Expired (3 page)
3
A
fter leaving the morgue on First Avenue, Tracie had the driver drop her off at 135
th
Street and Lenox Avenue. She stood in front of Harlem Hospital, under the canopy with Dre and Michael. She stared up at the roof of the Lenox Terrace apartments, from which her son had fallen.
fter leaving the morgue on First Avenue, Tracie had the driver drop her off at 135
th
Street and Lenox Avenue. She stood in front of Harlem Hospital, under the canopy with Dre and Michael. She stared up at the roof of the Lenox Terrace apartments, from which her son had fallen.
Her mind refused to accept any other explanation. This was just a tragic accident. Not even a murderer could commit such a horrific, brutal crime.
She had been after Randi since he was a small boy about climbing rooftops. He loved to sit up there, staring down on the world. A tragic accident was what it was. That was all.
Tracie squinted in the fading sunlight. She pulled her shades down from her hair to cover her eyes. Something across the street drew her attention. Slowly the shades came down to the bridge of her nose. She stared over the top of them.
Rashod Burlingame, Tracie's nineteen year old son, her eldest, was racing across the street. Black twists sprouted all over his head, looking like black spaghetti erupting from his scalp. He weaved his way across Malcolm X Boulevard toward Tracie.
Tracie's skin crawled a bit at the sight of him. Lord help her. The mere sight of him had a way of churning her insides.
In Tracie's opinion, Rashod had one of the nastiest dispositions this side of the river. He was an extremely weak and emotionally unstable young man.
Yet he possessed a sensitivity that most people never got to see. He was also a veteran crack addict. He loved crack more than life, and woe to anyone who got between him and one of his coveted vials.
Motorists were blaring their horns, weaving around Rashod and yelling out of their car windows at him as he decided to slow his pace to a leisurely crawl while he crossed the street on a green light.
One guy yelled out of his window, “Yo, man? Can't you see? The light is green. You color-blind? Get a life.”
Rashod ignored him. He swiped at his runny nose with the back of his hand. His pants slipped a little too low. He pulled them back up while taking another swipe at his nose.
Finally, he reached the safety of the spot in front of Tracie, on the sidewalk under the canopy. His face glistened with sweat as he focused on her and blatantly disregarded Dre and Michael.
“Mommy dearest,” he said to Tracie, the sneer obvious in his tone.
Tracie swallowed hard. “What are you doing here, Rashod?”
“I want to pay props and respect to my dead baby brother. Harlem's grapevine don't know no end, baby.”
“Don't call me âbaby,' ” Tracie said in disgust. “The only respect you pay is to that pipe you be hitting.”
Rashod laughed. He leaned in closer to Tracie. “Wrong. I also pay my respects to the Destroyer.” He swept a low bow in front of Tracie's feet, paying mock allegiance to her. He glared once at Michael, then at Dre.
Rashod reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out his blunt. He put it to his mouth, searched for his lighter, lit it, and inhaled, blowing smoke at Tracie before turning on his heels and sauntering down the street in the direction of Sylvia's Restaurant.
Dre reached out a hand to snatch him by the collar for punking and disrespecting his mother. But Tracie put a restraining hand on Dre's chest. She pulled her sunglasses over her eyes.
She watched the back of Rashod as he glided down crowded Malcolm X Boulevard. Pain swelled in her chest as she watched the first child she had borne disappear into the crowded street. His hatred of her washed her onto the shores of failed motherhood and desolation.
Here she stood on a street named after a man who thought they should rise. Instead the street was full of boys, girls, men, and women who were sinking. It was as if some unseen force were swallowing their very souls whole. Rashod, her very own child, was only one of them.
Tracie shook her head at the thought. And that was only one of Harlem's disparities. A cruel twist of fate was laughing at them for daring to dream, on streets that possessed the whispering souls of a Harlem Renaissance long past. They were living in shadows. Rashod was her shadow.
The truth was, Randi wasn't the only child she had lost. In reality, she had lost Rashod a long time ago, in both body and spirit. He was as dead to her as Randi. Tracie let out a silent, wordless sigh.
Crack cocaine, the spiritless demon, had stolen him from her. The only difference was that she would not have to commit his body to the ground. No, he was a live ache that she would have to live with.
He was one of the living dead.
As Rashod glided through the streets that were like a second skin to him, his mother wasn't the only person who watched him.
The second pair of eyes not only watched, they absorbed him. Then they turned inward, swallowing the ghost of Rashod Burlingame whole.
After all, he was only one of Tracie Burlingame's black patches. Yes, she was a patchwork quilt, all right. She was full of black patches and hollowed-out places.
4
G
raced. That's what those fools were. Graced. That would soon come to a crashing end.
raced. That's what those fools were. Graced. That would soon come to a crashing end.
Screech.
Those were the brakes, putting an end to things.
The people in Harlem were graced because he had not yet struck the streets of Harlem. But now he would, because he had his orders. Spirit and flesh, flesh and spiritâfor him it was a game of “romp and let's play.” In reality, it was not something to be played with.
