Read Expired Online

Authors: Evie Rhodes

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense

Expired (13 page)

“No,” Rashod said in a much more subdued tone than before.
“That's me. I ain't got long. It is what it is, Rebound. The picture depicts my upcoming death. I'm Tracie's first seed. That seed has the shadow of death on it,” Rashod finished with hot conviction.
Michael could not find words.
There was no comeback he could think of for his brother's weird revelation. He sat back in his seat, staring at both sketches as they trembled in his shaking hands.
Rashod felt sorry for him. But Rashod had come to grips with this thing. He didn't know how he knew, but he did. He would be the next one to die.
Over in the Abraham Lincoln apartments, Souljah Boy awoke from a dead sleep after having a dream in which he'd seen the very same sketch Rashod had shown Michael Burlingame.
Very distinctly a voice had uttered, “Rashod Burlingame is the next one to die.”
Souljah Boy sat stock-still, sweat pouring from his brow. He reached for the phone, then thought better of it. What was he going to say, “Rashod, you're going to die”?
Visions of Randi Burlingame's broken body lying on the street flashed through his mind. Something deadly was going on with the Burlingame family, and all he had were instincts and dreams, which wouldn't stop it.
His right eye twitched rapidly.
He knew better than anyone that even if you were given or shown something in spirit, it didn't always mean you'd be able to halt the circumstances—in many cases all you could do was watch it play itself out.
He couldn't fathom why he'd been given the dream, but he knew there was a reason.
All his life he'd yearned for extraordinary sight, sight that was beyond normal human comprehension. He possessed instincts that were out of the ordinary, and an uncanny ability to feel things that others could not, but sometimes it was a hard burden to bear. It wasn't easy seeing what others couldn't.
Maybe it was paranoia that made him have the dream, because of Randi's death. He feverishly hoped this was the right answer, because if it wasn't, they were in big trouble. His spiritual insight was sensing trouble of a major magnitude.
So Souljah Boy did what he knew how to do. He bowed his head in prayer.
Rashod Burlingame stared at the sketch of his death. Michael Burlingame didn't believe, so he blew his conversation with Rashod off like so much dust.
It would come back to haunt him very, very soon.
28
L
onzo and Monica arrived at the funeral home where the preparation for the interment of Randi's body had been done. They stood just inside the doors.
There were three chapels attached to the building. It was extremely well kept. They stood on plush beige carpeting in which their feet were sinking amid scores of pieces of antique furniture.
“Looks like a profitable business,” Lonzo remarked.
“It sure does,” Monica readily agreed.
Just then the very stylish Lawrence Washington, the city's oldest funeral director, joined them. He walked with a cane, but the man had a certain vitality that permeated his presence. He smiled at them. “Now, how can I help you two young people today?”
Monica flashed her badge. “I'm Monica Rhodes, Harlem Homicide Division.” She pointed to Lonzo. “This is my partner, Alonzo Morgan.”
He nodded at her official tone. “Lawrence Washington. What can I help you with?”
Monica took the lead. “Did you direct the services for Randi Burlingame?”
“I did.”
“We need to see the guest list,” Monica said.
The funeral director waved his hand at her. “ 'Fraid not. Only the family can see it.”
“I can secure a court order. It's your call.”
Lawrence Washington hesitated. He shook his head sadly. “Such a shame. Closed casket on a sixteen-year-old boy. Those boys are Tracie's world. The girl dreams, lives, and breathes for their success. Now one of 'em's dead.”
Lonzo stepped in. “Did you know the family personally?”
“For some time now,” Lawrence told him. “Tracie owns a hair salon called Tracie's Place. She's also got a slew of braiding salons. She does most of the hair for my clients here. Beautiful work her people produce with lots of pride.”
He smiled at his memory and rambled on as though to himself. Monica and Lonzo didn't interrupt. They watched him closely.
“Long time ago, when she was just starting out, she used to bring her sons here with her while she worked. She started out with what little money her mama left her. Tracie was raised in the projects.
“I used to have to chase that Rashod all the time for spilling sunflower seeds all over my rugs and coffins. Sometimes he'd climb into the new coffins thinking they was a great place to hide, getting those darn seeds all over the velvet and velour cushions. Lord help me,” Lawrence Washington reminisced.
