Boss Divas (14 page)

“Y
ou're making a big mistake! I didn't kill my parents!”

The expressionless cop then ignores my pleas and jerks me toward a small, isolated room. The humiliation of being arrested at the funeral home extends to being fingerprinted and shoved in front of a camera for my first mug shot. Last year, I was hauled in for questioning over a Gangster Disciple and Vice Lords shootout at The Med, but I was never arrested.

An arrest is a permanent record—proof that I'm headed down the wrong road fast. Now I'm a statistic.
This can't be happening.
I'm trying to be strong, but I'm overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness and that things happening to and around me are constantly out my control—and I'm sick of it.

“I'm innocent,” I shout.

“That's what they all say,” the cop says, giving me a final shove into the room. “Take a seat.”

I whip around and then suppress the instinct to lash out and knee this asshole's balls up to his throat.

“Take. A. Seat,” he repeats, gritting his teeth.

Defiant, I glare at him with my chest heaving.

Unimpressed, the cop shoves me into the chair. “Thank you,” he sneers and then walks behind me to unlock my cuffs. “Now. Can I get you some water? Soda?”

“No.”

He shrugs a
suit yourself
and walks out. There's a loud
click
when the door closes behind him, letting me know that it's useless for me to make a run for it.

My gaze sweeps around the small room. A nervous twitch thumps against my temple. I rub my hands and wrists to massage the pain from the last few hours—and to give me something to do with my hands. All this room is missing is an iron bed and a straitjacket for me to feel like I'm back in the mental hospital.

I sit still as the minutes tick by. They're probably watching me behind the glass. That's how they do it in the movies—let your guilt eat at you until you're ready to confess everything you've ever done your entire life.

The thing is, guilt eats at the innocent, too. If I'd never entered the Douglases' lives. If I'd never hooked up with Profit. If we'd never gone to the prom. If Profit and I had never had that fight with them the night I left.

Damn. Why didn't I ask for that glass of water?
I lick my lips, but my mouth remains as dry as the Sahara desert.

The door bolts open and that walrus-looking lieutenant, Andrew Blalock, waddles in, looking cranky as fuck. “Ah, Ms. Murphy. Glad to see that you could make it, seeing as how you missed your appointment the other day.”

I frown and then vaguely remember the lieutenant talking and handing me his business card the night my world burned to the ground.

My guilt reverses itself and my anger roars back. “You have no right to fuckin' arrest me. I didn't kill anyone.”

“Like you didn't try to kill your sister, LeShelle, a few months ago?” He slaps a thick folder onto the table. “It took four orderlies and two nurses to pull you off of her and take the bloody knitting needles from your hands.”

My hands ball on the table as I remember the feel of those needles. Instant recall has LeShelle's body fighting and struggling between my legs. Before my homicidal lust completely takes over me, I snap out of it and remember where I am. “That was different.”

His bushy eyebrows jump comically. “Different how?”

I grind my teeth. I'm tempted to snitch all the horrors my
wonderful
sister has put me through—but that war is between me and LeShelle.

“That's what I thought,” Lieutenant Blalock pulls up a chair, and when he squats to sit, his knees crack in protest. “Tell me what happened. To your parents.”

“Nothing. I had nothing to do with that fire.”

“All right. Tell me about the fight between you, your boyfriend, Raymond, and your parents a few days before the fire.”

That catches me off guard.

“Didn't think we'd find out about that?” His brows lift again—this time with amusement. “You young people think that y'all are the smartest one in the room.”

I hold my tongue while he flips through the folder. “The neighbors reported shots fired at that address that night. When the police questioned your parents, Tracee admitted to firing the gun to break up a fight between her husband and your boyfriend. Does that jog your memory?”

Shame pricks my armor. I lower my hardened gaze for no more than half a second before stiffening my spine. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“Really?” he echoes. “That must have been one hell of a misunderstanding. They kicked you out over it, right?”

I tense. “I
moved
out—temporarily.”

“Hmmm.” Lieutenant Blalock shakes his head as he rereads the file. “That's not what I have here. Reggie Douglas stated clearly that you were not welcome back at their home.
Ever.”

His words slam into me like a punch to the gut. I know that Reggie was angry, but I don't want to believe that he meant those words. I want to believe that when I returned they would've welcomed me with open arms.

Now I have doubts.

“So. What was the disagreement about it?” Blalock inquires.

I sniff and wipe my face dry. “You tell me since you know so much.”

Blalock closes the folder. “I'd say that fight was a little bit more than a misunderstanding. Since things got physical between Raymond and your father, I'd say you two went back there to either try and settle it or go for round two. I'd say it's the latter—and given the amount of accelerant you two doused throughout the house, you came well prepared to end the war for once and for all.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“I've seen crazier shit out here in these streets.”

“And that other chick?” I ask him. “I've never even heard of her. Why would I kill her?”

