Dead End Fix (2 page)

“I respect you, my queen.”

“Then let me deal with the Arab. I thank you, loyal Fyodor, for bringing this to me. Give me a day or two.”

“The Arab is not to be dismissed. He has connections. Power.”

“Not as great as mine!” Allie checked her tone. “Not as great as ours. I'll contact you in a few days with my Arabian strategy.”

Allie stood. Ratchikov did as well. He understood he was being dismissed.

“And where is your man?” he asked. “Where is Staz the Giant?”

“A whisper away. Do I need him?” Allie hardened her stare.

Ratchikov's answer was interrupted by the squealing joy of a seven-year-old running into the room.

“Aunt Allie! I love it! It sparkles! Watch me twirl!” Hadley spun around and around, giggling as her new silver dress ballooned about her. “I'm a beautiful princess here in my beautiful castle. I'll eat a beautiful dinner and have beautiful cake. Whoa!” Hadley stopped and swayed. “I'm dizzy.”

“Where's Constance?” Allie regretted the shrillness of her voice.

“Who are you?” Hadley asked Ratchikov.

The Russian switched to English for the little girl. “I am friend of your aunt's. Your dress is very nice.”

“I know. It's new and—”

“Hadley!” Constance ran into the room. “I'm so sorry, ma'am. She got away from me.”

“So I see.” Allie reached for Hadley's arm. “Go with Constance.”

“Ow! That hurts!”

“I said go with Constance. We'll have dinner in a few minutes. You can show me your dress then.” Allie glared at the nanny.

Hadley looked up at the Russian visitor as Constance led her away. “Nice to meetcha!”

Ratchikov kept his smile in place until the child disappeared. Then he turned back to Allie.

“A very pretty little girl.” He spoke his mother tongue. “What a pity this world can be a dangerous place for one so young.”

“I thought this neighborhood was cleaning itself up.” Jim DeVilla stepped out of his car. An oversized German shepherd bounded behind him. He walked over to the woman who had beaten him to the crime scene by two minutes. “It's three thirty in the afternoon. Time was, gunplay was like cocktails. Nothing before five o'clock. Nobody cares about tradition anymore.”

Micki Petty hefted her evidence kit onto her shoulder. She nodded toward the knot of people up ahead. “Only two cops?”

“What are you insinuating, Officer Petty?” Jim's voice held a tease. “I'm sure if a person was shot in broad daylight in any number of Seattle's high-rent districts, dispatch would see fit to send the same economical pair of officers in response.” He called out as they approached. “Hey! Officer Numb Nuts…Officer Dipstick. Get these good people back. They're contaminating my scene.”

Two flustered patrolmen stood over a figure lying facedown on the sidewalk, doing their best to hold at least twenty onlookers at bay.

“Everybody back.” Micki's voice sounded more authoritative than her compact size and pixie face would suggest possible. “Farther. Back. Back.” She walked in an ever-widening spiral around the body, holding her arm out like the blade of a plow, directing the citizens away. Bruiser followed behind her, employing the herding skills passed down through hundreds of generations of working dogs, using his powerful body to guide the people toward a more acceptable location. When Micki had the crowd stabilized at an acceptable distance, she joined Jim and the pair of patrol officers.

“What do we know?” Jim asked.

“Called in about twenty minutes ago.” The uniformed officer's red hair curled up the sides of his cap. “Two women saw it go down. Said the vic was walking down the sidewalk. A car races past and starts shooting. Next thing they know some guy pops up. Bends over the body. Does who knows what. Few other folks said they heard the shots but didn't see it happen.”

“We have the two witnesses?” Micki asked.

The second officer, a tall man with a mustache so thin it looked penciled on, nodded toward his patrol car. “I got 'em both in there. They're none too happy about sitting in the back of a squad car, but I figured you'd want to talk to them.”

Micki shook her head in frustration. “Ever occur to you to separate them? You got two cruisers. Plenty of room.”

Officer Red Hair grimaced and jogged off toward the car holding the women. But it was too late. The witnesses had already had twenty minutes together to get their story straight.

“What did they tell you about the shooter?” Jim asked Officer Mustache.

“Like Roscoe told you. Victim was walking. By himself, they say. Shots fired. Guy appears from nowhere. Screaming ensues. The guy takes off running.”

