Boss Divas (7 page)

The words keep repeating in my head, but they refuse to sink in—not even when I turn onto Frank Road and see that it's lit up like a Christmas tree. It looks like the entire police department has responded. I park behind a line of emergency vehicles and exit my car with my heart enlarged in the center of my throat.

A stint in Afghanistan and years on the police force taught me to be prepared for anything. Still, every once in a while, life throws you a curve ball that knocks you on your ass. This is one of those times.

The neighbors have all poured out of their perfect suburban homes to catch a peek at what's happening. No one likes to see yellow crime scene tape go up in their neighborhood. It has a way of affecting property values.

I duck under the tape and shove my way through a cluster of police officers near the front door. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”

The officers move an inch at a time, all in the wrong direction. As soon I cross the threshold, the chief barks from across the foyer, “HAWKINS!”

Police Chief Yvette Brown barely kisses five-feet, but her presence has a way of filling up a room. She makes eye contact and gestures me toward her, the deputy chief, and the lieutenant colonel.

I blink and then try to swallow my heart back into my chest, but it refuses to budge.

“Welcome to your new case,” Chief Brown says in her usual no-nonsense tone. “I'm sure you know Deputy Chief Collins and Lieutenant Colonel Bertinelli?”

“Of course,” I lie and shake their hands.

“Well, congratulations,” the deputy chief says. “I wish it could've been under better circumstances.”

I'm confused. “Congratulations?”

“Your promotion,” Chief Brown answers, matter-of-factly. “You're now the new captain of police.” She juts out a hand.

When I'm too slow to react, she grabs my hand and pumps it like she's jacking up a car to change a flat.

“Captain?” I blink, confused “But—”

“It's all been taken care of. The board and the mayor held an emergency meeting so that we can expedite a new chain of command before tomorrow morning's press conference.”

She means before more shit hits the fan.
“Press conference?” I sound like I'm stuck on stupid while giving them the deer-caught-in-headlights look. I
hate
public speaking. Any time I have to say more than two sentences in front of a camera or a crowd, I'm reduced to a blubbering idiot with overactive sweat glands.

“Don't worry about it,” the chief continues. “We'll get you all caught up to speed.”

I nod again and then remind myself to blink. However, three sets of eyes remain locked on me—that means I need to say something back. “Thank you,” I cough up. “Thank you for the opportunity.” Inwardly, I flinch at the way my tongue stumbles over the words. My delayed response must've been what they were waiting for because I'm suddenly flashed three sets of veneers and my hand is passed around for quick handshakes.

“Congratulations,” Bertinelli says and then spins away on his heels.

Collins does the same thing, leaving me alone with the chief.

“You're on,” Brown says, turning toward a room off to the right.

I follow close behind.

The next cluster of officers parts like the Red Sea when the chief starts barking, “All right, people. You know how this works. All who aren't on this case need to get out. I don't want a contaminated crime scene—so move it!”

They grumble, but peel out of the house. I look around Captain Johnson's home office, which is painted in blood.

One of the first questions we normally ask a victim's family is whether there is anyone who might've wanted to harm the victim, but in this case, I'd imagine that list will be a long one.The number of people the former captain put behind bars in the last two decades would be just the beginning.

My gaze sweeps around the room while a forensic team combs every inch, snaps pictures, and dusts for prints.

“Was there a sign of a break-in?” I ask no one in particular.

“No,” the chief responds. “The killer was either known or was able to trick her way into the house.”

“Her? How do you know it was a woman?”

“The grandson. He saw the whole thing and then ran to a neighbor's house. They are the ones who called this in.”

Christopher.
I know the name well because the department spent months looking for him after his mother, Officer Melanie Johnson, was murdered. The eight-year-old boy was abducted and held by Memphis's most wanted, Terrell “Python” Carver—a name that strikes close to home.

“But get this.” Brown faces me. “The kid says our suspect identified herself as his grandmother.”

“What?” I glance down at the floor, where Victoria Johnson lies covered up next to her husband. “From the father's side?”

“Must be.”

“He has a name?”

“Actually, the kid says he's never seen her before.”

“Okay. Who's the father?”

“He won't say.” Brown folds her arms, takes another look at the mess and shakes her head. “You should put a call into county and get a copy of his birth certificate. Hopefully, his mother listed the father.”

“Where's the kid now?”

“Upstairs. Packing.” She sighs. “Children's Protective Services are on their way.”

I huff out a long breath. “I'll go up and talk to him.”

The chief says, “Good luck. The kid's been through a lot these past few months.”

“Got it.” I thread back out of the office and then head up the staircase. At the top, I spot an officer standing outside a bedroom door. “The kid in there?” I ask.

“Yep.” The cop nods and then steps aside.

I knock once and wait, but when I don't get a response, I twist the knob. “Christopher?” I duck my head inside and then ease farther into the room. For a few seconds, I don't see him—but the window is open. “Shit.” I rush across the room, but then I spot him quivering in the far corner.

My heart melts for the kid. He looks terrified, lost, and lonely. His large brown eyes swim with tears.

