Mr. Paradise A Novel (15 page)

“But will he testify to it?”

“I doubt it. I’m gonna study Lloyd’s sheet and go see him again,” Jackie said. “He offers me a drink this time I might take it.”

T
HEY WALKED IN THE
squad room and Richard Harris was on his feet telling them the inspector had stopped by to take a shot at Montez.

“Wendell got in his face saying the sooner he started talking the less time he’d do. I was surprised he threw the two white guys at him. You know, like we knew who they were and Montez, you could see, was becoming edgy. But he hung in, shaking his head, finally said that was it, he wanted his lawyer and was ready to call him. He took a card from his pocket and laid it on the desk. Avern Cohn. Wendell looked at it and said, ‘I thought Avern had been disbarred by now.’ He told Montez to go on home and think about doing time. He left and Wendell said, ‘That man’s so tightened up I doubt we could pound a peanut up his ass with a jackhammer.’ “

Delsa said, “Avern Cohn . . .”

“Wendell said he use to represent Montez before Tony Paradiso took him over. Hey, but wait.” Harris got a wanted sheet from his desk and handed it to Delsa.

Delsa looked at it, at the mug shot of the wanted man, and
smiled. He sat down at his desk, his coat still on, and called Jerome Juwan Jackson.

“Man, I need you to stop by the squad room.”

“Man, my mother’s car ain’t running. Have to go look at it, see what’s wrong.”

“Where’s your mom live? I’ll come by.”

“But see,” Jerome said, “I don’t know when exactly I’ll be there. Tomorrow’s Nashelle’s birthday, my girlfriend? I said I’d take her to the mall, she can pick out her present.”

“Jerome,” Delsa said, “let me read something to you. It’s a poster that says ‘WANTED’ in big letters at the top. It describes the guy as a black male six-foot, two-ten, his hair in rows, beard with mustache—but it’s a shitty beard, Jerome, bare spots in it. Name on the poster, Orlando Holmes.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that one to me,” Jerome said, “Orlando, with the dead Mexicans in his basement.”

“That’s right,” Delsa said. “Then at the bottom of the sheet, Jerome, it says ‘REWARD $20,000’ for information that leads to his arrest.”

Jerome said, “How long you gonna be there?”

F
ORTY MINUTES LATER DELSA
was telling Jerome, sitting at the side of his desk, “Now is when you use your street connections. Ask around—who knows what happened to Orlando? Try to find his girlfriend Tenisha through her mother. I’ll get you her name and address. Get next to this lady if you can. I think she could help you out.”

“What if I go to Orlando’s house and look around?”

“You could. We’ve been through it. The trouble is, I find a phone number and call it? You know what I get?”

“ ‘Orlando who?’ “ Jerome said. “ ‘You mean the dude with the rows and the shitty beard? Never heard of him.’ “

Delsa liked the way Jerome was showing his sense of humor, at ease in the squad room.

“What you do,” Delsa said, “you find a number you call it, say you’ve been looking all over for Orlando. You have a deal going with him. Or, you say you want to know how he likes the Love Swing you gave him.”

“Man, you crazy? Give him one of those? Get tangled up in it . . .” He said, “That’s all I’m looking for, phone numbers?”

“Jerome,” Delsa said, “a good investigator doesn’t know what he’s looking for till he sees it.”

Jerome said, “A good investigator,” nodding, going over the rest of it in his mind before he grinned and said, “Cool.”

Delsa said, “Go to the scene during the day so you can see what you’re doing. The police tape’s gone, the woman next door moved out. Look on walls where there might’ve been a phone. On kitchen cabinets . . . Start there and find out what you’re looking for.”

Jerome held up the wanted poster. “Can I keep this?”

“It’s yours,” Delsa said.

Jerome looked from the poster to Delsa.

“Can police collect on this, they catch Orlando?”

Delsa shook his head.

“No, we’re paid to do our job. Rewards, Jerome, are compensation only for concerned citizens, like yourself.”

Jerome said, “Uh-huh.”

H
E TOOK HIS COAT
off, hung it on the rack, came back to his desk and phoned Kelly Barr.

“How’re you doing?”

“The phone rings and I jump.”

“We’d like you to come in tomorrow for a few more questions. It won’t take long, I can pick you up and drive you home right after.”

“So you’re not arresting me.”

“For what?”

“I was kidding.”

“Yeah, but what were you thinking when you said it?”