“Markeisha ‘Kookie' Edwards.” He switches to another folder and pulls out a photo—a mug shot—of a face that I've definitely seen before.
Kookie. LeShelle's friend who was there the night I was raped.

“Judging by your expression, I take it that you
did
know her?” Blalock asks.

I ease back in my chair, thrilled to know that the bitch was dead. “Like I said: I didn't kill anyone,” I tell him. “And you can't prove that I did!”

“Oh. You'd be amazed what we can do around here.” His smile sickens me. “How did you hear about the fire?” he continues.

“What?”

“The news cameras were there, but given the hour, the first time the breaking news footage aired was five o'clock that morning. You were there within a half hour of the emergency responders. How was that?”

I shouldn't answer his smart ass. “Because I was returning home.”

He levels a flat look.

“Believe what you want to believe,” I say. “There's no way you can prove this bullshit story you're spinning. A fight? Name a kid who hasn't had a fight with their parents.”

“True. But the list gets smaller when you add gunplay into the mix.”

“Whatever. You wanna lock me up, lock me up. I don't give a fuck.”

“Well, let me assure you that I don't give a fuck either.”

“I didn't kill them.”

Blalock's careful mask slips and anger twists his walrus face. He slams his folders closed and jumps from his chair. Something tells me that he'd bet the house on getting a confession.

Smug, I ask, “You think I can get that water now?”

He storms out.

I never get that water, but minutes later I'm led to a crowded holding cell. One glance at this circus clown show and anxiety knots my stomach. When the guard orders for the door to be opened, all heads swivel to check out the fresh meat.

The iron bars slide open.

“In you go, Miss Murphy.”

A few more heads swivel to give me closer scrutiny. Drawing a deep breath, I stiffen my spine and thrust my chin higher. I don't bother looking for a seat because I know that shit will spark off a fight.

As soon as the jailer's footsteps fade, a tall, shapeless bitch with matted dreadlocks strolls up to me. “Murphy? You LeShelle's lil sister?”

I meet her jaundiced eyes with the same attitude as she's giving. “How is that your business?”

Two more ugly bitches flank Ms. Rasta's side. “Answer the fuckin' question.”

My nose twists at their sour and funky breath. “What the fuck? Y'all been eating ass all night?”

Laughter ripples around me.

“Oh. You're a fuckin' comedian, huh?” Rasta flips my hair off my shoulder. “Let's see how many jokes you tell after I break my foot off in your ass.”

I steel myself for anything. If it's going to pop off, I'm ready.

“The word on Shotgun Row is that you're open game in the middle of hunting season.”

“I don't know what the fuck you said—was that shit even English?”

“Fuck you, bitch!”

Rasta shoves my shoulder—hard. I jerk back, but I waste no time spitting the blade from my mouth. My hand comes up in one beautiful golf swing, but this seasoned street veteran knows better than to keep her ass standing still, and pulls a
Matrix
back bend. I only manage to slice off half of a crusty-ass dreadlock. When she pulls her upper body back up, she and her two girlfriends charge forward. To my surprise, five girls rush up to flank my sides, pumping the Queen Gs' brakes.

“A'ight. Y'all done had your fuckin' fun,” says a six-foot redbone sister with a Vice Lord
Playboy
bunny tattooed on her neck. “You know the drill. You come for one of ours, you come for
all
of us.”

More girls in the cell stand up.

Rasta and her two crackhead zombie twins back down.

“Oh. So it is true,” she growls. “You flaggin' black and gold.”

My hard glare is my only answer. Hell. I'm as shocked as she is that the Vice Lord Flowers have my back, but I'm not about to show that shit. Lucky for me, the Flowers outnumber the Queen Gs in the holding cell today.

“All right. 'Til next time.” Rasta backs up to her previous spot on a hard bench, careful not to give the Flowers her back.

The redbone turns and winks. “It looks like Profit pulled a bitch with some fuckin' heart.” She tosses a sly grin. “Name's Mackenzie. People call me Mack.”

“Ta'Shara,” I say, keeping my brave act intact.

“Welcome to the fam, Ta'Shara. As Profit's girl, you're officially one of us.”

“N
othing.” I toss up my hands and then collapse back into my chair.

Lieutenant Fowler shrugs and then moves from hovering over my shoulder. “Well, what's a couple of more hours wasted in the grand scheme of things?”

“I don't know why you're laughing. You know that when I get a feeling about someone, I'm never wrong,” I gloat.

“Never? Never ever?”

“Whoa! I was right about that asshole!”

Fowler gives me a look.

“Okay. So maybe he wasn't
technically
a murderer.”

“Which was the whole point since we were investigating a murder.” Fowler drops into the chair across from my desk, snickering. “You nearly blasted an innocent man's head off because you thought that he killed his son.”

