by Larry Enmon
Terry cleared his throat. “Anyway, it sounds like you’re not sure if he’s involved.” He lowered his gaze back to the report. “So, any ideas?”
Frank shrugged. “I’m working on a couple of angles. Interviewing a professor later about that Voodoo stuff. Might get a lead on what to look for.”
“Is that the interview Edna set up at SMU?”
“Yeah.” Frank cracked a grin. “I said, ‘yes ma’am.’ No arguments.”
Rob and Frank meandered back to their cubes and Frank checked his email. After about twenty minutes, he shut down his computer and grabbed his jacket. He had the kind of smirk he showed when he was up to something.
“Cover for me. I’ve got to get ready for the interview this evening.”
Rob pulled up his sleeve and eyed his watch. If he questioned Frank about where he was going he might find out things he’d rather not know—what the hell. “It’s only 12:45. The interview isn’t until after six. Where you going?” Frank never left early—usually the last guy out.
Frank adjusted the collar of his jacket and headed for the door. “Picking up supplies.”
“Supplies? From where?”
“Central Market,” Frank said as he strolled out.
Carmen drifted back into Rob’s mind. He glanced around the squad area. Terry and Edna were both on the phone not paying attention to what was happening. No one appeared to notice Frank’s departure. Without drawing attention, Rob powered off his computer, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. Time to check on his wife.
12
Antoine Levern stared out the limo window as the driver made the turn into Rochester Park in South Dallas. Some folks called it William Blair Jr. Park, but all his associates used the old name. Everyone loved this place—a favorite among gang members. They felt safe here. Plenty of wide open spaces. Most hung out there during their teen years. A place to meet friends, have a little barbecue and some beers.
Levern didn’t like taking chances, especially when it involved meetings with gang leaders. Bad things had happened in the past when too many of those guys got in the same place at the same time. Just like in all gangs, old rivalries, grudges, and vendettas often reared their ugly heads. But he felt he couldn’t afford to let what Frank told him hit the street without an explanation.
Of the twenty-five black gangs operating in Dallas, Levern represented twenty-three. All the variations of Crips, Bloods, and a dozen other fringe groups had aligned themselves into a loose confederation. Levern set up deals with Chicago, Pittsburgh, and Baltimore, which made everyone more money. His five percent broker fee also made him rich. But keeping the groups’ trust remained a full-time job. In this business, your street creds meant everything. Let them begin to fray, and your shit got real flakey real fast. That’s why this assembly had been called.
For today’s meeting, everyone had agreed only two persons would accompany each leader. If you didn’t set a limit, over a hundred idiots would show up with enough hardware to launch a revolution. One stupid move and a high body count could be the result. Not a lot of trust among these guys.
Levern selected his best driver and Tabor to back him up. The limo circled behind the pond levee and the line of vehicles came into view. Twenty-three cars waited, parked in a ragged row. No one had gotten out of their rides. Levern’s driver parked at the end of the line and Levern touched the .45 in his waistband. Small comfort with a crowd this big, but better than nothing.
He eyed Tabor. “Stay in the car and keep your eyes open. This won’t take long.”
Tabor nodded and the sound of the safety clicking off the MP-5 machine gun in his lap echoed through the limo.
Levern slid out of the backseat and jerked down the lapels of his knee-length leather coat. A cool, soft breeze drifted across the meadow. The tall prairie grass on the levee swayed back and forth like ocean waves. The clouds kept the temperature down and threatened rain later this evening.
Doors opened, and the other gang leaders stepped out. Levern nodded at them and walked toward a stand of trees about forty yards down the hill. No one spoke or greeted each other. Guns bulged from under shirts, sweaters, and jackets. Most guys kept their hands in their coat pockets. No need asking what they were holding. Levern glanced over his shoulder a couple of times before he made it to the tree line. Now that everyone stood equal, the meeting could begin. The group formed two rows in a half circle as Levern spoke.
