CHAPTER TWO
TILO ADAMS
I looked back once more at the carnage I’d created then casually walked to my car. Fortunately for me, I didn’t see anyone lurking on the street or peering out the window as I backed my car out into the street. Something, however, was wrong. The car was driving like a piece of shit.
“Fuck.” I slammed my hand on the steering wheel in frustration. I pushed the car as far as I could and got out at a corner to take a look.
My front tire was flat. Not in need of a little air; it was flat as if someone had slashed it. “Ain’t this a bitch,” I groaned. The car was not drivable. Even if I tried to drive it, it would draw too much attention because it made this loud thumping sound every time the tire buckled. I looked around to see if anyone was watching me. Conspiracy theories bounced around in my head because I didn’t believe the tire could have magically gone flat on its own. Moses, I knew he wasn’t to be trusted.
I looked around again. If anyone was there, they were well hidden. I started sweating. I needed to get as far away from my car as possible.
“Think, bitch.” I was mad because I hadn’t thought about a contingency plan. “Fuck. What the hell am I gonna do?” I kept staring at the tire like it was going to fix itself. I looked back down the street to the Mendoza house for any signs of life. Time was not on my side. I had to get moving before Moses came out with Mr. Mendoza. My heart was racing. I ran back down the street and tossed the gun I took from Moses’ office on the front lawn, under the bushes. I turned and raced back to my car.
I opened the car door and retrieved the envelopes and my duffel bag. I left my purse on the front seat and the keys in the ignition. I pulled out my switchblade, cut my palm, and smeared blood throughout the car. If everyone thought I was dead, they wouldn’t put so much effort into finding me. I lowered the window all the way down and left the door open. I walked away from the car without looking back. Fleeing a crime scene on foot was not in my plans but I didn’t have a choice. I stuffed the envelopes in my bag then pulled out a disposable phone.
“You’ve reached Nine-one-one, please hold.”
I expected to be put on hold so it did not upset me when I heard that awful music most organizations used. People were so stupid, they dialed 911 for directions or because their cat was up a tree and wondered why they couldn’t get a real person on the phone when they really needed it. I thought the music was chosen simply to irritate the fuck out of folks so they’d hang up and save their resources. I used the time to get farther away from the house and to get my story straight. Once I cleared a few more blocks, I stopped walking so I wouldn’t be winded when the phone was finally answered.
“Nine-one-one. Is this an emergency?”
“I heard shots being fired. It sounded like it was right next door. Please hurry ... Someone may have been hurt.” My voice was shaky and my shoulder hurt like hell from carrying the heavy duffel bag, but I hoped it added credibility to my call.
“Your name and address?” The dispatcher sounded as if she was reading from a script.
“Do I have to give my name? I don’t want to get involved.”
“Address?”
It was a trick question but it didn’t matter. I gave them the address of the house next door to the Men-dozas.
“Good luck with that,” I said to myself after I ended the call and flipped the phone in the gutter. Even if I hadn’t thrown the phone into the gutter, there was no way it could have been traced back to me unless I fucked up and got caught holding it. Whoever invented the disposable phone was a genius. Every crook in the country should’ve been on their knees thanking them.
“Adios, motherfucker!” I was about to get ghost.
CHAPTER THREE
GREG CARTER
Two Atlanta police officers stood outside of a Tudor house with their Glocks drawn.
“What are you waiting for? Kick the bitch in.” Rome Watson was eager to get into some shit.
I said, “I’m waiting for the shift commander to give the okay.”
“Fuck that. The call said shots were fired. Do you want a death on your hands?”
Rome could tell I was getting antsy, but I liked to err on the side of caution. He had no idea what was on the other side of the door waiting for us.
“Let’s wait for backup,” I nervously replied.
“While you’re playing with your dick, I’m going in.” Rome took two steps back and kicked the wooden door squarely in the middle.
“Son of a bitch,” I mumbled. His actions left me no choice but to crouch down in a defensive posture and hope for the best. “Shit!” I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. I was convinced that Rome was one crazy motherfucker as I followed him into the darkened foyer.
“Police,” Rome yelled.
“You’re supposed to yell ‘police’ before you kick in the fucking door, you dickhead.” We were committing all types of violations in protocol as we proceeded through the house; however, we were in now and had no choice but to proceed. “You better be right, nigga, ’cause if you’re wrong, I’m singing like Jaheim on your ass.”
