Wrong Chance (16 page)

“This is crazy.” Jazz added her tiny fist. “To the grave.”

•  •  •

“That's how it went down. Please let me take my insulin. I'm sick, Chance.”

“Sure, buddy, go ahead.”

Anderson quickly grabbed the syringe as if Chance would change his mind. “Thank you.” When he saw Chance put the .44 Magnum away, he said with much relief, “God is good. I'm really, really sorry, Chance. We all wanted to tell you, everyone except Leon.”

“God has absolutely nothing to do with this, shithead. You've been a terrible friend.”

“Please forgive me.”

Chance stood over Anderson and waited. Anderson pulled his sweat pants down far enough to expose his thigh, then he injected himself.

“Winner winner chicken dinner,” Chance said, quoting a line from his favorite movie,
21.
He whipped out his surgical scalpel. “Law 2: Never Put Too Much Trust in Friends. Dude, this is gonna hurt. I promise.”

S
cenario didn't have a clue about what to do with Jazz. The accident had taken its toll on her best friend to the point she was contemplating a crisis intervention. Scenario wasn't in her office a good ten minutes before her secretary, Jamillah Woodard, an ambitious three-year law student who had her eye on the clerk's office, came in with a Xerox box filled with files.

“Sit it here.” Scenario cleared a spot on her desk. “And do me a favor.”

“Not big on favors, but what is it?”

“Knock before you come in. I like a heads-up.”

“Habits are hard to break, so don't count on it.” She offered a clinical shrug. “These are the cases County Prosecutor Jefferson was working that'll need your immediate attention. They're all on the docket for this week.” She touched the top folder. “And this one here is information on the Hieroglyphic Hacker that Detective Skye faxed Jefferson at four this morning. She and Detective Eubanks always shared info with Jefferson on cases he would eventually prosecute.” She wiped away the tear that lost its grip. “Anyway, I thought you'd like to go over it.”

“Thanks, Jamillah. That was thoughtful of you.”

“You have an eleven o'clock in front of Judge Ronald Adrine. Ohio versus Prater. It's a possession of cocaine over the bulk amount
with intent to distribute. The press is on line one, two, three, four, and five. And there are two reporters in the lobby.”

“Hang up on the press,” Scenario said, “and kick the reporters out.”

“We're gonna get along just fine with an attitude like that.” Jamillah left Scenario to handle her business.

In truth, things were moving way too fast. Scenario just wanted things to slow down so she could catch her breath and gain some control of the mess that blindsided her. She pulled out the Hieroglyphic Hacker murder file and flipped it open. She thoroughly read Skye's report concerning the circumstances surrounding the unidentified murder victim. Then she came across the first of many crime scene photos and the earth fell out from beneath her. She knew the victim personally. She sat at his dinner table more times than she could count. Ethically, she was up shit creek in a boat full of holes. Morally, she was fucked.

Anxiety tightened her chest; she was on the outskirts of a panic attack. This was not happening. Was the world really that small? Of all the people in Cleveland, how come the victim had to be someone she knew? Now Scenario was faced with a choice: identify Yancee Taylor and burn her new life and the seventy-thousand-dollar identity change or keep another secret.

A
spen hung up the phone with Tony Adams then looked down at the information she had spent all morning gathering from her Facebook and Google search. Finally some progress. She picked up her landline to call Hakeem just as Detective Omar Madison appeared in front of her desk.

He frowned. “Hate to use this as a point of reference,” he said. “Remember the day you got the call that Eubanks' wife had succumbed to breast cancer?”

“Why?”

“We were on the computer at some web site you were showing me that could help me with my investigations. What's the URL of that site?”

“Obviously it's not important to you if you didn't commit it to memory, Detective.”

“Come on, Aspen, don't bust my balls.”

“Faces of the nation dot com,” she said in a curt tone. “Next time it'll cost you.”

“Thanks.” He disappeared as easy as he had appeared.

She punched in Hakeem's number.

“Communicate.”

“It's me,” Aspen said, looking at his empty desk and the framed picture turned face-down, among some domestic murder case files they still needed to clear. “What you come up with?”

