Authors: Solomon Jones

Ride or Die (11 page)

BOOK: Ride or Die

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The outfit wouldn't hide his identity for long, even in a crowd. And the prostitutes they'd left in the house would soon break the makeshift bonds that Jamal had tied around their hands, mouths, and feet.

“Don't look back,” Jamal said as the two of them moved away from the crowd and walked toward the corner of the block. “Just follow me.”

Keisha couldn't have looked back if she'd wanted to. She was filled with a fear she'd never known, and an uncertainty that
left her almost completely crippled. That is, until she glanced at Jamal.

The tied-up shirt fit awkwardly on his lean, tight physique. And the head scarf gave him the theatrical look of a drag queen.

“You know you look crazy, right?” she asked, grinning nervously as they turned the corner.

“Not as crazy as I'd look in prison,” he said, absently scanning the street. “Or dead.”

His words were sobering, and her grin rapidly disappeared.

“You see that car?” he asked as he spotted a blue Dodge Neon riding slowly down the block.

“Yeah,” Keisha said, watching the middle-aged driver trying to wave her over to his car.

“Go over there and talk to him,” Jamal said. “Get him to open the door.”

Keisha looked at Jamal as if she didn't want to do it.

“Just say, âWhat's up?'” Jamal said quickly. “He'll do the rest. Now hurry up 'fore he drive away.”

Jamal crossed the street, leaving Keisha to her own devices.

The car slowed down and stopped as Keisha approached. She was luscious, even in a soiled miniskirt and halter top. And with her ample cleavage on display, she was downright irresistible.

“What's up?” she said as the driver pulled up and stopped in front of her.

The man was heavy, and his face was covered with sweat. His beady eyes darting to and fro, it was clear that he was uneasy. He knew that she was too beautiful for these streets. And with an incident around the corner drawing so many police to the area, he wondered if she was part of some sort of sting.

“You ain't no cop, is you?” he said, stammering slightly.

She shook her head and tried to give him a reassuring smile.

The man watched her for a few seconds more. And though it
was clear that he still had lingering doubts about her, lust overcame sound judgment, and he reached over to unlock his door.

“Get in,” he said gruffly.

Before the words were even out of his mouth, Jamal, who had crept over to the side of the car, leaped into the front seat holding the gun.

“Hey, what are youâ”

“Shut up,” Jamal said, pulling the bucket seat forward to allow Keisha to get in the back.

The driver's beady eyes looked from one of them to the other, and his face began to tremble as Jamal shut the door and locked it.

“Don't hurt me,” he said, holding his hands up in the air.

“Put your hands down and drive,” Jamal said calmly.

The man hesitated for a moment, and Jamal jammed the gun into his ribs.

“Now,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Go straight'til I tell you to turn. Not too fast.”

The man did as he was told while looking back at Keisha.

She refused to look at him. But as the driver rode past the block where a throng of police were gathered at the crime scene, she couldn't help stealing a glance at Jamal.

When the
cab Nola had taken from the Thirtieth Street Station pulled onto her block, there were police cars lined up outside her brownstone, plainclothes and uniformed officers were trotting up and down her steps, and her neighbors were peering out their windows, shaking their heads at the spectacle of it all.

The driver stopped, and Nola tipped him generously before getting out of the taxi. Then she crossed the small street with her head held high, as everyoneâpolice and neighbors alikeâstopped what they were doing to watch her.

They couldn't help it. Nola was polished femininity, dressed provocatively yet tastefully, with a beauty that shone like sunlight, and a raw sexuality that lingered just beneath.

With a hint of perfume trailing behind her, she nodded politely as she passed the officers on her steps and stepped into her house.

She walked through her vast living room and the ornate dining
room and entered the state-of-the-art kitchen. She dropped her purse on the counter, and there was the crunch of glass under her feet as she stepped on the windowpane the police had broken when they'd entered her home.

The sound of it was a reminder of what had happened there this morning. It made her angry.

“Marquita!” she called out, then turned around to unleash her wrath. “Marquita, are youâ”

“Who's Marquita?” Lynch said, startling her as he walked into the kitchen.

Nola jumped. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Lieutenant Lynch,” he said, handing her a folded piece of paper. “And this is my warrant. It allows us to search the premises for any weapons that may have been used in, or documents pertaining to, the murder of Commissioner Darrell Freeman.”

Nola skimmed the warrant and handed it back to him.

