Murder in Germantown (12 page)

"Suspect's party?"

"You're funny. No! LaSalle University."

LaSalle University was a quiet Catholic college in Germantown. He was minutes from where we had grown up. Funny thing, it was a university that did not welcome the locals roaming about their campus. Somehow, I thought that Wydell was about to tell me how he crashed a party. That wasn't a stretch as LaSalle was a good school trapped inside of the ghetto like USC was trapped in South Central LA and Temple U was trapped in North Philadelphia.

"Elaborate," I said.

"Was at a basketball game from five to eight. A campus bash from ten to about one. And then to my house with my girlfriend, a marketing major. Oh, and between eight to ten in my girl's dorm room fucking."

He had said a lot. A mouthful. I had to really choke back my awe. Since when did this thug attend bashes? Didn't want to offend my client, so I wrote down what he had said. I wrote the crucial times in red. The facts about his girlfriend in green.

"Can anyone besides you and your girlfriend verify the time that you left the campus?"

"Yes."

"Name and number?"

"Germantown Taxi Company. Called them from my phone, which the police have, at about 12:30 a.m. They picked us up at the corner of Belfield and Olney in front of Central High School at about one."

I jotted that in red. "Have you talked to the police?"

"No!" He barked as if I had disrespected him. "I said nothing once we were here either. You see how quickly they had me prepared for arraignment."

"I'm going to get an investigator on this ASAP. And I'll pressure the DA for early discovery and your phone. The coroner should be done with the autopsies in a day or two."

"Are you done, counselor?"

"Not quite. What's with the gun?"

"I own it. Big deal."

"Very big deal, Wydell. Where'd they find it?"

"My car."

"If you had a car, why did you call a taxi?" That was a prosecutorial question, but I always played both sides of the fence. Every good attorney knew what the prosecutor would ask in advance.

"My transmission is fucked up. Leaking transmission fluid and the gears stripped. So I took a cab to and from LaSalle."

"They test you for gun residue?"

"Yup, and none was found."

"So, they have what?" I was actually asking myself.

"Absolutely nothing, but bad tips."

CHAPTER 28

I opened the living room door and the sound was so beautiful. Dajuan was masterfully gliding his hands across the piano keys as I kicked off my boots. Hearing him play cut through the air and when he added his soft voice, it was the perfect melody. I went into the bedroom and threw on a college T-shirt and sweatpants. I then gargled mouthwash. I hadn't seen Brandon, so I went to his room to check on him. I knew he would be ecstatic that the Eagles had won. He was not there. He was in my office playing a game on his laptop. Ms. Pearl was snuggled up under him.

I walked in and Ms. Pearl leaped off the sofa and traipsed toward the door. At the doorway, she said, "Meow!" I translated it for her. "Homo." I cracked up at the bourgeois act. She was a tad conceited. Strange I know, but this cat was special in a bad way.

"What's funny, Daddy R?" Brandon asked, and didn't take his eyes off the laptop.

I sat down on the sofa next to him. "Nothing. What do you want for dinner?"

"Um...Pizza."

"We had that yesterday."

"Okay, lasagna."

"What's with the Italian dishes?"

"What, Dad?" he asked and looked at me perplexed. "Daddy R, you're crazy. We have Versace dishes."

I smiled and chuckled lightly. Brandon swore that he knew everything. Calling people crazy was his new thing. He also had an air of cockiness. I caught him bragging about my car once, and I immediately corrected that conceited behavior. It amazed me that toddlers actually compared their parent’s vehicles in first grade. They actually knew that a Benz cost more than a Honda. I stood and told him that I'd figure dinner out.

"Can I help you cook?"

"Yup, I'll call you when I am ready," I said and pressed into the living room.

I found Dajuan still blowing out a new song. At least I had never heard him sing it. I sat on the sofa and listened to my in-house concert. So many women--and men--would have loved to have the sexy, sultry Dajuan sing to them in private. Too bad that they had to wait until the next tour, which was in April, starting the weekend of Easter.

"Black Face, listen to this. I only have one verse, bridge and chorus. But check it..."

He began with a hasty, powerful cord, and then slowed down the tempo. The words were:

Chorus 1

Here we are once again, I've been out late, girl

I know you're pissed as ish, and you're probably

fed up now, girl

Bridge

Please tell me babe why you're packed at the

door

When all I do is respect your wishes, girl

You don't belong out this late in the goddamn

street

I'm out working hard for you and this is what

you put me through

Chorus

Girl be real and tell the truth

If you wanna really be through

Just be real with me right now

If you don't wanna be down

I go all day thinkin' 'bout you

And this is what you put me through

Just be real with me right now

If you're the one out playing around

"That's all I have thus far."

I sat for a moment as if in deep concentration. Somehow I believed that I played a pivotal role in the track.

For the sake of harmony--that of our relationship, not his song--I said, "It definitely tells a story. And you could edit out a few of the girls in the first verse. But I am feeling it."

"You're not just saying that are you?"

"We both know if I disliked it, you'd be the first to know. I'd give you constructive criticism the same way that you shred my opening and closing arguments."