“I appreciate you all coming.” He strolled around with his hands in his pockets like a teacher. “You’ve heard about Ricardo.” He scanned their faces. “Anybody want to claim it?”
No one spoke. A couple lit cigarettes and a few gazed at the other leaders.
Levern continued. “Okay, I need to—”
“Heard Henderson got hit today. Bet Ricardo’s boys were behind that,” Lemarcus said. Lemarcus ran a fringe gang, the Cliff Manor Gangsters.
Several other leaders nodded and grunted in agreement.
Levern stopped walking and eyed Lemarcus. “Something’s going on you need to know. I got this from a guy who’s in the loop. Apparently a Voodoo doll looking thing was left beside Ricardo’s body.”
The group studied Levern with suspicious eyes. A few whispers ensued.
“I’m telling you this so that when you hear it later, you’ll know the truth. It wasn’t me.”
No one uttered a word. Several shuffled and glanced to the guy to their left and right.
“But we need to find out who’s behind it,” Levern said. “Last thing I want is some sucker popping a cap on my ass for something I didn’t do.” There—that sounded convincing.
“You’re the only one who cares—I don’t give a shit,” the leader of Cuzz Texas said.
Levern hated Jaylen. He didn’t give a damn about anything. Never saw the big picture. Levern stared him down. “Well, you better give a shit.” He looked at the group and pointed. “You all should. Killing’s bad for business. Keep your eyes and ears open. Watch your backs. Anyone with information pass it on to me. I have a way to check it out.” Frank won’t let me down. “Any questions?”
Everyone gawked at him.
“Okay, meeting’s over.” Levern turned and walked toward the levee where the cars were parked as the crowd followed. Halfway back, a muffled shot rang out from the parking area. Everyone except Levern jerked out their guns and stared at each other.
Levern held out his hands. “Hey, you guys chill. Just relax.”
That idea held for about two seconds before everyone ran toward the vehicles. Levern had been afraid of this. Putting this many fools together wasn’t a good move. This could end badly.
As they got closer, a commotion drew them toward a black Chevy. Tabor’s booming laugh drifted from the small group of drivers already assembled around the car.
Levern gasped for air as he ran up. “What happened?”
Tabor slid his pistol back into his holster. “Sammy’s driver was screwing around with his piece. Shot his foot.”
Levern shook his head in disgust. He really needed to associate himself with a better class of people.
* * *
Frank hadn’t been able to get Dr. Alma Hawkins out of his head since meeting her that morning. A beauty—most likely divorced. The long red hair, fair skin, and curve of the nose was the same profile he saw walking onto Ricardo’s porch that night. But Rob nailed it. Didn’t make any sense—no connection. What Paul Sims said at lunch only added to the mystery. “If it was her, who gave her the keys to the place?”
Frank swung into the basement residence parking garage and unloaded his groceries. Alma would be back in her office soon. He’d give her a call and set up the interview. By his calculations, his plan had a 90 percent chance. Something in her eyes and smile told him she might just take him up on a dinner invitation. If he’d miscalculated, he could get another complaint out of the deal. Having a subject matter expert as a dinner guest wasn’t exactly SOP. But it was a chance worth taking. Something about her
intrigued him. Some might call this unethical, but Frank didn’t care. Maybe I am a bad man. His curiosity was aroused. Either she was or wasn’t a suspect. Either she would or would not be interested in a more intimate relationship. Either way, he had to know.
Frank unloaded the groceries and cinched his chef’s apron around his waist. The apron held a special place in Frank’s heart. He always wore it when he cooked for guests. It was awarded to him by the restaurant the year they won the James Beard Award. Frank sipped a glass of red as he washed the beef and cut it into half inch cubes. Then he diced the onions and sautéd them in extra virgin olive oil in the stew pot. Just as they took on that glossy look, he added the beef cubes and cooked them until they browned. After adding the fresh garlic and paprika, he poured in enough warm water to cover the meat and let the stew braise. Frank loved the smell of braising meat. Couldn’t wait to serve it to Alma.