“Heeeeey,” I greet, creeping forward. But the closer I get, the smaller he becomes. “Everything is fine. Everything is going to be all right,” I reassure him and then squat down so that we're at eye level. “I'm Lieuten—I mean, I'm
Captain
Hydeya Hawkins. I'm going to be the one who's going to find out what happened to your grandparents. Do you think that you can help and tell me what you saw?”

“I . . . I already told them,” Christopher says sullenly. “A crazy woman killed my grandparents.”

“I know—but I want to hear the whole story from you. Do you mind? Do you think that you can tell it again?”

His tears finally splash over his long lashes and run down his chubby cheeks. He's quiet for so long that I wonder whether he has the fortitude to repeat his story.

“M-my family is dead,” he says. “They are
all
dead.”

My gut twists in anguish. “I know, sweetheart. I'm so sorry—but we're going to find who did this and lock them up. We're going to keep you safe, too. I promise.”

“Y- you can't promise,” he says, seeing right through me. “My mom was a cop . . . and my granddaddy was too, and they couldn't protect themselves.”

“I know. I know.” I place my hand on his knee and give it a gentle squeeze.

In response, Christopher burrows deeper into the corner. He can't make himself small enough.

I remove my hand, not wanting to frighten him further. “If we're going to find the woman who did this then, we're going to need some more information. Do you remember what she looked like?”

There's a long pause before Christopher nods. “S-she . . .” He licks his dry lips. “She said that she was my grandmother.”

“Was she? Have you ever met her before?” I ask.

The little boy shakes his head.

“Okay. Let me ask you this: what's your father's name?”

Christopher's eyes grow as large as two silver dollars. “I'm not supposed to talk about him.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Mom said that I'm not supposed to tell anyone about him. Nobody—not even granny and grandpa. She said that they would get mad.”

“Did she say why?”

He pauses and then shrugs. “She said that grandpa wouldn't like it.”

“Oh.” I let that rotate in my head. Was this whole thing a family drama on steroids? “It's okay now to tell me who he is—so we can call and talk to him. Maybe you can stay with him for a while—”

“NO!”

The outburst startles me.

“I don't want to go back there! They're mean and awful and . . .” He's trembling harder.

“And what?” I press, even though I just want to take him in my arms and wipe away his fears. Instead, I remain professional and keep my distance.

Christopher's war between what he should and shouldn't say plays on his face.

“It's okay. You can tell me.”

He shakes his head.

“I can't fix anything if you don't share with me,” I tell him.

Christopher swallows so hard that he actually makes a
gulp
sound—but he keeps his secrets.

Giving up, I back away. “You don't have to tell me now if you don't want to. I'm not going to force you.”

“Don't make me go back there. I don't want to go back there. Please. Please. Don't do it,” he cries.

Go back?
“All right. All right. You won't have to go,” I say, desperate to calm him down.

I glance over my shoulder toward the bedroom door in time to see the chief enter.

“We have to go,” she announces before tossing a casual glance at the kid in the corner. When her gaze swings back to me, I read the invisible question:
How's it going?

I answer by shaking my head.

“We may have a lead,” she says, changing the subject.

I stand as she motions for me to follow her. However, before I step away, I flutter an awkward smile at the kid. “I'll be right back.” Walking to the door, I can feel his large eyes track my every move.

In the hallway, Chief Brown fills me in on the latest. “You need to get over to Baptist Memorial. Two women were admitted, telling the staff and security over there one hell of a story. One woman claims that she was abducted from here tonight.”

“We have names?”

“Yeah. Barbara Lewis and Maybelline Carver.”

Carver?
There's a click in my head and a kick in my gut. “I'm on my way.”

F
uck sleep.

The way I feel right now I'll probably never sleep again. In the meantime, I have to force myself to lie next to Profit in his king-size bed and stare up at the ceiling. He can't sleep either, I can tell by his breathing. Maybe he's waiting for me to have another breakdown. Hell. I'm not too sure that I won't.

What am I going to do now? What's going to become of me?
I'm supposed to be smart. Why don't I have an answer? Why have I never developed a plan B or a C? I was supposed to go to college and then medical school. I was supposed to become
Dr. Ta'Shara Murphy
—now who am I going to be?

Profit squeezes my hand and I sneak a moment to study him. He's no longer the thin, cute hottie I met at the mall almost two years ago. He's packed on muscles since his release from the hospital and his boyish good looks are transitioning into a handsome man—my man.

I love him so much that I can hardly breathe—and yet, in the back of my head, a voice lays the blame for my pain at his feet. Tears sting my eyes because, despite it all, I still don't want to live without him. He is my heart. To deny him and what we have is to deny life itself. To blame him is to blame myself.

My gaze shifts back up to the ceiling and I will my tears to dry. There's only one person responsible for all this shit, and that's LeShelle. I'm tired of asking myself why things keep happening to me, why my own flesh and blood would torture me the way that she has. Because there's only one answer: she's evil. Plain and simple. And somehow, some way, I have to stop her. I gotta beat her at her own game.

