Player & the Game (8 page)

“Why'd you run?” the older one persisted. “We weren't going to arrest you. We were just going to ask you a few questions.”

Keith shrugged, playing stupid. He kept his gaze on a broken seesaw on the other side of the yard.

“You know you don't have any business being out here doing what you're doing. You understand what those guys are selling, what they're doing to your neighborhood? You don't wanna get mixed up with that shit, son.” He shook his head. “Does your mother know what you're doing out here? Does she know how close you are from disappearing for a long time?”

Keith turned his face into a block of granite, mimicking the hard, often intimidating expressions he saw on the faces of the neighborhood dealers. It was an expression that said he wasn't a snitch and he wasn't a punk. He wasn't afraid of going to jail either. But the hot tears coming from his eyes, searing his cheeks, gave him away. So did his sniffing.

The truth was that he
was
afraid. He wasn't a hardened criminal looking to make a fast grand selling crack on a street corner. He was a lonely ten-year-old boy who really,
really
wanted a ten-speed bike and was doing what he had to do to get it. He didn't want to go to jail and never see his mom again.

“Yeah, I didn't think so,” the older cop said. He let out a heavy sigh. “Look, we're gonna let you go. I don't—”

“
What?
” Harris shouted, pushing himself away from the chain-link fence. “No, we're not fucking letting him go! I just sprinted a goddamn mile so we could bring him in. We're not—”

“We're going to let you go,” the older one began again. He was talking to Keith but he turned his gaze to Harris. His gray eyes suddenly became hard as steel. “We're going to take off these handcuffs and we're going to send you on your way.”

Harris gritted his teeth. His pink nostrils flared with anger. The blue veins stood along his forehead.

Keith, relieved beyond belief, fought back a smile.

“But I don't ever want to see you standing on some street corner helping those bastards again, all right?” the older cop ordered, returning his full attention to Keith. “Because if I
do
catch you doing it again, I
am
going to arrest you. You get me? I'm not bullshitting you here!”

Keith sniffed again and quickly nodded. The nod was as good as a solemn promise. A minute later he was out of the handcuffs, flexing his wrists, and nursing a sore shoulder. He glanced at the name tag on the older officer's chest.

Sgt. Stokowski
, he sounded out slowly in his head. He had never seen a name like that before.

“Like I said,” the officer repeated, “I don't want to see you out here ever again. But I want you to take my card.” He handed Keith a business card. “You're gonna be the odd man out for a while. If some shit goes down, I want you to call me, son. You hear me?”

Keith grunted in reply. He watched as the two cops slowly walked off. Harris gave him one final menacing stare as he followed his partner. Keith fought the urge to give him the middle finger, deciding not to press his luck.

He was thankful to see their backs disappear behind the corner of a building and felt like he had aged twenty years in ten minutes. He silently vowed never to get caught in this type of mess again and stayed good to that vow.

He wished with the exit of the officers that would have been the end of it, but of course it wasn't. Word spread throughout the projects that Keith had been chased by the police, caught, and questioned. The many windows of their brick and concrete complex had eyes after all, but the eyes weren't always accurate. Some said that Keith—scared and intimidated—had given the police the names of drug dealers and information about where they hung out. The fact that he didn't want to work for the dealers anymore didn't help either. It made them even more suspicious.

The cop had been right. Suddenly, the industrious ten-year-old
was
the odd man out and had a lot fewer friends than he had before. He began to fear the hostile stares that followed him around his neighborhood when he arrived home from school. He watched his back whenever his mother sent him to the corner store for a pack of Slims. One night when gunshots went through the second-floor window of his and his mother's one-bedroom apartment, Keith knew it wasn't an accident. He took it as a warning.

You never,
ever
talked to cops, not even if you wanted their help, not even if your life depended on it. But this time, Keith did. Unsure of whom else he could turn to, he told his mother everything and she called Sgt. Mike Stokowski. Mike met Keith and his mom at a diner by the Baltimore waterfront, overlooking the wharf. He paid for their meal of hamburgers, milk shakes, and French fries and listened to Keith's story. This time Keith did give names, but reluctantly. He had respected these neighborhood drug dealers. They were the closest thing he knew to celebrities. They had doted on him like he was a little brother, showering him with money, tossing him their castoff gold chains. But all that had changed now.