“A blank. The Williamses check out. Sweet people. I'm on I-77 headed to Lorain Correctional to see Butter Bean.”

“He's an asshole. You're looking to draw another blank with the little professor.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Then: “You turn up anything?”

“The prints on John Doe come back to a Yancee Taylor, thirty-one. Caught a hate crime back in ninety-nine, been clean since.”

“Who does he hate?”

“Homosexuals.”

“Got a current address on him?”

“He stays on Avalon.”

“I'll be back in an hour. I can't stomach more than thirty minutes of Butter Bean, so let's do the notification together.”

“One hour, Hakeem. Mr. Taylor's family has to be worried sick.”

“I'll be there.”

“My hunch turned up some good leads.”

Hakeem said nothing. Translation:
Give it to me.

“Officer McNally stressed that you had to know the synagogue and path were there.”

“True that. I've been thinking the unsub is or was a resident of Cleveland Heights myself.”

“My line of thinking is a kid who used to use the path to get to school.”

Hakeem said nothing.

“The only kids who would use that shortcut to get to and from Monticello Junior High come from a twenty-one-block radius, between Cain Park and Euclid Heights Boulevard. Every kid past Cain Park goes to Roxberry Junior High. The path starts on Euclid Heights Boulevard or on Mayfield Road depending on which way you're coming from.”

“I'm with you.”

“My profile of the Hacker puts him in his early thirties, which means he would have attended Monticello between ninety-two and ninety-five.”

Hakeem said nothing.

“There were only twenty-six males from that radius who attended Monticello during those years. Seven are in prison. Five are dead. Three are in mental wards. Three are serving their country in Afghanistan. Two have been handicapped all their lives and therefore couldn't have pulled off any crime that requires physical strength. One lives overseas and hasn't touched United States soil in six years. The other five are medical doctors of various sorts.”

“Who would reasonably know about the path and the synagogue,” Hakeem said.

“Bingo. They had to know because Cleveland Heights didn't start busing students until ninety-six.” Aspen shuffled through her notes. “Douglas Brown, Juan Goggins, Kevin Petit, Peter Glover, Chancellor Fox.”

“How many are Caucasians?”

“Two. Peter and Chancellor. Peter is a neuropathologist, and Chancellor is a veterinarian.”

“Let's dig in their business; see what dirt we can uncover.”

“Hold up. It gets better, Hakeem.”

Hakeem said nothing. Translation:
Please give it to me.

“Chancellor Fox moved to Denver in 2001.”

“Maybe he's come home to roost.”

“Had my informant out at Hopkins check the plane manifest for Chancellor's name. You're not gonna like this.”

“Shoot,” Hakeem said.

“Chancellor Fox came to Cleveland on your boy's birthday.”

E
very state penitentiary-bound felon from northeastern Ohio got a taste of Lorain Correctional Institution's twenty-three and one-hour lockdown before they were processed and classified then shipped to various prisons throughout the state. Cadre prisoners, a selected group: high-profile snitches, rogue witness protection inmates, model inmates, and government classified inmates, were housed in Lorain to work landscaping, maintenance, and food service.

Matthew “Butter Bean” Allen was a government classified cadre whose IQ made extremely intelligent people look like retards. Flat-out, Butter Bean was a genius, which was probably due to his Asperger's Disorder or the “Little Professor Syndrome,” as Aspen liked to call it. While Butter Bean's intelligence was far-reaching, he possessed an unusual ability to decipher symbols, ancient languages, and impossible calculations. The powers that be didn't approve of Butter Bean's abilities if they weren't benefiting the Power, which was why Butter Bean was serving an indefinite prison term for being a threat to national security.

