Authors: Solomon Jones
Ride or Die (18 page)
He found it and laid it on the seat next to the gun. Then he looked at them both, and tried to decide which one was of more value. Which one would bring his daughter back to him? Which one would earn his wife's respect? Which one would change his life from the miserable mess it had become?
With those questions lingering in his mind, John reached up and turned the rearview mirror toward him. He examined his red eyes, the gray stubble of his beard, and the haggard expression on his face. He was tired, in more ways than he cared to think about. But he would have to cast the weariness aside in order to do what he must.
He pushed the mirror back into place. As he did so, he noticed a car about thirty feet to his rear with its hazard lights on. It was sitting in one of the two lanes of traffic.
This was a fairly common sight in Center City, where couriers often made deliveries to office buildings. But the driver of the blue Chrysler wasn't moving. He was sitting in his car, waiting, though it wasn't clear for what.
John took his hand off the mirror, but he continued to watch the driver in the blue car. He was young and dressed like an older man, in a conservative blue suit, and glasses that didn't quite fit his face.
John couldn't be sure, because weariness played tricks with his vision. But even from a distance, it looked like the man was watching him.
John opened the door as if he were exiting the car. Then he looked back and saw the man in the Chrysler do the same.
He closed the door and saw the other driver hesitate before closing his own. John was sure that the man was following him.
Reaching across the seat for the gym bag containing the sawed-off shotgun, John clenched his jaw and opened the door. He was about to get out of the car and make the first stop on his quest to find Keisha. But then he thought about it, and knew that he'd forgotten something. He reached across the seat and grabbed his Bible as well.
He put two quarters in the meter and looked back for the man in the blue car. He was gone. John looked down the street to see if he had driven away, but there was no sign of the man or the car.
John shook his head and hoped that fatigue hadn't caused him to imagine it. Then he turned and walked down Ninth Street, toward the Gallery Mall and the Strawbridge's where Keisha worked.
He descended the steps into the mall and turned left before climbing the steps that led to Keisha's job. He hadn't been there in a while, and was momentarily confused.
He found a directory near the bank of ornately designed elevators in the middle of the store, took one of the elevators to the upper floors, and walked quickly to the management offices, glancing behind him all the while.
A secretary greeted him as he walked through a set of glass doors.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked with a smile.
“I'm looking for a manager,” John said while nervously clutching his bag.
“Do you need to talk to a manager from a certain department?”
“I'm not sure. See, my daughter's been working here for the summer. And now, she's missing.”
John paused to allow the truth of those words to sink in. He didn't know that speaking them would cause him such pain.
“I'm so sorry,” the secretary said, her face creasing in sympathy. “Please have a seat.”
“No, I'm fine standing. If I sit down I might go to sleep. I've been up all night.”
“That's understandable.”
“Anyway, I'm wondering if I might be able to talk to her supervisor, or someone who could tell me some of the places she liked to go, the people she hung around with, that sort of thing.”
“What's your daughter's name?”
“Keisha Anderson.”
“Oh, that's your daughter. I've been seeing that on the news all morning. I'm sorry.”
“If you could just get me her supervisor,” John said impatiently. He was already growing tired of the sympathy.
“Of course,” the secretary said, getting on the intercom and calling for a manager.
It took a few minutes for the woman to come up on the elevator. But when she arrived, with her hair curled perfectly and her slim brown frame ensconced in a flowing summer print, it was clear that she was a woman of style. The type of woman that Keisha had always wanted to be.
“Mr. Anderson,” she said, extending her hand. “I'm Sheila Jackson. I work with your daughter in Women's Wear.”
“My pleasure,” he said, taking her hand.
“Would you like to rest your bag?”
“No,” he said, a bit too quickly, and held the bag tightly to his side. “I really don't plan to be here that long.”
“I see,” she said, looking at him strangely. “Well, I heard about what happened on the news, and I have to say, I'm a bit
confused. I thought they knew who your daughter was with. So I'm wondering exactly how I can help you.”
confused. I thought they knew who your daughter was with. So I'm wondering exactly how I can help you.”
“I just think there's more to this than what the cops are saying,” he said. “I think there might even be more people involved.”
“Well, in any case, Keisha's a lovely girl. Whatever I can do to help, I'd be happy to.”
“Actually, I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”
“Sure.”
“Do you know if Keisha had any friends who stopped by when she was at work? Male friends?”
“Not that I know of,” the manager said. “She generally stayed by herself. I mean, there were boys, and, frankly, men, who were interested in her. But Keisha never gave them the time of day.”
“Did she make a lot of phone calls or receive a lot of phone calls here at work?”
“No,” the manager said. “She was a little bit of a loner. She usually ate in the food court by herself. The only person I ever saw her have lunch with was your wife.”
“My wife?” John was surprised. He'd never heard his wife talk about meeting Keisha for lunch.
“Her name is Sarah, right?”
“Yes, that's right.”
“I met her once,” the manager said. “She seemed very nice. Pretty, too. You're a very lucky man.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking a business card from his back pocket. “If you remember anything else, can you give me a call?”
She looked at his card as he turned to walk away.
“Actually, Reverend, there was one other thing.”
“What's that?” he said, stopping in his tracks.
“I always thought Keisha might make a great buyer. So I sent her down to our sister store, Lord & Taylor, to meet with our regional buyer for women's wearâNola Langston.”
The color drained from John Anderson's face.
“Maybe Nola might remember something that could help you. Would you like her number?”
“No, thanks,” John said, walking out of the office. “I think I know how to reach her.”
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Ishmael parked the Chrysler in the public parking garage on Tenth Street and walked half a block to a phone booth on Market. If things happened the way he wanted them to, he would walk back to the garage and drive away before anyone could catch him. But first he had to kill John Anderson.
He stood at the phone booth, holding the phone while pretending to make a call. He didn't want to chance John spotting him the way he had a few minutes before. So he stood with his back to the mall entrance that John had used, waiting for the reverend to come out.
Reaching into his jacket, he wrapped his hand around the butt of his nine-millimeter and imagined how it would feel to pull the trigger. The thought of it made him anxious to do it. But he told himself that he would have to wait. Disposing of John Anderson on a Center City street, where Ishmael was most likely to be caught, would only defeat the purpose.
He couldn't spend the rest of his life with his lover if he was jailed for murder. But he knew in the back of his mind, where secrets and rage dwelled together in an uneasy union, that his lover's embrace would not be his only reward for killing the preacher.
Ishmael's greater prize would be the look in John Anderson's
eyes when he told John what he knew. It was a look that he'd imagined for weeks. Ishmael would have the satisfaction of that look because he would deliver the killing blow while standing face to face with him.
eyes when he told John what he knew. It was a look that he'd imagined for weeks. Ishmael would have the satisfaction of that look because he would deliver the killing blow while standing face to face with him.
With that thought fresh in his mind, Ishmael turned around and watched as John walked up the steps that led out of the Gallery Mall. When he saw that John was walking toward him, Ishmael hung up the phone and walked to the corner of Tenth Street.
He ducked inside a bank and stood at a counter by its large window, which overlooked Market Street. Picking up a pen, he pretended to fill out a deposit slip while waiting for John to pass by.
A few seconds later, John did. His gait was a step slower than it had been a few minutes before. His eyes were unfocused, as if he were walking in a dream. His face was ashen gray, and his mouth hung open in apparent shock.
Ishmael could have walked up from behind and put a bullet in his brain. John would have never known what hit him.
But this wasn't the time or the place. So Ishmael waited a few more seconds before putting down the pen and walking out of the bank to follow John Anderson.
It wasn't until he saw John walk to Thirteenth Street and into Lord & Taylor that he stopped. He knew that the pastor would have to come back to his car sooner or later. So he walked back to Ninth Street to prepare for the confrontation as his mind filled with thoughts of the woman who would give him his ultimate reward.
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Kevin Lynch and Detective Hubert had spent the last half-hour going through the wealth of material they'd gotten from Nola
and Frank upon their capture, and splitting the information into separate files.
and Frank upon their capture, and splitting the information into separate files.
Lynch believed that it was best to talk to Nola first. With all Frank Nichols had done to her, she should be more than willing to talk. And the more information she gave, the easier it would be to pursue a case against Nichols for the commissioner's death.
Although Lynch was angry that he had missed Keisha and Jamal back at the projects, the evidence laid out before him was encouraging.
If Lynch's hunch was right, Nola was the missing link in the Nichols organization. And if he was able to break her, finding Jamal and Keisha would be easy.
He grabbed the file, a plastic bag filled with Nola's personal effects, and the briefcase filled with the money. Then he walked out of his office and down the hall to the interrogation room.
“How are you, Ms. Langston?” he asked as he walked inside.
Nola was sitting at the head of the table with a detective on either side of her.
“Annoyed,” she said, sounding like a petulant child.
“You guys can take a break,” Lynch said, dismissing the detectives as he sat down at the other end of the table.
As they walked out of the room, taking great pains to steal final glances at Nola, Lynch opened the file, taking his time so she could watch him remove all the personal papers and cards they'd taken from her purse. Next he removed her makeup and cell phone from the plastic bag.
Finally he put down the cash-filled briefcase, hoping that the sight of it would make her nervous. But as he looked across the table and saw the arrogant smirk that played on her lips, he could see that it did no such thing.
“Why'd you try to elude the detective I had trailing you this morning?” Lynch asked.
“I didn't
try
to elude him. I did,” she said with a chuckle. “I don't like people following me around.”
try
to elude him. I did,” she said with a chuckle. “I don't like people following me around.”
“Frank followed you,” Lynch retorted.
“And I got away from him, too.”
“Yeah, you did,” Lynch said while flipping through the file. “Was that before or after he screwed your daughter and tried to kill you?”
Nola stopped smiling, and Lynch knew he had her.
“Tell me something,” he said. “You and Frank Nichols, I assumed the two of you were just lovers, but you're business partners, too?”
“You know what they say about assuming,” Nola said coolly.
Lynch smiled. “Alon Enterprises. That's Nola spelled backward. Clever name. Was it your idea?”
“Actually, it was Frank's. He thought it would be nice to name the business after me, since I was the one who came up with the concept.”
“And what concept was that, Ms. Langston?”
“I told him that he should open some coffee shops on a few college campuses. Maybe do some vending as well.”
“Did you tell him to filter the drug money through the business, too?”
Nola smiled. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
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