Sugar & Spice (8 page)

“What?” I said, unsure if I wanted to know what she had seen.

“The son-of-a-bitch struck again,” Kelly told me.

“Who?” I said, unable to distinguish whom she was talking about.

“The same man that killed the warden, killed this woman.”

“What?” I heard myself asking in a stupefied daze.

I walked up the stairs, still confused, still flabbergasted at what Kelly had said. D.C. Homicide was on the scene. The mechanized sound of pictures being photographed rang in my dulled senses. A litany of voices buzzed in my ears. Almost in slow motion, I walked into the room, completely unnoticed by D.C. Homicide. Thick puddles of blood were everywhere. Some of it was sprinkled on the wall like it had been squirted. I looked down and I saw Sarah Lawford's head, which had been separated from her body. Her brown eyes seemed to stare at me in unimaginable horror. I knew then that she was alive when this animal, this demon from the bowels of hell, had sliced into her flesh like he was opening a can of soup.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. I remembered the wedding invitation Keyth and I had gotten when we returned from our westward excursion. I could literally see the invitation in my mind, see the wedding bells, smell the newness of the lavender paper the words were printed on. I fought back my tears. I knew this woman. I knew Sarah Lawford. I had been in this home many times. I also knew Bernard Rodgers, her fiancé. This would kill him.

There's nothing more sobering than death, I thought. Nothing penetrates the heart like death. The stench of it. The pain it causes those it leaves in
its wake is often unbearable. It awakens you. It shakes you, and makes you realize what's truly important. Death trivializes everything except life itself, ironically its only opposite.

The coroner had turned over Sarah Lawford's torso and was examining the lacerations on her back. I cringed when I saw flesh pulled away from bone.
Oh, my God!
The fact that she actually lived through the flogging was a miracle, I thought. I had seen enough.

Melted ice cream was dripping on the kitchen floor where it apparently had sat all day on the blue marble table inside one of the grocery bags. Some of the bags were still on the counter, others on the floor. My partner was trying to determine what had happened, I assumed, when I found her in the kitchen.

“Someone came in when she got home, Phoenix,” Kelly said. “That explains the melted ice cream.”

“So you think she let him in? Which means it was someone she knew,” I said. “I don't like where this is going. We know that the bastard who did this is somehow connected to the Perkins murders. Am I to conclude that Sarah Lawford, my daughter's schoolteacher, was somehow involved with Perkins and drugs?”

“That's how it looks, Phoenix,” Kelly said sadly. “I know you knew the woman, but hell, think of what we went through last month with Lawrence Michelson. You never know what people are doing. And what about Simon? Who knew what he was up to?”

Kelly had a point but I just didn't see Sarah Lawford, arguably the best teacher, and most liked by all who knew her at the Academy, involved in this sordid business at Norrell Prison. It just didn't make sense. Yet, the evidence would seem to indicate that the same man had murdered three people. Maybe I didn't want to believe it.

“I don't believe it, Kelly,” I said firmly. “I don't care what the evidence says. I knew this woman. No way she'd be involved with drugs.”

“And that, my friend, is why they don't allow us to handle cases we're too close to. We tend to ignore what's in plain view in a futile attempt to exonerate friends and relatives.”

I heard a disturbance coming from outside. It sounded like Bernard Rodgers.

“SARAH!” the man shouted. “Let-me-go! Let-me-go! SARAH! SARAH!”

Next, I heard the clump, clump of someone running up the stairs onto the porch. I knew it was Bernard. I immediately went through the kitchen door and out into the hallway that led to the front door. I saw Bernard Rodgers, all six feet two inches of him. He was well-muscled in his chest and arms. Bernard knew of my martial arts skills but he didn't seem to care. He was determined to get past me and see what had happened to his beloved. I, on the other hand, was determined to stop him. He didn't need to see what that animal had done to Sarah. No one did.

“Stop, Bernard,” I said forcefully.

Bernard kept coming forward. Behind him, I could see a reporter talking into a microphone with the camera pointed in the house. Little Luther Pleasant was watching with excitement in his eyes. He wanted to see some action.

