Shattered Trust (14 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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“But you called the casino boys?” Steve said, still incredulous.
“Eat your food, man, while it's still hot,” James said, stuffing a Johnny cake into his mouth. “We figured, why not, after all was said and done.”
Laura shrugged as she picked the meat off a chicken wing. “Screw waiting around for them to find us,” she said, monitoring her language for the sake of Akhan and Brother B. “We got the State Department in a bit of a lather, too.” She took a swig of sorrel and watched her cousin Jamal slowly begin to eat.
Akhan looked at Braithwaite and slowly smiled. “I told you she was a Scorpio.”
Braithwaite nodded and blew out a long breath. “Shame she wasn't around during the sixties.”
“Ashé,” Akhan said with pride. “Risky, but brilliant. I suspect that a chain of events will begin to unfold. Those who were only involved on the tertiary level, will run for cover and begin distancing themselves. But those intimately involved will have to make a move now. That's what we must watch.”
Braithwaite nodded and took a deep swig of sorrel. “Indeed, just like dominoes. They'll drop.”
“What are we looking for, though?” Najira asked, beginning to eat slowly, as her nerves calmed.
“The clean up and recovery,” James said. “First the cover up. The whole thing at the Smithsonian won't be marred, if I were a betting man. It will be just a random event—played off as a drug dealer's limo and turf fights between drug boys in The District. Cars will find their way mysteriously back to rental car lots, repaired . . . shit like that. Any abandoned weapons will be associated with dead men and drug boys. The media spin will be that everything that went down was just more local crime, and the need to keep up the war on crime, but it will never be linked to us, because then it would necessarily have to be linked to the high-level people after us.”
“What about my gown and your tux, not to mention our ditched fake IDs?” Laura asked as she stopped chewing for a moment to look at James in the waning sunset.
“If D.C.'s finest got to it, with the calls to Cap, it will get lost, permanently, just like a lot of evidence does all the time.”
“Damn,” Jamal murmured. “And here I thought I was just Conspiracy Brother.”
Steve shook his head. “A lot of dirty shit goes down behind all closed doors, even in precincts.”
 
 
“Elizabeth, just be careful,” Polanski said in a harsh whisper through the phone. “You were always a good egg, and no matter what you and Donald were going through, some things are just ... I don't care what you and Sutherland had going on before Donald died. That was between you two. The man was a doctor, was in our circle, and even your husband didn't turn the dogs against him, affair or not. But they slit his throat in a jail cell. It's gone too far, Elizabeth, and I want out of it all. You should stay out of it all, too.”
“They killed him in prison,” she whispered, disbelieving. “I had come to loathe him, but I would never ...”
“I know. That's why I'm getting out now, before anyone else gets hurt.”
“You be safe,” she said quietly, looking around her condo with fear.
“You, too, Liz. I have to go before Marian gets worried. We're going to play bridge tonight with friends.”
“Bye, Mike, and thank you.”
He hung up the telephone without responding, and called out to his wife as he heard her move through their Radnor home. “Marian! All right! I'll be down in a moment, stop eavesdropping for heaven's sake!”
Angered by the silly games she always played in hoping to catch him in an affair, he crossed the room in a huff, and yanked open the door. A pair of male eyes greeted him, barely visible through the ski-mask. Before he could yell out, a soft whooshing sound, followed by a bullet, pierced his forehead.
Chapter 14
N
ight sounds of the bush, voices, and laughter blended in with the low, steady timbre of Bob Marley filtering from deep within the house. Pops and cracks laced the old album's croon, just as the lights sizzled and popped from unwary bugs that ventured too near them. The weary group sat rapt, listening to Brother B and Akhan tell stories about the glory days of civil rights protests, Panthers, and power to the people.
It was their way of chasing away the harsh realities of the present, by going back to the past and recounting the wins and losses, analyzing “the struggle,” which by any other terms would have been called a civil war. Their little party became a tribal council of sorts; all that was missing was a center fire to give ablutions to the ancestors. By any means necessary, they were still standing, after the first round of volleys.
Laura smiled, oddly content to be here, versus many of the other places she'd been. Rum punch at one-hundred-and-fifty-one proof was taking a toll on them all, except the elders, who seemed accustomed to the strength of the brew. Jamal had slid down in a porch chair with his eyes closed, and finally Steve relaxed enough to gather Najira against his shoulder to doze. His acceptance had been delivered through a singular statement by Braithwaite; “You cool—had you been your age back then, you would have marched with us.” Acceptance conferred. Akhan yawned and set off a chain reaction in the group.
James had his head back against the stucco wall, looking so mellow that he could have been poured into a tall glass. Laura cast a lazy glance toward the house, which was more like a barrack than home, but comfortable.
It seemed as though Braithwaite had set up a camp without soldiers. His home in the bush was one long, rectangular structure that had a bend in it to form an
L.
