Wrong Chance (11 page)

“Gave that angle some thought too. But, Aspen, this guy has no conscience. I need to see the crime scene photos from his previous
victims.” Hakeem stretched. “In the meantime, let's see if the prints and trace Chavez's criminologist and the crime-scene techs collected gives us a break.”

“Nope,” Aspen said, shaking her head as she pulled into the Justice Center's underground parking structure. “That's way too easy. This monster plans; he's smart. We have to assume that the prints and trace belong to the Williamses.” She stopped behind Hakeem's Range Rover HSE, then reached across his lap and pushed the door open. “Hakeem, go home and get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us.”

B
ratenahl, the epicenter of Cleveland's wealth, boasted an abundance of 6,400-square-foot homes that ranged from Italianate architecture to Victorians with imported marble, angular rooflines, and formidable wrought-iron security gates. Its blue-blooded community held the lakefront properties in their grips since the nineteenth century.

It was after two in the morning when Hakeem Eubanks eased the Range Rover into the Veranda entrance of his swanky home. He tried not to look like always, because mirrors always reflected haunted brown eyes that were glassy with pain, but he couldn't resist. Fixing his gaze on the side-view mirror, he saw it. The battered light pole on his tree lawn. Hakeem downloaded. Burst into tears. He lay his head on the steering wheel and sobbed. What had he done so bad to deserve this type of cruelty from a loving God? How could He justify taking away the people he loved most in the world? As far as Hakeem was concerned, God wasn't fair. He was full of shit.

Then there was the sound of claws against glass. It startled Hakeem. He jerked away from the steering wheel and saw the huge paws of his hundred sixty-pound Presa Canario, Keebler, on the driver's side window.

He stared at her.

Keebler whined then barked. Hakeem powered the window down as Ms. Drew Felding strutted up the driveway wearing a pink bandana, matching terry-cloth housecoat, and bunny-eared slippers. Cute, really cute, he thought, then quickly tried to dry his tears. But he'd learned months ago that Drew didn't miss much.

Keebler barked.

“Missed you too, girl,” Hakeem said, stroking Keebler's massive head through the window. “You been good for Ms. Drew?”

Drew said, “She saw your headlights and went berserk with excitement.”

Hakeem said nothing.

“Thought she'd tear my door down. Soon as I opened it, she took off.”

“Thanks for keeping an eye on her.” He stepped out the truck; all six-feet-one of him towering over her.

Drew Felding was nouveau-riche according to their motor-mouthed neighbors. He never fueled the gossip machine; it wasn't his thing. He only nodded his head and pretended to listen when a gossipmonger managed to corner him. Some things were interesting like the Thompsons being swingers, but he didn't agree with the lip service offered up on Drew. True, she recently came into wealth as a result of selecting the right combination of lottery numbers, but she definitely wasn't ostentatious and she definitely had good taste. Didn't the bunny-eared slippers prove that?

“No thanks needed,” she said. “We're cool; I mess with you like that. That's how cool peoples get down. I put the spare key back in its hiding place.”

Hakeem said nothing.

“Is it true what Sharon Reed is saying about a suspected serial killer murdering that poor man?”

Rubbing Keebler's brindle coat, Hakeem said, “Afraid it looks that way.”

“But serial means somebody is repeating the same criminal act. I ain't heard about no serial killers around here but Anthony Sowell. He's in jail, and I keep up with the news. So who are they talking about, Hakeem? All serial killers have names to identify them like they call Sowell the Cleveland Strangler.”

“Those details are being withheld right now until the victim is identified and his family is properly notified.”

Drew frowned.

“Don't worry. With nosey neighbors like ours, you'll be safe. And I won't rest until I bring this guy to justice or send him to the morgue.”

“Oh, I know I'm gonna be safe.” She pulled a .9mm Glock 17 semiautomatic from her housecoat pocket. “I'm from the hood, grew up in Garden Valley.”

“Is that legal?”

“Boy, I'm legit.”

“Well, it's illegal to conceal it in your pocket. Give me this.” Hakeem expertly disarmed Drew, made sure the safety was on and the breech was clear. “Come on, Drew, me and Keebler are walking you home.”