Hakeem's hemorrhoids were raw and inflamed, and the metal chair didn't help. He impatiently waited in a small interview room—a table, two chairs, a camera mounted on the wall—for the CO to bring Butter Bean in. After eight uncomfortable minutes, the door
swung open and there stood the little professor. His aging face was set in a perpetual frown. He was much rounder than when Hakeem had seen him last in Judge Ronald Adrine's courtroom. Butter Bean's male-pattern baldness had crawled back three more inches. Pretty soon he would have a bald mohawk. And his teeth were just crooked enough to be considered interesting. But what stood out more than anything to Hakeem was the complete and utter aggravation lingering behind Butter Bean's turquoise-blue eyes.

“You should have never arrested me if you desired to pay me social visits, Detective Eubanks. The irony is quite insulting.” Then: “We could have discussed world views on my open-air patio with tall glasses of homemade tea. I'm really averse to the confinement of concrete and steel.”

“If you didn't hide top secret documents and accounts behind some elaborate algorithmic formula while I was with Homeland Security, I wouldn't have cuffed you.”

“I resent the accusation; I'm not hiding anything. The government is stealing money from United States citizens on top of taxation. I only seek to give hard-working people their misappropriated funds back.”

“You're too intelligent, Butter Bean, not to understand how wrong you are.”

Butter Bean laughed. “Detective Eubanks, you're too morally stupid to see how right I am. The Constitution is a beautiful archetype for a wholesome and productive society. Its beauty is marred when your government uses it for its own personal growth against the people it was designed to protect and help prosper.”

“Butter Bean, you chose to sit here for the last seven years. Give me the algorithm and you can leave with me today.” Then: “All the government wants in lieu of prosecution is for you to work for them. Show them how you made thirteen billion dollars and
classified documents disappear in thin air, and create a system where no one else can do it again.”

“We find ourselves at an impasse again, Detective Eubanks.” Butter Bean shifted his gaze toward the camera. “Now that you see my position hasn't altered, what in the hell do you want?”

“Have a seat, Butter Bean.” Hakeem pushed a bottled orange juice to the center of the table. “It's your favorite. Hundred percent natural.”

“It's the least you could do. Should have brought me a two-dollar whore and a condom to go with it since you were being sensitive to my favorites.” Butter Bean took a seat across from Hakeem. “They served tacos today.” He sighed. “No cheese. How the fuck do decent human beings serve tacos without cheese? Never seen nothing like it in my life.”

“It's psychological, the no-cheese thing. It's a way to get in your head.”

“They painted all the bathroom stalls black. Do you have any idea of how peaceful it is to take a dump surrounded by total blackness?”

“That's one I have to put on my bucket list and try out.” Hakeem wrote it down on his notepad.

“Try white bread,” Butter Bean said. “It works.” He moved the orange juice to his left, exactly where he wanted it.

Hakeem frowned. “You lost me.”

“That's not hard to do. I'm speaking on those hemorrhoids you're sitting over there wrestling with. Treat them with white bread.”

“Didn't come here for your medical advice.” Hakeem moved Butter Bean's juice.

“I'm not going to help you with what you did come here for, so take the gift I'm willing to give.” Then: “Stop moving my juice. I like things in the place and order
I
set. My feng shui.” He put the juice where he intended it to stay.

At that very moment Hakeem became tired of Butter Bean. “You don't know why I'm here.”

“Don't be stupid; you'll only get me mad. Getting the algorithm would have been like finding an extra prize in a box of Lucky Charms. There's a serial killer running around our beloved city carving hieroglyphics into modern and civilized people.” Butter Bean pointed to Hakeem's Mont Blanc folder. “I'll bet the algorithm that it's crime scene photos in that pricey folder of yours. Photos of which you want me to tell you what the hieroglyphics say. Assuming they say anything comprehensible. I never welsh on a bet.”

Hakeem reached for the juice.

Butter Bean smacked his hand. “Stop!” He swallowed half of the orange juice in one gulp. “It's front-page news; it's on all the television and radio stations, and you show up here.”

“What can I do for you,” Hakeem said, “in exchange for your help?”

“Nothing. I'm in sole possession of thirteen billion dollars. I have empathy for your feeblemindedness, but surely you didn't forget that.”

Hakeem laid the crime scene photos of Yancee Taylor in front of Butter Bean. “He was an American citizen protected by the Constitution.”