Startled, I bolt straight up in the bed.

Profit sits up with me and presses a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It's all right,” he whispers, sweeping my hair back from my face. “It's my phone.”

On the nightstand, his cell phone, set on vibrate, rattles around.

He reaches across me to grab it.

I feel foolish. LeShelle has turned me into some pathetic creature who's scared of her own shadow.

“Yeah. Talk to me,” Profit greets his caller. There's a long pause. “Momma?” he asks. He listens again and then hops out of bed. “All right. Calm down. Now
what
happened?”

Shock blankets Profit's face.

Concerned, I go to him. “What is it, baby?”

He holds up a finger and concentrates on the call. Whatever is being said, it's not good news.
What in the hell could be happening now?

“All right,” Profit says. “Which hospital are you at?” He looks around the floor and snatches up clothes. “Sit tight. We're on our way.” He disconnects the call and barks out one order: “Get dressed.”

“What's going on?” I grab my jeans.

“My mother was kidnapped by some crazy bitch and almost killed tonight,” he says with disbelief.

My mind zooms to LeShelle. “Fuck.”

“Let's go!”

“I'm going. I'm going.”

We dress in record time and we race out of the door. Even as we're jumping into the car, I can't get my mind to think straight.

Profit is a wreck.

“Do you need me to drive?”

“Nah. I got this.” He turns over the ignition, and then zooms out of the driveway. “Do you think that LeShelle has anything to do with this?”

“I don't know what to think.” He's rattled.

I squeeze his hand to give him moral support, the same way he did me a few hours ago, but it's not enough. “It's going to be okay,” I ramble. “She called so that means she's all right.”

He doesn't respond. Hell, I don't even know if he heard me. He's so focused on the road.

At the hospital, we jet out of the car as fast as we can. The emergency room is choked with people, most looking like they've been camped here all night.

Profit races to the registration desk, tugging me along. “I'm looking for my mother. She called and said that she was here. The name is Barbara Lewis.”

The chick behind the counter with a phone tucked under her chin remains unfazed and lazily lifts a slender finger, telling us to wait.

With no time for bullshit, Profit reaches over the counter, snatches the phone out of her hand, and then hangs the bitch up. “The name is Barbara Lewis,” he growls.

The nurse's face twists like she's about to get turned up, but Profit's look dares her to do it. Her attitude melts away and whatever shit she was about to spit is put on pause. Turning to her computer, she asks, “What's the name again?”

“Barbara. Lewis.”

We wait through her two-finger typing on the keyboard. “Yes. She's been admitted. She's in room 712.”

“Admitted,” Profit repeats. “What's wrong with her?”

“You'll have to talk to her doctor about that. I don't have that information.”

“This is fuckin' ridiculous.” He slams a fist down on the counter.

The nurse jumps in her seat. “I'm sorry, but that's all I know.”

“Profit, baby.” I touch his shoulder in hopes he'll calm down.

“C'mon.” He grabs my arm again and pulls me toward the elevators.

I don't have the heart to tell him that he's pulling my arm out of its socket so I roll with the pain.

He jabs the up button a dozen times in two seconds while the glowing green numbers above the door descend at a snail's pace.

“C'mon. C'mon,” he grumbles.

“Profit, don't get yourself so worked up.”

He ignores me and keeps pacing. I drop my hands to my sides and let him roam around in a circle.

By the time the elevator doors slide open, I'm about to crawl out of my skin, too. We rush into the small box, press the button for the seventh floor, and then suffer through another excruciating wait as it climbs at the same slow-ass pace.

On the seventh floor, we spring out and immediately notice a cluster of police officers in the center of the hallway—a major clue as to which room a kidnapping victim is lying in. Dread creeps up my spine. Bad news is the only news we know lately.

“Mom?” Profit inquires, rushing into the room. He drops my hand when he sees her lying in the bed. She's banged up pretty good: one black eye and a busted lip and nose.

I hang back, awkward, like a third wheel.

“Raymond,” his mother exclaims, opening her arms.

Profit leans into her embrace and they hold each other and rock together for a moment before he begins his interrogation. “Momma, what happened?”

I turn around to see a woman with a police badge draped around her neck enter.

“Hello, I'm Captain Hawkins,” she says, jutting out a hand. “I'll be investigating your mother's case. I came to get a statement.”

“Oh, no. She's not my mother,” I correct her.

“She's mine,” Profit says, eyeballing the cop suspiciously.

“Sorry about that.” The captain smiles and then walks over to Profit to shake his hand. “And your name is?”

Profit ignores her question and leaves her hand hanging in the air. “Who did this shit to her?”

“Raymond, baby.” Barbara says, patting a spot next to her on the bed. “Please, sit down.”

He shakes his head. He can't sit right now—not when he's ready to punch someone.

“That's exactly what I came here to find out.” Captain Hawkins lowers her hand and then turns her attention to his mother. “Okay, Mrs. Lewis, if you could start from the beginning. . . ”