“What's wrong?” she said as Hakeem all but pulled her across their immaculately manicured lawns.

Hakeem said nothing.

“Hakeem, what's wrong?”

“Women.”

“And exactly what's that supposed to mean?” she said, trying to keep the pace with his long strides.

“Y
ou need a permit to carry a firearm so I'm carrying it home for you since you aren't allowed to take it outside your house.” Then: “You keep up with the news so I'm sure you know about the Castle Doctrine.”

“I don't.”

Hakeem said nothing.

“You're upset with me. I'm sorry.”

“I'm not upset. And there is nothing to apologize about.” He pushed her front door open, and then gave her the Glock. “Thanks again for looking out for Keebler.” He turned to leave, Keebler obediently at his side.

“Uh, Hakeem.”

“Yeah,” he said with his back to her.

“I saw the tears.”

He faced her and staggered. Drew's housecoat was open and off her shoulders. Naked. Goddess. Breasts set up like a teenager's. His eyes fell to her belly-button piercing, then lower. Shaved clean. Absolutely beautiful, Hakeem thought. Drew was a hundred twenty pounds top. Just perfect.

She took his hand, pulled him inside the house. “Sometimes God takes people from us to give us someone else.”

His lips found hers. Soft at first, then their mouths pressed hard against each other's. Hakeem kicked the front door closed, then
he peeled her out of the housecoat. Flawless. His style. His type. She pulled him toward the sofa by his belt, knocking around furniture on their way. She pulled his shirttail from his slacks.

“Make love to me all night, Hakeem,” she whispered.

A dead body flashed through his mind. It lay on a slab, a tag hung from its toe. Hakeem opened his eyes and hesitated. He took a deliberate breath and fought with himself to take several steps backward.

“What's wrong?” she said, lust in her eyes.

“Forgive me, Drew. You're a beautiful woman, but we can't do this. Not now.” He fixed his clothes.

“Never seen a man turn down sex with a naked beautiful woman. Wish you weren't hurting so bad.”

“Me too. Goodnight, Drew.” Then: “Come on, Keebler, let's go home.”

“Goodnight, Detective Hakeem Eubanks.” She let out a disappointed sigh.

Hakeem called himself an idiot nearly thirty times as he and Keebler cut across Drew's lawn. When his Pradas hit his driveway, his Palm Treo rang. The short hairs on his neck stiffened. Anytime a homicide detective's phone rang at 2:42 in the morning, it wasn't good news. He took the phone from his pocket and found a text message from Aspen.

her: dr. chavez wants us in her office by eight. she stressed “both.”

him: both? sounds scary.

her: tell me about it.

him: meet you there at eight sharp.

her: see you then. sweet dreams, hakeem.

He decided not to touch that text. He powered the phone off and went into the house to eat a Polish Boy smothered with coleslaw, French fries, and barbecue sauce, and to take a cold shower.

I
t was a ballsy move. Chance thought long and hard about the importance of it. Law 31: Control the Options. Get Others to Play With the Cards You Deal. He lurked in the shadows and watched the glass door of Edgewater Towers, a high-end high-rise occupied by some of the city's bureaucrats and dignitaries. But Chance knew that even ass-kissing uppity people were creatures of habit. This morning Marcus Jefferson's habit would prove fatal. There was no other way for Chance to exact revenge and win at the end of the day.

Beneath the Nike running suit, Chance's skin was cool. His pulse was even. No worries. He pulled a skull cap on his bald head. He had yet to get comfortable with his dreadlocks being gone. Not his cup of tea, but his feet felt good in the black Air Maxes. Black like his running suit. Black like the Raybans covering his calculating blue eyes. Black like his leather gloves. Chance was more than ready to sacrifice his lamb.

The lobby door of the high-rise swung open.

Clockwork. Chance pushed his hand inside his jacket pocket and stroked the handle of a silenced .45 automatic.

Marcus Jefferson stepped out the building into the darkness, haloed by the light pouring from the lobby. He was a fifty-something white man with thinning hair, a pockmarked face that highlighted a square chin, and palsied hands. He made Chance think
of Nick Nolte without the makeup. Marcus Jefferson did a series of warm-up stretches in preparation of his five-mile run through Perkins Beach, a man-made beach and picnic area that sat on the city's west side along the shore of Lake Erie, which he did every morning before work.

