by Shelly Ellis
“I’m sorry, baby. I left my phone in my office. I just saw your messages.”
“Have you read them though? Did you see the link I sent you? The one from Fox 5?”
He slowly shook his head, now confused. “No. No, I didn’t see it. What’s up? What’s wrong?”
“Ricky’s club was raided last night. The news story said his restaurant was too!”
Derrick hopped off his desk. He shot to his feet. “What? What do you mean, it was raided?”
“There was like a half dozen raids last night, all around the city and a few in Virginia and Maryland. They said lots of people were arrested. Have you . . . have you talked to Ricky? Have you heard from him since last night?”
Derrick shook his head. “No,” he said weakly, now feeling numb with shock, “I haven’t.”
“Oh, God, Dee! Do you think Ricky got arrested? Do you think he’s in jail right now?”
Derrick shook his head again. “I don’t know, Lissa. I don’t know.”
Chapter 2
Ricky
Ricky Reynaud leaned back in his chair and squinted at the track lighting beating down on him like a hot July sun.
His neck ached. His back ached. A dull throb had spread across his temples. He was starting to feel out of it. He had been up for almost twenty-four hours straight, unable to sleep in the loud, crowded holding cell they had kept him in for most of the night and morning since the raid at his strip club. He was still wearing the same clothes from the night before. The smell of his signature cologne, Gucci Guilty, had long since faded and was now replaced with a rank body odor he was sure followed him around like a stink cloud.
The cops hadn’t let him make any phone calls—not even to his friends or his lawyer. He had been sitting in this all white, bare room alone for fifteen minutes . . . or thirty minutes . . . or maybe even an hour. He didn’t know how long anymore. He was starting to lose track of time.
All he knew was who had put him here, who had gotten him in this situation in the first place.
Simone.
That is Patrol Officer Simone Fuller of the Metropolitan Police Department—his former lover.
Every impulse had told him to stay far, far away from Simone. From the moment she had told him her story of woe about her little sister, Skylar, being turned out by his business partner, Dolla, alarm bells had sounded in his head. Even Derrick—Mr. Goody Two-shoes—had warned him against helping her. But Ricky had pressed forward anyway, despite his instincts telling him to do the opposite. He had helped her by finding her sister and trying to rescue the wayward girl. He had even fallen in love with Simone, and he could honestly say it was the first time in his life he had ever fallen that hard for a woman. He had risked his life for her. And how had she rewarded all that love and sacrifice? By ratting him out to the cops, by having his businesses raided and his property seized.
I was so fucking stupid, he now thought, sadly shaking his head.
It had all been a hustle—an easy hustle, at that. She’d probably never remotely felt anything for him, certainly not love. She’d turned on the tears when convenient to gain his sympathy. Then she spread her legs and sucked his dick when the tears no longer worked. Maybe she had been undercover this whole time, something she had denied from the beginning. Maybe the whole thing had been a setup. Maybe her real objective wasn’t rescuing Skylar, but taking down Dolla Dolla all along, and Ricky had just been the pawn on the chessboard she’d used to help capture the king.
Either way, it left Ricky sitting here alone in this room, in handcuffs. Either way, he had likely lost his restaurant, his home, and his livelihood. He also was probably going to jail for a very, very long time.
I’mma kill her. I’mma fuckin’ kill her, he thought for the umpteenth time. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know when, but as soon as he got his hands on Simone, she would feel his rage.
The door to the room finally swung open and two men strolled inside. They looked like plainclothes police officers. At the sight of them, Ricky pushed back his shoulders. He sat upright in his metal chair despite the ache in his back and shoulders.
“Hey!” one said with a smile, like he was greeting an old classmate on the street.
He was the shorter of the two and had a sizeable beer gut. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and an ugly striped tie. He had a bald brown head that glistened under the overhead lights; it made him look like the Mr. Peanut mascot.
“How you doing, Mr. Reynaud?” Mr. Peanut said.
“I’m not answering any questions or sayin’ shit without my lawyer present,” Ricky answered in a monotone.
“You need a lawyer present to say how you’re doing?” Mr. Peanut asked with a chuckle. “Damn! It’s like that, huh?”