Lonzo and Monica exchanged swift glances. They couldn't believe their ears. Lonzo had been intent on finding out why Andre Burlingame had been photographing the funeral services; instead, Lawrence Washington had just handed them a vital link.
Lonzo had been fishing. However, Lawrence Washington had just handed them real bait, bait that was leading straight to Randi Burlingame's murderer.
Lonzo was having a hard time containing his excitement, but he knew from experience that it was better to let the old man continue talking. He risked another glance at Monica. That glance told him she was just as excited, only more contained.
Lawrence continued, “That's 'bout all he did. Outside of sketch and play with that silver locket Tracie bought him. The other three boys were fine. Dre with his camera, and—”
“What?” Monica brutally cut him off. She no longer cared about Andre Burlingame and his camera, just as she knew Lonzo didn't. This man had just identified two key aspects of their case in the space of a few sentences.
She knew in her gut that they'd just hit pay dirt with Lawrence Washington's recollection of the sunflower seeds and the silver locket.
Composing herself before she spoke again after having so abruptly cut him off, she said more softly, “What silver locket? Can you describe it?”
“Course I can. It was designed in the shape of a heart. Boy had more than anybody I know. Ever' time one broke, Tracie would replace it with another one for him.”
Monica fumbled in her pocket and extracted the plastic bag with the locket.
“That's it. I'd know it anywhere. Ain't too many people in Harlem walking around with none like it. Rashod's had one or another since he was a kid. He loves that thing just because his mama gave it to him.
“When he was little, he told me it was just like carrying his mama's heart around on a string.” For the first time he smiled in thinking about Rashod.
Then Lawrence Washington cleared his throat, thinking maybe he should clarify how he knew so much about the Burlingame family. “I been sort a like a father to Tracie over the years, you know.”
Oh, yeah,
Lonzo thought he knew, all right.
That was hood-speak for “he used to be laying down with Tracie's mama, so that was how he stepped into the surrogate-daddy role.” Lonzo and Monica traded looks. Wonders never ceased.
A satisfied smile was making its way across Monica's face. She didn't really give a damn who Tracie's mama had slept with, but she did give a damn about wrapping Tracie Burlingame up in her own little games.
Monica had known she was playing them.
“Thank you, Mr. Washington, for your time.” Monica extended her hand. “You've been a great help to us.”
“Well, I just hope all this was a help to Tracie,” Lawrence Washington said as some of his senility started to show through the surface. “She sure done had enough loss, losing her baby boy and all.”
“Yes,” Monica said, anxious to get away. “And again, thank you.”
Just before they stepped through the foyer, Lawrence said, “Oh? Will you still be needing to see the guest list?”
“No. There's no need for it now,” Monica told him.
He shook his head. “Good. Cuz I really don't be liking to deal with no house of the court and the likes. I run a nice, quiet business.”
He smiled at the irony of his own words. “And I'd just as soon keep it that way.”
“I'm sure you would. Good day, Mr. Washington.”
Out on the street, Monica turned to Lonzo. “I'm gonna secure a warrant for Tracie's house. I'll call you, and we'll set up a time to meet there. Let's pay her a little visit tonight.
“Alexandra will make sure we get the warrant, because the mayor of New York is breathing fire down her neck. If there was a conflict brewing between Tracie's sons, then you can believe she knew about it. She's been trying to suppress that information. Tracie's a woman who keeps her finger on the pulse of things, only this time she's got it on a hot button.”
“And that button is about to explode,” Lonzo whispered.
It was not going to be a pretty sight to see.
29
T
hat night Monica and Lonzo stood on the steps to Tracie's brownstone, waiting rather impatiently for her to answer the doorbell. The chimes resounded through the brownstone as though summoning a dignitary.
Finally, after what seemed like an interminable wait, Tracie opened the heavy, elegant brown wood door that looked as though it belonged on Fifth Avenue instead of in Harlem.
Before Tracie could open her mouth, Monica stepped to the plate. “Miss Burlingame, we need to talk.”
“There's nothing else to talk about,” Tracie replied, her veneer of calm hiding a kaleidoscope of emotions.
