Murder in Germantown (13 page)

I revved my computer and checked my quotidian report for that day. I had a parole hearing at eleven, and the rest of my day was supposed to be clear. But I had taken on a new client not even 24-hours earlier, and preparation for his preliminary hearing was of the essence. I pulled out a composition book and labeled it, Wydell James. I always kept a daily account of what transpired with my new cases. I recorded everything from court appearances to phone calls and tucked news clipping inside, if there were any. I did that daily, and I wrote in it with a personal tone, not professional. It was for my eyes only. Never knew when some archaic note may have driven a case into a new direction.

I snatched up my phone and contacted the detective handling Wydell’s case and informed him that I wanted the crime scene preserved for the defense. Prayerfully, he did not give me a problem, forcing me to produce a motion. I have enough paralegals at my disposal to flood the DA’s office like Hurricane Katrina. I mean beastly motions that would have taken half their office to dismantle. They would respond, but the 180 days that they had to try my client would be ticking.

Tick.

Tock.

I sent Jonathan Rude, my favorite of the Savino and Martir investigators an inter-office E-mail. Marked it urgent and then buzzed Marsha.

Marsha White bounced into my office with a lovely smile on her face. She was a stout, tough woman and was very protective of her boss.

Me.

We had met under very unorthodox circumstances. She was in the 1801 Vine Street Juvenile Court with her delinquent son, having taken off work for the sixth time. All of her 120 pounds were on the courthouse steps. Her pouty lips attempted to explain to her boss that she would not be able to make it in late, as she had planned. He fired her. Yes, I was ear hustling that day. Come on, I am an attorney. We had a conversation, and I hired her.

“
You came strolling into the office with a bubbly, new smile. I’m ten, I mean, three years your senior. I know that smile, buddy.”

“
Enchanting mother.”

“
So?”

“
Yes. We kissed and made up.”

“
Thank you.”

“
For what?”

“
Fifty bucks.”

“
I don’t owe you any money. The Eagles won.”

“
Karen in the tax wing does.”

“
And, you’re thanking me because...”

“
We bet. I told her that you were a family man.”

“
Oh!” I was shocked by the assessment. “Thanks.”

“
He better not act a fool again. But on to other news. This just came from the rivals,” she said and handed me the package.

I opened it and found the paperwork produced on the Wydell James case that far. Two days was a record. They must really believe that Wydell was toast. The DA’s office had never produced preliminary discovery material that quickly. They had even forwarded them without filing a motion to get them. There was a body warrant, police reports, a few crime scene photos (that could not convict a pencil for stabbing a sharpener), and even a prelim autopsy report. No search warrant, though. I had just found an excuse to barge into the DA’s office and shake things up a bit. And I thought I’d be bored that day.

I told Marsha what I needed, grabbed a file from my desk and stuffed it into my briefcase. I grabbed my coat and shrugged it on.

“
Going so soon?”

“
I’m going to the Fort, and who knows what traffic is doing. It may take me a month to make the trip. I’ll read what was passed along to me today while I wait, if I am early. I am curious as to what those assholes have up their sleeves. Sending me this stuff so quickly is new and interesting.”

“
You seem upset about it.”

“
No,just shocked at the sudden proficiency.”

“
Wanna do lunch with your admin. assist. It’s on me, considering you were the catalyst to me winning the bet.”

“
Suuurrrreeee. Make a reservation for about twelve thirty.”

She chuckled. “McDonald’s takes reservations now?”

CHAPTER 31

Rhonesia Cosby awoke in the late morning elated that she did not have a class until 11 a.m. That was the way she had planned it for the last four semesters at the LaSalle University School of Journalism. Her body refused to function before nine, and for that reason she’d become an investigative reporter. A nine to five was not an option. Suddenly, she was forced to recall a very boring night of passion with a running back from the football team. He was a NFL hopeful, and that made up for his anatomy shortcoming.

She sat up in his bed and listened to his heavy breathing. The sheets were all wrapped around him, explaining why she had been cold most of the night.
Selfish, little dick bastard
, she thought. January in Philadelphia was disastrously cold and draped in complimentary snow. The chilly air snaked through the cracked window which overlooked the busy Olney Avenue. It brought with it a message: cover your soft,
cafe au lait
-colored nakedness. She followed the directive and covered herself in a silk robe. She did not like terry cloth. Like most mornings she slipped to her dorm room in the co-ed building.

In her room, Rhonesia brewed a pot of green tea. The stove-top clock read: 9:45. She had a Survey of Current Politics class at 11. It was a class that she decided to take just in case she decided to move to Washington, DC to report White House rumors acquired stealthily. She had become a drinker, as college life required being inebriated to get through it day by day. Her two favorite drinks, mimosa and screw driver, both included orange juice. She was not being looked at by any of the major newspapers, so no job awaited her after her May graduation, although, she would graduate in the top 15% of her class. She did not attribute alcohol to her class rank, either. She was a light drinker who indulged solely to stay serene. It made her feel feminine. It also made her work out. She wanted no parts of a beer belly. Hell, no belly. She didn’t plan to be pregnant until after 30 and married.

After she did her morning bathroom ritual, she nursed an unsweetened mug of tea. She sat on her twin bed and looked at her pathetic roommate, a senior probably on her way to flunking out. She flicked the remote control into her hand, and turned on the TV. There was Cathy Regal, a Fox-29 anchor. Fox carried the ghetto news that the other politically driven stations didn’t. Cathy was re-capping the big stories for the hundredth time since six a.m.