“Aren’t you sick of being the little puppy that sits on the porch? Come on out and play with the big dogs, nigga!” Rome laughed.
He was riding on an adrenaline high, but I did not share his rush. I was scared as all outdoors and wanted nothing more than to get in my squad car and wait for backup. I followed Rome while sweeping the room with my keen eyes for signs of danger. Anticipation caused my heart to beat faster. We cleared the small foyer and Rome motioned for me to go upstairs while he entered the living room.
Upstairs? Why the hell did I have to go upstairs? Shit! I didn’t want to be in the damn house in the first place, so I damn sure didn’t want to check out the upstairs. Part of me resented the fact that he took the lead, but the other half of me was relieved. I was a stickler for rules; we were breaking all of them. We should have been back at the station clocking out but Rome wanted to play super cop.
We were rookies, straight out of the police academy and ill prepared to be handling anything other than routine traffic stops, but Rome was eager to get his feet wet and my dumb ass was following him. I took the stairs slowly, dreading each step.
“Focus, Greg,” Rome hissed and pointed at me as I mounted the stairs. He was right; my mind was all over the place. That could put both of us in jeopardy. We were knee-deep in shit and there was no turning back. I crouched down even lower as I edged my way up the stairs, constantly looking back. Rome had entered the living room and was soon out of sight.
Rome’s deep voice said, “Get on your knees and make like you’re touching the ceiling with your hands.”
I had no clue who he was talking to. I was tempted to rush back down the stairs but that could also prove to be dangerous since I had no clue what I was going to find in the bedrooms above. My senses were heightened as I stepped onto the landing. Moving as quickly as I could under the circumstances, I was relieved to find the landing empty. I desperately wanted to call for backup, but I was afraid to take my attention away from the bedrooms. I searched each of the three rooms and was happy to find them empty.
“Clear,” I shouted as I made my way down the stairs. I waited to hear Rome give the all clear shout but it never came. I moved a tad bit faster just to make sure he didn’t need any assistance. I stepped over the dead body of a teenage boy, and a beautiful woman lay beside him. They were both covered in blood.
Rome said, “She’s got a pulse. Call it in while I check the basement.” He quickly moved toward the basement door. His face was flushed red and sweat was rolling down in his eyes.
“Don’t you want to wait for backup?” My voice was a little higher than its normal baritone. I coughed, hoping Rome didn’t notice the nervousness that was evident in my voice. My hands trembled. I’d never been around a dead body before.
“Why? If the perp is still in the house, we have to catch him. Get an ambulance before the bitch dies,” he shouted as he opened the door and started down the basement stairs. If he noticed my hesitation to move, he didn’t mention it. It was too much; I couldn’t take it anymore. Blood was all over. I stumbled back. There was no way I could stay in this room. I didn’t care if Jesus Christ Himself was in here. I rushed out the front door to keep from vomiting all over the floor and contaminating the crime scene. For the first time since graduating at the top of my class, I had second thoughts about my career choice.
I made the call but I didn’t bother going back in the house. I was done. I waited outside for the paramedics to arrive. I was standing next to the squad car when Rome came out the front door.
He gave me a hard look. “Damn, you just left a brother hanging and shit.”
I couldn’t tell whether Rome was joking or if he was actually angry. Truth be told, I couldn’t give a hairy tit if he was. I didn’t tell his ass to rush down those stairs, and I damn sure didn’t tell him to kick down the fucking door. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t kick our black asses out of the department or worse yet, turn us into meter maids.” I was angry, but not necessarily at Rome. I was pissed off at myself for wasting the last six months of my life.
“Negro, please. We responded to a call and we were the closest unit to the scene. The way I see it, we should get a promotion for it.”
I could tell he was feeling particularly proud of himself—that only made me madder. “Yeah, whatever.” I wanted to get away from the scene before our sergeant arrived and read us the riot act. The sergeant hated cockiness, and he would’ve burst a blood vessel if he got one look at Rome strutting around like the only rooster in the barnyard.
“Did the chick make it?” Rome asked.
“Uh ... I don’t know. I couldn’t get close to her.”
Rome’s look told me he was disgusted with me. I was glad that he didn’t use the moment to make fun of me. I was beating on myself badly enough without any help from him.
