Devilish Details (10 page)

Jazz smiled as she drove and took a drag
from her cigarette. Her favorite Wyclef Jean album blasted from the
speakers. Guilt is a wonderful thing. Her big sister had a powerful
protective streak and family loyalty off the scale. W Jazz had
pushed both of those buttons at once. Now they were a team. Finding
that sweet cash would be no biggie.

“Yeah baby,” Jazz sang out, bobbing her head
to the beat. “Damn, Willa is right. I need to quit. I can’t have my
baby smelling like stale smoke.”

She tossed the half-smoked cigarette from
the rolled down window. The traffic light turned red at the corner
of East Boulevard and Terrace Street. A couple of urban
entrepreneurs, a fancy name for street hustlers, waved to her. Drae
and a dude known only as Ja’Blow grinned at her, but didn’t slow
their roll. No doubt they had places to go and people to
rip-off.

“Hey, y’all on the way to grandma’s for
cookies?” Jazz shouted as at them.

Ja’Blow tugged on his sagging jeans. “Yah, I
got some cookies for you fine woman.”

“That’s what’s up,” Drae added with a grin.
“Comin’ to get me a private dance, girl.”

“Yeah, yeah. Y’all got talk, but if your
money ain’t right, won’t be no action tonight,” Jazz
wisecracked.

She laughed out loud when the men pretended
they’d been shot, staggering along the sidewalk. Jazz hooted at
them and honked her horn. A group of young men hanging on another
corner joined in with catcalls.

Her playful mood almost made her miss the
signs. Even so, her reflexes kicked in too late. Jazz saw another
black SUV, this one a Land Rover, pull up behind her. She’d noticed
it about six blocks back because she wanted one. Too pricey for
her, but not for a successful gangster. Hoping she was being
paranoid for nothing, Jazz cut the steering wheel sharply and
screeched off before the light changed. She barreled down narrow
Alice Street. The Land Rover followed, lights flashing in her
rearview mirror.

“Damn, damn.”

Jazz didn’t hang much in south Baton Rouge,
so she guessed at the next move. She shot around a corner. The
Explorer leaned like it would rollover and her heart jumped. The
big tires held to the pavement. Before she could breathe out her
relief, a metal road barrier rushed at her and she slammed on the
breaks. Boxed in.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Jazz fumbled with the sliding top of the
console at her elbow. The .380 Smith and Wesson played tag. Her
fingers scraped against more junk than she should have had in there
with it. By the time she pulled it out the Land Rover had pulled up
on her bumper. One dark figure crouched behind the open passenger
door.

“You messed up my woman, bitch. I don’t much
care, but it’s the principle. Know what I’m sayin’?” The familiar
voice called.

“Cleavon? Ain’t you got enough trouble
without this? You need to be keeping a low profile, dude,” Jazz
shouted back. In the small house to her left an elderly woman sat
on her screened in porch, her profile outlined by the lit window
behind her.

“Y’all better stop all that cussin’ and mess
out here,” the lady called out.

“Woman, get in here and shut the damn door,”
a man, most likely her husband, called out.

“Ma’am, go inside before bullets start
flyin’,” Jazz said in a harsh whisper, not sure the woman would
hear.

“They better not shoot at you,” the woman
came back in a feisty tone.

“I’m gone start shooting at them,” Jazz
replied.

“Lawd have mercy. Take care of business,
baby.” The woman scrambled from her chair and a door slammed shut a
second later. The light in the window went out.

“Nobody better call the fuckin’ police,” a
deep voice shouted to the houses on the small dead end street.

“Just us now, girl. You ready to talk?”
Cleavon called.

“Don’t be stupid, the police will show up. I
hit 911 fool. I know you’ve heard of hands-free calling.”

Cleavon barked a laugh. “You ain’t called
cuz you got your own problems. Besides, I’m off the hook. The
police got nuthin’ on me.”

“The police need to do their damn jobs
better,” Jazz muttered. Sweat stung her eyes as she blinked hard.
“You know they got forensics these days, so don’t get too
comfortable. Now go on ‘bout your business, and I’ll go on ‘bout
mine.”

“You gonna help your Filipe’s boys to take
me out. I can’t sit around waiting for trouble to come to me,”
Cleavon replied. The driver’s side door and a rear door of the Land
Rover swung open at the same time. “Now join me for a little chat.
I got a bar in here, some smooth scotch and good sounds on the
system.”