"Yeah. Speaking of trials, do you have a new murder case?"

"Yes, but don't panic. It involves the poor, so it won't be a media monger."

"If you and Aramis don't make it one, you mean?"

"Whatever, wiseass. It may easily be dismissed."

"How?"

"Not now. I really don't want to go over the drama. I know I'm hungry as a street person."

"I don't feel like cooking, so don't go there. It's your Sunday. I am busy Black Face."

"You're a trip. What you want?"

"Sautéed
boneless chicken breast. Over a bed of romaine lettuce. Thick, creamy dressing..."

"I got your thick and creamy dressing," I said and smiled. I yelled, “Brandon let’s go. Time to cook.”

I kissed Dajuan passionately and then went to prepare dinner.

CHAPTER 29

Twenty21 in Center City was one of the most fabulous restaurants for singles to mingle during lunch. It wasn’t that way purposely, but the elegant, posh spot was frequented by the Who’s Who in Philadelphia. Bumping into the same echelon of people led to many business and personal relationships being forged. The food may not have been the best, but the wide selection of alcoholic elixir made up for any shortcomings. The in-house floral design was a jewel. Very elegant. The cherrywood bar was topped with glass, and behind the bartenders, all of whom were attractive to the eye, were six shelves of the best liquors. Mr. 357 was perched at the bar nursing a shot (his forth) of Louis XIII, while whispering soothing words into the ears of Ariel Greenland.

His slick, sea-green contacts were inviting with the kind of deliciousness that could trick a devout nun into debasement. His smile was easy, and he seemed happy to be in her presence again. He was clad in a charcoal gray power suit, white button down, and a snazzy tie. Ariel had actually told him that he was to cool to be a native Philadelphian. She had no idea how right she was. His shoulder length hair was pulled into a ponytail and was salt and pepper, with more salt than pepper. He told her that it was, “killer gray,” when she complimented the color.

Ariel carried a conversation covering a wide range of topics about her city, Philadelphia. She had a new tan that was obviously paid for. Her plucked brows were pinched into a frown every time she put a lot of thought into a topic. Little maroon painted lip stick stains were around the rim of her goblet filled with port. She sat very parochial at a perfect ninety degrees and had a habit of holding her glass up at eye level and peeking over it while talking. She excessively re-crossed her legs, which peeked beneath a navy wool skirt. This was no cheap wool, either. It was the good stuff, a facsimile of what the Germany military used to combat winter winds during the Cold War.

“
You’re on your way,” he told her after she ran down a list of auditions she had been on and roles that she was cast in.

She had even bragged of having a Jaguar XJ8. He was on his fifth shot of Louis treize, so he added, “Beautiful, too.”

“
Yeah, I do not get out of LA much,” she replied. “But, I have a score to settle in Philadelphia.”

The rude heifer didn’t even thank him for the compliment. He was at an Irish pub in LA dressed as a Spanish man and he had chatted with Ariel Greenland then, so he knew that she was interested in killing her husband.

“
That’s why I am a single lady,” she added purring.

He ordered another cocktail.

“
Sir, you’re on your sixth. I am going to need you to take it easy,” the bartender admonished him.

“
Yeah! Really.” Mr. 357 warbled.

He then turned to Ariel and continued his conversation as if the tender had not spoken.

“
So, what’s a gal like you doing single and free?”

“
Well, I had a husband, but he left me for a man with a dick the size of Russia,” she said, giggling.

The alcohol was beginning to betray her, or so, he thought. He had not slipped her GHB, either. Mr. 357 knew that she was going to reveal her most intimate secrets by the next round.

“
I was busy working, while he was busy working on his oral skills, adding up how many men he could boink in a week.”

“
Boink? That was an interesting synonym.”

“
Would you have preferred screw?”

“
No, fuck!”

She leaned in close to him and he could smell the mixture of True Star and wine drifting from her.

She whispered into his ear, “Your place or mine,” she asked. “Matter of fact, mine happens to be a hotel,” she claimed smiling. “I want to see your crib.”

“
I wanna see my crib, too,” he said. “It’s still being built.”

“
Oh, that’s just too bad.”

“
I know,” she said, gleefully.

Neither of them knew that they were flirting with death.

Monday, January 8, 2007

CHAPTER 30

Monday morning, I blew into the elevator in the garage level of the Prudential Building and rode it to the 8th floor. I exited and made my way along the red carpet--in place to give employees that celebrity feel--and greeted Marsha. I was smiling at her as I entered my office. That was appropriate, but until I had a cappuccino, I would hang upside down in my bat cave.

Slapping my briefcase on the desk, I plopped into my burgundy, studded executive chair and rolled to the cappuccino machine. It was already brewing. Thank God for the genius who created a timer. I poured some in a mug with Brandon’s face plastered on it and rolled to my floor to ceiling window. I was privileged to a very panoramic view of the sixth largest city. The buildings were mostly lined shoulder to shoulder with varying peaks and shapes; a picturesque skyline. The latest edition was the Amtrak train station office building, an expansive glass structure that I tried to convince the big wigs that we should relocate there. They looked at me as if I was crazy.