Hot Flash (16 page)

“This is definitely police business. You take good care.”

“I will. Thanks, Calvin.”

I walked down the narrow path made by the detective's desks to Bates's office at the rear of the squad room.

“Well, well, well, what have we here,” Bates said in a playful manner, pushing back in his chair.

I pulled up a chair to the front of his desk.

“Talk to me, Bates. Please tell me you have something.”

He hesitated, then got serious. He closed the file that was open in front of him and pushed it toward me.

“We haven't found a match yet for the partial fingerprint from a tube of ChapStick found near the body. Footprints around the outside suggest someone tried to gain entry through the patio doors on the side of the house and through the windows in the back, but no forced entry, suggesting John let them in.”

“Them?”

“One to hold him, one to beat him, one to give the orders and taunt him. I'd say three, anyway.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out another folder, then got up and came around to the front of the desk and sat on the edge. “John is clean, though he had some trouble in his younger days. We're still checking into that. From where we are now, I can't see any reason anyone would want to kill him . . . unless your sister is into something. She is your sister, right?”

I slid him a sideways glance, turning my mouth and eyes up in a semi-disgusted nature, just for messing with me, still.

“Your sister has had a few problems, but you're privy to this stuff, being on the PPD and all. As you noted before, it's old stuff and probably has nothing to do with this,” he said, handing me the other folder. “Drug-related. She was picked up during a raid on a drug dealer's place in Philly, about twenty years ago, got off with a fine and probation.”

My stomach gurgled.

“I did some digging, deep digging I might add, and learned that your sister's real name is Carmella Ann Mabley. No news to you.” He smiled down at me. “Your sister hung around some pretty bad characters in her youth. Then she disappeared. Want to tell me about that?”

I flipped open the file and ran my hand over the arrest picture of Nareece. “Twenty years ago, some guys broke into our house, raped and beat her. How'd you get this? It should be sealed, she was underage.” I looked up from the file and he gave me a “
duh
” expression.

“They were never caught. The police had nothing to go on, and she wasn't any help. She was so scared, so damaged. The things they did to her . . . We changed her identity and moved her to Boston.”

“Who's ‘we'? How deep is the new identity?”

“As deep as the witness protection program, but unofficial. Only between Cap and me.”

“Your captain went along on this?”

“Cap was my father's best friend. After my parents died, he watched out for us. He got me into the firearms division. I wanted off the force after an undercover experience went bad. He convinced me to stay. I never . . .”

“Where's your sister?”

I shrugged ignorance, still unsure whether I could trust Bates. He was a straight shooter and might not bend the rules for Nareece, if necessary. I needed to find her and learn what she had gotten into, what twenty years had uncovered, before I said too much.

“Mabley, if you're holding back something after everything we've talked about, I'll kill you and your whole family ta boot.”

“That's all I got, Bates, really.”

He looked at me with raised eyebrows, his head tipped to one side.

I refused to squirm.

“Your sister was recently seen with this man.” He pointed to a mug shot in the file. “Name is Jesse Boone. We linked him to two killings here a year ago, a man and a woman, we think drug-related. Linked him but not enough evidence, no witnesses, you know the story. You have to know this guy. Back in the day, his father was a major player in the Black Mafia of your fair city, aka Richard ‘The Pistol' Boone.” I nodded in slow motion, numbed by his words. “He was a scary dude, a hit man for one Bobby Martin, the head nigger in charge. Your sister was seen with him and this woman, Linda Shields.” He pointed to another picture. It was of Linda Shields and Nareece in front of Nareece's house. “This was taken a month ago, a few days before Shields was killed.”

He stopped and let me digest this before continuing. “This guy was also with them, Frank Mann Johnson, aka ‘Big Daddy'.”

My brain burned with thoughts of the Post-it in Nareece's file with
FMJ
and a phone number scribbled on it. A picture behind the one he pointed to fueled the burn to raging flames. It showed Nareece letting a man into her house in Milton. I couldn't tell the man's identity from the first picture, as his face was blocked by a shadow. But when I flipped to the next one, the black eyes and crooked grin of Jesse Boone pierced my soul.

“Hey, you with me, Miss M?”

I fingered the photo of Nareece and Jesse and pushed it toward Bates. “All this time I'm thinking that whatever is going on is a Nareece and John problem. But Jesse Boone at her house? What if all this is about my testifying in the Hodges case?” I hesitated. “I don't remember Boone from working undercover. I only know Boone as a suspect in four murders in the past few years, none of which we could get him on because of scared or dead witnesses.” I looked up at him. “You know the story . . . Still, it doesn't make any sense. Jesse Boone at Nareece's house?” I shook my head in disbelief. “No, there's definitely something missing.”

C
HAPTER
15

I
was about over the edge when I returned to the hotel room. How was Nareece connected to Jesse Boone? The big question that Bates kept asking me, and the answer to which I had not a clue.