“And what does any of that have to do with me?”

“Frank Nichols is wanted in connection with the police commissioner's murder,” Lynch said with a shrug. “He was spotted here this morning. Now, can I ask you a question?”

“You're the one with the warrant,” she said, folding her arms.

“Who's Marquita?”

“My daughter. She lives here with me.”

“I see,” he said, almost to himself. “I guess that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“There were, um, signs that Mr. Nichols wasn't alone.”

“If you're trying to tell me that my daughter slept with him, I already know that,” she said, her eyes flashing anger as she fell into a nearby chair and crossed her legs.

“She called me this morning and told me what she had done. I guess she figured I'd find out sooner or later, since the police had come here looking for Frank.”

“Was she here when we arrived this morning?”

“I don't know,” Nola said. “I was on my way in from New York when she called. But she did tell me that the police had been here.”

“Well,” Lynch said, thinking aloud. “Until we find out different, we're going to have to operate under the assumption that she was here, and that she went with him when he ran. Depending on how things turn out, that could make her an accessory to murder.”

Nola's eyes welled up with tears. Embarrassed, she wiped them away quickly. “I'm sorry,” she said, sniffling. “I just don't want to see my daughter caught up in this.”

“Then maybe you need to start talking.”

“If I had something to tell, Lieutenant,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I would tell it. But I don't.”

“So instead of talking, you're going to allow yourself to be dragged into this?”

A cloud of anxiety passed over her face. But just like the anger that had appeared in her eyes a few minutes before, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“I'm not going to be dragged into anything,” she said, growing more agitated. “I don't know anything about Frank's business, I certainly don't know anything about any murder, and I've never committed a crime in my life. The only thing I'm guilty of is choosing badly when it comes to men.”

Lynch looked her up and down. Then he made a great show of looking around at the trappings of her wealth before resting his gaze on her again.

“Looks to me like you can have any man you want,” he said, looking at her through narrowed eyes. “Why Frank Nichols?”

“Isn't it obvious?” she said with a disingenuous smile. “That
is
who I want.”

Both she and Lynch knew that there was more to it than that. But Nola wasn't about to talk.

As Lynch stared at her in hopes of breaking the stalemate, Detective Ron Hubert, a curly-haired homicide veteran, approached Lynch from behind.

“We're wrapping it up, Lieutenant,” he said, looking from Lynch to Nola and sensing the tension. “There's nothing here.”

Lynch looked back at the detective, then at Nola. “I find that hard to believe,” he said. “But then, I find a lot of things hard to believe.”

The message wasn't lost on Nola. She got up from her seat, snatched her purse off the counter, and reached inside for a business card.

“I find it hard to believe that you're here harassing me when there's a murderer out there someplace,” she said while scribbling a number on the back of the card.

She stopped to look at her watch. “If you hear anything about Frank or my daughter, please call me. Now, if we're finished here, I've got a pressing business appointment. Do me a favor and lock the door when you leave.”

Nola handed Lynch the card and started to walk out.

“Ms. Langston,” Lynch called after her.

Nola turned around. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Don't go too far,” he said, locking eyes with her.

“I wouldn't dream of it,” she said with a quick grin. “Good day.”

As she walked away, Hubert turned around to admire her extensive attributes. Lynch looked at her business card.

“Says here she's a buyer for Strawbridge's and Lord & Taylor,” he said, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “A nine-to-five couldn't support a woman like that.”

He turned to the detective. “I want her followed. I want to know where she goes, who she's with, and what she does.”

“Okay, Lieutenant.”

As the detective rushed out to catch Nola, Lynch's cell phone began to ring.

He answered it, and after listening to the officer on the other end for a few seconds, he disconnected the call while staring across the room in shock.

There'd been another police shooting in the Twenty-fifth District. And it looked like Jamal Nichols was involved.

The sounds of clanging pots and sizzling oil emanated from the Andersons' kitchen. But even as the sisters from the pastor's aid committee prepared him a meal, John sat sullenly on the couch, trying desperately not to think of what the Nichols boy was doing to his daughter.

A white-haired deacon sat to John's right. A younger deacon in a wrinkled black suit sat to his left. Both men had tried to speak words of comfort to their pastor. But John couldn't hear them. Because the sisters and the deacons, while they meant well, were reminders of what had filled his family with bitterness.