“Let’s get back to the station. I got a shell casing from the living room floor. I want to get the guys in the lab to run ballistics on it to see what we can find out.”
“Rome, this is a crime scene. You should have left the casing for the detectives.” I thought for a moment. “The paramedics haven’t even gotten here yet.”
“Oh, now you want to remember our training?” His look of contempt said it all. He stood in front of the car as if he was about to let the whole world know what a coward I was.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I bluffed, hoping he would leave me alone.
“It means your punk ass choked the fuck up as soon as we got in that bitch.” Rome was a bigmouth fucker and I couldn’t stand his ass.
“Fuck you. If your ass winds up in the unemployment line, I won’t be standing behind you.” I got into the car and slammed the door. As far as I was concerned, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. I just wanted to get away from the house, which was sure to be the source of many bad dreams for me.
CHAPTER FOUR
CARLOS MENDOZA
It had been a long time since I’d visited the United States, so quite naturally I was feeling a little uneasy about it. It seemed like I walked into a different world. I got off the plane in Atlanta and wandered through the maze of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport to the baggage claim with one thought on my mind: revenge.
I had received a letter from a woman named Tilo Adams. She claimed that my brother, Monte, was responsible for the death of my wife. I did what needed to be done and headed for the States. When I boarded the plane in Bogotá, Colombia, I had no idea what I would be walking into, but I intended to get to the bottom of it.
During the plane ride, I had plenty of time to reflect on where I had gone wrong. I thought Monte was my confidant but turns out he was a snake. Every time I wanted to quit the business and go to Atlanta to be with my family, he persuaded me to stay. In fact, Monte volunteered to leave our home in Colombia and move to Atlanta so he could keep an eye on my family for me while I continued the business. To me, short of being there myself, he was the perfect surrogate. He was the last living member of my immediate family, and I told him everything and he used it against me.
Unlike me, Monte embraced the American ways of dress and was more flashy than I. Although we were brought up with the same set of values, while I was making money, he’d obviously made a deal with the devil and ultimately put my family in danger.
My heart was heavy. I could not believe my own brother had betrayed me in such a fashion. But what surprised me the most was that he’d done it right under my nose. I had no idea he was wheeling and dealing and using me and my family to do it.
I gathered my luggage and went to find the driver I had hired to chauffeur me around the city. In all my years I never learned to drive. To me it didn’t make sense because everywhere I ever needed to go was within walking distance. However, this was going to have to change if I intended to make Atlanta my home.
Verónica looked like a beautiful angel. She slept soundly in her hospital bed, almost like she had been drugged. When they had directed me to the maternity ward I thought it was a mistake. I knew I had messed up and missed out on my children’s lives but I never imagined how much. Even if I wanted to get mad, I could only get mad at myself. There were so many times when I could have come to visit, but, over time, it became easier for me to stay in Colombia. But that was going to change. I leaned over her bed and kissed Verónica’s forehead. I never knew it would feel so good to touch my oldest daughter after so long. I whispered in her ear, “I love you, my child, I hope you know it. Please forgive me for being away. I will never leave you again. And, I will rebuild our family, starting by avenging your mother’s death.” I left her room on a mission.
It took less than twenty minutes for my driver to drive me across town to Private Investigator Moses Ramsey’s office. It was an elegant brick building on Peachtree Street. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice yelled from inside, then he snatched the door open like he was pissed about something. “What!”
I stepped back some and prepared myself to fight if it came to that. His unprofessional manner caught me by surprise and put me on guard. “Are you Mr. Ramsey?”
“Son of a bitch—”
“I beg your pardon.” I frowned at him over my horn-rimmed glasses.
“Uh ... I’m sorry. Are you Mr. Mendoza?”
“How did you know?”
He just stared at me.
I said, “I received a letter from this woman named Tilo. She said my children were in danger. She told me Verónica was in the hospital so I stopped by to see her before I came.”
“Verónica?” He sounded like he’d just called a dead person’s name. For some reason, he all of a sudden looked worse. He got his bearings and said, “So what can I do for you?”
“I want you to find that woman Tilo. She obviously knows what happened to my family and I need to know what has been going on.” I paused. “If I find out that she was involved, she will have to pay,” I vehemently declared.