“Don't make me do this, Bernard,” I said firmly.

Without a word, he walked toward the stairs and I stepped in front of him. Bernard swung wildly at my head and I ducked. If I didn't know him, if I didn't feel his grief, I would have seriously hurt him. Instead, I floated to his right and let him grab me. When he did, I simply twisted his wrist sharply, forcing it to do what it wasn't designed to do. It was a simple move. Didn't take much strength at all. He groaned loudly. I continued to apply pressure until Bernard went down on one knee, then the other.

“Bernard,” I said. “I don't want to hurt you. But you don't want to see her that way. Believe me you don't.”

With that, he broke down. Cried like a baby. I let him go so he could grieve unrestrained. I looked at him, wondering if he knew something. Everybody was a suspect as far as I was concerned. Kelly had a point. What if Sarah Lawford was somehow involved with Nelson Blake and Louis Perkins?

“Bernard,” Kelly said softly. “We've got some hard questions to ask you.”

Bernard stood up and we all walked into the kitchen. When he saw the melted ice cream, he broke down again.

“She bought me some butter pecan ice cream,” he muttered almost incoherently, then kind of slumped into one of the kitchen chairs.

Kelly and I looked at each other. I nodded my head. She knew I was with her, knew I wanted her to grill him while I consoled. It may seem ruthless, but most of the time the killer is someone the victim knew. We had no way of knowing if Bernard knew what was going on at Norrell or not. Killing Sarah could have been a message for him.

“Do you have any idea who might want to kill Sarah?” Kelly asked as delicately as she could. I stood right next to Bernard with my hand on his shoulder.

“No. Nobody at all.” Bernard sobbed. “She was the sweetest woman I've ever known.”

Kelly looked at me. I could tell she didn't want to ask the next question but we had to get his reaction. As far as we knew, he could be the killer.

“Did you two have a falling-out?” Kelly asked tentatively. “We know how it is with wedding plans. Sometimes couples get scared when their wedding date nears. Did something like that happen between you two?”

“You suspect me?” Bernard asked incredulously.

“No,” I interjected. “We're just doing our best to eliminate you as a suspect. We have to do it, Bernard. It's standard procedure.”

“Where were you today, Bernard?” Kelly asked.

“I was at the school all evening grading papers,” Bernard said. “I was trying to get ahead. You guys know the school's demanding schedule. Sarah and I can't afford to get behind. We'll never catch up.”

“Anybody see you there?” Kelly asked.

“Only about twenty other teachers who are also preparing for the last break before the fall semester.”

I looked at Kelly and smiled. Then I patted Bernard on the shoulder. I was genuinely happy that he had a solid alibi. At least we could verify that Bernard Rodgers didn't kill her, which also meant that maybe Sarah Lawford had nothing to do with Nelson Blake, Louis Perkins,
and Norrell Prison. However, that left another nagging question. If Sarah Lawford wasn't involved with Blake and Perkins, why was she raped and murdered in the same fashion as Perkins and his wife?

Kelly's cell rang. “Hello,” she said. “Oh, hi, Sterling.”

She looked at me, grinned and gave me a thumbs-up sign.

Kelly offered to drop Bernard Rodgers off at his mother's house. It was on her way to the Willard Intercontinental Hotel where she planned to meet Sterling Wise. As I walked out of Sarah Lawford's house, I was deluged with questions from local reporters who probably hoped to make names for themselves. Bright lights were blinding me as I forced my way through the crowd.

I stopped in my tracks when I heard an eager reporter ask, “Is there any truth to Matthew Henson's most well-liked teacher being involved with Warden Louis Perkins and Washington's drug king, Nelson Blake?”

Without thinking, I turned around and faced the reporter. The cameras were rolling. For all I knew, the feed was going out live. But it irritated the hell out of me for the accusation to be made without hard evidence. Reporters always find a sucker to bite on the information hook; especially once they learn you're personally involved. A well-liked teacher at my daughter's school was beaten with a bullwhip, raped and murdered in her own home right across the street from where I lived. Yeah, I was personally involved. So I took the bait and became the fool they were looking for. The young reporter shoved the microphone in my face, and I lit into her like there was no tomorrow.