Distant thunder rumbled over the horizon. Frank took his wine to the balcony and had a seat. Dark clouds rolled across the Dallas skyline, and the smell of rain filled the air. It was already three thirty, so he dug out Alma’s card. There was no doubt in Frank’s mind that what he was about to do was unprofessional. And no one had to tell him that in these politically correct times it was also bad. But Frank lived by a different credo. In every decision he made, he always asked himself the same two questions: is it illegal or morally wrong? If the answer was no—he charged ahead. This had landed him on Edna’s lecture couch more than once. He always took the butt chewing with as much good humor as possible.
He called the number on the business card. She answered on the first ring.
“Dr. Hawkins?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Pierce here. Hope I didn’t disturb you. Wondering if we could get together on that Voodoo thing this evening? My supervisor is really pushing it.”
A short hesitation. Like maybe the call surprised her.
“Sure, I’ll be here till six,” she said.
“Actually, since you’re doing me this favor, the least I could do is buy you dinner.” Frank held his breath waiting for a response.
Another hesitation—a longer one this time.
“That’s very thoughtful, but you don’t have to do that.”
Frank continued. “It would be my pleasure. Will you please join me?”
“Do you have a place in mind?”
Yes! “Seems like a good evening for Hungarian goulash. I know where we can get the best in town.”
“Sounds good. What time?”
Frank took a slow sip of wine before saying, “Seven okay?”
“I can do that. What’s the name and address of the place?”
“The Tower on McKinney.” Frank gave her his condo’s address.
“Is that uptown?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, see you at seven,” she said.
Frank disconnected. With the first part of the plan in motion, he pondered how he’d handle the second. When in doubt, open another bottle of red. Frank cut up the tomatoes and green peppers while sampling the new wine. Another clap of thunder and lightning flash as a light rain started. Yeah, a perfect night for goulash. Frank walked to the sliding glass patio door. He eased it open, and a cool breeze flowed in. He loved the sound and smell of rain splashing on the concrete.
By six-thirty Frank had showered, finished cooking, and decanted the wine. He picked a few slices of cucumber from the salad and tasted them before popping the salad into the refrigerator. Next, he put on some mellow jazz. He wasn’t surprised when she called. Would have been surprised if she didn’t.
Her voice had a confused sound. “Detective Pierce. I must be turned around. I’m at that address, but I don’t believe it’s a restaurant.”
“Park in the visitor’s section—I’ll come down and meet you,” Frank said.
He hung up before she could answer. Grabbing an umbrella, he ran for the elevator. He managed to arrive just as she stepped out of her car. The popping sound of rain drops echoed under the umbrella as he held it over her. She had a look he couldn’t read.
“Nasty night, huh?”
She closed the car door and her eyes narrowed. “Yes, very nasty.” Her gaze drifted up the tall building.
Frank escorted her to the awning at the front of the building where the suited doorman swung the door open for them. “Good evening, Mr. Pierce. Ma’am.” He performed a slight bow.
“Good evening, Ralph,” Frank said.
Stepping into the plush, dark paneled lobby the man at the desk smiled and nodded. “Mr. Pierce.”
“Evening, Jerry.”
Alma whispered, “You’re well known here. Where’s the restaurant?”
“Follow me.” Frank stepped into the elevator and pressed the up button.
* * *
Alma wasn’t 100 percent certain until Detective Pierce stepped off the elevator into a hall of doors. When he unlocked the condo door and she walked in, the smell of stewing meat confirmed her suspicions. I’ve been had.
She should be angry, but instead she was curious. What did he have up his sleeve? She’d withhold judgment until she could figure it out.
“Let me take that coat,” he said.
She allowed him to slip the jacket from her shoulders as she eyed the expensive loft. No sign of a woman’s presence. “Is this your home?”
“Yes.”
He flashed that boyish smile she found attractive. A handsome man. Not a rugged kind of handsome, but nice-looking. His soft features indicated a sensitive person. Someone of culture—a thinker. The kind of guy she’d date if she was interested. He hung her jacket in a coat closet as she strolled around the room past a wall of windows and a long bookcase with hundreds of books. She scanned the titles. He certainly has eclectic taste. She stopped to admire the well-appointed kitchen—expensive appliances.
