Chapter 33
Later on, Joe is at his desk in the Fifth District Station located on Bladensburg Road in Northeast D.C.
He is staring at the list of names, deep in thought.
Sixteen names.
Sixteen liaisons.
Eleven locations.
Six international.
He can’t keep the images from the hard drive from peeking into his psyche. He has to force himself to concentrate.
But it’s difficult.
He seems to see her and
them
every other moment. And it’s not a good thing.
Sixteen liaisons.
Out of sixteen names, six of them have some form of contact info: e-mail, phone, address.
The others—names, vague descriptions—perhaps a photo. That’s it. Not much to go on.
Joe concentrates on the names.
Start with the ones you can contact.
Natalie—Jamaica.
Jayla—Philly.
Makayla—New York.
Chloe—London.
Carrie—Baltimore.
Lacy—Jamaica.
Joe picks up the phone and dials the first one on the list.
“Hello?” Female voice.
“May I speak to Natalie?”
The number he’s dialed begins with 858. San Diego, CA.
“This number belongs to someone else. It’s no longer Natalie cell phone.”
“My name is Joe Goodman. I’m a detective with the Metropolitan—”
“This ain’t her number!”
The line goes dead.
Joe stares at the phone, then hangs up. He makes a notation next to Natalie’s name. Picks up the phone again. Dials the second number.
“Hello?” a female voice says after five rings.
“Hi, may I speak to Jayla?” Joe asks.
“Who’s calling?” she asks.
Joe’s heart rate increases.
“My name is Joe Goodman. Is this Jayla?”
“I’m at work. What is this concerning?” she says.
“Ma’am, I am a detective with the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington, D.C. If at all possible, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Would that be all right?”
Joe figures he’ll play this nice and slow. All gentlemanly. No need to get nasty, unless there isn’t cooperation.
“I’m at work, I said. Am I in trouble?”
Joe can hear the apprehension rise.
“I understand, ma’am, and no, you’re not in trouble. Is there someplace quiet you can talk? I can call you back in a few minutes, but I do need to ask some questions. It won’t take long.”
“Hold on then. Let me walk to a conference room.”
“Sure.”
It takes her a minute to come back on the line.
“I’m here.”
“Great, thank you. Do you know a couple by the name of Michael and Kennedy Handley?” Joe asks.
There is a long, breathless silence.
“I don’t think so? Should I?” she asks hesitantly.
“You met them at a restaurant/lounge called tangerine on Market Street in downtown Philadelphia several years ago. You were intimate with them.”
Prolonged silence.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Have you had any recent contact with them? Phone, e-mail, in person, what have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” Jayla says. “I hooked up with them that one time. That was like two and a half years ago.”
“Okay. They sent you photographs of your encounter, did they not?” Joe asks.
He swears he can hear her swallow. Hard.
“Yes.”
“And do you still have those photos in your possession?”
This time Jayla answers without pause.
“No, I deleted them off my computer the very same night. Didn’t trust my—” She stops in midsentence before continuing. “You know. I didn’t want to leave something like that around on my PC.”
“I see,” Joe responds. “Ma’am, are you sure that no one other than you ever saw those photographs? Is it possible that perhaps someone you were dating at the time could have gotten hold of them and forwarded them on to someone else?”
Silence.
“Ma’am? Jayla?”
“Yes, I’m here. I’m thinking.”
“Were you in a relationship at the time that you met the Handleys.”
Jayla exhales a breath.
“I was in a relationship, yes. But I doubt very strongly anyone found those pictures. If someone had, I would have known about it, trust me.”
“Husband?”
“An extremely jealous partner.”
“I’m going to need his name, ma’am.”
Pause.
“It’s a she. And trust me, she didn’t see those photos.”
Joe asks, “How can you be so sure?”
Jayla’s answer is succinct. “ ’Cause if she had, I wouldn’t be here talking to you now.”
Michael walks to the lobby, a look of puzzlement adorning his normally complacent face. He spies his visitor at the security desk, name tag already affixed to his lapel. Michael waves his badge to the guard and comes face-to-face with his wife’s ex, Joe the detective.
Joe nods his way, but neither reaches out to shake hands.
“My secretary said you needed to see me?” Michael says without preamble.