“
Tiffany!” Rhonesia yelled and hit her roommates headboard. The girl didn’t budge.
Damn shame
, Rhonesia thought. “Tiff! Get up!” She tuned the volume up and let the TV blast. “Tiffany Koch!” Rhonesia stood in front of the TV as if she was blind.

News anchor, Cathy Regal, soprano voice and bright smile that exuded confidence. Too much for Rhonesia. Rhonesia was the school’s head cheerleader for the basketball team and had the alluring face and impeccable smile to be in front of the camera. As a black woman from the ghetto, she had what it took to pull an Oprah, but she liked to write her own masterpieces and not read from a teleprompter.

“
What, bitch?” Tiffany asked groggily.

After the newscaster was done with her graphic recreation of the 1935 Hope Circle murders, the street reporter stood behind a live shot of a beautiful Chestnut Hill home. A triple homicide had taken place there.

Tiffany threw her long, bottled-blonde hair from her face. Brown eyes could not believe what was on the TV. Rhonesia also stared at the screen. The reporter reported that the police was tight-lipped and that they had a suspect in custody. When they heard the name and saw the picture of the suspect they both gagged.

“
I don’t believe it. Not for one second,” Tiffany said. Her thin, pink lips quivered.

“
If I fucked him, I wouldn’t either.”

“
Please. Who wasn’t?” Tiffany shot back.

“
Not me. He’s 30. The NBA won’t want him.”

“
You’re such a gold digger.”

“
Thanks,” Rhonesia said, as if she had heard the grandest compliment. “I ain’t fucking for free.”

Tiffany sat up. She blinked and raked her fingers through her hair.

“
Wydell? A murderer? Not likely.”

“
I’d concur,” Rhonesia said, and opened her laptop. “He played a game and was at the party Saturday night. I don’t believe he did that and then got to Chestnut Hill, killed three people, and then returned home as if nothing happened.”

“
Chestnut Hill, where exactly is that?” Tiffany asked.

She was a Business major, with no intention of working. She would sleep her way to the rank of President of Kodak, or a comparable company.

“
Heading towards Plymouth Meeting,” Rhonesia told her, as she typed rapidly.

“
What are you doing?”

“
Typing!”

“
Evidently!”

“
Prepping my article on the star basketball player’s case.”

“
You’re always looking to exploit somebody. Did you report whose bed ya hot ass slept in last night, ho?”

“
I do not exploit people. I gather facts and fiction and report it. Keep it up, Missy, and your hell-raising Brazilian ass job will be on the front page of the school paper. Please keep trying me, hun.”

“
You wouldn’t. I knew I should not have told you.”

“
Try me!” Rhonesia said and stuffed her book bag. “If I do not come straight back, do not call 9-1-1. I’ll be on assignment.”

“
Breaking news, bitch, you’re not a damn reporter for anyone. You need to bring it down, honey. On assignment.”

“
Bitch, you’re getting real close to my anonymous scandal sheet.”

Rhonesia slammed the room door shut behind her to punctuate her point. She had threatened to blast Tiffany’s ass augmentation in a scandal E-mail that she sent out anonymously to the student body that created news-worthy havoc around campus.

CHAPTER 32

After poorly gratifying his stomach, Jonathan Rude hit the Schuykill Expressway by ten-thirty. He looked over at other drivers and saw a diverse mix of calm faces. He scanned radio stations until he landed on 98.1: the oldies. Marvin Gaye's, “Let's Get it On” played. That sounded like a fabulous idea to Rude.

Jonathan Rude--Mr. Rude if you tried his patience--had the warm, trustworthy face of a kindergartner teacher. He was a steel-nosed, azure eyed man, whose religious beliefs lay with discretion, not God. Call him atheist. Call him an ingrate. Just add private eye behind it.

And he'd make it easy for you to say, too.

He had won a scholarship to San Diego State University in his home town, where he was on the San Diego police beat. Unconfirmed rumors brought him to the East Coast and into the legal hands of Carlos Savino and ultimately, Ravonne Lemmelle.

Rude's charm was experienced and brilliant. An interviewee would be in the kitchen fixing coffee--which he wouldn't drink for fear of poisoning--as he eyeballed their pad, learning all about them. He was a man of detail. A dirt man. And if there was any dirt to find, all efforts to hide it would be futile with Rude on the case.

At the Germantown/Wissahickon exit, he took the Germantown Avenue northbound exit toward his Chestnut Hill crime scene. The slow-moving number-23 bus was in front of him, making his expedition a slow one.

Finally at Chelten Avenue amongst all of the stores aptly dubbed "The Avenue," he went around the bus and passed Germantown High School. The school was not a square or a rectangle, like most of the Philadelphia high schools. The school was in the shape of a capital G. He passed a sign that announced that he had entered Mount Airy before he reached Chestnut Hill, the northernmost point of Philadelphia before entering Montgomery County. He swung around a bus depot and after a short distance, he found 1935 Hope Circle, his mark.

The gabled mansion, tucked neatly behind birch trees, sat at the end of a driveway that opened into a circle with a fountain nucleus that could rival the water show outside of the Las Vegas Bellagio Hotel.
This is the actually crime scene
, he thought.
Very nice. Posh
. With the handsome snow covering the roof and trees, ice needles hung from the porch and snow filled fountains could grace a winter issue of Architectural Digest.