Sugar & Spice (5 page)

As luck would have it, they were sitting right across the aisle from her. She was traveling with a man and a little girl. The twins looked at the diamond ring the woman wore and assumed that the man was her husband and the little girl was her daughter. The woman looked at the twins as if she could feel them staring at her. The twins looked away, then looked at her again. When the woman looked at them again, Alex said, “I do apologize, Miss, but you look so familiar.”

The woman smiled. “I get that all the time. People think I resemble Jada Pinkett.”

“Who?” Alex frowned.

“You know…the actress.”

“I'm sorry. I was thinking of someone else. I'm sure I saw you on television a month or so ago with the president.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Yes, that was me,” she said.

Alex sensed that she was about to introduce herself, which meant they would exchange names. Meeting the FBI agent they had seen on television was so unexpected.

“Don't tell me. It's right on the tip of my tongue. It's a city in the Southwest, I think. Phoenix, isn't it? I remember now. I'm Alex. Pleased to meet you.”

Alex didn't want to give her natural curiosity a chance to take over and kept on talking. “Did you hear about that terrible murder in Malibu last night? A maid was found with a butcher knife in her chest. Saw it on the news this morning.”

Sam knew to remain quiet. Alex was far more outgoing and so much better at dealing with strangers.

“Yeah, I saw that this morning also. Terrible thing. Just terrible.”

“As an FBI agent, how would you handle that?” Alex continued.

Keyth grunted and Phoenix knew why. They hadn't even taken off yet, and Phoenix was already working on yet another case. Keyth and Phoenix had agreed that she would take an extended vacation after her problems with Coco Nimburu. But Phoenix needed to get back to work. She needed the challenge and the intrigue of the chase. Keyth understood, but he thought that now would be a good time for them to have another baby. Phoenix had told him she would think about it.

“Well, the first thing I'd do is go to the crime scene and look around for things that the killer may have left behind. Fingerprints, blood, footprints, anything out of the ordinary. Then we establish time of death, eliminate the people who couldn't have done it and focus the search on those who could have. In these cases, it's usually someone the victim knew. If the victim is a husband, we check out the wife and vice versa. If they check out, we expand our search.”

The 747 taxied to the end of the runway and prepared for take-off. A few minutes later the plane picked up speed down the bumpy runway and they were in the air.

Alex noticed that Phoenix had a bit of an ego and was trying to figure out the best way to use it against her; just in case they tangled in the future. But for now, Alex needed to keep her talking about herself, or the FBI. Otherwise, she would start asking questions. And if that happened, Phoenix may learn something, seemingly insignificant, that could lead to their capture later.

“So did you catch the judge's killer that way?” Alex asked.

“No. That was a special case, but I caught her,” Phoenix couldn't help saying.

That settled it for Alex. Phoenix was an egomaniac and if it came down to it, that weakness would be used against her. Alex was smiling and didn't realize it.

“What?” Phoenix asked, confused as to why Alex was smiling.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that Americans are lucky to have dedicated agents like you watching over us while we sleep.”

The 747 leveled off and the flight attendant had begun to serve beverages. The lights dimmed. A movie was about to start. Alex ordered a chardonnay, and then asked what movie they were going to watch.

“
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”
the attendant said.

“What's that about?” Alex asked the attendant. “Is that a cartoon?”

“No,” Phoenix interrupted. “It's an Oscar-winning martial arts film.”

“Really? A martial arts film won an Oscar, huh?” Alex said. “Last time I watched the Oscars was about ten years ago. If memory serves,
Unforgiven
won the Oscar for picture of the year. I guess if a Western can win, a martial arts picture can win, too.”

“Do you have something against martial arts films?” Phoenix said straight-faced.

“Something tells me you're a huge fan of martial arts films, huh?”

“That and more. I'm a Grandmaster of Shaolin Kung Fu,” Phoenix said proudly. “I trained for twelve years with Master Ying Ming Lo. I was six
years old when I started,”

“I see.” Alex smiled. “So I guess you can break a pile of bricks with your forehead, huh?”