“Yeah. I was in the neighborhood and thought we could chat. You got a moment?”
Michael stares at him.
“Concerning?”
“I think you know,” Joe responds.
“You signed in already, I see.”
“Yeah. Decided to keep it low profile and not flash the shield,” Joe says. Then adds, “For your sake.”
Michael doesn’t know whether to say “Thank you” or “Fuck you.” So he says neither.
“We can talk in my office.” He leads the way. On the elevator ride up they are silent. Both are considering the other’s thoughts. Ironically, they’re thinking about the same thing.
The photographs on the hard drive.
The doors open, and Michael leads Joe to his office. Once inside he closes the door and takes a seat behind his desk, gesturing for Joe to sit.
“Nice view,” Joe says once he’s seated.
“So, this isn’t a social call,” Michael declares.
“No, it’s not. I thought it was time for you and me to speak. About what’s going down.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me, Michael, what’s your take on this?” Joe asks, spreading his hands wide.
Michael eyes him.
“Not sure what you mean. It’s a fucked-up situation. Kennedy is really affected by what has transpired. I’m sure you know that.”
“Yeah. Any idea who or why someone is targeting you guys?”
“None.”
Joe’s stare burns into Michael’s.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,
Detective
. I am.”
“Let me ask you this man to man—and you have my word that whatever is said here will be kept between you and me. Any problems at home that I should know about?”
“No. No problems.”
“Have you stepped out on your wife? Perhaps a little something or someone on the side?”
“You know what, Joe? I resent these questions. And for the record, it’s none of your fucking business.”
“Michael, come on, man, I’m asking as a detective. Your wife asked me to investigate this. That’s what I’m doing.”
Michael glares at him.
“You come in here like we’re buddies and shit, but we’re not. So watch what you say to me, okay?”
Joe spreads his hands in the air.
“Okay. I apologize for the way I said it. But I’m afraid the question remains. Are you having an affair?”
“No, Joe. I am not.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, Joe, I’m sure.”
“Not now, not in the recent past?”
“Joe—for the record, I have never stepped out on my wife. Satisfied?”
Joe switches gears.
“Tell me about these liaisons. How did you meet these women?”
“Nightclubs, bars and restaurants, strip clubs. You name it. Most of the time they were staying at the same resort we were. It wasn’t that difficult, especially when you saw the same woman over the course of several days in the pool, at the beach, or in the restaurant.”
Joe digests what Michael has told him.
“Okay. Were all of these encounters with women or were there ever men involved?”
“There was another guy one time, but Kennedy wasn’t into it,” Michael responds.
Joe muses,
How nice for you!
“Right. Were most of these women single?”
“Yes.”
“But not all of them?”
“No, not all.”
Joe waits for him to continue.
“Some were with their spouses or partners.”
Joe asks, “And these men were okay with their wives or girlfriends going with you?”
“Look. We’re not the first people to experience a threesome. Plenty of couples do it. You’d be surprised what people do when they are out of the country on vacation.”
“Okay. Let me ask you this. Any jealousy that you saw? Like, some guy is pissed because his woman is getting it on with you guys and he’s left out in the cold?”
Michael shakes his head.
“No, we didn’t witness any of that. If we did, we stayed clear of the woman. Moved on to someone else.” Michael sits back, folding his arms.
Joe nods slowly.
“You make it sound easy,” he says.
Michael shrugs.
“It is what it is. My wife is a very sensual woman. And other women pick up on that. It’s not that difficult when they’re in the presence of unfettered sensuality. It’s like a drug.”
Michael isn’t boasting. He’s simply telling it like it is.
Joe merely nods.
And wishes it had been like that when Kennedy was married to him.
Chapter 34
The 727 glides down smoothly onto the glistening tarmac of Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. It’s nine thirty-five in the morning as Damian grabs his carry-on and deplanes with the rest of the passengers.
His first order of business is to collect his bags from baggage claim. That is completed without incident. Next he rents a full-size car from Hertz, a Chevy Impala. He uses his business Amex card, and is on the shuttle to the lot with keys in hand in under twenty-five minutes.
Once in his rental vehicle, bags and carry-on sequestered in the trunk, he exits the lot and takes 85 North. Not long thereafter Damian is broaching downtown Atlanta. A few minutes later he steers into a McDonald’s and cuts the engine.
