by Shelly Ellis
“So what did the cops do when you didn’t tell them anything?”
“They tried to threaten me. Kept me there all damn day and night asking the same questions over and over again a hundred different ways.” She started pacing. She shoved her hands into her back pockets. “They said they could charge me with soliciting or drug possession, since they found some coke in my bedroom, but I told them they were full of shit. They didn’t catch me soliciting nobody, and my bedroom was in Dolla’s house. Anybody could’ve left that coke there. So they let me go. I haven’t heard from them since.”
Ricky sighed. So she hadn’t flipped. This petite young woman with the angel face had held strong during multiple hours of questioning in front of cops, while he had folded like a dinner napkin in less than twenty minutes.
Ain’t that some shit, he thought forlornly.
“I didn’t tell on him. Let Dolla know that,” she insisted. “If that’s why he’s worried about me coming back, let him know I held him down. I ain’t lyin’.”
Ricky rose to his feet. “I believe you . . . and I’ll tell him. Don’t worry.”
He then turned, walked out of the kitchen, and stepped back into the hall to find Melvin still waiting for them, looking bored.
“You done?” Melvin asked, raising his thick brows.
Ricky nodded. “We’re done. She ain’t say nothin’ to the cops. We can go.”
Melvin pushed himself away from the doorjamb just as Ricky stepped past him into the hall. “I gotta take a piss first.” He looked at Tamika. “Where’s your bathroom?”
She took a step toward him and pointed down a hallway. “Oh, umm, down that way and to your r—”
She didn’t get to finish. Melvin grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward him at lightning speed. It happened so fast that it even caught Ricky off guard. She only got out a squeak of a scream before Melvin clamped a hand over her mouth, twisted her arm behind her back, wrapped an arm around her waist, and yanked her off her feet so that they dangled about six inches above the floor.
“Close the door,” Melvin hissed at him.
Ricky stared at him dumbfounded. “Wha-what the fuck are you doin’, man?” he whispered. “I thought we were just—”
“I said close the fuckin’ door,” Melvin repeated, breathing harder as Tamika twisted and kicked in his arms like a fish on a hook. But he kept a viselike hold around her. Pure horror and desperation were in her bulging hazel eyes.
“Do it!” Melvin barked and, almost as a reflex, Ricky shut the apartment door.
He waited in the fifth-floor corridor, listening for the faint sounds coming from inside the apartment. It was a struggle not to run in there and help her, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t go against Dolla Dolla. He couldn’t blow his cover. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place all over again.
He heard tussling. A series of thumps. Another female squeak and then a deafening silence that made his heart sink. A few minutes later, Melvin swung the door open again, making him jump back.
“Let’s go,” Melvin said, wiping his hands on a wash cloth and tucking it into his pocket.
Ricky would bet a fair amount of money there was blood on that wash cloth. He didn’t budge. He felt almost rooted in place by horror at what had happened, at the idea that he had helped entrap that young woman and led her to her death.
“I said let’s go. Come on! Dolla’s waiting,” Melvin ordered, shutting the door behind him and walking down the hall with the calmness of a man who had just taken out a bag of trash, not murdered a young woman in cold blood.
Ricky stared at him for several seconds before gradually putting one foot in front of the other and following him to the stairs.
Chapter 15
Jamal
“Hey, Phil, did I keep you waiting long?” Jamal asked as he walked through the maze of tables filled with federal workers taking their afternoon lunch breaks.
Jamal had called Phillip, the reporter at the Washington Recorder, earlier that week and offered to take him out to lunch at one of the nicest restaurants downtown—an upscale tapas joint with high ceilings and an extensive wine list. But Phillip had declined and asked to meet him in one of the federal building food courts instead.
“They’ve got Chick-fil-A there,” he had admitted, almost sheepishly, over the phone. “I really like their sandwiches.”