Suddenly serious, Phoenix said, “Kung Fu is more than breaking bricks and boards. It's a way of life—a philosophy, if you will.”

“I suppose you teach the art, too.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“And that's how you caught the judge's killer?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. The judge's killer was a martial artist also. One of the best in the world.”

“I see, so that makes you one of the best in the world, doesn't it?”

“Well, yes.”

The movie was starting. Alex put on the earphones and said, “I'll have to make sure I watch the movie closely so I learn what you're capable of.”

Phoenix smiled.

Alex studied the movements of Zhang Zhi and Michelle Yeoh and was impressed with their balance and flexibility.

Alex whispered, “Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“How do I contact you if I ever want to take lessons?”

Phoenix handed Alex her FBI business card. Alex smiled and continued studying the film.

Kelly McPherson and I met in the food court at Union Station for lunch at about noon. Kelly had beef fried rice and sweet and sour chicken. I had a salad and tea. As we ate, Kelly filled me in on the Perkins murders.

“The locals don't give a damn about the murders, Phoenix,” Kelly told me. “They're looking into the murders, but they believe the warden got what he deserved.”

“What about the wife? Do they think she deserved it, too?” I asked rhetorically.

Kelly curled her lips and rolled her eyes, then continued, “The warden was in cahoots with a local drug dealer named Nelson Blake. Nelson was supplying the gangs with heroin and cocaine. One of the guards at the prison made a deal for giving up Nelson and the other guards.”

“So have they picked up the suspect?”

“Not yet,” Kelly said, looking over my shoulder. “Guess who made acting director?”

I turned around. Kortney Malone was coming toward our table. Kortney and I had been at Quantico together ten years ago. She was a Southern belle from Nashville, Tennessee. Kortney made a name for herself in the Office of Professional Responsibility. She had played an instrumental role in having over fifty agents fired for offenses ranging from stealing drugs from the evidence room to falsifying official FBI documents.

The Joann Ellard and Mia Roscoe case immediately came to mind. They had met a couple of guys on the internet who were members of a D.C. swingers club. Both agents had been shot during a robbery at the club. When asked why they were there, they said friends had invited them and it was their first visit. But when Kortney questioned the bartender and other guests, they all knew the agents as regulars.

Director St. Clair was willing to sweep the lying under the rug, but Kortney wouldn't let it go. She was like a dog on a bone. Kortney argued that an agent should have never been in a position like that. If the guests found out they were FBI agents, they could have been blackmailed into giving up government secrets. Eventually, St. Clair relented and they were both fired.

“Hi, ladies,” Kortney said with a Tennessee accent. “Mind if I join you?”

“Well, uh,” Kelly stammered.

Kortney Malone sat down as if she didn't hear Kelly's hesitant objection. She was a good-looking black woman, very well-dressed, sporting a gold skirt suit with thick navy stripes and matching two-toned pumps. She had toned thighs and calves, mediumsized breasts and a large behind. Seeing her reminded me of Sir Mixalot's rap recording “Baby Got Back.” Kortney was having jumbo shrimp with fries and a kiwi strawberry Snapple.

“Damn shame about Assistant Director Michelson, huh, Kortney?” Kelly jabbed.

Lawrence Michelson and Kortney Malone had been lovers a few years back. Michelson would go to the academy under the guise of looking over the graduating classes, but he was actually there to check out the women. If he saw a woman he wanted, he made sure she was assigned to the D.C. area.

“Yeah, it was. Hard to tell the criminals from the cops, huh. Kelly?” Kortney retorted, and sprayed some ketchup on her fries.

Kelly's bottom lip quivered. She stopped eating and stared at Kortney, like she wanted to jab her in the throat with her fork. I was thinking there was no way this could turn out good for Kelly if the verbal sparring continued. Kortney was the acting FBI director with a reputation for suspending and firing agents. Kelly was a liaison agent assigned to D.C. Metro, a position she loved. Kortney could have her reassigned to Alaska.