He pulls out his Virgin Mobile cell phone that has remained powered off since yesterday, turns it on, and waits patiently for a signal before dialing. It takes five rings before someone answers.
“Yeah?”
“Let me speak to Tyrone. This is Mr. C,” Damian says.
“Who?”
Damian sighs.
“Tyrone. This is Mr. C. Met you at the Pink Pony strip club. Remember?”
It takes Tyrone a second to connect the dots. “Mr. C! Yeah, how you doing?”
“I’m well, Tyrone. Remember our business arrangement, Tyrone? Well, today’s the day. I’m here now. . . .”
Tyrone takes another second before responding.
“Yeah, okay. Cool. Today?”
“Like now, Tyrone. I need you to get over to the bank. The amount you will be withdrawing is six thousand. Get it in all hundreds. That’s sixty hundreds, Tyrone. Make sure you count it and have them put it in an envelope. Keep your cell on. When you exit the bank, I’ll be in a car down the street. You’ll receive a call from me. As we discussed, please don’t do anything stupid, because I’ll be watching.” Damian is pressed to keep his voice under control. His head is beginning to throb and he wants to scream at the dumb motherfucker, but that would only scare him more than he probably already is. Necessary evil, dealing with dumb shits like Tyrone.
“No problem. Six G’s. All in hundreds, right? You’ll call me once I’m outside,” Tyrone responds, much to Damian’s wonderment.
“That’s right, Tyrone. Very good. Now, don’t forget your license—you’ll need ID to make a withdrawal.”
“Got it, Mr. C,” Tyrone says, much more enthusiastically than when the call began.
“I’ll cut you a solid G for today’s gig. Not bad for ten minute’s worth of work.”
He can imagine Tyrone’s enormous grin.
“Tyrone, I knew you and I could do business together. That’s why I’m gonna throw more work your way. You’re gonna make some serious cheddar, working with me.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Tyrone exclaims.
Damian shakes his head while ending the call.
He spots him easily thirty minutes later.
Baggy jeans, work boots, a triple-XL dark-colored hoodie, and matching cap. Not exactly the kind of duds he’d pick for the job, but damn, he can’t school everyone.
Damian considers calling him on the cell, telling Tyrone he’s got him in his sights, just in case he decides to be stupid this morning, but then thinks better of it.
His Impala is parked in a covered garage a block away. Damian is dressed casually, sitting on a bench in a triangular patch of parkland that overlooks the bank. He’s wearing a baseball cap and shades, not that he really needs to be incognito here. No one, save for Tyrone and one other person, has seen his face.
Damian met Tyrone a month ago. He had labored over how to pull it off, how to achieve his objective without drawing undue attention to himself. The problem was one of traceability. In this day and age, there is always a trail that can be followed back to you.
Unless you are smart.
Damian knew what he had to do. So he spent a few nights at the Pink Pony in northeast Atlanta. Came there with a fresh roll of bills, ready to befriend someone. And he wasn’t referring to the strippers.
It wasn’t that hard.
He took a seat close to the dancers’ stage—an elevated runway sort of thingy—and proceeded to throw a few bills their way. Thirty minutes later he was buying himself a lap dance. Fifteen minutes after that, Damian was leaning over to the brutha a few seats down, talking about the phat ass on the stripper who worked the pole. They roared with laughter as they gave each other dap. Pretty soon, he was buying a round of lap dances for himself and his newfound friend.
The first two that he befriended, however, weren’t right. First guy didn’t have a job, therefore a bank account.
That was out.
Second guy just didn’t feel right. Would have asked too many questions. Would not have been accessible when Damian came to call.
Not the case with Tyrone.
Tyrone was just right.
By the end of the third night, Tyrone was all his.
Damian had stumbled onto someone who was exactly what he was looking for.
Young, not too swift in the head, with a job delivering furniture for a local store. Most importantly, he had a bank account and a driver’s license, and he didn’t ask a whole lot of questions, because he was blinded by the prospect of quick, cold cash.
Yeah, Tyrone was perfect.
Damian watches him enter the bank on Peachtree. He checks his watch. Soon he’ll be done with this fool and on to the other location.