And as he neared the table, Jamal saw that Phillip had gotten the fried chicken sandwich he’d mentioned. When Jamal approached, Phillip lowered the sandwich and waffle fries he’d been double fisting. The younger man smiled as he wiped the smear of ketchup from his lips.
“Hi, Mr. Lighty,” Phillip said between chews, spilling a little food from his mouth as he spoke. “No, I haven’t been waiting long, but I hope you don’t mind that I got started already. I was . . . well . . . I was a little hungry.”
“No problem,” Jamal said, tossing his suit jacket over the back of one of the metal chairs. “I’ll grab a sandwich and a soda and be right back.”
Phillip nodded and returned his attention to his waffle fries.
Jamal hadn’t invited Phillip today just for a friendly lunch. He’d hoped it could be the chance to finally get Phillip to let go of his whole investigation into those housing developments. After Mayor Johnson’s threat, he knew he had to do it or the consequences he faced would be dire.
He returned to the table a few minutes later with a food tray. He pulled out his chair and began to unwrap the paper around his Philly sub. He told himself to ooze charm, to pretend that he was Ricky, one of the most amiable bastards out there when he wanted to be.
“So how you doin’ today?” he asked.
“Good!” Phillip said with a nod. It looked like he had almost finished his meal before Jamal had even started his. “I’m busy though. I’ve got about four stories to file, but I knew you wanted to meet up today and you’re a good source, so I was willing to make an allowance for you, Mr. Lighty.”
“We’ve known each other long enough that you can just call me Jamal, Phil . . . or Jay. That’s what my friends call me.”
Phillip nodded eagerly. “Okay, Jay! Thanks! And you can keep calling me Phil. That’s what everyone else calls me . . . well, except my mom, who calls me Danny because my middle name is Daniel, but I . . .” He gave an apprehensive laugh when he realized he was rambling. “Well, anyway, Phil is still fine.”
“Awesome,” Jamal said, pressing forward and adjusting in his chair. “Because I consider us to be kind of friends, Phil, or at least friendly, right?”
“Sure, sir . . . I-I mean, Mr. Lighty . . . I-I mean, J-Jay!” he stuttered.
“So as a friend, I want to ask you a favor.”
Phillip narrowed his eyes as he sucked the last of the ketchup from his plump fingers. “What’s that?”
“First, let me say that I think you’re an amazing reporter. I truly appreciate your work,” Jamal said, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick. “So I want to offer you the chance to do a great story, to give you more access than what we usually grant other reporters. I’d love you to shadow me for a week or two. Short of coming home with me, I want you there. You can come to every meeting, sit in on every call. When I meet constituents, I want you there. And I’ll answer whatever questions you want.”
“Really? Wow, because I’ve been wanting to do something like that. I keep seeing these pieces in the Post and I think, if I could just shadow someone and—”
“Great! So we’re on the same wavelength. Do you think you could work something like that into your schedule though? I know you said you are busy.”
“Sure! Of course I can! When can we do it?”
“As soon as you’re available. It all depends on you, my friend. The only thing I ask in exchange . . . the favor I need is that you move on from that whole thing about the housing developments. It’s hard to get a real answer with something like that anyway. So many unknowns and all.” He shrugged and bit into his sub. “So how does that sound?
Would that work for you?”
“Well, uh . . . I’d love to do an immersive profile of you, Jay, but I’d still like to do the housing developments story too. I’ve got a new lead and I wanted to—”
Jamal quickly shook his head and set his sandwich on his tray. “No, you see, Phil, how this works is that I do the profile with you and you let go of the other story. You can’t do both.”
Phil’s enthusiasm seemed to evaporate. For the first time, a frown marred his pale, ruddy face. “Why not?”
“Because that’s the deal. That’s our agreement.”
Phillip’s frown deepened. “Uh, I’m . . . I’m sorry, Jay, but this is starting to sound . . . well . . .” He pursed his thin lips. “It’s starting to sound less like a favor and . . . well, it’s kinda starting to sound like a bribe.”