I poured a glass of Four Sisters Sauvignon Blanc wine I'd picked up on the way back and gulped it. The citrus and vanilla flavors cooled my throat and warmed my insides. I collapsed into the chair next to the bed, poured another glass, and downed that one, too. My neck muscles loosened enough to allow some sideways movement, a few cracks, and my shoulders settled with a little more distance from my ears, allowing me room for clarity of thought.

Buzzed from the wine, I tried to piece together the disjointed thoughts pounding in my brain. Jesse Boone, Big Daddy Mann, and Nareece? Mann supposedly died in prison ten years ago. I put him there with the information I'd gathered when I was undercover. He was my specific charge. Then my cover got blown and I almost died. I remembered being in the presence of Richard “The Pistol” Boone on two occasions: at a party at Big Daddy's house, and when he came to Big Daddy's house unannounced and I—that is, Lakisha Butler—was ordered to get out. I had never met Jesse then. At least I had no recollection of him. Lakisha, my undercover identity, had short hair, green eyes, a much darker complexion from makeup and tanning, and was skinny—a far cry from who I was now. But if Jesse Boone knew who I was, or if it was about me testifying in the Hodges murder, he certainly had plenty of opportunities to kill me.

I shuddered at the thought.

I couldn't make sense of it. I poured more wine and sipped this time. None of it made sense, right down to Laughton and his dead, supposed ex-wife. I did not believe in coincidences. No way. I had buried my head in the sand long enough; there was no denying a connection between twenty years ago and the events of the past three weeks. What I still could not figure was Nareece's place in it.

The sweats came on with a fury and sucked the air from my lungs. I jumped up and paced, trying to keep my brain from exploding. My thoughts jumped from one dark hole to another. Paranoia gained ground. I stripped down to my bra and panties and moved forward, sidestepped, punched forward, down for a low block, jump-kicked, back kicked, high-blocked, low blocked, moving through the self-defense forms of tae kwon do. Forty minutes later, dizzy and dripping, this time from conscious exertion, I fell on the bed. I fanned myself with the card that listed the cable television channels and fought back the urge to scream at the top of my lungs. I grappled with the reality of being old and out of control at forty-nine. Damn my doctor's diagnosis of “premenopausal.” What the hell kind of word was
premenopausal
anyway? I threw myself forward on the bed, screamed at the top of my lungs, face in the pillow, and punched the bed with both fists. Unable to hold my breath any longer, I stopped and flipped over onto my back, where I remained until the room darkened and my mind cleared. The whirring sound from the air-conditioning and faint voices from the next room eased me back from the dreamy mellowness I had settled into. The cool air had dried the sweat from my body and now made me shiver. I got up, showered, and got in the bed.

I tossed for an hour before surrendering to insomnia, watched television, read the newspaper shoved under the door, meditated, and prayed to put thoughts of Nareece and Jesse at bay, and finally found sleep about twenty minutes before my 4:30 a.m. wake-up call. If Boston was anything like Philly, leaving after 6:00 a.m. would put me in rush-hour traffic, so I allotted extra time. If I left by 5:30, I hoped to be out in front and make the hour-and-twenty-minute drive to Woods Hole on Cape Cod and my seven-thirty ferry reservation with ease.

I took the Massachusetts Turnpike to I-495 to the Bourne Bridge, then followed I-28 south. The allure of Cape Cod rushed back, especially with spring offering all of God's vegetation born-again status.

Tiny buds capped the bare limbs of some trees, and green leaves sprouted on others. Defiant splashes of color had pushed through the moist soil along the banks of I-28, the first footholds of spring showing through on Cape Cod, as well.

In another four miles, I reached Falmouth Center. Shop owners and contractors were painting, planting, and pruning, making ready for the invasion of tourists. It seemed like I had entered a time warp. Little had changed in the twenty-plus years since my last trip to the Cape. I marveled at the spray of plantings adorning the yards of many houses. Every year I told myself I would do the same to my house, but it never happened. I hated digging in the dirt, and I certainly didn't understand the science of planting at a certain time of year to ensure the beauty in another season.

I took a left and a slight right on Cowdry Road. The densely populated area went for about three miles before opening up to Cape Cod Bay on the left and the ferry dock straight ahead and to the right. I stopped at the small hut before the dock and got my ticket, made a sharp right, and drove around to Lane 8 to wait for boarding instructions. Only a few cars were lined up in the lot as the ferry pulled in—a much larger and newer ferry than the one I remembered named
The Island Home
. I got out of the car to stretch and soak up the soft breeze and the tangy smell of the ocean. I leaned against the car and closed my eyes, ready and wanting to sink into oblivion, except for what lay ahead—and my cell phone ringing.

“Hey, girl, where are you? Did you find Reecey yet?”

“Let us talk, Auntie Dulcey. Let me and Helen talk, please, please,” the twins whined before I could respond.

