Boss Divas (21 page)

I
t plucks my last nerve to watch Lynch limp his ass out of J.D. Lewis & Sons Funeral Home. I came close to putting his ass in one of our damn caskets and burying it. At least we made our position clear.This was his one and only “peace” meeting.The only way to head off a full-scale war against his weak-ass crew is to hand over Trigger and his multi-flagging bitch, Shariffa—something no
real
nigga would ever do. His balls are in a vise.

He knows it.

We know it.

The storage room's heavy door slams shut behind Lynch and his crew.

“You were very busy?” Mason asks. “You didn't tell me that you were going after those girls today.”

“I didn't know I had to clear shit with you. It was a personal errand. I took care of it.”

“I don't know what's gotten into you lately,” he says. “Did I do something wrong? Did I piss you off? Tell me because I'm starting to think my coming back has thrown a monkey wrench into your plans.”

“Whatever. Do what you want to do.” Rolling my eyes, I turn to march off, but Mason grabs me by my arm. My emotions are a tinderbox and I erupt and flail punches at his head. “Don't you fucking touch me, you bastard!”

Profit and our crew creep out of the room.

“What in the hell?” He wrestles to get control of my hands. “What has gotten into you, goddamn it?”

“You and that pig-bitch's picture that's in your fucking pocket,” I shout. “You're still in love with that bitch and yet you crawl into
my
bed, lying about how much you fucking love me! How stupid do you think I am? I'm not going to be your rebound bitch!”

“What? Calm down! Have you lost your damn mind? I'm not in love with that lying piece of dead shit. What the fuck?”

“Liar!” I free one hand and land a punch against the side of his head. “I saw the picture! You've been carrying it around the whole time while you were gone. Probably dreaming for months about her stretched-out pussy that you and that snake-loving bastard were sharing. Well, fuck you!”

“A picture?” He ducks my next swing and then grabs hold of my hand again. “
This
is over a goddamn picture? You gotta be shittin' me. That picture has been in my wallet for years. I never look at the damn thing. I just didn't take it out.” He shoves me away from him. “Here. If it'll make you feel better.” Mason reaches into his back pocket and removes his wallet. “I'll tear it up,” he shouts.

I glare at him, my chest heaving like I've gone a ten-round bout with Floyd Mayweather.

Mason pulls out Melanie's picture, rips it into tiny pieces, and then tosses them over his shoulder. “There. Are you happy now? The bitch means nothing to me. I love your crazy, homicidal ass.”

I struggle to hang onto my anger, but it's quickly slipping into embarrassment. Mason sucks in a deep breath and crosses his arms. “You ain't got nothing to say?”

I'm caught flat-footed with no way to get out of this.

“Do you love me, Willow?” he asks, softly.

My eyes well up. I don't like being vulnerable.

Mason unfolds his arms and moves toward me.

The closer he gets, the stronger I fight the urge to throw my arms around him and asks for his forgiveness. I've been a raging, jealous hormonal bitch lately and I have little experience in apologizing to people.

He draws me into his arms. “Look at me,” he orders.

I hesitate because my eyes are burning.
Don't cry.

“Willow,” he says gently.

Reluctantly, I look up.

“I'm going to tell you this—and I want you to believe me because I mean it with all of my heart. I love you. I've loved you for so long that I can't remember a time when I didn't love you. The only reason that I never acted on it when we were younger was out of respect for my friendship with your brother. And I regret that. I can't tell you how much. You're not now, nor will you
ever
be, the rebound chick. Melanie was.”

Tears race down my face as he leans over and captures my lips into the sweetest kiss I've ever tasted. I hate to be the kind of bitch who melts like a romance heroine—but that's exactly what I'm doing as his tongue dives into my mouth. My arms drift up his chest and then steal around his neck to draw him closer.

We remain lip-locked until my lungs beg for oxygen. Even then, his lips glide over to nuzzle my neck and pepper my collarbone.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Do you love me?”

“I more than love you,” I confess. “I'm
in
love with you.”
Tell him.
“And I'm going to have your baby.”

Mason's body goes still.

I freeze as well and hold my breath.

Finally, he leans back and looks down at me. “What did you say?”

My heart pounds against my rib cage, but I keep my eyes level with his. “I'm pregnant.”

Shock is too mild to describe his expression. “Baby, are you sure?”

I nod. “I'm almost five months.”