“Yeah, sure. Give me a minute to fix my
make-up,” Jazz yelled.

In a quick motion she stuck the .380 out of
the car window, aimed, and fired straight ahead at the dead end.
Gun still in her right hand, Jazz jammed into reverse gear and hit
the accelerator. Her rear bumper crashed into the front grill of
the Land Rover even as it screeched in reverse seconds later.
Shouts came from both sides of the Land Rover. A scream of pain
echoed in the night air as one open door of the big SUV thudded
against a thug’s tender parts. Jazz braked but fired a second shot
as more incentive for them to get out of her way. The tat-tat of
gunfire blasted behind her. Glass pelted her as the back window of
her Explorer shattered.

“Hell, I’m gonna die on a dead end street
for something I haven’t even done yet.”

Jazz fired again out of frustration. Then
trees, shotgun houses, and her Explorer lit up with blue flashes.
Another crash sounded as the Land Rover tried to ram past a police
cruiser. When that didn’t work everybody bailed out of it. The
sounds of feet hitting pavement came as cops went after Cleavon and
his buddies. Bright white spotlights turned dark into artificial
daytime.

“Show your hands,” a female cop boomed from
a loudspeaker. When Jazz complied, the woman continued. “Now exit
the vehicle. Keep your hands visible, get on your knees and then
lie on your stomach with your arms out. Do it now.”

Jazz knew when to hit the mute button on her
smart-ass mouth—this being one such situation. Jittery cops circled
all around the area chasing thugs. Not the time to pop off. Without
saying a word, Jazz followed instructions. Sweat made gravel and
dirt stick to her face, yet she said nothing. The hard pavement
smelled sour. Jazz still held her tongue.

“You got anything sharp on you that might
stick me like needles or razors, a knife?” the female cop
asked.

“Nothing like that,” Jazz replied.

A pair of hands roughly pulled down her body
to make sure. “Arms behind your back, ma’am,” a male cop said.

Now they decided to be polite? Jazz gasped
when hands jerked her wrists together and plastic cuffs snapped on.
Seconds later she was yanked upright by a cop on either side
lifting her by the armpits. Jazz grunted, but didn’t complain.
First leaning against it, and then seated in the back seat of a
police cruiser, she answered questions for an hour. People who
lived in the houses stood on their front steps or porches watching.
After a while, only a couple stayed. No doubt observing police
action had lost its novelty in that part of Baton Rouge.

“This your gun, Ms. Vaughn?” The female cop
held up the .380.

“Yeah, and I obviously need it in this crime
infested city. I happen to have a permit for it, too. You’ll find
it in the console.” Jazz struggled to keep heat out of her tone.
She had a serious problem with authority, thanks to her mother. No
time to act out her mama issues though.

“Humph.” The officer walked off as she spoke
to another officer.

Jazz sighed and rested her forehead on the
steel mesh cage designed to protect officers in the front seat. The
heat, hard vinyl seat, and lack of head room combined to make Jazz
feel miserable. At this rate, she would be begging for them to take
her in for booking. After too long a time, the female cop returned.
Without speaking, she checked to make sure Jazz had no arms or legs
sticking out. Then she slammed the door shut. Moments later, they
were on their way.

At the police station, Jazz got her first
full on look at Cleavon. Jazz sat on a long bench waiting to be
interviewed. A brawny male officer with blonde hair pulled Cleavon
along. Cleavon kept his head down. He shot a sideways glare at Jazz
for a second before the officer not so gently urged him not to
dawdle. Jazz sighed when they disappeared around a corner. A tall
shadow blocked out the florescent lighting.

“Why doesn’t seeing you here surprise me?” A
deep voice rumbled.

Detective Armand Miller, once Addison’s
partner and now the head of the Homicide Division, looked down at
her. He wore the same disapproving expression Jazz had seen from
dozens of authority figures in her short twenty-seven years. And he
got the same reaction.

“I don’t know. Cause maybe you’re a damn
fortune teller or something? I’m a victim, and by the way, I know
my rights. If they ain’t gonna charge me...” Jazz was just getting
warmed up when Miller raised a hand the size of Texas.

“Settle down and come with me. Officer
Thomas, do the honors.” Miller nodded to the female uniformed
officer who’d been at the scene.