Dulcey shushed them. “You girls go play now until I finish talking to your auntie. Go on now, go play detective.” Their protests grew softer as they moved away. “They are something, those girls. Reecey's wrong for causing them to worry like they are. Children shouldn't have this kind of trouble on them.”

“I'm at Woods Hole waiting for the boat. I'll call you when I'm over and find her.”

“You okay, M?”

“I will be.”

“I'm sure this is dredgin' up a lot of stuff for you, memories you been sittin' on for a long time. Sometimes things get in your face, though, so you're forced to deal and can get rid of them for good.”

“Dulcey, what the hell are you talking about? Stay out of my head,” I yelled, enough to gain people's attention.

“
Hmph
. Somebody needs to be in it. You never dealt with your parents' death and Nareece's hurt or your own. Never dealt with what happened to you.”

“I gotta go, Dulcey. They're loading. Tell the twins I'll call them later . . . tomorrow.” I clicked off. I had enough to think about without her digging in my brain. This wasn't about me. It was about Nareece and helping her for a change, instead of always thinking about myself.

I got back in the car and drove up to the ramp and onto the ferry as directed by the handler, pulling to the far right and forward. I considered getting out and going topside to air my thoughts, then decided against the move. A full boat meant lots of activity and nowhere else to be alone.

When the boat sailed, I called Calvin.

“I was just thinking about you. But then, I'm always thinking about you. How are you doing, my lady?”

“I'm good, on my way to the Vineyard.”

“I should be on this journey with you.”

“This is one I need to make alone.”

“The mystery of Muriel. One of these days I'll be privy to everything about you.”

“One of these days for sure, I'll tell you all mine, and you can tell me all yours. No secrets.”

“Ouch, woman, you're asking a lot from a brother. But I can hang with it.” We were silent for a moment, this time in comfortable space.

Forty-five minutes later, the ferry docked at Vineyard Haven. The Oak Bluffs dock did not open until Memorial Day, still a few weeks away. I was the third car to exit into a throng of people awaiting the arrival of friends and family. I inched along, then slammed on my brakes to keep from squashing a little mousy-looking dog that jumped from the window of the car in front of me. It caused a flurry of horns and cursing from drivers behind me. Such crude behavior exhibited on the other side was expected, but not here, on the white sandy shores washed with soft ocean breezes, enhanced with exotic shopping and eateries. Life was carefree and easy here—especially since nothing of everyday deeds could be done until the next boat out and a forty-five-minute ride. I supposed folks exiting the ferry had not breathed enough of the Martha's Vineyard formula air yet.

Dad used to say it was like arriving on another planet.

The same traffic policewoman who had directed cars on Water Street and waved our Volvo station wagon into traffic when I was a kid waved me out now. My eyes were playing tricks, or she looked exactly the same. I drove a few hundred feet, inched my way out at Five Corners, where five streets merged into one intersection. No lights, no police officer directing traffic. I would say you took your life in your hands, but this was the Vineyard, which translated to polite drivers. I sped across the intersection, then slowed and cruised down Beach Road, bound by water on both sides. The island's peaceful ambience and scenic grandeur evoked buried memories.

The last family vacation on the Island, the vacation from hell, was right after I graduated from the police academy. I remembered Nareece fought Mom not to go, because she didn't want to leave her friends. The night before, in the heat of an argument, the girl raised her hand ready to slap Mom. I got up from the kitchen table to intervene, but Dad hustled in and caught her in the downstroke. He slapped her so hard her head spun around like a demon's, the first and only time he ever struck either of us.

When we got to the Vineyard, Reece continued her hell-raising mission: She pouted, argued, kept a scowl on, stayed out past curfew, snuck out after everyone was in bed, and came home loaded. “I should have intervened,” I said out loud. Guilt crept up my spine. “But noooo, too busy doing the cop thing.”

I drove past Martha's Vineyard Hospital and veered to the left instead of going straight, which would have brought me to the house. Instead I drove down New York Avenue toward Oak Bluffs' center. I passed Oak Bluffs Harbor on the left, Circuit Avenue on the right, and drove straight to the Oak Bluffs dock and Ocean Park, then turned right on Seaview Avenue, drove down a few blocks, and pulled to the curb at Waban Park. Waban Park was a large square lot that faced Inkwell Beach and was surrounded on the other three sides by houses.

A lone swimmer crawled between the two jetties the length of the Inkwell. A sick person. The winter storms had recaptured much of the sandy shore and deposited remnants of seashells, seaweed, and other ocean junk.

My own junk had caused an oceanic gap between Nareece and me. I supposed it was jealousy.

“Now, there's a thought,” I said aloud. “I was jealous, and then Mom and Dad died and all we had, correction, all we
have
is each other.”

I rolled down the windows and opened the sunroof to abate the heat welling up inside of me, whipped the wheel around, and headed toward the house.