Half a dozen of them were arrested a month later based partially on information Keith gave, but by then, Keith and his mom were no longer living in the projects. Stokowski had helped them move to a small duplex in the Baltimore County suburbs. The landlord—an old white lady who smelled like mothballs and seemed permanently coated with a layer of cat hair—let them live there at a steep discount thanks to a Section 8 subsidy and a good word from the Baltimore City cop. Keith transferred to the mostly white elementary school in his new neighborhood during the middle of the school year.

Keith felt like he had just been dropped into another world, full of strange people and odd customs. The streets were so clean that he was scared to spit bubble gum on the ground, and so quiet that he could hear crickets at night. They sounded as loud as police sirens. The kids at school didn't wear Air Jordans and satin bomber jackets, but polo shirts and acid-washed jeans. No one listened to Bell Biv DeVoe and LL Cool J, but U2 and this new band called Nirvana.

It was a hard adjustment in the beginning, but Mike told him it would happen over time. The cop checked up on him regularly to see how he was doing, to see if he was sliding back to his old ways.

After awhile Mike became a permanent fixture in Keith's life. When Keith joined the basketball varsity team at his junior high, Mike cheered him on at games. When Keith graduated high school with a 3.0 grade point average, Stokowski stood in the crowd with Keith's mother, filming with a video camera as Keith proudly walked across the auditorium stage.

For years, Keith never understood why Mike had chosen him to watch over. The single man with no children wasn't exactly Santa Claus. He was a bit of a curmudgeon and could be gruff at times. But he always was there with open ears when Keith needed him. He gave money from his own wallet when household emergencies arose and Keith's mom was short on cash. Was Mike the bleeding heart his old partner had accused him of being, or some crazy white guy who felt the need to save all the poor black people from the ghetto?

Finally, when Keith was a sophomore in college studying criminal justice, Mike confessed that he had shown Keith so much attention because he had seen himself in him.

“Don't look so damned surprised,” Mike said with a chuckle when Keith stared at him with wide-eyed disbelief. “We don't look a damn thing alike, but we're not that different you and me. I grew up in the Bronx. I was a smart-ass, smart-mouth kid just like you. I thought I could hustle and make my way in the world without help from anybody, but I figured out quick that wasn't true. When I wised up, I realized I needed help. I needed a guide, a mentor . . . just like you needed one. That's all.”

But that wasn't all. Mike had long ago surpassed the role of mentor for Keith. The portly, foul-mouthed man was the paternal figure he never had and Keith was eternally grateful to him. He had taken Keith and his mom out of the projects. He had taught him about honor, respect, and how to be a real man who stuck to his word. He had changed the course of Keith's life. He had
saved
him. For that, he loved the old man with all his heart, despite Mike's many faults. He loved him like a father.

So when Mike retired after thirty-five years on the Baltimore police force, announced that he wanted to become a private detective, and asked if Keith would join him, Keith found it nearly impossible to say no. This was despite the fact that Keith had become an ATF agent only three years earlier after making several attempts to join their ranks. This was despite the fact that Keith wasn't sure if he was cut out for the life of a licensed private investigator. But, after a few weeks of reflection, he turned in his resignation to the feds and joined Mike at his new agency. He figured the old man had taken a chance on him long ago. It only seemed right that he return the favor.

 

Keith finished the last of his bean sprout sandwich. Mike had been right. It had tasted like crap. He looked across the room at Mike who was sucking the last of the marinara sauce from his plump fingers—gloating like a five-year-old. Mike then let out a loud belch, making Keith shake his head in exasperation and chuckle.

“So,” Keith said, leaning forward, “you happy now? Ready to help a brothah out?”

Mike slowly folded the sub's wax paper wrapping. He tossed it and his soda bottle into his already overflowing trash can.

“Well,” Mike said, “I was looking at your notes, and the only thing that jumped out at me was the part about his newest con victim, that real estate agent . . . the Stephanie woman.”

“Yeah? What about her? I went to her place and talked to her. She said she didn't know where Isaac went.” He paused. “Do you think she's lying?”