“Ah!” Jim DeVilla tapped the side of his head. “Guy took off running. That's news. What direction?”

Officer Mustache pointed east. “I called it in.”

“Along with a description?” Micki asked.

“Black guy. The ladies couldn't agree on the height. One said he looked to be about her size. I put her around five six. The other one swore he was over six feet tall. One lady said he was a skinny guy who looked like he might have a limp. The other one said he was built like Marshawn Lynch and ran like a track star.”

“So we know the guy was black,” Jim said.

Officer Mustache shrugged. “One of the ladies said he could have been Puerto Rican.”

“The witnesses get a make on the vehicle?” Micki asked. “Any hope for a digit or two from the license plate?”

“These are girls,” Mustache reminded them. “They don't know from cars. One swore it was a black SUV. The other swore it was a burgundy sedan. All the screaming and all. They didn't get nothing from the plate.”

“Dare I dream they saw who was driving? Maybe who was shooting? One person? Two? More?” Jim asked.

“They both said it happened too fast. One said maybe she saw a gloved hand.”

“So,” Micki said, “we have no idea if it was a lone gunman or a group. No idea if the shooter was male, female, white, black, brown?”

“Like I said, the ladies said it happened real fast.”

Micki and Jim shared a tired glance. Jim looked down at the corpse.

“What d'ya say, Mick? Six feet tall? Maybe an inch more?”

Micki nodded. “Thin. All arms and legs.” She turned toward the patrolman. “No one's moved the body?” She pulled a camera from her bag and began photographing the area.

“No, ma'am. He was like this when we rolled on scene.”

Jim looked toward the growing group of citizens. “How many of them were here when you pulled up?”

Officer Mustache answered with confidence. “I got here first. Roscoe was right behind me. There were the two witnesses and maybe one or two other folks. Nobody got near the body that I could tell.”

“And nobody knows who this is?”

“Kind of hard to ID the guy, what with him being facedown and all.”

“What about his clothes? Guy's got a jacket with one sleeve missing. Anybody have anything to say about that particular fashion statement? Maybe can put a name to it?
Oh, that's One-Sleeve Joe. Lives two blocks over.
Anything like that?”

A crimson flush washed over Mustache's face. “There's just the two of us,” he insisted. “Roscoe and me figured better to contain the scene. Leave the interrogation of witnesses to you hotshot detectives.”

Jim turned to Micki. “You get the shots you need? Okay to turn him now?”

Micki nodded. The two of them knelt and rolled the body over.

“He's a kid!” Micki exclaimed. “Look at his face. He's just a boy. A tall one, that's for sure. But a kid.”

Jim's stomach tightened in that way it did whenever he saw a dead child. After nearly three decades investigating homicides, he'd grown accustomed to seeing the cruelty one adult was capable of inflicting on another. But he never got used to seeing the tortures someone was able to wreak on a child. He studied the dead boy's face. Hot chocolate skin as smooth as satin. Long, soft eyelashes curled at the edges of closed lids. The kid wore an old Seattle SuperSonics T-shirt under his one-sleeved denim jacket.

Jim's eyes scanned the boy's body. Two entrance wounds were visible. Streaks of blood staining the front of his shirt and jacket suggested the first bullet had entered the boy's neck, nearly tearing out his throat. The second shot, the one in the middle of the kid's chest, would have finished him off. Jim reached for the boy's right hand. He saw no signs of powder burns. There had been no armed confrontation. This boy had been gunned down.

“Too young to drive,” Micki said. “He was walking. I'm betting he's from this neighborhood.”

Jim heard the sorrow in her voice. He looked up to where Officer Mustache and Officer Red Hair, just returned from separating the witnesses, stood.

“I want you two over by the crowd. One stays and keeps them back. Take Bruiser. He's an ace with mob control. The other brings groups over here. Five at a time. Go!”

Jim watched Micki lay a hand on the boy's leg. She stroked his shin like she was comforting him…letting him know everything was going to be just fine. Jim noted the boy wore nylon warm-up pants and bright orange Nikes the size of canoes.

You're a hoopster, aren't you, kid?

Officer Red Hair brought the first group of onlookers to them.