John had given his all to his parishioners, just as they were now giving their all to him. But over the years, he had forgotten that his family should be his first ministry. And now he was paying the price.

When Sarah walked in, having accepted the ride home that the detective had offered to her husband, she was even angrier than she'd been when they'd argued back at police headquarters.

“How you doin', Sister Sarah?” the white-haired deacon asked as she crossed the room.

“Not good, Deacon Burrows,” she said as she shot a malevolent glance at her husband. “Not good at all.”

John could feel her eyes, but he didn't look up, because he didn't want to argue with her anymore.

Deacon Burrows saw the tension between them and stood up. The other deacon followed his lead.

Walking over to the pastor's wife, Burrows spoke quietly. “Just remember, Sister Sarah, God knows what you goin' through and He gon' move in His own time,” he said reassuringly. “And when He move, He gon' move in a mighty way.”

Sarah didn't respond. Neither did John.

Seeing their lack of faith, the old deacon shook his head disappointedly. “We'll be in the kitchen if you need us,” he said as he and the younger man shuffled out of the room.

Sarah put down her purse and crossed to the mantelpiece. While John sat quietly on their battered couch, she looked around the room, and shook her head. She saw the dull red rug in the middle of their worn hardwood floor, the sparse furnishings that were scattered about, and the Christian study books lining the bookshelf along the far wall.

Seeing what little they had made Sarah question the sacrifice they'd made for the ministry.

She glanced across the room through watery eyes while her husband mouthed something that looked like a prayer.

Thoughts of her husband crowded thoughts of her daughter, and she grew angry. She stomped across the room and brushed against the bookshelf. Several books tumbled down onto the floor, and she was furious.

She screamed out of frustration. It was a sound that brought John leaping from the couch and the deacons and the sisters running in from the kitchen. John knelt down next to his weeping wife as the church members looked at each other worriedly.

When John reached out gingerly to touch Sarah, to wrap his arm around her shoulders, she flinched and he retreated. He reached out again, this time more firmly. She melted into him as he held her in his long, powerful arms.

“Why?” she asked, her mouth quivering as the tears streaked her face. “Why did God do this to us?”

John's mind raced through all the things he'd done to people in his past. And as the bloody memories overtook him, he couldn't help but think of the Bible verse that talked about sowing to the wind and reaping the whirlwind.

“God doesn't do everything to us, Sarah,” he said solemnly. “Some things we do to ourselves.”

The two of them sat in the middle of the floor, sobbing and holding one another, as they swayed to the rhythm of their grief. Instinctively, the deacons and the sisters surrounded them, joined hands, and began to pray.

John and Sarah sat there within the circle of prayer. Things were almost as they used to be. John and his wife were close to one another and sharing each other's burdens. But something was missing. Something they'd stopped looking for long ago.

John bowed his head and joined the others in silent prayer as Sarah slowly lifted her head from his shoulder and stared straight ahead. Her eyes were red, not from the tears, but from the fiery anger that burned in her heart.

“I've got to get out of here,” Sarah said, pulling away from him. “I need some air.”

One of the sisters started to take off her apron and go after her, but Deacon Burrows put out his arm to stop her. This was a family matter, he said with his eyes. Reluctantly, the woman stood still.

John watched his wife fetch her purse from the armchair and
walk out the door, and he knew that his prayers would not be enough this time.

The moment he arrived at the crime scene, Kevin Lynch knew that he'd been there before. It was an area that had long been a hotbed of prostitution, and as such, it had played host to its share of murders.

This time was different, however, because one of the victims was a cop, the second to die in one day. Lynch couldn't remember anything like that ever happening before.

Parking his car behind a paddy wagon, Lynch walked past a throng of police and approached the slain officer's partner.

“You MacAleer?” he asked the red-haired cop who was leaning against a district car.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes downcast in grief.

“I'm Lieutenant LynchâHomicide. You want to tell me what happened here?”

MacAleer sighed. “My partner got outta the wagon to take a piss. He walked up on some people in the alley. There were gunshots. By the time I got out and made it over to him, he was dead and so was the shooter.”

Lynch nodded. “You and your partner always piss in alleys where prostitutes hang out?”

MacAleer shrugged. “It's a tough neighborhood. Guy's gotta piss somewhere.”

“And hookers have to do business somewhere, right?” Lynch asked, looking down at MacAleer's zipper, which was still undone.

BOOK: Ride or Die

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