Mike slowly shook his head and looked down at the notes in front of him. “No, but you didn't ask her much else. You could've asked her for a few more details, like if anything stood out the last day she saw him. Did Isaac say anything particular about where he was going? You know . . . stuff like that.”

Keith shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I could have.”

“But you didn't,” Mike said, pointing down at the sheet of paper in front of him. “You said you stayed for ten minutes then high-tailed it out of there.”

“I wouldn't call it ‘high-tailing out of there.' ”

“Well, you left in a hurry. Any reason why?”

“I don't know. I guess I just thought I got all the information I could get out of her,” he said, starting to feel uncomfortable with Mike's questioning. He shifted his gaze to his desk. “And it was late. She looked tired. I didn't see the point in drilling her if she couldn't tell me anything.”

Mike stared at Keith for several seconds. He narrowed his gray eyes. “What are you not telling me?”

“What do you mean?”

“The con artist who you've been tracking down for more than a month, who've you've been following almost nonstop for about a week suddenly jets out of town. You go to the house of the last woman who saw him and she agrees to talk to you. But you hardly ask her any questions because she ‘
looked tired
.' You don't even go back the next morning to talk to her or follow up with a phone call.” Mike tilted his head. His bushy eyebrows were raised. “That doesn't make sense, Keith. Somethin's up.”

Keith sighed. “Mike, what's with the third degree? If you want me to call her back, I'll call her back.”

“Hey, it's just I've been in this business long enough to know when someone's bullshitting me. That's all. And a lot of stink is drifting off you right now, my friend. I just wanna know what's up? What are you not telling me?”

Keith didn't know how to explain to Mike that he had left Stephanie Gibbons's home and hadn't asked her more questions because he felt uncomfortable around her. He knew if he stayed any longer he was going to do something he regretted—like kissing her—and it seemed best for them both for him to just leave. But Mike was right. He definitely should follow up to question her more thoroughly. She certainly seemed more than willing to help him find Isaac again and she could offer a potential lead he hadn't considered. But he'd be damned if he did it in a room alone with that woman. That would just lead to all kinds of trouble.

“Look, I admit, I messed up,” he said quietly. “I should have followed up with her. How about I give her a call and invite her up here to talk? That way we
both
can question her this time.”

Mike nodded. “All right, that doesn't sound like a bad idea.”

Good,
Keith thought, as he looked through his copy of his notes to find the number to her real estate office. At least there would be a chaperone of sorts with Mike there. That way, Keith stood less of a chance of trying to kiss the small-town temptress senseless.

I
'm nervous,
Stephanie thought, as she drove her silver BMW down the busy street. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.
Why am I nervous?

She was on her way to the detectives' office for a scheduled appointment. Stephanie wasn't sure what to expect when she got there. Her experience at the Chesterton Sheriff's Office had left her badly shaken and questioning herself. That look of contempt in the detective's eyes still haunted her. She sincerely hoped the meeting with these private investigators would go better.

She had been shocked when PI Keith Hendricks suddenly called her out of the blue and asked her to come to his Vienna, Va., office about 40 minutes away for an interview. She had planned to track him down and ask him if they could talk again, but he had beaten her to the punch. Maybe Lauren had been right after all. Maybe this guy was willing to take her seriously.

Stephanie decelerated and parallel-parked along the curb in front of a two-story, red-bricked walk-up that looked a lot like a townhouse. She pulled her key from the ignition and unbuckled her seatbelt.

She squinted at the building, staring at the English sign saying
QUICKIE DRYCLEANER
with Korean script beneath it in the first-floor window. She remembered the PI mentioning the last time she spoke to him that their detectives' office was located above this establishment.

Stephanie lowered the visor to look at her reflection in the mirror. A cursory glance showed every curl in place and no lipstick on her teeth, but she paused to do a more critical examination.

For the first time in her life, she had agonized over her usually sexy appearance, not wanting it to work against her. Initially, she had chosen to dress today as she always did when she wasn't working. She had put on a V-neck, ruby red Herve Leger bandage dress that hugged every curve of her body, and towering platform stilettos that complemented her long legs. It was a little breezy outside, so she threw on a suede bolero for the chill. But just as she was about to walk out her front door, she paused and glanced at herself in her living-room mirror. She wondered if maybe—just maybe—her attire gave the wrong impression about her.