“Any of you recognize this boy?” Jim asked.

Three women and two men shook their heads. One woman patted her hand against her chest, clucking her tongue and muttering something about how terrible it all was. Jim asked Red Hair to bring over the next group. He waited until four women and a very old man approached. He didn't have time to ask them anything. Three of the women shrieked in unison as soon as they saw the dead boy's face.

“Lord Jesus!” a woman in hospital scrubs yelled out. “It's Banjo!”

“That's Banjo!” another woman, middle-aged, at least a hundred pounds overweight, and wearing bright pink shorts despite the late October chill, cried out at the same time. “Little Banjo Jackson! Our baby Banjo is
dead
!”

A third woman said nothing at all. She dropped to her knees, wailing.

Ninety minutes later Jim, Micki, and Bruiser headed back to their cars. Banjo's body was on its way to the coroner's office. Micki's team had collected shell casings, assorted gum wrappers, cigarette butts, and a broken beer bottle littered about the scene. Two news vans had descended, demanding interviews, which Micki and Jim declined. They were each aware of television cameras following every step they took back to their vehicles. Jim opened the door to let Bruiser hop in and kept his back to the media as he spoke.

“You okay?”

Micki held a hand to the side of her mouth, thwarting any lip reader who might use a zoom lens to capture police comment. “It's tough, you know? Kids.”

Jim nodded. “Let's get back to the station. Get this party started.”

“Who's calling Mort?”

Jim hesitated. “Let's you and I take this one, Mick. Mort's got his hands full at home.”

Three men escorted him through the main floor of the house. He knew each of them. At first just by reputation. But for the past two months they'd been letting him hang around their meetings. Sometimes they shared a beer or two with him after they finished a job. He listened to their stories. He kept his eyes averted when the girls came in to do what the girls came in to do. One night he even walked into an alley, knowing full damn well they'd be waiting to beat him until he was bloody and unable to speak; all to prove his worthiness to be one of them. The three men walking with him now, and the dozens more like them, had been gods to him.

Tonight they'd be brothers.

All he needed was for them to believe his story.

The four of them climbed the stairs. This would be the first time he was allowed on the second floor of the house, as well as his first face-to-face with the man who gave the orders.

The small group paused in front of a closed double door.

“You ready?” J-Fox asked him.

He nodded.

“This your last chance, boy.” Big Cheeks's rumbling voice came from behind him. “You do this, it's till death.”

He nodded again. For a fast second he thought he saw a tiny tremble in J-Fox's lip. Did they know? Was he walking into a setup?

“Let's do this,” he said.

Mouse reached from behind him and opened the door. He reminded himself to ask how someone as big as an elephant ever got the name Mouse. He wouldn't have dared ask that before. But tonight they'd be equals. Family. No secrets.

Except, of course, for the one about who had really killed that Pico.
That
secret went with him to the grave.

He walked in and his three escorts peeled away to join the dozen other men already in the dimly lit room. The air was heavy with a marijuana haze. The pounding beat of a bass guitar hit him in the chest as it boomed from speakers lining the opposite wall. He'd been told what to expect and knew his part. He licked the sweat off his upper lip, hoped no one saw his shaking hands, and stepped over to stand in front of the man holding court from a black leather chair. It was time to meet D'Loco. He looked the boss man square in the eye, holding his stare without blinking until D'Loco nodded once.

Then he got down on his knees and bowed his head. The blaring music went silent.

“You want this?” the man in the chair asked.

“I do.”

“You ready for this?”

“I am.”

“You'd kill for this?”

He felt his bowels rumble. This was the moment. It wasn't a gamble because he had nothing to lose. He figured the worst thing that could happen if they knew he hadn't done the kill was to toss him out to walk the streets till dawn, when he could find some tree to sleep under. Maybe rough him up a bit, but he'd survived worse. But there was a chance, maybe just a small one, that by the end of the night he'd have all he ever wanted.

“I have.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his trophy. With his head still bowed, he handed it to the man he prayed would become his father from this moment forward.

D'Loco inspected the offering, turning it first this way, then that. The boy who bowed in front of him had no doubt the article was genuine. He had cut it off himself.