Monica's eyes flashed as if they would burn a hole through Tracie. Still she was unable to crack the supreme arrogance that surrounded Tracie like a halo. Monica sighed, enunciating her every word. “I'm afraid there is.”
“We'll keep it short,” Lonzo said.
Tracie gritted her teeth. A brief storm of rage shone through the arrogance and played across her face. She pulled the door open, turning her back on the cops.
Monica didn't pull any punches. “Where can I find your son, Rashod Burlingame?”
Tracie wheeled on Monica. Her eyes spit pure flames of fire. “Why?”
“Because I asked, that's why.” Monica glided so close to Tracie, she could feel her breath on her face. Tracie didn't back up or flinch an inch.
“I don't know,” Tracie said with a lift of her chin.
“I think you do.” Monica served up a verbal volley.
Lonzo inserted himself between the two women, forcing some distance between them. “We ain't going nowhere with this,” he said.
Monica reached into her vest pocket. She produced the search warrant, handing it to Tracie. She refused to waste precious minutes on the ice princess that was Tracie Burlingame. “I believe this will take us where we want to go.”
Tracie stared at the paper without touching it. “I already let you search Randi's room.”
“I don't want to search Randi's room. I want to search Rashod's room. This piece of paper says I can.”
Tracie's first trace of real fear emanated from her. Monica picked up the scent like the true hunter she was. Like an experienced hunter, she waited until she had the prey exactly where she wanted her.
“Why?” Tracie asked.
Monica pounced. “I don't have to explain to you, Tracie, but I will. We have reason to believe your son, Rashod Burlingame, tossed Randi from the roof.”
In one swift stroke, Monica reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of sunflower seeds, thrusting them under Tracie's nose. Tracie began to shake violently. It started as a small tremor that birthed into a physical quake, rising into a human tidal wave. Tracie's limbs had turned to jelly.
Lonzo took her gently by the shoulders to calm her. “Tracie, sit down,” he told her. Gently, brotherly, he guided her over to the nearby sofa. Tracie obliged like a small child.
Monica headed toward the hallway in search of Rashod's room.
Tracie pulled air into her lungs in long gulps. She shouted out after Monica, “He didn't do it! There must be some mistake. He wouldn't . . . he couldn't do it. Damn you, I said he didn't do it!”
Monica halted. She turned back to Tracie. “Oh, I think he did, Tracie. I think one of your sons killed the other one, and I'm going to be arresting Rashod Burlingame tonight for the murder of Randi Burlingame. How does that play for you, Tracie? And what's more—”
Monica whipped out her cell phone. She punched in digits. She shouted into the phone, “Put out an APB for Rashod Burlingame.”
She snapped the phone closed. “And what's more, I think you know it.”
Tracie bowed her head between her legs, whispering, “Rashod, why did you lie to me?”
At the Harlem precinct station, police vehicles began pulling out with their sirens screaming into the night. They sped from the lot in search of Rashod Burlingame. Riot police jumped into police vans.
This search was to be a display of power. It was a stab into the consciousness of the Harlem community, that the powers that be would not allow the slaughtering of a little black boy without serious ramifications.
They would not tolerate this type of murder. It was too bold, too flagrant, too in your face, and it had the capability of tunneling the residents of Harlem into one sweeping and angry voice. That just could not be.
This action would serve as a political volleyball, and those who were really running Harlem would come up shining brightly for a change.
It was an opportunity not to be missed. And if it was brother against brother, it really didn't make a difference. The message was simple: no bloodletting and no emotional crippling in the Harlem community. The community itself was mentally docile for the time being, and there would be no rippling of the still waters.
Alexandra was gazing out of her office window at the scene taking place outside in the police lot. She flicked her pencil in and out of her mouth. “I think my serial vampire is turning out to be a case of sibling rivalry,” she murmured.
The intercom on her phone buzzed. She hit the button. A male voice came over the speaker: “We've got a handle on the suspect. He was spotted in the vicinity of St. Nicholas and 139th Street. According to our sources he's still over there.”
Alexandra smiled her pleasure. “Bring the little vampire in—now. I want him downstairs in holding immediately.”
“Got it,” the voice responded. Alexandra clicked off.
 