Isaac had done her wrong.
She
knew that. But Stephanie also realized that with the reputation she had, some people would see what Isaac had done to her as justice due. Detective Ted Monroe certainly had. She would bet a million dollars that 80 percent of the residents in Chesterton thought the same. She didn't want to go through the whole spiel of explaining her story to Hendricks and his partner, only to have them take one look at her tight dress and bountiful cleavage and think what everyone else thought about her. She figured that the detectives would be less likely to jump to the wrong conclusions about her if she dressed more demurely.

So Stephanie quickly changed clothes, deciding to wear the most conservative outfit she had, which was a white silk blouse with a high, frilly collar and tight-fitting black slacks. It still wasn't exactly demure, but it certainly wasn't quite as sexy as the other ensemble. She examined her reflection one more time and gave it the nod of approval. With that, she felt ready for her meeting.

She now flipped up the visor and with great trepidation, took off her seatbelt, and opened her car door. A minute later, she climbed the hallway stairs to the detectives' office on the second floor. Stephanie nervously gnawed her bottom lip as she stepped on the final riser. Her heart pounded violently in her chest as she turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

When she stepped inside the office, she found an older white guy sitting at his desk, reading the sports section of a newspaper. PI Keith Hendricks was standing near a printer across the room.

When Stephanie thought of detectives, a few archetypes came to mind: Sherlock Holmes with his pipe and traveling cape; Humphrey Bogart wearing a tan trench coat and a gray fedora, with a burning cigarette at his fingertip; and Columbo with his bushy eyebrows and enigmatic squint. But the two men in front of her didn't fit any those archetypes.

The older white guy could have been a high school principal. He was balding and fat and looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties with a fluffy, salt-and-pepper mustache and hairy, thick forearms. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and diagonally striped blue-and-gray tie. He was sipping from a coffee mug but stopped when she opened the door.

Keith was just as handsome as she remembered. The beard stubble was gone and was now replaced with a neatly trimmed goatee. He was wearing jeans again today and a gray T-shirt that showed off the ripples of muscles along his toned arms. His bedroom eyes locked with hers and she felt butterflies flutter in the pit of her stomach.

Stop that,
she ordered the butterflies. She had no idea why she kept reacting this way to him but she would have to bring her emotions under control if she was going to reason with him and his partner like Lauren had suggested. She couldn't be nervous or flustered. She wanted them to take her seriously.

“Hello,” Stephanie said, walking toward the man sitting at the desk. She extended her hand. “Let me guess. You're Mr. Stokowski?”

The old man stood from his chair. “That's me! And you can just call me Mike,” he said, giving her hand a hearty shake. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Gibbons.”

“Please, call me Stephanie,” she said.

“Thanks for coming today, Stephanie.” He pointed to Keith. “And you already know that crazy guy over there.”

Stephanie nodded as Keith walked toward them. She swallowed and decided to handle this situation like she would handle an open house or a private showing with a potential buyer—as professionally as possible. She extended her hand to Keith and forced a smile. “Good to see you again, Mr. Hendricks. Thanks for inviting me.”

He looked down at her hand in surprise, like he hadn't expected her to offer it. But he took it anyway and shook it. When he did, the butterflies started to flutter wildly again, trying to beat their way out of her stomach. They only quieted once the handshake ended.

“Thanks for coming down,” Keith said quietly.

“No problem. I was . . . I was happy to come.” She cleared her throat and looked away from him, choosing to concentrate on the older detective instead. Maybe that would help calm her overwrought nerves. “I want Isaac found just as badly as you guys want to find him. Trust me.”

“Yeah, Keith told me that he stole money from you too,” Mike muttered, shaking his head. “That's a damn shame. I'm sorry he preyed on you like that.”

Stephanie lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry he did too.”

“Well, we'll find him and make sure he pays for what he did. Don't worry.” He then gestured to a nearby group of chairs. “You can have a seat over here, Stephanie,” Mike said. “We'll get right down to business and start the interview now, if that's ok.”

“Sure. That's what I came here for.”

Stephanie sat down in one of the poorly padded seats and within minutes the two men sat in the chairs facing her with notepads and tape recorders in hand.

They were an odd pair—Keith and this Mike guy. She wondered how the two men had become partners. They seemed so different.

