One to Go (33 page)

“Uncle Tom?”

“Yes, Angie.”

“Do you think my mommy and daddy are in heaven?”

Janie spoke before he could answer. “Everybody goes to heaven. Isn't that right, Daddy? When I die, I'll go to heaven?”

He froze. Blood drained from his face.
Afraid she's burnt to a crisp
.

Eva looked at him curiously. “Tom?”

One to go
.

Eva jumped in. “Yes, honey, you and Angie and everybody will go to heaven when they die, but that won't be for a long, long time.” She covered Tom's hand with hers. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He had to get control of himself.

Janie whispered into her cousin's ear, and Angie's face appeared to soften. She whispered back.

“Whispering in front of someone's impolite,” said Tom, struggling to make his voice appear normal.

“Angie wants to know if Eva's your girlfriend,” said Janie.

Tom glanced at Eva, not sure how to answer.

“I'd like to be your daddy's girlfriend, if that would be okay with you.”

By her solemn expression, it was clear Janie took her responsibility seriously. She whispered in Angie's ear again, then both girls covered their mouths to suppress the giggles. Angie's blues had at least temporarily faded.

Janie rendered her verdict. “It's okay.”

“So now you got to kiss,” said Angie.

“Do I have to?” said Tom. The girls nodded in unison. Tom turned and kissed Eva, holding it longer than was probably appropriate for Chuck E. Cheese's on a Friday afternoon. He passed a handful of tokens across the table. “Why don't you girls go try your hand at Skee Ball?” Janie divided the tokens evenly with her cousin, and they took off for the bowling game set up on the far wall.

“She's delightful,” said Eva. “So full of life.”

Tom struggled to keep his eyes dry. Yeah, full of life, unlike Emma 2, whose body was about to be locked inside a small white casket underground, the decomposition already begun. And whose soul was—

Stop
. He'd promised Gayle not to talk about Emma 2 unless the girls brought it up, and so far they hadn't. But watching Janie run toward the games, laughing with her cousin, so innocent, he knew he didn't need a gun. He would strangle a man, any man, with his bare hands to protect her.

“Tell me about your run-in with Castro,” said Eva. “You were rather cryptic on the phone.”

“That was just a tactic to persuade you to join me for lunch.”

At that moment, a tableful of seven-year-olds wearing party hats screamed as the birthday boy opened a present revealing the latest video game.

“Why would you need a ruse to invite me for a quiet, romantic lunch?”

They both laughed easily, then Tom recounted Castro's information about the silencer.

“It's good news,” said Eva.

“Only good?”

“Remember, anything that can raise a reasonable doubt in the mind of a single juror is good. We add that to the very weak motive, the fact that the gun was not technically in our possession, the fact that they only found a partial print and it gives us a fighting chance.”

“But?”

She held his gaze, now the attorney, not the lunch date. “I'd rather have their case than ours. Her place was tossed, yet nothing valuable was taken. Clearly evidence of a fight, maybe a fight that got out of control. The proximity of the gun to your car is strong circumstantial evidence. We both saw there was no evidence of anyone breaking into your place. So unless you can explain how your gun magically flew out of your apartment, killed Jessica Hawkins, then flew back, we have a tough sell.”

Truthfully, Tom didn't care. He knew he didn't kill Jess. He also knew he had less than two days to identify a bad guy and take his life. After that, after Janie was safe, he could deal with whatever happened. A thought occurred to him. If somehow he could persuade Eva to get him a list—

“Both you and Zig said the best way to clear me was to find out who really did it.”

“You've remembered the clue, the doo-wop thing?”

“Not yet. Look, in all likelihood, whoever killed Jess was no amateur. He's probably killed before. Can you get a list of defendants who are either out on bail for a murder charge, or beat a murder rap?”

“In this city that won't be a short list.”

“Limit the list to those who've murdered in the last, say, five years.”

“And then what?”

“PDS has an investigator. He can run down where they were on the night she was killed, any previous connections to her, you know, like—”

“Like on TV. Only it doesn't work that way in real life. Depending on how long the list is, you're talking about a major undertaking,
which, I've got to be honest, smells like a wild goose chase.”

“Sometimes, the wild goose gets caught.” He offered his most charming smile.

She sighed. “Okay. It'll probably take several weeks to—”

“No.” Realizing he'd spoken too sharply, he quickly continued. “To save time, as you get names, why don't you pass them on to me, and I'll see if maybe they're familiar. Maybe even this afternoon? You know, just a few clicks of the computer.” He again tried his grade-
A
charming smile, with even less success.

“Today? Friday afternoon? Do you realize you're talking about the federal government here? Are you nuts?”

“I don't know, maybe I heard Jess mention their name or something.”

“No promises, but I'll see what I can do. My guess is, Jess would never have known the men who'll end up on your list. They're going to be really bad people.”

Good
.

Later Friday afternoon, Zig called.

“Good news, Booker. Starting Monday morning, you're back to work.”

The powers that be at SHM had decided that since they were paying him, they might as well get some billable hours in return. Zig explained his name wouldn't be attached to any particular project, for fear the client might not take kindly to representation from the only suspect in the formerly red-striped Intern Murder.

After Tom thanked him for his concern, Zig asked, “So, how's your nose? To tell you the truth, it improves your look. People pay a lot of money to get a nose job, and you got yours for free.”

“Screw you.” Tom had to smile. He knew Zig was ragging him to help bring him back to normal, and he appreciated it. Normal. Funny.