His eyes zoom to my belly and a new understanding emerges. “I'm about to be . . .You're pregnant! Holy shit!” He sweeps me up and spins me around. “Fuck yeah! I'm gonna be a damn daddy!”

“I
t's all over the streets,” Kane confirms. “Fat Ace is alive. Niggas are saying his ass crawled out of the grave all burnt up—straight zombie shit. They're also bragging that he and Lucifer wiped out the Angels of Mercy charter for double-crossing them. Muthafuckas done kicked off some racial shit now.”

Python grunts. It's nine o'clock in the morning and his ass is already drunk as hell.

My head zooms. Lucifer's gangsta gets nothing but mad respect from my ass.

“And that's not all,” June Bug pipes in, frowning. “Fat Ace and Lucifer are now a couple. Rumor is she's carrying his seed.”

“Good God,” I say. “I can't imagine the kind of demon those two will shit out.”

“At least her ass can have a damn baby,” Python grunts.

I drop into the chair behind me as if he sucker-punched me.

“I want a meeting,” Python says, changing the subject. “Mason and I need to talk.”

“Python, don't do this,” I warn.

“And where in the fuck is Diesel?” Python adds in his own fuckin' zone again. “I've been calling him all morning.”

“He's probably at the club. You know he's got that opening coming up.”

“Bring his ass here. Shit. Do I have to do everything myself? His ass is supposed to be on top of this shit.”

“You got it, boss,” June Bug says, popping his sidekick on the shoulder and then leading him out the front door.

Once we're alone, I turn toward Python with open disgust. “This is a mistake—a
big
mistake.”

Python blows me off to reach for another drink. “I don't know why you can't get it through your head that this is something that I gotta do.”

“Why? For closure?” I jump back to my feet. “You can't seriously think Fat Ace is gonna welcome you into his life with open arms.
The chief of the Vice Lords
?”

“You don't understand,” he mumbles. “I can't get you to understand.”

“No. You can't—because the shit doesn't make sense. And even if I crack my fuckin' head and begin to live in this altered reality that you're in, what do you seriously think that's gonna happen? You two are gonna squash a lifetime of beef and the Gangster Disciples and the Vice Lords are gonna join hands and hum old negro spirituals because y'all share the same blood? You ain't Martin Luther King and that dream ain't ever gonna happen.”

Silence.

I'm not getting through to him. “Fuck. Now I need a damn drink.” I grab the bottle of Henney and pour myself a glass. As I toss back my liquid breakfast, I can't help but notice that Python looks guiltier than a muthafucka.

“What the fuck are you not telling me?”

This nigga glances away and mumbles something under his breath.

“All right, I'll bite.What the fuck do you think that nigga is gonna say after surviving your ass tryna kill him? Not once, not twice—but too many times to count. You do remember that was what you were doing before your hallucination of him being your long-lost brother kicked, right? Even if what you say is true—and I do mean
if
—what the fuck does that change? Cain killed Abel. Fuck.
You
killed your cousin Dat-won. I don't remember you getting all emotional over that shit.”

“It's not the same!”

“Are you shittin' me? Your Aunt Peaches killed your
mother
—because she was tryna kill her!
My
sister stabbed me thirty-six times. And let's not talk about the shit that
I
did to her to prove my loyalty to your waffling ass.”

“Don't put that shit on me. I told you to handle the situation. I didn't tell you to take the shit as far as you did. That's on you, ma.”

“The fuck it is.” I jab my finger into his chest. “Go mind fuck some other bitch. We both know what you meant.” I'm in his face, barely able to keep my fists from swinging. “And so that we're clear: at the end of the day, I don't have any goddamn sympathy for this whiny bullshit you're on—and neither does anybody else. The Gangster Disciples' war with the Vice Lords is set in stone until the world blows up. Remember?”

Python takes another sip of his drink.

“There's still the possibility that Fat Ace already knows who you are and doesn't give a shit,” I remind him. “You and Mason—
if
it's him—were dealt a bad hand—I get that. Everybody out here got a sad ghetto story—my ass included—but there comes a day when you got to charge that bullshit and pain to the game. There's too many niggas depending on our asses holding shit down—winning our streets back and moving the fuck on. If you don't do it—another nigga will—including your shifty-eyed cousin, Diesel.”

“Damn, LeShelle. Get off that shit.” He shoulders me out of the way.