Finally the man in the chair stood. He held the jacket sleeve offered as evidence of the kill high above his head, showing the stitched-on patch declaring membership in the Pico Underground to the rest of the men in the room.

“Looks real deal to me,” D'Loco announced. “California done lost another dreamer.”

Approving grunts, mingled with “hell yeahs” and “damn straights,” filled the room.

“Get on up here, boy,” D'Loco commanded. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I'm Kashawn Meadows.” D'Loco knew damn straight who he was. Kashawn had taken the Pico badge straight to Mouse, informing him of his kill. Mouse would have gotten it to D'Loco, letting the boss know who it was who brought down the Pico. But this was all part of the initiation script and Kashawn played along. “Sixth Street was my home. I'm looking for another.”

“Well, boy, you found it. Right here at 97.” D'Loco reached out his hand to Kashawn and pulled him into a hearty embrace. He held him tight as he called out to the others. “New brother, men! Right here. Birthed on the streets. Raised on the streets. Born to die on those same damned streets.”

D'Loco released Kashawn and pushed him into the crowd. There were no beatings this time. More than a dozen men took their time with him. Slapping him on the shoulder, playfully grabbing his face, rubbing the top of his head like he was some kind of good-luck mojo. Each brother offered a welcome. Each swore to have his back. He would have been happy to have it go on forever, but the brothers stepped aside when D'Loco took command once again.

“C'mere, boy.”

Kashawn stood again in front of his leader.

D'Loco took a braided gold chain from the table beside his chair. He held it out to Kashawn.

“You wear this, boy. Any man try to take it from you dies where he stand. You hear me?”

Kashawn swallowed the pride choking his words. “I do.”

“Any man do take it, take it from your dead body. You hear that?”

“I do.”

“Gimme your hand,” D'Loco commanded.

Kashawn opened his right hand and held it out in front of him. D'Loco placed a heavy gray bead the size of a pencil eraser in it.

“That there's lead,” D'Loco said. “Like the bullet you put in that Pico. You put that on your chain and wear it proud. Anytime you take out a threat to this family I'ma give you another bead. You wear those with pride, too.”

Kashawn closed his fist around the chain and bead. He brought them to his mouth and kissed them, fighting back tears.

“Go on, boy,” D'Loco laughed. “That's for wearin', not fuckin'.”

Kashawn threaded the bead onto the chain, fastened the clasp, and pulled it over his head. He smiled, nodding his respect to the chain D'Loco wore around his own neck. The one strung with at least twenty beads.

D'Loco raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips, and looked down at Kashawn. “Why you here, boy? And don't give me no boog about family. You got us now. There gotta be more. Why you here?”

No way Kashawn could tell him what was true. He really
was
there for the family. All he wanted was these brothers, this home, this protection and loyalty. After seventeen years of bouncing from one house to the next, some charity, most state run, he had himself a place. He didn't want another thing in all the world.

But that truth he couldn't say. It would weaken him in the eyes of his brothers. So he put on his half smile. The one that always got the social worker to blame his latest visit on his underprivileged circumstance. Whether he was in that white lady's office to explain shoplifting, skipping school, or cussing out the teacher, Kashawn could pull out that little grin and she'd be reaching for a cookie, telling him to try to do better.
Make better decisions,
she'd tell him.

“It's all about the Benjamins, man.” Kashawn let the smile go wider. “It's all about gettin' paid.”

D'Loco stared at him long enough for Kashawn to fear he offended his god. But then D'Loco laughed. Loud and long.

“Brother got it right. He already got the family. Now he want the cheese.”

The other men joined in the laughter, adding their agreement that beyond their bond, it was all about the money.

“Listen here.” D'Loco quieted the room in an instant. “Our brother need a new name to mark his joinin'. He done been baptized in blood. Time for a…a…what those church folks call it? A christening! Tha's it. Let's
christen
this sumbitch.” He put his hand to his chin and thought. “I got it. All about the Bens, is it? Okay, Mr. Money. Boys, meet your newest blood. We gonna call him Green K.”

Kashawn heard the others bouncing his name among them, murmuring their approval. He looked up at D'Loco, feeling a warm heaviness wrap around him. D'Loco held his gaze with approving eyes.

Green K he was.

And should the time ever come, he would die for the man who had named him.