Chapter 38
“MOM-MEEEEEEEEE!” Zack yells as he enters the front door.
Kennedy jumps up. She had been sitting Indian style on the throw rug, the coffee table between her and her husband as they play Scrabble.
They are fully dressed again. Several more hours have passed since they were laid out naked and spent on the ground like a pair of impatient young lovers, their clothes strewn about them haphazardly as if caught in a jungle cyclone. The fire continues to roar and crackle with a fresh-split log feeding it.
Zack rushes in, his parka hood flapping against his thin neck as he collides with his mother. They hug while she kisses the top of his head.
“How’s my big boy? God, I missed you!” she exclaims.
“Missed you too, Mommy,” Zack retorts, hugging her tighter as he glances around the room as if searching for something.
“What am I, chopped liver?” Michael muses.
“Hi, Dad!” Zack says before switching gears. “Nana says she’s going to play Monopoly with me, and she says you can play, too, Dad, if you promise not to cheat.” He giggles, then continues, “Pop Pop told me he’s gonna let me drive the tractor, right, Pop Pop?”
Michael’s father, Roland Handley, is a good-looking man of seventy-five. He’s wearing tan overalls, worn work boots and a John Deere cap. He pulls off his hat and scratches at his salt-and-pepper hair.
“As a matter of fact, I did.” He steps to Kennedy and takes her in his arms. “Good to see you, honey. Thank you for bringing my grandson home.” He kisses her forehead before stepping back, allowing his wife to swoop in.
Betty Handley is a small woman with a big heart. She gives Kennedy a generous hug.
“You okay, baby? We’ve been worried sick about you,” she says.
“I’m fine, Mama Handley. Thank you for having us in your home on such short notice,” Kennedy replies.
Betty waves her hand in the air like she’s swatting a fly. “Oh,
hush.
You and our grandson are welcome anytime. It’s your husband who needs to make a reservation!” She begins to cackle, and Zack joins her. Michael just shakes his head solemnly.
“Pop Pop, can I drive the tractor
now?
” Zack asks restlessly.
Michael eyes him.
“Zack, let your grandfather rest. Besides, I have some things I need to talk to Pop Pop about. I’m sure he’ll take you out later.”
“Ahh, man!”
“Boy, you better mind your father or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap!” Betty says sternly. But Zack just laughs, holding his stomach with a bony hand.
“Ah, Nana, you are funny. Wash my mouth out with soap? Good one, Nana!”
Kennedy steals a quick glance over at Michael.
“He’s
definitely
your son,” she exclaims before walking back over to the fire, where Zack joins her to get warm.
“Let me start dinner,” Betty says. “You all hungry?”
“Mama Handley, you rest your feet. You just walked in. Besides, your son is perfectly capable of making dinner for this family, isn’t that right, baby?” Kennedy asks while standing in front of the hearth, holding Zack to her chest.
Michael glances around the room, counting four sets of eyes staring back at him. He merely rolls his eyes as he sighs heavily.
“I’m fine, Kennedy,” Betty says. “Besides, that man you married may be many things, but a good cook ain’t one of them! I’ll get things started in a minute. Zack, you want Nana to make you some of her famous macaroni and cheese?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Zack squeals, his eyes as wide as quarters.
“Can I talk to you, Pop?”
They are in the cab of Roland Handley’s pickup truck, a ’94 Chevy, engine running and heat cranking. Roland pulls to a stop on a dirt trail that parallels a shallow, bubbling brook. The water still flows despite the season, meandering through a dense forest.
“What is it, Son?” he asks, turning in his seat to face him.
Michael swallows hard as he glances down at his hands.
“I was hoping to borrow one of the guns.”
Roland is silent for a moment.
Michael continues. “Like one of the shotguns.”
Roland exhales through his nostrils before speaking.
“Listen, Son. I know you and your family are going through a hard time right now, but this ain’t the way to handle things.”
Michael turns to face him.
“Pop, you don’t understand. This guy, he’s out to get Kennedy and me. Maybe even hurt Zack. I can’t take that chance. Don’t you see that?”
“Yes, I do, but you need to let the police handle this. Don’t go taking the law into your own hands,” his father says.
“I’m not taking the law into my own hands. I’m trying to protect my family.”
“By having a gun in the house? Son, we’ve been through this before.” Roland shakes his head. And Michael has a sudden flashback that causes his insides to ache. He pushes the memory away.
“So what am I supposed to do?” Michael asks, ignoring the remark, hands upturned. “Just sit back and wait for this guy to come and get us?”
“No. Let the police do their job.”
Michael sighs. Roland puts a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Apply for a permit. I’m sure you have some connections with folks in law enforcement or the courts down there. Then you can carry
legally.
”
Michael eyes his father.
“Pop, I’m not asking for one of the handguns. I’m asking for the shotgun. I can legally keep it in my house, provided it’s unloaded.”
“Rendering it useless,” his father quips.
“Pop, this is my wife and son we’re talking about. I’m trying to be a man and protect them. Don’t you get that?”
Roland glances over at Michael. Their eyes meet.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you. Lord knows I don’t. Not to you. Nor to my grandson or my daughter-in-law.”
Michael remains silent, holding his breath.
“Guns are dangerous, Son. Especially around a child.”
Michael nods.
“Pop. Let me protect my family. Please?”
Roland glances down. Removes his cap and scratches at his salt-and-pepper hair before replacing the hat, locking eyes with Michael.
“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid. What your town doesn’t need is a vigilante on the loose.”
Michael emits a half grin.
“I hear you. But if this fucker gets within spitting distance of my family, I’m blowing him the hell away. And you can take that to the bank.”
Chapter 39
Detective Joe Goodman stands patiently in front of the desk of Captain Renee Watts as he waits for her to finish a call. He’s not eavesdropping; rather, Joe’s mind is working over the information that he received moments ago.
Captain Watts hangs up the phone and without looking up directs Joe to shut the door.
He does so, returning to the same spot in front of her desk.
“Sit,” she commands, glancing up at him for the first time. “You needed to see me?” she asks.
“This case I’m working. We’ve got a break, and I’d like to pursue it.”
“Okay.” She waits for him to furnish the details.
Joe knows the drill.
“Couple is being harassed over e-mail and phone messages by unknown person or persons. Several days ago, a wire transfer was initiated from the victims’ bank account. Twelve thousand dollars was wired to two separate banks in Atlanta. A warrant was issued, and I just got off the phone with Atlanta PD. They ID’d two men whose bank accounts the money was transferred to. They’ve got the arrest warrants and are ready to grab them. I would like to question them.”
“In Atlanta?” she asks quizzically.
“Yes.”
“You are aware that we are having this conversation in the District of Columbia.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And our jurisdiction does not reach to the State of Georgia.”
Joe takes a breath and exhales.
“Captain, this is the first and perhaps only break in this case. I need to follow the evidence, wherever it might take me.”
Captain Watts glares at Joe for a moment. Neither speaks.
“Bullshit, Goodman. What’s so special about this case?”
Joe swallows.
Captain Watts raises an eyebrow. And waits.
Joe sighs heavily.
“The vic is my ex. Wife. And her husband.”
Captain Watts grunts.
“I see. This gets better every second. And you want to spend the department’s money to chase down this lead?”
“Captain—the two perps will be in custody shortly. They either planned the transfer or know who did. That’s our best bet for closing this case. You know how this works. I need to get to these guys now, before they make bail or lawyer up.”
Joe knows Captain Watts is considering his words. So he presses on.
“I’d like to fly out immediately. I’ve asked ATL PD to hold the arrests pending my arrival. I need a day, two tops.”
Captain Watts shakes her head.
“No, Detective. You fly in, you arrest, you interrogate, you fly out. No stayovers. I do not have the budget for hotels. Are we clear?”
“Clear as water.”
Captain Watts stares at Joe and shakes her head.
“Detective, please get out of my office.”
“Hey, baby, it’s me.”
“Hi.” Tara is at her desk when her phone rings.
“How is work?” Joe asks.
Tara can detect something in his voice that she can’t quite place.
“Fine. What’s up? Something wrong?” she asks nonchalantly, trying to quell the anxiety she feels rising.
“I have to go out of town,” Joe tells her. He waits a beat and then says, “On business, to Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?” Tara’s voice rises in pitch automatically. She glances around, knowing that coworkers in cubicles can hear everything. She whispers, “What do you mean, Atlanta?”
“Baby, a case I’m working on? We caught a break. I need to go arrest and interrogate two perps.” Joe swallows before continuing. “This is strictly business, Tara. For the case.”
“Does this . . . have anything to do with Kennedy?” Tara asks, her voice quivering.
Joe knows that if he lies, things will only get worse. So he tells the truth.
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Is she going with you?” Tara asks quietly.
“Who? Kennedy? Of course not! She doesn’t even know I’m going down there.” Joe states this matter-of-factly, then, as an afterthought, adds, “Besides, she and her husband are out of town.” He regrets the last sentence as soon as it’s out of his mouth.
“I see you’ve got her itinerary down pat.”
“It’s not like that.”
Tara is silent. There are things she would love to say, but now is neither the time nor the place to say them. So she quiets her resentment and asks, “When are you leaving?”
“I’m in a cab heading to Reagan.”
“And you will be returning when?”
“The captain hasn’t authorized me to stay over. So I’ll get as much done as I can and catch a flight back. If I can’t get out of there later on tonight, I’ll find a place to stay. I’ve got buddies down there from school that I can call on.”
I’m sure you do,
Tara cogitates. Instead she vocalizes, “Be safe, Joe.”
“Love you, baby,” he says, relieved.
But Tara has already hung up.
Chapter 40
Detective Joe Goodman sits in the backseat of an unmarked Ford Taurus in the parking lot of the Kings Arms Apartments with two plainclothes detectives from the Atlanta Police Department. It’s not even six
PM
, but it’s almost dark, the sky turning a purple-orange haze.
Soon now, the sky will be all black.
Behind the wheel is Frank Cohen, a strapping white guy, ex-marine with short-cropped hair. His partner, DeAndre Jackson, in the passenger seat, is black, also fit. DeAndre passes a photo of Tyrone that he printed from the Georgia Department of Driver Services database. Joe stares at it for a moment, then passes it up front.
“Okay, this should be routine,” DeAndre says. “The guy has no priors, no problems with the law. I doubt he’ll give us any trouble. And he lives with his moms.”
Frank checks the action on his .45 caliber. DeAndre does the same.
“Ready?” Frank asks.
Joe nods, glancing down at his own Glock.
They exit the vehicle and walk to the double-door front entrance. There is a security system, but it’s busted. The door swings open easily.
Tyrone lives on the ninth floor. They take the elevator, riding up in silence. When the door opens, the trio cuts right and walks down the hallway until they find apartment 917. DeAndre stands to the left of the door with Joe; Frank is on their left. DeAndre nods once at Frank, and his partner pounds on the door.
“Atlanta PD, open up!”
A few seconds go by. Frank pounds again.
Sounds and movement behind the door.
Then: “Who is it?” An elderly woman’s voice.
“Atlanta PD, open up!”
Locks turn and the door opens.
A thin, wiry woman stares out.
“We’re looking for Tyrone.”
“What has he done?” she asks, but DeAndre has his shield in her face as he pushes the door open, gun drawn. “That isn’t necessary, Officer,” she stutters.
DeAndre is already moving past the kitchen and into the cramped living room when he shouts, “Freeze! Hands where I can see ’em!”
Frank rushes in behind him. Joe is with the woman, checking her for weapons. He finds none.
More yelling, more commotion from the next room.
Joe enters the living room with the woman in tow. They spy Tyrone already spread-eagled on the floor. Frank is cuffing him while DeAndre reads him his rights.
“What did he do?” the woman exclaims.
She’s ignored.
“Anyone else in the apartment, ma’am?” Joe asks.
“No.” Her eyes are glassy.
Joe checks anyway. He calls “Clear” from the two bedrooms and a single bathroom.
He returns to the living room. Tyrone has been hauled to a kneeling position. His baggy jeans, work boots, and oversized hoodie make him look like a thug.
Frank cuts to the chase. “Where’s the money, Tyrone?”
“What are they talking about, Ty?” the woman asks, near tears.
“What money?” Tyrone answers.
“Oh, it’s like that?” DeAndre responds. “Okay, no problem. We’ll just get a warrant and tear up this shit hole. Doesn’t bother me one bit. Call it in, Frank.”
Joe strides into a bedroom—Tyrone’s—and immediately begins looking around. It’s a small room, unmade twin bed, peeling paint on the ceiling, several posters on the wall of rappers as if the guy were back in high school. A boom box on a bookcase that holds baseball and basketball trophies, a bunch of bootleg CDs and DVDs. An aging nineteen-inch television with rabbit ears in the corner. Joe checks the closet, fans though the gear on hangers and the numerous pairs of sneakers and Timberland boots on the closet floor.
Nothing.
He goes to the bed. Flips the mattress to the floor.
There, on the box spring, approximately two feet in from the wall, a manila envelope. Joe grabs it by the edge, peers inside. Two smaller white envelopes. He inverts the manila envelope, letting the contents fall to the box spring. Cautiously, using the tip of an ink pen, he lifts up the flap of one of the white envelopes.
A thick wad of bills.
Joe clears his throat and bellows into the living room.
“Got it!”
One man down.
One to go.
It takes about an hour to get Tyrone back to the station, processed and fingerprinted, before Joe can interview him. They put Tyrone in a small windowless room with harsh fluorescent lighting, one door, no two-way glass. Joe strides in and Tyrone glances up.
“I’m Detective Joe Goodman from Washington, D.C. You need a drink or something?”
Tyrone shakes his head. Joe nods. He pulls a small digital recorder from his pocket, places it on the table between them, and turns it on. He states his name, date, and location for the record.
“Okay. Let’s start with the money. We found six thousand dollars in your bedroom. Fresh new one hundred dollar bills. Where’d you get the money, Tyrone?”
Tyrone looks at Joe. He wears an expression of indifference. Playing the tough boy.
Okay,
Joe muses.
I can play the game, too.
“Work,” Tyrone says, “Payday, dawg. