Night Songs
Page 17
During the two and a half days that she wrote about the Head Honchos and the ten women they murdered in the spring and the fall of the year as a ritualistic part of their own secret society, the Head Honchos, she felt almost no emotion. She wrote because writing was what she knew how to do. She wrote in an orderly, logical, methodical fashion because that’s how she was trained. And the story she wrote was, according to all her editors, brilliant.
But she didn’t care. It didn’t matter, and her narrow escape from the knife expertly thrown by Clarke Andrews was not the reason it didn’t matter. Strangely enough, what mattered to her was that Clarke Andrews had died on her front lawn. He was a twenty-one year old murderer who, if he hadn’t been killed, would likely have spent the remainder of his life in jail. That would have been all right, she though, but it was not all right that he was dead, that his blood was fertilizing her grass. Carolyn King was glad he was dead, since he was the one who had killed her daughter. Gwen Thomas was glad he was dead, since he was the one who had killed her sister. But Mimi was not glad he was dead and she didn’t know why. She knew only that she experienced no pride, no rush of satisfaction when her story led to the military’s investigation of General Andrews and the Maryland Attorney General’s investigation of Judge Greene; or when it was revealed that the fathers of all the boys had conspired to protect their sons from the consequences of their actions. Indeed, after she wrote the initial two stories, Mimi wanted nothing to do with the multitude of follow-up stories. It wasn’t until she was reading one of those stories that Mimi began to understand the source of the ennui that enveloped her. It was the story in which the photographs of all the murdered women appeared and it suddenly struck Mimi that they all were Black. Black like her. And she allowed herself to feel fully the pain of knowing that there were people who believed her life had no value because of her race.
Tyler wrote the sidebar story to Mimi’s lead story, the story in which it was explained how it happened that Clarke Andrews came to die in a reporter’s front yard; how it happened that the reporter became a target in the first place and how the elite Hate Crimes Unit surveillance saved her life; how it happened that the reporter had befriended the young prostitute. A wonderful, heart-warming story, all the other editors said.
Baby said it was bullshit, but then Baby couldn’t read, so her literary criticism didn’t matter a lot. What mattered was that Baby, who now insisted upon being called Marlene, was having serious talks with Sylvia about getting off drugs, about seeing Beverly for counseling, and about learning to read. Baby...ah, Marlene, made it clear that she hadn’t committed to anything, but what the hell, it didn’t hurt to talk about it. She also made it clear that eating vegetables was not part of the discussion.
Neither was there joy resounding within the walls of the Think Tank. Relief, yes. The members of the Hate Crimes Unit tried to outdo each other with tales of how many hours, how many consecutive days, they’d slept without interruption. And when they weren’t competing with each other about sleeping, they were competing with each other about whose turn it was to spend time with Cassie, who had moved in temporarily with Tim, to the audible dismay of half a dozen specimens of male pulchritude. Cassie, whose body was healing but whose spirit remained damaged and fragile. Cassie, who, as she began to remember bits and pieces of what happened to her, became more and more withdrawn, and resembled less and less the feisty, wisecracking, cynical conscience of the Hate Crimes Unit. Cassie, who also was talking to Beverly because she’d taken an instant and intense dislike to the Police Department psychiatrist; and Bev wondered cryptically what Mimi and Gianna had done with their “special cases” before there was such a thing as Midtown Psychotherapy Associates.
Gianna, when given the option, decided to remain a cowboy. She’d adapted well to the free-wheeling life of the elite units and, though she still surprised herself with how easily she’d learned to break rules she’d never have bent before, she was learning to like the freedom. She liked the feeling she had when she arrested General Andrews, especially after Tim had had to break the man’s arm when he’d thrown a punch at Gianna. She liked the feeling of rounding up the parents of the other Head Honchos and bringing them in for questioning—if General Andrews was an accessory, other parents probably were—though she would not soon forget the anguish of Todd Haldane’s parents or the pathetic relief of General Andrews’s wife when she finally understood that she had been freed from her basement prison. She liked the feeling of confiscating the black Jeep Wranglers, of issuing the search warrants for the expensive homes in the suburbs and for the rooms in the college dormitories. She liked finding the knives and the practice targets: Torsos with the hearts outlined in red.
But no matter how much satisfaction she took in the various elements of solving the most complex case of her career, the hollow feeling that was carved into her when she saw the knife sticking out of Mimi’s door just wouldn’t be filled. She’d never forget screeching up to Mimi’s house that night—Eric had sent Tim to get her—and seeing the body under the plastic tarp on the ground and even though her brain knew that Mimi was unharmed, her heart leapt. And she’d run up the walkway and there was the knife in the door. No matter how closely she held Mimi, no matter how deeply she kissed her, no matter how sweetly she made love to her, there would always be the knife in the door. Just as there would always be the damage to Cassie Ali’s left eye.
Gianna wrote her final report on the Head Honcho case in much the same way that Mimi had written her story: Nonstop for three days she wrote and documented and wrote and documented. Hunched over the keyboard, hunting and pecking because of the right hand still in a cast, and surrounded by piles of her notes and files and daily reports. And frequently during the writing she would digress to write a memo to herself about something she wanted to remember, or to send a note to someone else—Sergeant Marx, for instance, thanking him for his help, and Adrienne Lightfoot. And in the middle of her writing, the detective in charge of Cassie’s case paid her a visit. He wanted her to read his report of the night Jack Tolliver and his cohorts were arrested. Jim Dudley was his name, and Gianna knew that whenever they crossed paths again, there would be a solid bond of respect and gratitude. Gianna and Dudley both knew that Tim had caught his perps for him, and they both knew that Tim’s ass could be dismissed for what he did: Undercover with no permission and no gun and no badge and nobody knowing where he was and all the time running the risk of blowing the entire case if he said or did anything that could remotely be construed to be entrapment, not to mention stepping all over another cop’s case, not to mention endangering his own life. But they’d been lucky and both Gianna and Dudley knew it. So she read the report that saved Tim’s ass by giving Dudley credit for the collar.