“What's new with your case?” asked Zig. Tom explained the revelation about a silencer being used. “I didn't know they could do that.”

“I'm not sure what it means. Eva says I need to try to decipher Jess' doo-wop clue.”

“Come up with anything?”

“I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about it.”

“Are you crazy? What's more important than keeping your ass out of jail? What the hell have you been thinking about that's more important?”

Well, did I mention I'm waiting for a list of candidates from
which to select the lucky man whose life I intend to take in less than thirty-two hours? “I don't know, nothing, everything.” Very wimpy answer.

“Just to help you along, I e-mailed you the link to a list of the most popular doo-wop groups of the '50s and '60s. Promise me you'll look it over.”

“Promise.”

“Got to get back to the salt mines. Study the list and call me if anything strikes a
chord
.”

Tom responded with the exaggerated groan he knew Zig was expecting, then hung up, music the last thing on his mind.

At three on Saturday morning, Tom sat in the Ford, dressed in black, watching the dilapidated row house in East Baltimore. The city was dead, but as he'd moved deeper into the poorest neighborhoods, he'd seen more activity. Every twenty minutes or so, he'd observe three or four youths, most wearing the ubiquitous hoodie, sauntering down the street, seemingly without a destination. So far, apparently no one had noticed him in the dark shadows, but he locked the car just in case.

He laughed to himself. Here he was about to kill one of the local residents, and he was worried about being accosted.

A little after six, Eva had called and told him she'd found only one name so far—Sean Williams—a white male dirtbag who fit the criteria, but she expected a much larger list by Wednesday. Sorry, four days too late, so Sean was the lucky winner. He'd been charged with first-degree murder for a drive-by. Key witness caught the amnesia bug on the second day of trial. Because the trial had begun and jeopardy attached, the case not only had to be dismissed for lack of evidence, but Williams couldn't be re-tried. Tom insisted on Eva revealing Williams' address—he'd moved to Baltimore—and e-mailing his mug shot.

Tom wished he'd had a gun. Not just because of the increased chances of success, but because a gun was impersonal. He could've
stayed in his car and pulled the trigger. He rolled the wooden handle of the eight-inch serrated kitchen knife in his hand. The knife would require him to be up close and personal.

He didn't care—
one to go
—he'd be killing a cold-blooded murderer to save his daughter—
one to go
—the man deserved to die, his daughter was an innocent seven-year-old—
one to go
.

Tom saw the row house door open; his grip tightened on the knife. But it was a young black woman with an infant in her arms. He relaxed. What was she doing out at this hour? Could that be Williams' wife? Girlfriend? Maybe the kid was his, and Tom would be ensuring the kid grew up without a father. Tom shoved those thoughts from his mind. He had to focus.

The woman appeared angry. She walked down the three, stained marble steps to the cracked sidewalk, where she greeted a group of young men and women passing by and joined them, moving away from the house. When do these people sleep?

After another hour, there was still no sign of Williams. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he wasn't there. Maybe he'd never been there, and Eva had given him—

The cracked wooden door to the row house opened again, and Williams emerged.

Tom's stomach tightened and he breathed harder. His target appeared short, maybe 5'7”, and he couldn't have weighed more than 150, 160 pounds at most.
Good
.

Williams looked up and down the street. Probably searching for the young woman. In his bare feet, wearing only a black t-shirt and what looked like pajama bottoms, Williams gave the clear impression he'd been sleeping. He shivered from the night chill, crossed the stoop, and walked down to the sidewalk. Tom also checked the street and saw no activity. The man was alone and vulnerable, his reflexes still dulled from sleep. Tom had to act now.

Tom slid the knife's blade up into his coat sleeve, maintaining a grip on the handle, then exited the car. The sound of the car door opening and closing drew Williams' attention. Though Williams was white, Tom assumed anybody, including Williams, who saw
a white guy in this neighborhood at three a.m. would conclude he was a cop. At least that's what he hoped. Otherwise, there was an excellent chance Williams would run into his house and come back shooting.

He saw the man tense up. Tom tried to act authoritative, but each of his four limbs shook inside his clothing.

“You Sean Williams?” asked Tom.

“What you want?” asked Williams. “I ain't done nothin'.”

“Got some ID?” asked Tom, deepening his voice to sound official.

“You know who I am or you wouldn't be here.”

“Hold your hands out wide so I can see them.” Williams complied, just as Tom had hoped. Tom moved closer toward the man. Could he do this? Could he plunge a knife into another human being?

One to go
.

Tom's eyes widened. He couldn't breathe. He pulled the knife from his sleeve and stepped inside Williams' open arms. He was close enough to kiss the man. He saw Williams' eyes widen in surprise, then glance down at the knife; surprise turned to fear.
Now!

Tom hesitated for a fraction of a second. Williams instinctively stepped back, tripping on the step. He fell backwards and hit his head on the sharp marble, momentarily stunning him.

Tom stood over the semi-conscious man. One quick plunge of the knife into his heart. Or, even easier, a deft slice of his exposed throat. Still no one around.

One to go one to go one to go
.

Tom crouched down and positioned the serrated blade under Williams' ear. The man regained consciousness and stared up at him, terror in his eyes. He had sunken cheeks, heavy acne scars pocked his pale skin, and greasy brown hair hung straight down into his face.

“Sorry,” whispered Tom. Tom didn't know why but he felt compelled to explain. “See, if I don't do this, my daughter, she'll be killed and—”

Williams tried to get up, but Tom exerted more pressure on the knife, and the young man stopped his resistance.