanted to. It just wasn’t possible. Despite everything, this was not the end she had envisioned for Rashod.
A part of her had always held out hope that one day he would come around, that one day things would be different. Now that last glimmer of hope had been wrenched from her grasp, stolen from her by a maniac, and she intended to exact retribution.
“I’ve seen enough,” Tracie told Monica, and nodded in her direction.
Monica gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of her head. The medical examiner zipped up the bag without hesitation.
“What time did—”
The ME didn’t let her finish. By now he knew the question by heart. “Rashod expired at approximately seven p.m.”
“I see,” Tracie said.
Her long, polished nails cut into the flesh of her palm. She glanced over at Lonzo for a fraction of a second, giving him a small smile. She tilted her head a little higher, although it felt as though she were dragging a heavy object from the ground. She turned and walked slowly away.
When she reached the door, she turned back. Waves of hatred splashed from her. The target of her hatred was Monica Rhodes. “I guess you won’t be arresting my son for the murder of his brother tonight. Will you, Miss Rhodes? How does his death play for you?” Tracie threw Monica’s words back at her with a vengeance.
They didn’t miss the mark. The words poured over Monica like acid. Before she could gather a response, Tracie raced full speed ahead. Insultingly, she shot verbal bullets at Monica: “You couldn’t follow a clue if the killer taped it to your forehead with an arrow pointing you in the right direction.”
Tracie found herself mimicking the voice on the telephone. My God, she was repeating the words of a killer. Not only was she repeating the words, but also she had found herself taking on the same intonation, as though the killer were controlling her words by remote.
“Maybe I’ll have to catch him myself, since you’re obviously not up for the job. But if I do, you can rest assured there’ll be nothing left in this room for you to view. You have my word on that.”
There was total silence. Monica had the
decency to look properly embarrassed. Tracie turned again, to go out the door, determination set in her shoulders. Her heels clicking on the high shine of the morgue’s waxed and sterile floor signaled her departure.
Monica looked at Lonzo. “If Rashod Burlingame didn’t put Randi’s Karl Kani boot in his room, and if he didn’t kill him, then who did?”
Lonzo’s eyes shifted to bore into Monica’s.
The question simply hung in the air between them, unanswered. Their former theory, as well as their slim lead, had died tragically with Rashod Burlingame.
The pieces had fit so perfectly, yet they didn’t fit perfectly at all.
All theories, as well as any illusions, had been completely shattered below another of Harlem’s rooftops. Anything resembling a fact was a joke.
And the body count was tallying up.
31
The Ancient Book of Prophecies. There it had lain on the altar carved out of stone. It was just within his reach, the pages whispering, beckoning to him to come forth and partake of the gems, to partake of the threads of power that lay within its pages.
In the light of day Souljah Boy, or Daniel Thomas Caldwell, as he was rarely called, could hardly believe it, but he knew it had been so. For years he had studied to show himself approved before the Lord Jesus Christ.
When he had reached the ripe old age of twelve, he had set out on his own quest for the truth. He had diligently followed the path to it, although it had always set him apart. He’d never had the same interests as other young men, not even other kids when he was a child.
He and Dre had always been tight. Once he had tried to indoctrinate him with some of his learning, but it hadn’t worked. Dre just wasn’t in that particular plane of thought.
Harlem was famous for its churches, and as a kid, his grandmother dutifully made sure he was in his pew during the week and on Sundays.
Only, as he listened to sermon after sermon, he had begun to feel there was more. Much more. There was always this haunting, hungering feeling inside him, reaching, trying to embrace that which he could not see.