“You want to grill me on the phone?”

“We’ll save it for tomorrow,” Delsa said. “Unless I can pick you up right now. What time is it?” He looked at his watch. “Almost six.”

Kelly said, “Why don’t we do it here?”

“I can wait.”

“You asked me what I was thinking. You’re dying to know, but you can wait?”

“Will you tell me?”

“By tomorrow I might’ve forgotten. Frank, I’m sitting here by myself scared to death not knowing what’s gonna happen.”

He said, “All right, I’ll be over,” not giving himself a chance to think about it.

She said, “I’ll answer your questions, but can’t we kick back a little, not be so formal about it?”

Delsa said, “This is serious, Kelly, and you’re a witness,” hearing his serious tone, always serious, so he’d keep looking at her as a witness. But he wasn’t himself, only a cop asking her questions. He said, “I can come now if you want.”

She said, “Make it seven-thirty. I have to shower, straighten the place up, put the right music on—”

He said, “Kelly . . . ?”

She said, “See you, Frank,” and hung up.

An hour and half before he’d see her again after staring at her in the squad room this morning smoking her Slim, after sticking his butt in her face to pull off her boots and answering her question about reciprocating, staring at her and wanting to touch her face. He could miss Maureen, feel love, sorrow, and he could stare at a woman sometimes and wonder about her, not many, not any the way he stared at Kelly Barr and wanted to touch her.
Touch her
—Christ, eat her up. He had refused to admit it this morning and this afternoon, but now, hearing her voice in his mind,
See you, Frank,
he had to tell himself, You’re fucked, you know it?

Nothing he could do about it. He wanted to be at ease with her, but she could be involved in the case and he didn’t want to find it out unless she told him.

Maureen in the hospital said she knew he’d marry again, saying, as he shook his head, “You know you will, you like girls. You know how to talk to them. You like to flirt. I know
you do, you can’t help it.” He told Maureen, swear to God, he had never cheated on her, not even thought about it in the nine years. She said, “ ’Cause you know I’d shoot her, the cunt, whoever she is.” Maureen said, “You like being married. You’ll do it again and I’ll take it as a compliment, I made you happy.” She said, “But go slow, see if you can talk first. There’s a lot more talking in a marriage than screwing.” She said, “You know why girls like you? You’re gentle. They like the way you smile with your Al Pacino eyes. It’s okay if she’s a little smarter than you are. It didn’t hurt our marriage. If she’s a brain she wouldn’t marry a cop anyway.” He wondered what Maureen would’ve thought of Kelly. Maureen, with her Sex Crimes experience, had interviewed hundreds of rape victims, real ones and phonies, Maureen with her critical eye. She’d like Kelly but would find fault, pick at some mannerism, think she was a bit theatrical, low-key but still acting.

Now he was blaming Maureen for what he felt.

He thought of Jackie saying she was going to talk to Lloyd again. Maybe let down her dreads this time, have a drink if he offered her one, see if that worked.

Delsa was leaning that way now.

SIXTEEN

SHE HAD THE TRACK LIGHTING SET
medium-low for mellow, Sade on the sound system doing “Smooth Operator” at the moment with Lauryn Hill standing by, Missy Elliott and her jungle hi-tech ready to bump up the mood if needed. He came at twenty to eight wearing the same outfit he’d had on earlier today, the dark turtleneck and duffle coat that made him look like a seaman. He’d shaved. The lotion wasn’t bad. She told him he’d look salty with a beard, saying her dad had grown one in the navy and she had pictures of him she loved. He told her it was still cold out, wiping his feet on the Oriental inside the door. He said it was supposed to go down below freezing tonight and tomorrow afternoon it could be fifty degrees. Why does anyone want to live in Detroit?

She said, “Why do you?”

He said when he was away for a while he was always glad to get back.

“And you don’t know why,” Kelly said.

She helped him off with his coat, smelling his aftershave again, hung the coat in the hall closet and brought him into the loft the black woman cop, Jackie, said you could play touch football in naked if you wanted. Now he was taking it all in, the lighting, Sade’s soothing voice, the crystal pitcher of alexanders on the coffee table. She said, “Don’t be nervous, Frank, I’m not trying to seduce you.”

“You mean it’s always like this?”

“Pretty much.”

“Two glasses on the table?”