“Don't sleep on that nigga. I don't give a fuck if he's family or not. His shit is suspect with me. He's always right there to lend a fuckin' hand. He's our new drug connect, he supplying our arms, he calls up his homeboys to help run your fuckin' crew, and now he buying up property all over Memphis? And I'm supposed to believe that his high-yellow ass don't want a damn thing in return? C'mon!” I stomp my foot. “You're not that fuckin' stupid. You've
never
been this stupid.”

“Enough!” Python hurls his glass.

“I'm tired of your goddamn bitching about shit you don't understand! I'm the nigga running this shit. You don't like how the fuck I get down, then take off that goddamn ring and bounce your ass up out of here.”

“Python—”

“I mean it, Shelle. Your job is to jump when I say jump and fuck when I say fuck. Anything other than that then you're thinking too damn much!” He turns to storm out the living room, but I ain't having it. I rush around him and block his path to the bedroom.

“Get the fuck out of my way, Shelle. I ain't playing with you right now.”

“Tell me what you're not saying!” I fold my arms.

His voice drops to a menacing warning. “LeShelle.”

I don't move.

“Don't make me bounce you off every goddamn wall in this bitch.”

“That's fine. When you get through, you're still going to tell me what the fuck you're hiding.”

His fists tighten at his sides as we eyeball each other in a heated combat.

“The full truth,” I press.

Once he sees that I'm not backing down, Python retreats a few feet and then spins toward the living room, looking like he's ready to throw something else. “Fine,” he roars. “You want to know the damn truth. I'll give you the truth.” He takes a deep breath. “It's my fucking fault what happened to Mason. The shit is all on me.”

“What?”

He heaves out a long breath. “When I was six-years old. I placed my baby brother in an oven.”

“S
leep is for pussies,” I tell myself over and over. The Terry/ Gibson case, the Captain Johnson case, and now the Angels of Mercy massacre have me in contention for the “department conducting the most press conferences in a single month” award—and there's no end in sight.

“ ‘They were niggers,' ” Fowler quotes every twenty minutes and follows up with a spatter of chuckles.

“It's disturbing how a mass shooting tickles you so much,” I snap.

“I laugh to keep from crying,” he says, hanging on to his goofy smile.

“Uh-huh.”

We enter our war room, carrying a DVD that has been discovered at Captain Johnson's home. The forensic team marked it as urgent, and Fowler and I quickly huddle around a twenty-seven-inch television screen.

On the television screen, Detective Keegan O'Malley approaches what appears to be a large, muscular suspect in a dark alley somewhere. O'Malley glances over at a body that's lying on the ground but keeps his weapon trained on his suspect.

The detective says something. It's too low for the security cameras to pick up, but I don't think it's the man's Miranda rights. If fact, O'Malley doesn't appear to be interested in arresting this guy. If anything, he's trying to provoke a fight.

Another cop comes into view of the camera.

“It's Officer Melanie Johnson,” I whisper.

Officer Johnson moves behind him to check on the body on the ground.

A deep, demonic laugh rumbles loud enough for the audio to pick up. The suspect isn't scared of the police.

Who is this guy?
I lean in closer, wishing the suspect would move back a few inches so I can get a better look.

O'Malley taunts his suspect, never once going for the handcuffs on his hip. My gaze swings back to his partner. She's watching what's going on and reaching for something.
A gun?

Hyped, O'Malley appears ready to shoot in cold blood.
Oh God. Don't let this tape be what I think it is. I can't handle any more surprises.

Behind O'Malley, Johnson lifts the dead man's .45.

The back of O'Malley's head explodes as his body pitches forward and then collapses in a dead heap on the concrete.

“Holy shit,” Lieutenant Fowler thunders, jumping out of his chair.

“Holy shit is right,” I mumble, wishing I could have a strong drink.

The video keeps playing as the suspect lowers his hands, turns around, and finally reveals his face to the camera.

“FUCK ME,” Fowler exclaims. “Please tell me that isn't who I think it is.”

“Terrell Carver,” I confirm. Dread curdles in the pit of my gut.

There's more. Carver inches up to Melanie, lifts her head, and lays a kiss on her that's worthy of the silver screen. “Enough.” I power off the video and collapse back in my chair while my brain absorbs what it witnessed. “The bitch killed her partner.”