He roamed the dark room. There was no need for light. He hated light and all things that were bright. He blew his nose, wadded up the tissue, and threw it in the growing pile, which was about three feet high in the room.
He coughed up phlegm, spitting that into the wad of tissues also. He rubbed his bald head, which looked like a shiny, brown globe. Then he stretched his tall frame.
Dirt caked the walls. The garbage in the room overflowed. He was pleased with himself for removing all the fresh meat from the refrigerator and setting it on the desk and tables in the room.
He watched as maggots and roaches fought for position on the uncovered meat. Then he laughed.
He was restless. He needed new spirit anyway. He was glad he was being dispatched to fresh territory. This mission was the most important of all. Harlem was considered the Black Mecca, the promised land. That made it important history-making grounds.
He'd made some trial runs. There were some territorial-rights issues, but he had his orders from the only power that mattered.
The one whose claim was already staked in Harlem was not moving fast enough. He was following a personal agenda. This was not personal; it was business.
The business of striking, hitting, destroying that which must be destroyed, was serious. There was a lot at stake. He must collect the gifts. It was time.
The primary show should have been on the road, and so far all he'd done was drop one boy from the roof. What the hell was he thinking?
He knew there was a much grander plan.
No, there was no more time. He needed to start collecting the spiritsânow. He had received his orders.
He stuck the long shiny blade down into the sheath sewn to the inside of his pants. His breathing was shallow, just as it always was when it was time.
His arrival in Harlem would kick things into high gear. First he would observe his comrade in action. Then he would stalk him. The next time his comrade struck, he'd be there; he wouldn't miss out. Spirit and flesh were sometimes uneasy companions.
He knew his invasion would not be welcomed at this time, because his comrade hadn't finished his own personal agenda. That was too bad. Time was of the essence. His comrade dabbled in flesh, but
he
excelled in spirit.
he
excelled in spirit.
He looked at his biceps before pulling on his jacket. There they were: the faces of the ones already collected poked out all along his biceps and forearms. Their eyes stared at him. Some of them blinked at him.
Looking at them reminded him of faces with pronounced facial features poking out through a balloon, sort of as if a mask were being stretched over themâonly it was his skin that provided the covering.
The faces writhed in the agony he had caused. Desolation, fear, and uncertainty peeked out at him. Sometimes they cried, particularly the very young. It was useless; they weren't going anywhere.
There was even one who always sneezed.
It didn't matter. It was a trap not of the usual making. They were contained in a spiritual housing, one from which they would never be released.
He thought about the death of Randi Burlingame and the missed opportunity to add him to his spiritual residence. This angered him because Randi Burlingame had been of high esteem. He could not miss again. He was the collector.
Quickly he grabbed his jacket, putting it on so he wouldn't have to look at them. He didn't want to look at them anymore just now. At times some of them spoke.
Sometimes they cried out in unison, wanting to be free. But only on a specific occasion, if someone had the sight to see. That reminded him: he had a visit to make. Sometimes those with the sight to see saw too much.
Today the residing spirits held their tongues. Soon he would add more to them.
And as soon as he made his visit, she would know his name.
5
T
hat night Lonzo and Monica sat at their desks in the Harlem precinct station. Monica leaned back in her chair with her feet up on the desk. Lonzo sat running his hands through his long dreadlocks.
hat night Lonzo and Monica sat at their desks in the Harlem precinct station. Monica leaned back in her chair with her feet up on the desk. Lonzo sat running his hands through his long dreadlocks.
“All right,” Monica said. “Let's go over everything we have.”
“We did.”
“Then let's do it again.”
Monica was exasperated with Lonzo's attitude. He was getting on her last nerve. He glared at her, then shot up out of his seat, pacing the floor.
“We have a sixteen-year-old dead boy. And we're clueless as to why he's dead, because we have no motive.”
Lonzo twirled in a circle and then threw his arms wide open in stage-show fashion. “Oh, and we have our star witness Sinead Watson, who, between wheezes, doesn't know a thing outside of the body hitting the ground in front of her.” He took a bow.
“We ought to be able to use that, don't you think?” he said rather nastily.
Monica didn't answer the question.
Instead she said, “And we know for a fact that Randi has an ice princess for a mother.” That took the air out of his sails.
He gave her a long, puzzled look. “Get a grip, Monie. The lady was grieving. Anyway that has nothing to do with this.”
Monica swung her feet from the desk. “It has everything to do with this.”
“Chill, okay? You're losing your logic.”
She rolled her eyes. “I'm not losing a thing, but you might be.” Her eyes arrogantly traveled the length of his body. Lonzo felt the heat rise in him.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means this is a homicide investigation, and everybody is a suspect.” Monica tugged on her earlobe. She lifted an eyebrow in Lonzo's direction.
“We owe some respect to his mother,” Lonzo said.
“I owe my respect to the people of the City of New York.”
Monica walked up close to Lonzo. The physical attraction bristled in the air between them. A single electric, kinetic wave embraced them.