Ricky didn’t respond. Instead, he eyed the two men guardedly.
“My name’s Detective Ramsey. This is Detective Dominguez.” Mr. Peanut, who he now knew as Detective Ramsey, gestured to the man standing beside him.
The other detective had a full head of wavy, graying hair, was a couple of inches taller and several shades lighter than his counterpart. Rather than speak, he dipped his pockmarked chin at Ricky and grunted.
“You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you? At least since midnight. I bet you’re pretty damn hungry, ain’t ya’?” Detective Ramsey tossed a plastic-wrapped honey bun onto the table. He set a bottle of orange juice beside it. “Go ahead. Eat!”
So that was it? They thought they could get him to snitch for a one-dollar dessert and some orange juice?
Ricky watched as they both pulled out folding chairs on the opposite side of the table and sat down. He glanced at the food sitting inches in front of him.
“I’m not a honey bun kinda dude,” he muttered dryly.
“Well, that’s all we got on the fuckin’ menu, so you can either eat that—or eat air,” Detective Dominguez growled, making Ricky cock an eyebrow.
So it was obvious which one was going to be the good cop and which one was going to be the bad cop. He just wondered what their objective was. What would they try to trick him into saying?
“You had a rough night, Ricky . . . can I call you Ricky?” Ramsey asked, inclining his head. “Haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept. We’d like to get you out of here and home to your own warm bed as soon as possible—if we can. But we’re—”
“But we’re gonna need you to cooperate,” Dominguez interrupted. “Don’t give us any bullshit, or your ass could be in here until next year!”
“I want to speak with my lawyer,” Ricky repeated slowly and firmly, narrowing his eyes at them.
He knew what they were trying to do, to trip him up and get him to confess something incriminating. But Ricky wasn’t just some “around-the-way nigga” they’d picked up off a street corner with a dime bag in his pocket. He knew his rights, and he knew they were violating them by not allowing his lawyer to be present during questioning.
“You’re facing quite a few serious charges, Ricky,” Ramsey continued as he flipped open a manila folder he had brought in with him, pretending like he hadn’t heard Ricky’s request. “Drug possession . . . money laundering . . . racketeering. . . and if the feds get involved, you can probably look forward to tax evasion too.”
“The way I count it, that adds up to a lot of time behind bars,” Dominguez murmured with a smirk. “You could be an old man pissing in a diaper, eating mashed-up peas by the time you’re free. Or you could just die in jail.”
“You don’t want that, do you, Ricky?” Ramsey asked, now frowning, doing an almost comical impression of concern. “You’re what . . . thirty? Thirty-one? You’re still a young man! You’ve got a lot to live for and look forward to. Before this, you didn’t even have a real criminal record . . . a few misdemeanors and speeding tickets, but that’s about it. And like we said . . . you’re facing some pretty serious shit now. Don’t go down like this! Help us out so we can help you out. Tell us what you know about Dolla Dolla and maybe we can . . . I don’t know . . . maybe w
e can work out a deal with the prosecutors to get some of your charges reduced or even dropped.”
“I didn’t waive my right to an attorney. I want my goddamn lawyer!” Ricky shouted.
“You think that piece of shit feels any loyalty to you?” Dominguez asked, leaning forward. “You think he wouldn’t hesitate to send all of you motherfuckas to jail if it meant saving his own ass? You know the old saying, Ricky. No honor among thieves. He’d name names . . . point fingers. He’d do it in a cocaine heartbeat. You’re one dumb son of a bitch if you’re willing to sacrifice your freedom for him!”
“Just talk to us, Ricky,” Ramsey pleaded, squinting at him from behind his bifocals. “Tell us all that you know. You don’t have to worry. We can protect you!”
Ricky barked out a laugh, making Dominguez’s grimace harden and Ramsey’s mask of concern disappear.
“Damn, y’all are laying this on thick,” he said with a weary shake of the head. “It was a good performance up until that point. ‘We can protect you.’ ” He chuckled. “Get the fuck outta here! Y’all couldn’t protect shit! Just stop playing, and let me talk to my lawyer.”