“Well, a whole lot of shit is starting to make sense,” Fowler says, pacing. “This is our confirmation. Alice Carver told that kid the truth. She was his grandmother.”

“A kiss doesn't prove that,” I say.

He levels me with a look.

“I agree with you. Fuck. I figured that shit out weeks ago. And as soon as the lab report comes in, I'm sure Christopher and Alice's DNA are going to match.” I reach for a folder in the center of the table and pull out pictures of Christopher Johnson and Terrell Carver.The truth stares me in the face. “So he kidnapped his own kid.”

“After murdering the baby momma,” Fowler injects.

“Oh, it's definitely his kid,” a voice interrupts us.

We look up to Detective Wendi Hendrix at the door.

“How long have you been standing there?” I ask.

“Long enough.” She walks in and tosses down another folder.

“What's this?” I grab the folder.

“The blood results from Detective Melanie Johnson's homicide. I remembered that Captain Johnson asked me to have the lab run a comprehensive DNA test as a favor. I owed him one so I did it and gave him the results without looking at it. Under the new circumstances, I requested a copy.”

I'm listening and reading at the same time. It takes me a minute to understand the results. “This can't be right.”

“That's what I said,” Detective Hendrix says. “But Captain Johnson gave a sample and he's one of the primaries used for testing. Melanie was the other. He was a paternal match to two of the blood samples: Officer Johnson and Terrell Carver.”

Fowler sits up. “What?”

“But there were three different blood types discovered at Melanie Johnson's crime scene,” I say.

“Check out the mitochondrial analysis,” Hendrix presses.

I flip to another page and read. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“What? What?” Fowler asks, sounding like a broken clock.

“Mitochondrial DNA is maternally inherited. And according to this, Terrell Carver's mtdna matches the third person in the room, but not Melanie Johnson. So . . . all three people that were in that bedroom were . . .
related?
”

Hendrix nods. “
And”—
she tosses down more reports—“the DNA testing on Christopher Johnson.”

Hell. I'm too scared to even look at this one, but I snatch it up. “Oh shit.”

Tired of waiting, Fowler leans over my shoulder to read for himself.

Disgusted, I hand over the reports to do a double face palm while a migraine hammers my temples.

Fowlers struggles with the truth. “The boy's mother and father?”

“Are brother and sister”—I fill in for him—“through the father: Captain Johnson.”

“And the third sample . . .” He picks up the other reports.

“Are brothers—through the mother: Alice Carver.” I shake my head. “This is some ratchet-ass, ghetto bullshit to the tenth power.”

“You expect anything less out of Memphis?” Hendrix asks, shaking her head.

I glance over at Fowler.

“She got a point,” he says. “But hey. Who's the third marker?”

Hendrix answers, “The prints lifted from the scene were Melanie Johnson and Terrell Carver. We couldn't get a clean print on the third set.”

“Of course not,” he complains. “That would make our jobs too easy.”

I lift my head. “We need to find out how many children Alice Carver had.” I glance back over at detective Hendrix. “Pull everything we have on the Melanie Johnson case.”

“Can't.”

“What the fuck do you mean? Why not?”

“It's missing.”

“
Missing?
How does an whole case file go missing?”

“Think about it.”

Captain Johnson.
“UUUAAGH.” I drop my head onto the table. This shit is the last thing I need.

“Don't worry. We're good with puzzles. We'll figure everything out,” Fowler says, confidently.

“You're just trying to make me feel better.”

“Fuck you. I'm trying to make myself feel better.”

That wrangles a laugh out of me. Sitting back up, I glance at all the paperwork on the table. “Captain Johnson wanted to put a lid on all this shit. The blood work. His daughter murdering her police partner. Her having a son with her brother.”

“You think she knew Terrell was her brother?” Fowler asks.

“Who the fuck knows? Add this shit to the freezer chest full of frozen money in Johnson's basement, the ten pipe safes buried in the backyard, money in the walls, attics, garden—and even in the dog house. The asshole didn't even have a damn dog. And let's not forget about the crates of illegal weapons hidden in a panic room. We don't have a clue who these people are.”

“Wait until the newspapers get a load of this,” Fowler says. “We're about to go head long into one hell of a shit storm that will probably land us on national news.”

Tell me about it
. “I'll worry about CNN
after
Chief Brown reads the report I sent over this morning.”