“Good collar, Detective,” she said solemnly. “The entire Hate Crimes Unit owes you a debt of gratitude.”
“Lieutenant, I’d go in to battle with you and your people any day, especially that Officer Ali.”
Detective Dudley still couldn’t get over the damage that Cassie had inflicted upon three assailants, all the while preventing herself from being raped. Finally, Dudley left her to her report.
Having talked to him somehow helped her understand what she was feeling, helped her understand why she couldn’t shake the sorrow and sadness that had settled around her, and it was more than her fear for Mimi and her anger at Cassie’s disfigurement. She realized that she’d shouldered other people’s pain as well: Carolyn King’s and Gwen Thomas’s and Eva Mae Harris’s and Marlene Jefferson aka Baby Doll’s and Thomas Haldane’s and Sophie Gwertzman’s and that of ten women who were dead because they were so hated that their lives were perceived to be without value.
Tony Watkins and Alice Long opened the door and poked their heads in. She felt a rush of joy for the first time in weeks. She was honestly glad to see them.
“Lieutenant. How’s it going?” Tony asked.
“It’s going, Tony. How are you?”
“Great. Th
anks to you, I’m detailed to the Gangs and Violence Task Force. That’s the top of the line, you know? Almost as elite as Hate Crimes.”
“You talk a good game, Watkins,” Gianna said grinning and shaking with her left hand the hand that he extended to her. “Thanks for your help, Tony. You made a big difference.”
“It’s one of the best assignments I’ve ever had, Lieutenant, and that’s no bullshit.” He tossed her a salute when he got to the door. “And I’m always available to you. I mean that. See ya, Long Legs,” he said to Alice, and left the room.
Alice smiled her soft, half-smile. “How you holdin’ up, Lieutenant?” she asked. “That was a bitch of a case. Never seen nothin’ like it, to be honest with you.”
“Neither had I, Alice. And I’m holding up really well.” Gianna knew the other woman had something on her mind, so she waited until she was ready to share it.
“I know there probably never will be a good time for me to say what I want to say, so I’ll just get it over with right now.” She took a deep breath and looked directly at Gianna. “When you start thinkin’ about a replacement for Officer Ali, I hope you’ll consider me.” Gianna’s face registered her surprise and Alice was instantly apologetic. “I didn’t mean to be rude or insensitive, Lieutenant.”
“I know that, Alice. To tell you the truth, I suppose I’d been avoiding thinking about Cassie’s situation. But eventually I will have to think about it, and when I do, you will definitely be a factor in my thinking. That’s a promise.”
Alice stood and offered Gianna her hand. “I appreciate it, Lieutenant, and I agree with Tony. This is the best assignment I ever had.” She got almost to the door and stopped, turned, and faced Gianna, again focusing the steady gaze on her. “And just in case it makes a difference, I’m a lesbian.” And Alice Long turned and left the room, left Gianna with her mouth hanging open.
CHAPTER THIREEEN
Freddie and Cedric drove them to the airport. It was the third week of December and the temperature hadn’t gotten out of the twenties in a week. Nobody remembered it being so cold so early in the season, and everybody was bemoaning what that portended for the approaching winter. Gianna and Mimi didn’t care. They were en route to Jamaica where they’d be until the middle of the second week in January. Freddie had made the arrangements, which included a condo on the beach at Ocho Rios, and had presented the non-refundable tickets to them at Thanksgiving dinner. The vacation was their joint Christmas present and there was no way for them not to go without costing Freddie a small fortune. So, they were going. Gratefully and, finally, en route to the airport, with unbridled excitement.
“I’ll bet you both sleep for the first three days,” Cedric said, sharing their excitement.
“If I do,” Mimi replied, “I’ll have the worst case of sunburn in recorded history because I intend to spend every daylight hour on the beach.”
“Ditto,” Gianna said, a dreamy look in her eyes. She’d been conjuring up visions of the ocean for the last week.
“Promise me you’ll make love on the beach at least once,” Freddie wheedled.
“I’ll not promise any such thing, Fredrick Schuyler,” Gianna hissed, embarrassment creeping in a red flush all over her face.
“There are private beaches,” Cedric said, trying to help.
“Not that private,” Gianna retorted as the three of them laughed at her.
“Don’t worry,” Mimi said sagely, “she’ll do it. And more than once.”
“Wanna bet?” Gianna challenged.
“Everything you got, Lieutenant,” Mimi said decisively, taking the challenge.
And they both looked dreamily forward to collecting on that bet.
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Also by Penny Mickelbury
A Phil Rodriquez Mystery
Two Graves Dug
A Murder Too Close
The Carole Ann Gibson Mysteries
One Must Wait
Where To Choose
Paradise Interrupted
The Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mysteries
Keeping Secrets
Night Songs
Love Notes
Watch for more at Penny Mickelbury’s site.
About the Author
Penny Mickelbury is the author of ten mystery novels in three successful series, as well as a novel of historical fiction, Belle City, and a collection of short stories, That Part of My Face. She also is an accomplished playwright, and has contributed articles and short stories to several magazines and journals.
Read more at Penny Mickelbury’s site.