 
Inside Tracie's living room, Tracie sat alone at the white baby grand piano, banging away a dark tune. Lonzo had gone to conduct the search with Monica in Rashod's room. The notes rose and fell, rose and fell, until they felt like sweeping waves pouring over Tracie.
In the middle of Tracie's private symphony, Monica walked up to the piano and dangled a black and gold Karl Kani boot directly in front of her face. She held the boot with the tip of her gloved fingers.
“Recognize this?” Monica said.
Tracie's fingers halted, stiff and frozen. The notes came to an abrupt halt. Tracie stared at the hideous boot, regretting that she had been in such an emotional frenzy that she hadn't thought to get rid of the damn thing.
“I know you recognize these,” Monica said as she let a cascade of sunflower seeds she had scooped up from Rashod's room drop over the piano keys.
 
 
Inside Alexandra's office, the phone rang. Alexandra snatched it off the hook on the first ring. She listened for a moment, her facial features turning to pure granite.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she said into the phone.
Taking a deep breath, Alexandra disconnected the caller and hit the intercom button on the phone. “Maya, get me Monica Rhodes on the line. Now!” she barked. “She's at the Burlingame residence.”
 
 
Monica's cell phone rang, interrupting the cat-and-mouse game she was torturing Tracie Burlingame with. “Yeah. This is Monica.”
An ashen look of disbelief crept across her face. She cupped her hand to the phone. “What? Are you serious?”
Suddenly there was a shift in temperature in the room, causing both Lonzo and Tracie to stare at Monica. “We're on our way,” she said into the phone.
Monica clicked off. She looked at Lonzo. “That was Alexandra.”
“What did she say?”
Monica pulled him out of Tracie's earshot without excusing herself. She glanced over briefly at Tracie, who was still sitting on the piano stool, staring in disbelief at the sunflower seeds.
Monica spoke barely above a whisper. “A body was just discovered on St. Nicholas Avenue . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She tossed a look at Tracie Burlingame.
“It's a positive ID. Rashod Burlingame. He was thrown from a roof on St. Nicholas. His shoes are missing. There are sunflower seeds stuffed in his throat. The blood has been drained from his body. Same MO as his brother.”
“Son of a—”
Monica cut him off.
She stole another glance at Tracie. “There's a serial killer on the loose in Harlem. Maybe I was wrong about Randi's death being a street killing. There's a profile emerging here. Whoever the killer is, the offspring of Miss Burlingame seem to have his attention.” Monica spoke the prophetic words without having any way of being aware of their full meaning.
“We've got to tell her.” As soon as Monica spoke the words, Tracie rose instinctively, regally, from the piano stool. Her eyes found Monica's.
Monica cleared her throat. For the first time she felt a stab of empathy for Tracie Burlingame. “Tracie I, ummm . . .” Monica closed her eyes, shocked at the impact of her own feelings.
“I'm sorry to inform you . . .”
Tracie was caught up in a tidal wave. She felt as if she were being smothered. Waves of water rippled over her. There was a current of diseased information floating through the air. She could feel it. She could taste it. She didn't want to hear whatever it was.
Maybe if she resisted it, it would go away.
She backed away, fighting against the disease of truth that was reaching out its arms to her, trying to spread its poisonous tentacles through the recesses of her mind.
Lonzo touched Monica briefly on the shoulder. He zoomed in on Tracie Burlingame. The only way to deliver bad news was just to deliver it. Period.
“We're sorry, Tracie—”
Monica regained her composure. She cut Lonzo off in midsentence. She would have to finish what she had started. She wasn't a runner.
“Your son, Rashod Burlingame, is dead, Tracie. We need you to confirm identification for us, but we're pretty sure it's him. I'm sorry.”
Tracie stood like a statue. Monica's words closed in on her mental recesses. They squeezed until there was barely any air left. They squeezed until the only word she could hear was
Death.
Death. Tracie accepted this. She now understood it was her mantle to wear.
Her seed had the shadow of death on it.

Other books

Not In Kansas Anymore by Christine Wicker
The Turning by Tim Winton
The Hypnotist by Lars Kepler
Hitler Made Me a Jew by Nadia Gould
The Fifth Clan by Ryan T. Nelson
The Pyramid of Souls by Erica Kirov
Paying For It by Tony Black