The room fell silent. Detectives Ramsey and Dominguez exchanged a glance.
“Fine,” Detective Ramsey muttered, closing his folder and pushing back his chair. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Dominguez pushed back from the table too, adjusting his tie. “Told you it was a waste of time, Eddie. These motherfuckas are all stupid!”
Both men rose to their feet and strolled toward the door.
“So that’s it?” Ricky called after them. “I get to speak with my lawyer now, right?”
“Yeah, we’ll let you call your lawyer,” Ramsey said as he reached for the doorknob, then paused as if he’d forgotten something. He turned back around to face Ricky. “Oh, by the way, your friend Dolla Dolla is being questioned right now too, a couple of doors down. Should I tell him you said hi?”
Ricky stilled.
“Or maybe I could pop in and tell him just how loyal you really are. Maybe I should tell him that the only reason why we were able to conduct all those raids yesterday is because you sold him out to a patrol officer with the Metro Police,” Ramsey continued, now smiling. “I wonder if he knows what kind of guy you really are, Ricky. I wonder how he’ll react when he finds out what you did to him. You think your lawyer would be able to help out with that one?”
This time, Dominguez laughed, hearty and loud.
Ricky swallowed. He started to shake. His stomach clenched as the panic threatened to make him throw up right there in the bare white room. He watched helplessly as Detective Ramsey turned the knob and both men sauntered into the hall.
“Wait! Wait!” he shouted, making them pause again.
“Yeah?” Ramsey asked, raising his brows.
“Shut the door,” he said, lowering his eyes to the tabletop. He let out an unsteady breath. “I’ll help you. All right? Just . . . Just tell me what you wanna know.”
Ramsey grinned. “Now we’re talkin’.”
Chapter 3
Jamal
Jamal Lighty stepped out of the shower, wiped himself down with a towel, and wiped the condensation off his bathroom mirror. He paused after wrapping the towel around his waist and stared at his reflection, taking in the angle of his brow, the bristle of hairs along his chin, and the light sprinkling of freckles along the bridge of his nose, which he’d inherited from his mother. He then gazed into his dark eyes, wondering if he could spot anything there—some flicker or glimmer . . . some sign that showed he had changed, that he was no longer the man he’d been a week ago. But he didn’t see anything.
“Humph,” he grunted before reaching for his toothbrush.
For some dumb reason, he’d expected that he might look a little different. He thought after agreeing to accept bribes to keep the mayor of D.C.’s dirty secrets, after becoming complicit to crime and corruption, he’d have metamorphosed into someone else.
Maybe I’ll grow a long, pointy mustache that I could start twirling like Snidely Whiplash, he thought with a sad chuckle as he squeezed toothpaste onto his brush. Or my eyes will start glowing red like some damn vampire.
But of course he knew the truth; nothing would happen. Jamal didn’t look any different and probably never would. He didn’t feel any different either, though he waited for a wave of guilt or self-loathing to overwhelm him.
After all these years of trying to play the good guy and earn other people’s respect, he had finally embraced who he really was: a “ruthless motherfucka” according to Ricky, his former friend. Or better yet, a “low-down, shady fuck.”
That’s the insult that Melissa, Derrick’s girl, had lobbed at him when he’d kissed her. She’d said he’d betrayed her man by doing it. Of course, part of him still rebelled against her accusation. When he’d kissed her, he’d done it out of a long-held love of Melissa, one he’d harbored for almost twenty years. He hadn’t meant nor wanted to stab Derrick, his former friend, in the back. What he’d felt—what he’d professed to her that night—wasn’t about Derrick at all. He’d wanted to defend himself, but another part of him thought, “What difference does it make?” Why should he care what Melissa thought of him? She’d probably gone back to Derrick anyway, though the two would never make one another happy in the end. Why should he care what anyone thought of him? He was his own man. He made his own decisions. He had no reason to be ashamed of his choices.
“I am what I am,” he muttered before he began to brush his teeth and prepare for the work day.
* * *
Jamal arrived at the Wilson Building a little more than an hour later, sipping coffee from his travel mug. When he stepped into his office, he was immediately met by his assistant. She didn’t wait for him to remove his coat before she stood from her chair, rounded her desk, and handed a folder to him.