In the short section was a small kitchen off a tiny bedroom and bathroom beside a place where a long picnic table with benches served as a dining room. The living room was a tight, cozy space chock full with an overstuffed sofa and floral-print, lumpy, overstuffed chairs, an antique breakfront with mismatched china, an ancient TV and record player, and colorful throw rugs. Local art and family photos covered the walls, along with a mural of Haile Selassie. Windows had screens, some with shutters, some without, but there was enough dense foliage around the house in a profusion of hibiscus to serve as natural curtains.
Down the long corridor were three bedrooms on either side, each sporting a large double bed made by hand, and handmade dressers, a wicker chair, washing bowl, and mirror. Behind the house were the chicken coops, a small vegetable garden, an outdoor wood-burning stove that could handle huge pots and cauldrons, a free-standing shower, water pump, and an outhouse that had undoubtedly been left over from yesteryear.
Everything was neat and clean and Spartan, just like the elderly warrior who proclaimed the revolution was still ongoing—and was right. Even through the rum haze and fatigue, Braithwaite's eyes held subtle, barely repressed excitement, as though he'd been waiting all of his life for it to begin again ... for a group to visit and commune at his oasis once more, like old times, now that his many children were grown, educated, and gone, and his wife dearly departed. Laura knew this place was no less a shrine or institution within the fabric of this community environment than Akhan's North Philadelphia hostel had been. She wondered if she'd ever put down roots long enough, or live to see the day when, wherever she and James set up permanent housekeeping, they'd grow old and gray with many stories to tell the next generation.
“You all must be bone weary,” Braithwaite finally said, refusing to admit that he was also exhausted. “Pick a bedroom. All linen is fresh and towels are in the dressers. My room is near the kitchen, since I really don't use the long part of the house unless company comes.” He stood, stretched, smiled, and then yawned, and finally went into the house, leaving the screen door to clatter shut behind him.
“Good night old friend,” Akhan called out sleepily. He rubbed his bald head with a sigh and stood slowly. “We should all live like this,” he murmured. “Off the land and free.”
They watched him go into the house, and Jamal stood, stumbled a bit, and headed toward the door.
“Whew,” Jamal said, rubbing his eyes. “All that was missing is a blunt, and a brother would have been righteous.” He glanced out into the darkness as Najira scowled. “They probably got it growing ten feet away out here in the wild.” He waved off his sister's brewing complaint and went into the house.
James and Steve looked at each other, and Laura watched the male dynamic from a remote place in her mind. Steve's eyes held a question; James's offered support. No words were exchanged for a moment, and only the thick, humid night cloaked the foursome on the porch.
“It's cool,” James finally told Steve. “I don't think you have to sleep in separate rooms. That's why the old dudes went inside to crash first.”
Najira's eyes sought Laura's, and Laura simply nodded. As the younger couple stood and slipped into the house, Laura snuggled down closer to James on the cushioned wicker porch furniture.
“Guess it's just us old-timers left to fight the bugs, turn off the lights, and lock up,” James said with a sleepy chuckle, and nuzzled her hair.
“You think we're gonna grow old together, and have one of these big old homesteads for everybody to come back to?” she asked in a distant whisper, her thoughts leaping through time and space.
“Yeah ... when it's all over, we'll have that big old raggedy house that everyone comes back to for holidays, making us crazy, and we'll be fussing about when they're going to leave.”
He kissed her gently, making her chuckle in contentment and attempting to chase away the fears that neither wanted to name. The one thing that they'd never discussed, but loomed large nevertheless, was the fact that a majority of their assets were down in the Caymans—a place that didn't play and would seize all until they returned to help sort out the investigation there. Unlike the States, the Cayman Islands had virtually no crime, and the murder of two innocent police officers had sent a shock wave through the region. State Department officials couldn't clean that up or make that evidence disappear, like slightly damaged rental cars or an ill-placed gown and tux. The Mafia couldn't blast that away, either. Nor could all the fancy maneuvering in the world address what had happened there. And if they explained what was going down, it would indeed become a huge, international incident with implications neither of them could fathom at the moment.
Rather than go down that very slippery mental slope destined to renew panic and despair, she felt her husband try to solve the problem with touch, his gentle ministrations to her skin a balm to her weary spirit. She returned his kiss in the thick night air in kind, a gentle homage to what this man meant to her.
Soon the probability of being left destitute or confined fled with each quiet sigh. James Carter was a wise man, his hands a tender conference of patience. The heat of his long, gentle strokes down her arms as his kiss consumed worry, made the air around her seem cooler and caused sudden shivers. Annoying gnats and mosquitoes were soon forgotten, and the song of the night replaced the thousands of nagging questions dancing through her head.
“You ready to go to bed?” he whispered, sending a warm, moist current against her lips.
“Yeah ... I think so,” she replied quietly, brushing his mouth. “Tomorrow is another day.”