She said, “Come on,” and steered him to the sofa, got him into the deep cushions that were hard to get out of, poured alexanders into the stem glasses and placed one in front of him on the glass top of the bamboo coffee table. Kelly, standing on the other side now, raised her glass. She said, “Here’s to your getting the bad guys,” and watched him look up at her. Reading something into her toast? Maybe. He took a sip of his drink, then another that almost finished it.

He looked up at her again and said, “That’s not bad.”

She topped off his glass, feeling him watching her. He asked her what she did when she wasn’t modeling. She straightened and looked down at him trapped in the ochre-colored cushions.

“I like to go to clubs and wave my arms in the air, thrash around, get down with the beat. I think there’s more energy in it here than in New York, a working-class audience getting their release. You know what I mean? I’ve seen Eminem at the Shelter, in the basement of St. Andrews? Iggy at the Palace,
back with the Stooges. Hush, white hip-hoppers, and the Almighty Dreadnaughtz at Alvin’s. Karen Monster, a cool chick, the Dirt Bombs, they’re high-speed Detroit punk. The Howling Diablos any Sunday out in Berkley. There’s a new band called the Go, kind of glam but they’re okay. Aerosmith I love, they keep coming back to town. I was never a groupie,” Kelly said, “but I’ve always sort of envied those chicks, they’re so aggressive.”

“I worked security at concerts,” Delsa said, “a long time ago, on the side. A girl would come up to me, ‘I’ll show you my tits if you let me go around back.’ You know, to meet the band. This was at Pine Knob.”

“Would you let her?”

“If she was nice about it, didn’t start pleading and carrying on.”

“She’d show you her ta-tas?”

“I’d say it wasn’t necessary, knowing she would anyway, to show her gratitude.”

Kelly saw his smile, there and gone.

And now he was telling her that Montez Taylor, seventeen years old, “Was convicted of aggravated assault and sentenced as an adult to two years at Jackson and it changed his life. Montez got connected and came out to deal drugs. Now he’s a baller, a ghetto star, still in his teens making six figures. Has the strut, his bling bling, has his girls iced up, big spinning rims on his car, a heavy bass in his sound box. Montez is now called Chops. He has the chops to do what he wants. He also has a criminal lawyer now who knows his stuff, a Clinton Street dealmaker, and
Montez draws probation for giving them this and that instead of taking serious falls.”

“Mr. Paradise,” Kelly said.

“No, another lawyer before him, Avern Cohn. Montez was brought up on assault to do great bodily harm, was severely beaten by the cops, and now both Avern Cohn and Tony Paradiso want to represent him, seeing a chance to bring suit against the police. Old Tony had the reputation for winning this kind of civil action, so Montez went with him. Tony got Montez off on the assault but didn’t make it suing the cops.”

Kelly was nodding. “Montez said the old man put a suit on him and made him his monkey. Yeah, I can see now what he meant.”

“That’s high disrespect,” Delsa said, “for a guy they called Chops. Tony Jr. says the old man referred to Montez as his pet nigger. Have you met him, Tony Jr.?”

“No, and from what Chloe said I hope I don’t.”

“What, that he’s a prick?”

“Her exact word.”

“Everybody calls him that. But you don’t suppose she did because he kept her out of Tony’s will. You mentioned that last night. But if the old man wanted to leave her something, don’t you think he’d find a way?”

Kelly felt exposed standing in front of him. She sat down on the edge of the sofa, a cushion between them. She took a sip of her drink, and another and said, “I thought we were talking about Montez.”

“We are,” Delsa said. “What it comes down to, Montez knows what Chloe was getting and he wants it.”

He was waiting for her to say something. Kelly shrugged and sat back in the cushions. “You think so?”

“The other night,” Delsa said, “Jackie Michaels and I followed a trail of blood, like arrows, from a murdered woman in a stairwell to the man who killed her, sitting in his hotel room. Jackie said, ‘Do you thank God like I do they’re stupid, or stoned or generally fucked up?’ Here, the arrows were pointing to Montez even before he opened his mouth and said you were Chloe. He’s a bad guy and he has a motive, the old man dies and he cashes in. He’s not in the will, neither is Chloe, but he knows she’s getting
some
thing. I think what happened,” Delsa said, “he had to change his plan in a hurry. You said he didn’t know you were coming and it upset him. He tried to make a phone call. I asked you if he spoke to anyone. Have you thought about that, how he acted? Your being there blew his plan. The two white motherfuckers show up and there’s company.”