Poor schmuck, Chance thought, you'll be punching out this morning.

Marcus waited as a tremor passed through his hands, then he set the lap counter on his Ironman watch and took off, feet pounding the pavement in a steady rhythm. Chance took off running thirty yards behind the lamb, his arms and legs pumping like Hemi pistons. Marcus reached the end of his block in under a minute and made a left turn into the mouth of Perkins Beach.

Twenty yards.

Marcus hit the joggers' path that unfolded parallel with the beach.

Ten yards.

He followed the path while watching the first hints of dawn stretch across the lake's horizon.

Five yards.

Chance didn't know if it was the thump of his Air Maxes or intuition that caused Marcus to look over a shoulder as Chance fell in step with him.

“Good morning,” Marcus said with a gritty voice.

Chance whipped out the silenced .45 automatic and unloaded it in Marcus' chest. “Dude, there's nothing good about that.”

H
akeem Eubanks hadn't slept a wink. By the time 6:45 a.m. rolled around, his alarm clock started making a bunch of noise for nothing. He—red-eyed—lay in his ultra California king staring at the vaulted ceiling while nursing his stress. When he tossed left, there were sweaty visions of Drew's naked body locked in the throes of passion with his. When he turned right, there was the vision of John Doe with his mouth frozen open and a language carved into his skin that Hakeem didn't understand. And when he closed his eyes, there was another body waiting there that he couldn't stand to look at. How could he sleep under those conditions?

Keebler stood in the doorway with a leash in her mouth.

“You want to go outside, girl?”

She whined and wagged her tail.

Hakeem planted his feet on the hardwood floor and picked his way through the house to the marble and stainless steel kitchen with Viking appliances and a set of Tiffany cookware that hung from a wire rack suspended from the ceiling. The kitchen was his wife's favorite place to be. He enjoyed hanging out there with her, talking, while she cooked. Now, the only reason he bothered with the kitchen was because it reminded him of their friendship.

“Don't be mad at me, Keebler. Promise I'll take you for a walk
later.” He let Keebler into the backyard, then put on a pot of imported coffee. He dug through the recycling bin and took out Thursday's edition of the Cleveland
Plain Dealer.

As the aroma of expensive java filled the kitchen, Hakeem sat at the island on a cozy stool and read the Metro section for the second time. Minutes into the read, Keebler barked and stood on her hind legs to look at him through the screen door.

“I let you out,” Hakeem said, looking up from the newspaper. “You're gonna have to let yourself in. Nice try, girl. I'll take you out for a walk later.”

Keebler lifted the door handle with her nose, popped the screen door, and came inside as Hakeem filled her bowl with Eukanuba. Hakeem finished the paper while sipping from his favorite #1 Dad mug. He stared at the paper. There had to be something he missed, something hidden in plain view. All he read was the everyday run-of-the-mill stuff: fugitives wanted, heroin dealer arrested, robbery suspect, shoplifter busted, rapist sentenced. All summed up with a caption of Mayor Nesto Balfour, Chief of Police Dwight Eisenhower, and the new Assistant County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport. They were at a press conference where they vowed to reduce the city's crime wave with community watches, swift police action, and stiff prosecution. Nothing new. So why did the Hieroglyphic Hacker use this section of the newspaper?

The house phone rang.

“Keebler, bring me the phone.”

She left the room, returned with the cordless phone in her jaws, then dropped it in Hakeem's hand.

“Communicate,” he said into the receiver.

A
spen Skye's hair stuck to her forehead, sweat glued her tiny wife beater tee to her skin—tight nipples magnified—and her panties crawled in her ass crack. She hated that shit, but she pressed on. She powered the digital treadmill up to 8.5 and was now in a full sprint. She ran wide open for seven minutes before she powered the machine back down to 5.3 to calm her heart rate and breathing. When she got her wind together, she took out her BlackBerry and called Hakeem.

On the third ring, Hakeem said, “Communicate.”