“A bribe?” Jamal barked out a laugh. “Are you kidding? I’m not handing you a sealed envelope filled with cash, Phil.”
Though he had seriously considered doing just that, but he knew a man like Phillip would take one look at the envelope, rush back to his news office, and start typing the story with the headline, “City Official Tries to Squash Report Linking Mayor to Dirty Dealings with a Wad of Cash”.
Phillip was wide-eyed and somewhat gullible, but he wasn’t stupid. Even Jamal knew that.
“I’m offering you the chance to do one story versus another,” Jamal continued. “A better story, quite frankly.”
“But what difference does it make? Why are you trying to get me to stop writing about the housing developments?” Phillip leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Is the mayor really connected to it, like I thought? Is he getting money under the table for it?”
“No, of course he’s not.”
“Then why won’t he answer my questions? If it has nothing to do with him, he can just show me what—”
“He doesn’t have to show you anything, Phil!” Jamal shouted, now pushed to the brink of his patience. “He’s not going to show you! Don’t you get it? You’re not going to find the answers you’re looking for. You’re wasting your time. But if you keep butting your nose into stuff you shouldn’t butt your nose into, you’re gonna regret it in the end.”
“What does that mean?”
Jamal rested his elbows on the table and glared down at his sub. He had taken one bite and his appetite was already gone. “It means exactly what I said. Move on to something else.”
Their table fell silent even though the clamor around them continued as people ate their lunches, as loud conversations and laughter filled the food court, echoing to the glass ceiling.
“Are you . . . are you threatening me, Jay?” Phillip asked, sounding almost heartbroken.
“I’m not threatening you; I’m warning you because you seem like a good, well-meaning guy who is way . . . way out of his depth. And I know what that’s like. Take my advice. Take my offer. Do the other story. Please,” he said tightly.
He watched as Phillip slowly gathered his food wrappers and napkins and shoved them into his empty paper bag.
Phillip rose to his feet and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no. No, I won’t do the other story. It’s not right. This is my job. I’m a reporter. This . . . this is what I do. I’m sorry,” he said before turning from their table and walking away. He then tossed his bag into a nearby trash can and shuffled out of the food court.
* * *
“Ah, Jamal, there you are!” Mayor Johnson called as Jamal approached one of the Wilson Building’s elevators.
Hearing the mayor’s voice, Jamal resisted the urge to roll his eyes, only because he knew the mayor would be able to see him do it in the mirror-like surface of the elevator doors.
He had just arrived back from lunch with Phillip and was still debating on how he was going to break the news to Johnson that Phillip wasn’t going to let go of the story. Running smack-dab into the mayor wasn’t what he wanted right now.
He winced when he felt Johnson congenially slap him on the shoulder.
“I was just looking for you!” the mayor continued. “But you’ve been a hard fellow to find all week.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a full calendar,” Jamal said, painting on a smile and pressing the up elevator button.
“I know. Your assistant, Sharon, told me you had a busy day today also, which included a lunch with Phillip at the Washington Recorder. I was interested in hearing how it went.”
Jamal inwardly groaned. He really was going to have to have a conversation with Sharon about blabbing his business to other people, Johnson especially. He hadn’t wanted to talk about Phillip this soon. He knew whatever way he said it, the mayor was not going to be happy. He’d hoped he would have at least a couple of days to consider his wording, but it looked like that wasn’t going to be the case.
“It went fine,” Jamal lied.
“Fine? Fine as in he agreed to let go of that little thing we’d been discussing?”
Jamal sighed. “No,” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you, Jamal. What did you say?”
“I said no. No, he will not let it go.”
A bell dinged and suddenly the elevator doors slid open. The compartment was empty. Both men stepped inside.
“Hold the door! Hold the door, please!” an elderly woman called out as she hobbled toward the elevator, bearing her weight on a steel cane.
Jamal reached out to press the button to do so, but the mayor was faster. Instead, Mayor Johnson pressed the button to slam the doors shut in her face. He then whipped around to face Jamal as the elevator ascended.