“So tell us how you met Isaac,” Mike began.

For the next hour, Stephanie shared all that she knew about Isaac, trying to include as many minute details as she could remember. Mike asked a lot of questions, pausing to scribble notes, nodding his head attentively as she spoke. Meanwhile, Keith seemed to be barely paying attention to her. He kept getting up from his chair to go to the microwave, to the bathroom, or to answer the phone. His constant hopping up and down was starting to become distracting, not to mention that she found it incredibly rude. He didn't make eye contact with her either. Every time she looked at him, his gaze would shift away.

It was so odd. The last time they met, the attraction between them had seemed almost electric. Now he acted as if he didn't want to give her the time of day.

“So you say he gave you a Mercedes roadster and it was towed away?” Mike asked. His gray eyes fixed with concentration as he wrote.

Stephanie nodded. “Yes, Isaac said it was a gift for me. The next day some big guy with tattoos came and took it for nonpayment though.”

“
Big guy with tattoos?
” Mike turned to Keith. “Do you remember Isaac ever driving a roadster or one being registered to any of his aliases?”

Keith slowly shook his head. “Nope, this is the first I'm hearing about it. He had a few cars that he drove around, but that wasn't one of them.”

“That was the only time I ever saw him with this car,” she quickly interjected. “He said he'd been keeping it at his place in South Carolina. The tags were from South Carolina so I guess he wasn't lying about that . . . at least.”

“
South Carolina?
” Mike looked at Keith. “That's interesting.”

The two men exchanged a look that Stephanie could not read.

“Would you happen to remember the license number?” Mike asked.

“No . . . not off the top of my head. Why?”

“If we had the license number, we could track down the name and the address of the owner,” Keith said, finally speaking. “That could be a lead.”

“Well, I don't remember that, but I do remember the name and number of the towing company.”

Both men leaned forward. “You do?” they asked in unison.

“Yeah, it was pretty hard to forget it.”

“What was it then?” Keith asked, pulling out his notepad again.

Stephanie opened her mouth to blurt out 1-800-TRUK-YOU but stopped herself. Judging by how eager both detectives seemed right now, she knew this information she had could be very valuable to them. Maybe she could use it to her advantage and get what she wanted out of this.

“I'll give you the name and number . . . if . . . if you do something for me first.”

Keith furrowed his brows. “What would you like for us to do for you?”

“I want you to make an exception to your rule of not taking on more than one client at a time and let me hire you to track down Isaac.”

Mike blinked. “Huh?”

“I said that I want to hire you to—”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Mike said, holding up his plump hand. “But what's this deal about us not taking on more than one client at a time?”

Stephanie's eyes instantly shifted to Keith. She pointed at him. “Well, the last time he and I spoke, he said . . . He said that you didn't do that sort of thing.”

Keith loudly cleared his throat. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Uh, I think you're a little confused, Miss Gibbons. What I said was—”

“No, I wasn't confused,” she countered tightly. “That's
exactly
what you said.”

Mike stared at them both in bewilderment. Keith looked away.

Her cheeks flushed with heat. He had lied to her! He had blown her off just like she had suspected. But she wouldn't stand for it. Not if they were the ones who needed
her
help this time. If they wanted her help, they would have to take her seriously.

“Mr. Hendricks, do you have a problem with me?”

Mike looked like he was holding back a smile behind his fluffy mustache. He glanced at Keith.

“Uh, no. No, of course not,” Keith answered anxiously, clearing his throat again. “Why would . . . Why would you think I have a problem with you?”

“So I can assume you'd be more than happy to work for me then? Since I was previously
misinformed
about your ability to take on more than one client at a time, I guess you'll gladly accept my offer to hire you now?”

Keith grimaced a little. But he quickly regained control of his face. “Of course,” he muttered.

“Good,” she snapped.

The interview continued but there was obvious tension in the room. By the time Stephanie left, she had given them all the information they needed—including the tow truck company's name and number—but she was livid. She was tired of being patronized and patted on the head. She was tired of men discounting her. First Isaac, then those two bozos at the Sheriff's Office, and now the PI Keith Hendricks was pulling the same crap! She had to take charge from now on. She was going to stay in control of this one.