Alma said, “I never expected when you invited me to dinner it would be at your house. Your wife”—she looked around and raised a brow—“must be furious. A guest for dinner without a day’s notice?”
Frank meandered into the kitchen, joining her. He lifted the lid on the pot and gave it a stir. “I’m not married.”
Alma almost demanded her coat be returned so she could make a show of storming out. “You know, Detective Pierce, doing stuff like this is going to get you your very own hash tag.”
He looked up with an innocent expression and grinned. “A good one?”
She shook her head.
Frank held his hands up in surrender. “This is an interview and dinner, not an interrogation. You’re free to go at any time.”
He’d called her bluff quicker than she’d expected. Didn’t try to apologize. Didn’t offer a cute explanation. What was his game? She set her jaw and gave him her most intimating stare. “I thought we were going to dine at the best goulash place in town?”
He flashed that sexy smile again before picking up a wine decanter. “This is the best. I make it myself. One of my specialties when I was a professional chef in New York. Not many Texans appreciate it as much as New Yorkers—thought you might.” He held up the decanter. “May I pour you a glass?”
Alma did a double take. Did he just say professional chef? Whatever he was cooking smelled fantastic. “You were a chef in New York?”
He poured red wine from the wide mouth decanter into two glasses. “Yeah, go figure. From chef to cop.”
She relaxed when he handed her the glass. Either the best bull-shitter in Dallas or telling the truth. Besides, who would make up a story like that?
“Make yourself at home,” Frank said, “I need to finish up a couple of things. We’ll eat at the bar, if you don’t mind. Haven’t really rushed into buying much furniture.”
He busied himself with the meal and she looked around some more, paying careful attention this time. The place must have cost a fortune. Where did a policeman get the kind of money to live in an upscale building like this? When he said not much furniture, he wasn’t joking—on
ly a sofa. The wall of windows overlooking the sparkling night lights of downtown Dallas held center stage. Rain dripped off the edge of the balcony roof onto the patio plants. A rich earthy smell wafted through the open patio door. She sauntered back to the white bookcase. Nothing was organized. Books on every topic lined the shelves. It took up an entire wall.
“You read a lot?” she gazed at several titles and brushed the books with her fingers as she strolled past.
“Yeah. You?” He stirred the pot again and sprinkled in a little salt.
“Ha! That’s all I seem to do every day. Mostly essays from my students, but I also have to scan the latest research papers.”
Frank didn’t answer. He fiddled with the pot, adding a sprinkle of this and a dash of that, stirring and tasting it after he added each ingredient. Yeah, he’s a thinker. She sipped the wine. Um, delicious red.
Alma worked her way back to the kitchen and eyed the appliances again. She’d once priced a Vulcan refrigerator. He had one and a freezer.
He uncovered the two bowls of cucumber salad and placed them on the bar, then strained the noodles. His movements were fluid, no wasted effort, as if years of muscle memory guided his hands. Alma started believing he might just be a chef.
Frank glanced in her direction. “Hope you like your goulash served over noodles. Could have used potatoes, but it felt like a noodle night.” He nodded to the rain dripping on the balcony.
Alma sat on a barstool. Professional chef, big time reader, great wine selector. Is he straight?
He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, stepped back and smiled. “I think that’s everything.” Frank joined her at the bar. She tasted the goulash.
“This is delicious.” Yeah, a professional chef. But this left her more confused.
He wiped his lips before answering. “Glad you like it. Told you—the best in Dallas.”
* * *
Frank wasn’t much of a socializer. Never could think of much to say—except to gorgeous women. But he had to be careful here—real careful. Why had he invited her? What role did she play? Suspect? Subject matter expert? Future lover? Until he sorted it out he’d best keep a professional distance. They dined, he charmed her, and the small talk stayed light.