Fowler whistles low. “You already sent over a report?”

“It's my job.”

“Damn. Every day I'm happy they promoted you instead of me.”

“Asshole.”

“Sticks and stones . . .”

Expelling a breath, I look up at Detective Hendrix again. “What is it now?”

“Police chief wants to see you,” she says gravely.

“Speak of the devil.” My gut churns.

“Fair warning: she's with the deputy chief, the lieutenant colonel—
and
the mayor.”

Fowler groans. “Fuck. That doesn't sound good.”

“I haven't had good news since my promotion.” Scrambling out of my chair, I cram paperwork back into the folders. The trip down the long hallway to the chief 's office has every head in the building turning my way.
Damn. Does everybody know something I don't?

“Chief, you want to see me?” I ask.

None of the bigwigs bother to stand or smile when I enter Chief Brown's office.

“Close the door and have a seat,” she orders and gestures to the only vacant chair left in the room.

The tension thickens by the second as I follow orders. The second my ass hits the chair, Chief Brown cuts straight to the point.

“You need to wrap up the Captain Johnson case.”

“Yes, Chief. My team and I are working day and night on this. As I've indicated in the report I sent over this morning, I believe that we've barely scratched the surface on this. Captain Johnson was clearly involved in a lot of—”

“It's a murder case,” Mayor Wharton interrupts, agitated. “His killer was Alice Carver. She's dead. Case closed. I fail to see the problem.”

After that announcement, everyone eyeballs me. I fight squirming in my chair and hold on to a degree of professionalism. “There's more here. The money—”

“You're changing the subject,” the mayor complains.

“I'm not—I'm simply saying that there's more to this investigation than the murders allegedly committed by Alice Carver.”

“Allegedly? What, are you a lawyer now?” Mayor Wharton snaps.

I'm stunned by his aggressiveness.

“Of course not, sir. We've recently uncovered evidence that Captain Johnson's
daughter
, Detective Melanie Johnson, gunned down her partner, Detective Keegan O'Malley. It's on video. Captain Johnson must've confiscated it from one of the proprietors in the area. It shows the murder as well as evidence that Detective Johnson also had a personal relationship with Terrell Carver.”

Eyes dart around the room. I can't tell whether this new information surprises, angers, or shocks them. My attention zooms back to the chief. “What am I missing here?”

Chief Brown braids her fingers together across her desk and then looks me dead in my eyes. “It doesn't change anything. We're not interested in the money, the weapons . . . O'Malley's murder—or anything else you've stumbled upon. The public wants to know that we've solved the murder of their local hero. Period.”

The mayor nods and takes over. “The last thing the city needs or wants is for us to fall down a rabbit hole to God knows where, especially if we don't know what we're going to find. The potential blowback is too high and could splatter over everybody. This is an election year, for Christ's sake. I'm getting my ass kicked every night on the evening news because people think that this city is turning into another Detroit. Forty-three killed at a biker club, fifteen killed at a nightclub—a strip club blown up like we're in Iraq or something. Kidnapping, high-speed gunfights—and now you want headlines broadcasting to the whole world that the city's most decorated police officer was running illegal weapons right under our noses—do I have that right?”

Speechless, I shift around in my chair. I can't believe what I'm hearing.

Chief Brown stands up from her desk, her authority wrapped around her like a cape. “All right,” she continues when I don't respond. “Let me bottom-line it for you: the case is closed—and anything related to the case is closed. This department is not prepared to handle any surprise skeletons falling out of the closet of a civil servant who this city has been calling a super cop for more than twenty years. Captain Johnson's career is linked with too many others. They're already getting a whiff of what you've dug up and they're not liking what they're hearing one single bit.”

“But the O'Malley case—”

“Will lead to reporters investigating Detective Melanie Johnson's background—which will lead to her father,” the mayor cuts in. “No. Too risky. We're not going to bring down perhaps half the city's political players over one rogue . . .
crime
family in the system. Whatever Captain Johnson was involved in dies with him.”

“And justice?” I ask.

“Everybody's dead,” the mayor laughs with incredulity. “God has already divvied out all the justice that was needed in this case. What do you want to do, dig up the bodies and put them on trial?” Another laugh. “I'm going to go out on a limb and say that's definitely a waste of taxpayers' money.” His laughter accelerates at his own joke.

I glance back at the chief to see whether she's serious.
She is.