Same deal, just a different friend.
Seventeen minutes later, Tyrone emerges into the bright sunlight. He’s holding an envelope under his arm as he glances both ways.
Damian places his cell to his ear.
“Tyrone, my man!”
“Mr. C.”
“Everything go okay?” he asks.
“Smooth as silk, Mr. C.”
“You’re the man, Tyrone. Listen, I’m parked in a garage a block away. Head to your right and at the corner hang a right. It’s halfway up the street on your right-hand side. I’m heading that way, too. I’m behind you, but don’t turn around. I’ll meet you at the corner and greet you. Just act natural, and we can walk together to my car.”
“Okay, Mr. C.”
Damian can detect a bit of apprehension that has crept into Tyrone’s voice.
“You okay, Tyrone?” Damian asks.
“Yeah. I got nothing to worry about, right, Mr. C? Like a bullet in the back of the neck or something?”
Nervous laughter, but Damian knows he’s serious as prostate cancer.
“Tyrone,” he says while crossing the street, taking up position forty yards behind him. “I’m offended you’d think me capable of something like that. You and I are business partners. How would it look if I offed my own partner? Besides, I’m not a violent man. You’ve been watching too many DVDs.”
“Okay, Mr. C. Just checking,” Tyrone replies, but there’s still an edge to his voice.
“I’ll be there in a moment. Just keep walking. You’re doing great.”
Damian hangs up the phone and pockets it in his jacket. He reaches the corner a moment later, as Tyrone turns right.
“Tyrone!” he exclaims.
Tyrone stops and turns. Grins.
“Mr. C! What up?”
They greet each other quickly, then move on to the garage. Damian is making small talk—how’s work? You been back to the Pony lately? Yeah, they got some fine-ass bitches working that spot, don’t they?
Tyrone follows Damian as he ignores the elevator and instead takes the stairs. They head up. In the stairwell between the third and fourth level Damian pauses and holds up a hand. Tyrone stops. Together they listen for a sound. Nothing. Damian turns to Tyrone and smiles.
“You done good, Tyrone.”
He holds out his outstretched hand. Tyrone turns over the thick envelope. Damian opens it, checks the contents, pulling out the sheaf of bills partway. He runs his thumb over them as if they were a deck of cards. Satisfied, he pushes the bills back down into the envelope, hefting the thing in his hand. He stares at the envelope for a moment, eyeing Tyrone before handing it back to him.
“This is for you.”
Tyrone’s eyes practically bug out. He produces a toothy smile.
“Are you serious?”
Damian nods.
“You want me to hold this for you?” he asks cautiously.
“Consider this an investment. I’m investing in you, Tyrone. I hope to do more business with you.”
Damian lays his hand on Tyrone’s shoulder for a moment before glancing upward. “Now, I’ve got to be going. I’ve got another appointment that I need to keep, or I’d drop you off—you understand, don’t you?”
“No problem, Mr. C.”
“Good.”
Damian makes a fist and gives Tyrone dap.
“Keep that cell close—you’ll be hearing from me soon,” he says.
Damian heads up to the fourth level as Tyrone makes his way back down. He stops at the door, waiting until he can no longer hear Tyrone’s footfalls before heading to the fifth level. He finds his rental car quickly and climbs inside. Starting the engine, Damian puts the vehicle in gear.
As he steers toward the exit below, Damian considers the job.
It went as planned.
He could have had Tyrone follow him to the rental and exchanged the money inside. But then Tyrone would have seen the car and could have ID’d the plate later.
No good.
This way, all he has is a description of the man and a phone number from a pay-as-you-go cell.
Neither of which will get him very far.
Later on that day, after successfully completing the second job, Damian pulls into a Wendy’s parking lot. He heads for the men’s room and once inside makes sure he is alone.
Damian reaches for his cell.
Without preamble he drops the phone to the tile floor, stepping on it hard with the heel of his boot.
Twice.
Damian picks up the crushed pieces of plastic and metal and casually tosses them into a trash receptacle by the door.
He washes his hands, checking himself in the mirror before exiting.
A Number Five with a Sprite to go, and then it’s back to the Impala for the long drive home.
His head is throbbing, yet he’s grinning.
All in a day’s work,
he muses.