She paused before continuing. “And I owe my respect to the dead. In this case that would be to Randi Burlingame. Because I, for one, do not believe that he decided to remove his Karl Kani boots before he accidentally fell off the roof. Do you?”
Lonzo took a step back. He squared his shoulders. “Naw.”
“And he certainly didn't decide to give blood before tossing himself over the roof.” Monica searched Lonzo's eyes before adding, “I ain't buying accidental. Tracie Burlingame can afford to be in denial; we can't.”
“Okay, look, I know where you're coming from. Let's call it for the night. We'll see what it looks like in the morning.”
“Cool. That works for me.” Monica retrieved her jacket from the back of the chair and left the room.
Both of them spent a restless night. They arrived at the precinct early the next morning. The first order of business was a meeting with Alexandra Kennedy, head of Harlem's homicide division.
Alexandra was tough. She was in every aspect of the word a ballbuster. Her manner was one of rigid coldness. She reigned supreme in the Harlem precinct.
She had tight blond ringlet curls plastered to her head, and bright blue eyes the color of a summer sky. She strode into their office, dropping a bag on the floor without a hint of a greeting.
She tossed a file on the desk. Then she stared belligerently at the two tired, weary detectives who looked as though they hadn't slept a wink.
“What's going on here?” Alexandra asked without preamble.
Monica stared at her unemotionally. Lonzo smiled engagingly.
“Murder,” Lonzo said.
Alexandra took a pencil from her pocket. She chewed on the eraser. “Brilliant, Lonzo. Is that how you got to be in the top five of your class in the police academy? Just murder?”
A visible shade closed over Lonzo's eyes at Alexandra's tone. He sat down on the edge of the desk without answering her.
Alexandra pulled her gaze away from his. She moved over to the desk. Quickly she flipped through the file. She decided to direct her attention to Monica.
Sarcastically she said, “Well, now, Monie. Just murder?”
Monica flinched. She was stung by Alexandra's antagonism. She didn't appreciate hearing her nickname on Alexandra's tongue, either. Alexandra was a witch on wheels, and Monica was ever so close to hating her.
She shrugged nonchalantly. She wasn't in the mood to play Alexandra's games. She bit her tongue to keep from telling her so straight-out. Instead she said, “One eighty-seven. Why don't you tell us . . .”
Alexandra was irritated. She waved her silent. “This isn't the police academy. It's the real world. It's my world, and this case has the tracings of a serial killer on the loose. I don't like it.”
Lonzo rose from his seat on the desk. “Now, wait a minute, Alexandra. There's only been one murder. You're chasing ghosts and creating chalk outlines where there are none.”
Alexandra stepped up to Lonzo. She poked her finger in his chest. “That's one too many out of context. And I want to make sure the chalk manufacturers don't get too rich here.”
“Out of context?” Monica echoed. “And exactly what does that mean?”
“Let me ask you a question. How many little black boys in Harlem have been hurled from a rooftop without their shoes on lately?”
She waved them silent before they could speak.
Chewing rapidly on the eraser, she said, “Particularly ones that live on Riverside Drive?”
Alexandra tossed a plastic bag on the desk, containing two pieces of a silver broken heart. Lonzo and Monica exchanged glances.
“Where'd you get this?” Monica asked.
“The killer had it delivered. A small courtesy of his. Along with this.” Alexandra snapped open the bag. She tossed a black and gold Karl Kani boot wrapped in a plastic bag onto the desk.
Monica and Lonzo stared at the boot as though it were alive. It was exactly as Tracie Burlingame had described it to them.
“Oh,” Alexandra said, “and he sent a note, too.”
She pulled out a plastic-covered piece of paper. On it, letters were arranged in aluminum casing. She read aloud the one engraved word: “Atonement.”
“Atonementâthat's all?” Monica said.
“That's it. Don't bother dusting for prints. There are none.”
Alexandra's baby blue eyes blazed at Lonzo, although Monica was the one who'd spoken.
“Find the other boot and we'll have the killer. This city is running out of burial space. Little black boys being dropped from rooftops isn't going to sit too well with the powers that be. Less so if they happen to be basketball legends, too.
“Randi Burlingame was better known as the Shooter. At sixteen years old he scored almost as many points per game as Michael Jordan in his day. The scouts were already looking at him. They were watching and waiting. He was primed for NBA glory, a legend in his own right. Now he's dead.”
Caustically Monica added, “Well, Tracie's still got Michael Burlingame, another basketball legend in the making. The boy with the wristwatch timing. They're calling him the next Earl âthe Goat' Manigault. Seems Ms. Burlingame has birthed more than one legend.”
Alexandra pursed her lips, started to respond to the edge in Monica's tone, then decided against it and walked to the door. She stopped before reaching it.
“A mother tossing dirt on top of her son's coffin doesn't much appeal to me. So you see, not a damn thing is appealing to me about this case. Get me the killer. Harlem's a sensitive community. I want the killerânow.”
Reaching the door, she walked through it and slammed it shut behind her.
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