“You're right. He didn't kill him. He only molested and prostituted him and his other children to feed his lifestyle and drug habit. My bad. He was still a bad guy—and that's the same vibe I'm getting from Mr. Diesel Carver.”

Fowler sighs and shakes his head.

“You shouldn't patronize me. I'm your boss now, remember?”

“I have a feeling that you're never going to let me forget it.”

“Damn right.” I smirk.

As far as colleagues go, Fowler is all right with me. He has this weird ability to come off easygoing and aloof when in fact nothing is further from the truth. He's tenacious and as dedicated as they come. He takes his job seriously and he doesn't kowtow to the hard blue line that often pits cops against the very people that they're sworn to protect. The us-against-them mentality that's prevalent in most urban cities' police departments.

“So now what? Crazy lady went ballistic and went on a kidnapping and killing spree? Case closed?”

I shift in my chair, uncomfortable putting the case in a neat box.

“I'll take that as a no,” Fowler says.

“I didn't say anything.”

“Didn't have to. I know that look—it resembles the one my wife gives me when I ask for sex on my birthday.”

“It might have something to do with the fact that you're divorced.”

“See? You're even starting to sound like her.”

Laughing, I shake my head while reviewing things in my mind. “We need to take another tour through Captain Johnson's residence. There's gotta be something there that better explains all of this. We don't have that much time. I'm already getting hints that the mayor wants this case to go away as fast as possible.”

“I was told to deliver these forensic tire and shoeprint reports to you.”

“Great.” I wave her in and take the report. “Thanks, Detective.”

She flashes a smile and leaves.

“Which case is that?” Fowler inquires, while I prop open the folder.

“The Terry-Gibson case.”

He shakes his head. “Another seriously fucked up case.”

“Are there any other kind?” I ask, not tearing my eyes from the report. “At least we got a brand from the molds. Firestone Destination ST.”

“So we're looking for an SUV?”

“That should narrow things down to about a million.” I hand over the top report and pictures in the folder. “Get on the phone with Firestone and find out what car shop or dealership where this DOT number was shipped to. Maybe we'll catch a break and find whose car those tires belong to.”

“Unless they were stolen.”

I cut him a sharp look. “Are you going to be Debbie Downer all day?”

“Sorry. It's hard to control my pessimist side sometimes.”

“Try a little harder. Look at this.” I hand him the next report and set of photographs. “Shoeprints. Five different sets—two belong to our victims.”

“Three killers. Definitely gang activity.” He shrugs. “We already knew that.”

“Yolanda Terry was from Shotgun Row. Given her arrest record, I'd bet my house that she was a Queen G.”

“And Tyneshia Gibson? She lived closer to the Ruby Cove area.”

“Vice Lord Flowers. Oil and water.” I lean back in my chair. “Shoeprints are small, suggesting they're females.”

“Or very dainty men?” Fowler jokes.

I rub my pulsing temples. “We're looking for either a group of Flowers or a group of Queen Gs—or a collection of both.”

“We can't rule out that it could be another group that doesn't like either those gangs. The Crippettes or the Blood-ettes or—”

“Get out of my office,” I snap. “I don't need you popping my bubble every time I think I'm on a roll.”

Fowler laughs and then tosses the reports and photographs back onto my desk. “I thought that we were brainstorming.”

Sighing, I look up again to a different detective, hovering. “Yes?”

“Captain Hawkins, there is a James and Theresa Gibson here to see you.”

The names don't set off any bells.

“The Terry-Gibson case,” Fowler jogs my memory.

“Oh. Of course. Send them in.”

Fowler heads for the door.

“Wait. Stick around. You're going to be lead on this.”

He nods as the Gibsons are escorted to my door.

I climb to my feet and extend my hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, please come in. Have a seat.”

Fowler vacates his chair in order for the victim's parents to sit down.

“We've been calling to talk to you, but they kept telling us that you were out of the office,” Mrs. Gibson begins.

“Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry about that. How may I help you?”

She hesitates and then glances over at her husband.

“We want to know how the investigation into our daughter's case is going. The news stations aren't saying much of anything and we'd hope that you would've called us back by now.”

“Yes, ma'am. Let me reassure you that we are working diligently on Tyneshia's case. We have a few leads, but I got to warn you that this is going to be a very long process. We're not going to be able to solve this case overnight.”

The couple glances at each other, and I get the distinct feeling that they want to tell me something. “What is it?”

Theresa grabs hold of her husband's hand for strength. “We'd like for you to talk to Tyneshia's friends.”

“Oh?” My gaze slices to Fowler as I retrieve a pen and pad. “And what are their names?”

They hesitate again.

With my hand poised over the paper, I resist rolling my eyes and snapping at them. It doesn't matter how old people are, the rules in the streets remain the same: no snitching.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, do you want us to find your daughter's killers or not?”

James Gibson's chin lifts with renewed resolve. “Shamara Moore, Adaryl Grant, and Qiana Barrett.”