“What the hell do you mean he’s not going to do it? I thought you talked to him,” Johnson barked. His friendly façade had disappeared.
“I did. He got the message, and he said he’s still going to write the story.”
“You understand what that means, don’t you?” Johnson asked, grabbing the lapel of Jamal’s suit jacket and yanking him around to face him. “You know you’ve left me with no choice.”
Jamal tore the man’s hand from his lapel. “No, you do have a choice. You said it was either Phillip or me, so”—he took a deep breath—“I’m volunteering. Send the pics of me to whoever the hell you want. I don’t give a shit, because I’m not going to have that man’s fuckin’ blood on my hands.”
The mayor stilled. “You realize that your career will be over, right? No one will—”
“Yes, I’m not stupid. I know what I’m risking, but frankly, it’s worth it.”
Just then, the elevator doors opened again, revealing the top floor. Jamal stepped out of the compartment and walked straight to his office. He didn’t look back.
Chapter 16
Derrick
Derrick sat behind his desk and glanced up at the clock on his office wall, waiting patiently for it to strike 12:35 p.m. He glanced at Morgan, who sat on the edge of his desk with her legs crossed at the ankles, her arms crossed over her chest, staring at his closed door.
They both waited for Cole Humphries to step through it.
She had agreed to meet Cole with him, to confront him together and finally get to the bottom of whether he was still using the Institute as a way station to smuggle Dolla Dolla’s drugs and drug money. They agreed they stood a better chance of an honest answer if she was there. Cole liked and respected her. They both doubted he would lie to her.
Derrick stared at her back, at her slender shoulders in her white T-shirt and her springy curls. He wanted to hug her and kiss her cheek in thanks. She didn’t have to help him today. After the way he had treated her, most women wouldn’t, but she was here anyway.
“Thanks again for doing this,” Derrick whispered.
“Don’t mention it,” she said, not turning around or even glancing over her shoulder to look at him.
Just then, Derrick’s door swung open and Cole stepped through with a broad smile on his face. “What’s up, Mr. D? I heard you were lookin’ for—”
His words died on his lips when he
saw Morgan was in the room too. Cole’s confident smile disappeared. His gaze flitted from her to Derrick and back again.
“Hey, Miss Owens,” he said. Even his voice changed. It was now an octave higher. “What . . . what are you doing here?”
She glanced down at the armchair facing Derrick’s desk. “Have a seat, Cole. Mr. Miller tells me we have a lot to talk about.”
Cole squinted suspiciously, still not taking the chair. “So he snitched on me? He told you everything?”
She tilted her head. “He told me enough, but I want to hear the rest from you. Please, have a seat.”
Cole finally slumped into the leather armchair. He looked aggravated and every bit of the petulant teenager that he was.
“So,” she began, “I’ve heard you’ve gotten mixed up in some stuff.”
“I’m not ‘mixed up.’ It’s what I want,” he said, raising his chin in defiance. “I call the shots.”
“Did you call the shots with Rodney? Was he working for you too?” Derrick asked.
“Nah, he wasn’t working for me. He did a favor for me like I did favors for him. He wanted tickets to basketball games, so I told him I could probably get the tickets for him if he could help a brother out.”
“And by help you out, you mean he would look the other way while you did your dirt? While you moved in the suitcases?” Derrick clarified.
Cole shrugged in response.
That was as good as a yes in Derrick’s opinion. Now he didn’t feel quite so bad for firing Rodney.
“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Cole,” Morgan said. “You think you’re calling the shots, but this could easily go left. You could be in way over your head. You are messing around with some bad people.”
“They ain’t bad,” he argued. “Dolla took care of me and my mom when no one else would. He gave me a job. He gave me money. And—”
“And working for him is what landed you in the Institute in the first place,” Derrick interjected. “If you keep working for him, you can end up in a place a lot worse—or dead someday.”