“Good morning, Mr. Lighty. Mayor Johnson told me to give this to you as soon as you arrived, sir. He said you can read it on the plane,” she chirped perkily, making Jamal squint in confusion.
“Plane? What . . . what plane?”
“The flight you’re taking today.”
When he continued to stare at her blankly, her eager smile disappeared. “You weren’t aware you had a trip this week?”
Jamal shook his head.
“I’m so sorry, sir! I thought you and Mayor Johnson had planned this.” She pursed her lips and lowered her brown eyes. “Though I did think it was odd that you were disappearing to Chicago for a couple days when you hadn’t mentioned any of it to—”
“Wait.” Jamal held up his hand, making her eyes snap back to his face. “Back up. I’m taking a trip to Chicago?”
She nodded. “That’s what the ticket says. You guys are taking a 10:55 flight on American Airlines to Chicago. First class.” She shrugged her slender shoulders as he finally took the folder she held out to him, juggling his travel mug and briefcase all the while. He flipped it open and saw the boarding pass along with several stapled stacks of paper detailing some mayoral summit. “I’m sorry I can’t give more information, Mr. Lighty. Mr. Johnson’s assistant wasn’t big on details when she sent me the paperwork and flight info. Hopefully, it’s all explained in your packet.” She gestured to the glossy folder again. “I’m clearing out your schedule for today and tomorrow as she instructed though. Hope that helps, at least.”
“Th-Thank you, Sharon,” he said weakly. “I’ll just . . . I’ll just pop in the mayor’s office to find out . . . you know . . . what’s going on.”
She laughed. “That’s probably a good idea!”
It didn’t take him long to find Mayor Johnson. The older man was striding down the hall toward him, heading in the same direction that Jamal had just come from. Johnson was throwing on his wool coat and tying a scarf around his throat as he walked. When he saw Jamal, his brown, wrinkled face widened into a grin.
Jamal had heard of the phrase “the banality of evil,” and Mayor Vernon Johnson embodied i
t. He was an unassuming black man, medium stature, wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit, but to Jamal he oozed sleaze and contempt. He had threatened Jamal’s life and the life of his ex-girlfriend in an attempt to get what he wanted. Jamal suspected that the mayor would’ve followed through with that threat if Jamal hadn’t agreed to keep his secrets.
“Ah, Jay! There you are. Glad I caught you! I was just going to ask my assistant to call you and tell you to meet me downstairs. My driver is waiting to take us to the airport.”
“Yeah, uh . . . about that, sir. I didn’t know I was going to Chicago today. I certainly didn’t know I was headed there . . . well . . . uh . . . right now.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to go? This is a pretty big summit. I heard quite a few overseas dignitaries might make an appearance. Rahm is even throwing a cocktail party tonight, to which we’ve been invited.” He tilted his head. “But if you want to skip the summit, that’s up to you.”
“No, sir, it’s . . . it’s not that I don’t want to go! I just had no idea that I was leaving in a couple of hours! I would’ve like some heads-up or—”
The mayor leaned toward him, still sporting his saccharine grin. But now he fixed Jamal with a penetrating gaze that made the younger man uneasy.
“Jay, was it not you who only a week ago told me you wanted to be at my side from now on when I go to these functions? That you want a more prominent role in my administration? You said you wanted more prestige. That was part of our deal, wasn’t it?”
Jamal cleared his throat. “Y-yes . . . yes, sir. I-I did say that. I just—”
“And I’m holding up my end of the bargain,” Mayor Johnson said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But if this is too much for you then I could—”
“No.” Jamal quickly shook his head. “No, sir! It isn’t too much. I can . . . I can make it work.”
“Glad to hear.” He clapped Jamal on the shoulder again. “So I guess we’ll be on our way then?”
Jamal glanced down at the travel mug he still held in one hand and the briefcase he held in the other. He hadn’t gotten to finish his coffee yet, or even use the bathroom. He hadn’t packed any clothes. He didn’t even have a damn toothbrush, and now he was about to board a flight for an overnight trip to Chicago? But he guessed this was his life now.