“Sooooo, Kortney, how do you like being the acting boss?” I asked to
remind Kelly of who she was being smart with. I knew she realized it, but sometimes Kelly didn't know when to shut up.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Kortney asked flippantly. “Nobody gave me the position. There's been too much bullshit going on in the bureau under St. Clair. President Davidson wants me to clean up his mess. Which reminds me, Agent Perry, I read your report on the Nimburu killing. When your extended vacation is over, I have some questions for you.”

“Kortney,” I said, “don't you think you're being a little paranoid?”

“Paranoia is a reasonable strategy given the current state of the bureau, wouldn't you say?”

That settled it for me. I wasn't going back to work for another month. Kortney was on a witch-hunt and I wasn't going to be part of it—at least not for a while anyway. I was very disappointed because I was ready to return to duty. But I wasn't about to be grilled about a case that I had already put to bed.

“Look, Kortney,” I said. “I admire and respect what you've done in the OPR. But you have to be careful that you don't root out the wheat with the tare.”

“I think it's a mistake to have agents snitching on each other,” Kelly interjected.

“And I think it's a mistake for law enforcement officers to adapt the language of criminals, Agent McPherson.”

Kelly frowned. She had no idea what Kortney was talking about. But I did. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

“You call it snitching, Agent McPherson. I, however, call it applying the law equally across the board. Especially when cops are involved. If we're not careful, the FBI will be reduced to the same despicable status as the New York and Los Angeles police departments. Is that what you want? Do you want to be thought of as a bureau that the people can't trust? That's not why I became an FBI agent. If I have to fire a hundred agents to regain our collective fidelity, our collective bravery, and our collective integrity, that's what I'm going to do. I need seasoned agents with enough intestinal fortitude to stay the course, to point out the bad agents so that
we can preserve the dignity and the purity of the oath we took. And if you think that's snitching, you don't belong in the bureau.” Kortney looked at me, and continued. “If the wheat, which outnumber the tare, would stand and be counted, the tare wouldn't chock out the wheat.”

“Fine, Kortney,” I said. “I'm all for cleaning up the bureau, but again, be careful. That's all I'm saying.”

Kelly's cell chimed a musical tune that sounded like “Rhapsody in Blue.” She flipped open the phone and answered the call. It was police headquarters, she told me. Apparently, Nelson Blake had turned himself in.

Detective Aaron McDonald was one of the toughest cops in the nation's capital. At six four and two hundred-fifty pounds with coal black skin, even at forty-two, he looked as if he could play linebacker for the Washington Redskins. He was a twenty-year veteran who had put away more than his share of slime. He worked the hard-core D.C. ghettos and was a friend to the innocent people who lived there. McDonald had learned that Warden Perkins was involved with Nelson Blake from a street dealer named Bony Davis. That bit of information led McDonald to the prison where he persuaded a guard to tell all that he knew.

McDonald was well into the interrogation of Nelson Blake by the time we got to headquarters. He had tangled with Blake numerous times on trafficking charges, but the district attorney's office was unable to convict him. Blake was smart and had the right connections to stay one step ahead of the police.

It always angered McDonald when intelligent black men decided to take the quick path to riches rather than use their intelligence to help turn the black community around. Men like Nelson Blake made his job more difficult because the children in D.C. ghettos tended to look up to the Nelson Blakes of the world and make the same choices. But this time, it would be different. This time they had a witness who had signed a confession and had named Nelson Blake as the prison's supplier.

We were standing behind the two-way mirror listening to the interview.
Blake maintained a cool exterior as he listened to Detective McDonald, like he wasn't the least bit worried. He was very dapper in his manner of dress, wearing a black silk collarless suit and black Armani shoes. He was almost arrogant, but not quite.

“Where were you last Saturday night?” Detective McDonald asked.

Blake just stared at the detective. He seemed to be thinking, calculating.