“Yes, sir.” Officer Thomas had a blank
expression as she went about following his orders. Minutes later,
the thick plastic had been cut off.

“This way,” Miller said before Jazz could
comment again.

The female officer walked closely beside
Jazz but didn’t touch her. They walked past desks covered by
papers. Officers moved around with purpose. No drinking coffee and
eating donuts in this place, no time. Baton Rouge had not only
grown economically, but the crime had kept pace with more PR worthy
milestones. The murder rate was one such nasty flow chart that kept
going up. Jazz had no interest in contributing to those numbers, at
least not as a victim. Kyeisha was another thing. She’d no doubt
sent her crazy lover to take a bite out of Jazz. She’d have to
pay.

Jazz let out a hiss when they entered an
interview room. “ Great, I get shot at and now I’m being
harassed.”

“Don’t start before you find out what’s
goin’ down,” Miller rumbled. He nodded and the officer left.

“What’s up?” Jazz rubbed the indentations on
her wrists caused by the thick, hard plastic cuffs.

“You tell me.” Miller leaned back against
the chair as though he had all kinds of time and patience.

Though she knew the game, Jazz was still
unnerved by his impassive stare. She heaved a sigh. “Okay, you want
the truth?”

“I come to work every day hoping to hear the
truth, Ms. Vaughn,” Miller replied evenly.

“Bet you get disappointed a lot around this
place.”

“So lighten my load and give me hope in
humanity again. Tell me
all
of the truth. Not just the parts
you want to tell,” Miller added when Jazz opened her mouth.

Jazz studied him. Miller sat calmly allowing
Jazz to size him up. “Why are you talking to me? Okay, okay.” She
held up a hand before he answered. “You’re asking the questions,
I’m supplying the answers. I got it.”

“I’m interested in why a murder suspect was
chasing you down like you’re a witness that could get him
convicted,” Miller said, dropping a bomb with precision.

“I don’t know anything about Brandon’s
murder. And don’t pretend to be surprised. You’ve talked to Don,
Detective Addison,” Jazz added when Miller’s black coffee eyes
widened. “You already know I’m acquainted with the players in this
tragic story of love gone bad.”

“Come again?” Miller blinked at her and sat
up straight.

“Well I heard Kyeisha was doing Brandon
behind Cleavon’s back, and I mean these dudes ain’t romantic or
anything, but they do take having their pride stepped on pretty
seriously.” Jazz tossed in this nugget to get his attention back on
Cleavon and away from Don. She didn’t want to mess up the man’s
career.

“A love triangle?” Miller’s skepticism came
through loud and clear.

“Kyeisha ain’t big on loyalty. If a new guy
throws a little money around, that’s all it takes. She’s also not
too smart. Everybody knows Brandon had a big mouth and liked to
brag. I’m sure he had plans to move on Cleavon’s drug business
along with taking his woman.”

Miller nodded solemnly and rubbed his strong
jaw. He gazed out through the glass windows of the interview room
at the bustle of the squad room. “Hmm. Could be. But why would
Cleavon come after you? Unless you were at the house that night and
managed to get out before the trouble started.”

“No way. I’ve got sense enough not to hang
out in stank drug shacks with a bunch of gun toting idiots.
Besides, ain’t none of that crew my runnin’ buddies. You already
know that, too.” Jazz relaxed against the back of the chair. Miller
knew she wasn’t involved in Brandon’s murder. So she’d wait for him
to get to the point.

“The truth about why he came after you,”
Miller said mildly. He leaned back in his chair.

“Damn it.” Jazz hated being caged up, and
any police station was her second least favorite place in the
world. The first would always be foster care. “Kyeisha came to me
with some wild ass story about Cleavon and Brandon fighting to
become king of the thugs. They think I know about Filipe’s
connections to get serious drug shipments.”

“Do you?” Miller asked as he tapped a large
forefinger on the table top.

“Do I look like I’ve totally lost my damn
mind?” Jazz shot back without thinking. She took in a breath and
exhaled. “Sorry. Listen, I’m a former exotic dancer turned
legitimate
business woman. Even on my worse day, I never got
involved in Filipe’s business. Never.”

“You know more about Filipe’s enterprise
than you’re willing to admit, even to my former partner,” Miller
shot back. “We both know that’s why you’ve got characters like
Cleavon coming at you. He won’t be the last either. If you’re
straight with me, maybe I can help.”