“It's that kind of reporting that sullies people's reputations. Have you no shame, Madam? Don't you even friggin' care that her family could be watching this tonight? Sarah Lawford had parents and siblings who loved
her and a fiancé she was going to marry just a few weeks from now. Do you even know if they've been notified of her gruesome and brutal murder?”

The young reporter poised herself and looked me right in the eye and said, “So, Sarah Lawford is dead? And you say her death was gruesome and brutal? I never said anything about Ms. Lawford being dead, Special Agent Phoenix Perry. You did.”

I felt like a complete idiot. They had me on camera telling the world that Sarah Lawford was dead before her parents had been notified. I looked at the young reporter who was now laughing at me under her breath. The cameras were still filming. I just walked off, pushing my way through the burgeoning crowd.

As I walked across the street to my home, I could hear the reporter talking. “Perhaps Special Agent Phoenix Perry is one of the many things wrong with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They're quick to point out the shortcomings of the media while their own house is in shambles. This is Season Chambers, WSDC News.”

Sterling Wise opened the door to his posh suite at the Willard and saw a tall blonde with slim hips whose breasts looked like a 38-C. Giorgio perfume filled the air. He took in the fragrance and desired to smell more of it. The shapely blonde was wearing a pair of black slacks and a purple sleeveless V-neck sweater with two-toned matching flat shoes. Sterling stared for a moment, his lust ever-growing.

Kelly liked the ravenous look in his eyes. The very same look was in hers. She wanted him inside her right then, but she kept hearing Phoenix's admonitions about being loose. Her best friend had often told her she needed to be more disciplined when it came to sex.
Don't be so quick to give it up. At least wait a month or two,
Phoenix had said.

“So, you ready for a game of pool?” Kelly asked him.

“You know a place that's open this late?” Sterling asked, looking at his watch.

“Yeah. The Patriot Bar and Grill is open until two.” Kelly smiled. “They make fabulous turkey sandwiches, if you're hungry.”

“Let me get my wallet,” Sterling said.

He walked through the suite to the bedroom where he had left his wallet on the nightstand. He picked it up and checked to see how much cash he had just in case he needed to stop in the lobby and use the ATM.

“So, counselor, are you hungry or what?” Kelly asked flirtatiously.

“Very. Are you?”

“Uh-huh.”

They took the elevator to the parking lot and got into Kelly's black Stingray. She put the car in first gear and screeched out of the parking lot.

“I'm gonna take the long route. Show you the town. Okay?”

“Sure. It's your town and it's definitely your car. Do with me what you will.”

“Funny you should say that because that's exactly what I planned on doing.” Kelly grinned. “Mind if I ask you a personal question, counselor?”

“I don't mind. Go ahead, Agent McPherson.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure,” Sterling said.

“Was there anything between you and Tiffany? You don't have to answer, but it's been bugging the hell outta me.”

Sterling smiled and looked out the window at the Lincoln Memorial as they zoomed past. “Why?”

“Just wanna know.”

“Yeah. but why?”

“If I tell you why, will you still answer?”

“I might.” Sterling flirted.

“Okay, but don't get mad. Tiffany was a good-looking girl. And personally, I don't see how you could resist, given all the traveling together, and the convenience of the hotels. Were you two close?”

“Tiffany and I were close, but that's it. We decided early on not to get involved sexually.”

“Whose decision was that? Hers?”

“Actually, it was mine.”

“Really?”

“I think you're being a little disingenuous, Agent McPherson.”

“Why do you think that?” Kelly smiled.

“Honestly?” Sterling asked.

“Yes, honestly.”

“I think the real reason you're skeptical about it being my decision is because Tiffany was not only good-looking, but she was white. A lot of
white women think that black men want them because of some mythical ideas about forbidden fruit. Yet, at the same time, they never question the fact that women are the ones who determine if sex is going to take place. For example, if something happens between us tonight, unless I rape you, which I won't, you determine if you want to come back to my hotel, come in my room and into my bed. I have no mystical charms or potions. Women determine that. Not men.”