 
 
She'd slept like the dead, and now a foreign, bleating noise was tugging at her senses. It was a half screech, half wail, and she opened her eyes to James's lopsided smile. He hadn't opened his eyes, but she knew he was awake.
“What the hell is that?” she grumbled and pulled in closer to him.
He laughed softly. “A rooster.”
“Oh, my God,” she said, dropping her head against his chest.
“We're in da bush, mon,” he said, teasing her and pulling her against him. “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”
“Man, stop,” she said, struggling against his hold and not wanting to address his morning erection.
“The rum kinda made my best-laid plans go awry last night. Fell asleep before my head hit the pillow. But this morning ... I'm much improved.”
“James, we've got a lot to do today,” she argued to no avail, giving in to his body as he pulled her on top of him.
“I know,” he whispered. “But first things first.”
She laughed and kissed him, warming to his hold. There was something about his relaxed countenance, the fresh mountain air, the stillness of the house, and the heat of his hands as they washed over her backside, pushing up the oversize T-shirt she'd slept in. He'd lodged against her so subtly without entering her that it made her gasp, his movements beneath her a slow stroke down her slit until it plumped and swelled, spilling her slick essence to bathe him.
“You sure you wanna get up with the chickens, or stay in bed for just a little while longer?” he murmured against her neck, finding her breasts beneath the too-big T-shirt and crisp white cotton sheets.
“No,” she murmured back, swiveling her hips to capture more of the sensation until she could actually hear the sound of her wetness each time he slid over her engorged bud.
His smile had faded to a grimace, and she bent to suckle his nipples till he arched, but she still denied him entry, prolonging the dance between them. She didn't understand what had ignited her body beyond the obvious. Perhaps it was the sense of freedom, the pending threat they faced, and him all combined. But the playful mood had turned frenetic—him trying to enter her, her denying him access, his hands now roughly kneading her fleshy bottom, pulling it open wide as he sought her haven. She'd tugged off the T-shirt and flung it God knew where, needing his tongue to lap at the overly sensitive tips of her breasts, and almost crying out when his mouth captured one, his tongue a spiral of pleasure around the heated, hardened surfaces.
His intermittent suckles were making her as crazy as the quick jabs at attempted entry that repeatedly ended in an accidental sliding between passion-slicked lips, now so swollen with need they hurt. Unable to stand the torture she'd imposed on both of them, she ground her pelvis against his, her bud lathing his base, nearly swooning from the slow building orgasm. Too overwhelmed to lift her head, she pressed her flushed face against his cheek.
“Two seconds before I cum, put it in,” she rasped in a harsh whisper.
He felt her shudder, and obliged the request with a stifled groan, not caring that she'd bit into his shoulder to keep her pleasure from echoing throughout the quiet house. The immediate sensation of being inside her the moment her body contracted around him in orgasmic pulses made him half sit up, grasp her around her waist hard, and thrust in offbeat jags. His voice buried between her breasts was the only sound he could muffle. The bed springs be damned, he couldn't worry about all of that, no more than he could stop moving or stop the convulsion that swept through his sac, clenched his stomach, overran his base, and released up his shaft forming tears in his eyes.
He was twitching when he'd landed on his back with a thud, Laura a heap of spent flesh against him. Now he felt the heat, the humidity of the island morning. Now he heard the movement in the rest of the house and smelled coffee. For a long while, all he could do was pet Laura's velvety curls. Reality made him slowly open his eyes. What if by some fluke they did federal time, twenty-five years to life without this? He'd been a cop, too ... and there would be hell to pay from all those he'd sent up the river. No, today it was time to get a realistic plan and stop running.
“You OK?” she murmured, pushing herself up to kiss the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah, but I think we woke up the whole house.”
“They didn't hear us,” she whispered, smiling wide.
“Like hell,” he said, smiling despite his sobered mood. “The springs gave us away. There's always something even the best criminal forgets to address.”
She cocked her head to the side and then covered her mouth with her hand, eyes merry.
“See, the problem with you, Laura, is you like living on the edge.”
“Moi?” she said, placing a palm against her chest. “You started it this morning.”
He was annoyed but had to laugh. “No, I was gonna be discreet ... a quickie. Not—”
“Let it get all messy, and hot, and wet, and juicy, and good,” she said in a low, deliciously wicked murmur.
He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“But isn't it more fun this way?”
He closed his eyes, somehow knowing she was talking about more than their lovemaking. “Yeah.”
 
 
James had made up his mind; he wasn't going to address the sly smile Steve gave him, or even glance in Jamal's direction. Nope. He was a very private man, and his business had been exposed. He was just glad that Najira hadn't started, but kept her gaze on the stove, and Akhan seemed to be old and wise enough to keep his own council. Thankfully, their host, Brother B, was in a separate wing of the house. He'd get his shower after Laura, eat, and then develop a plan.

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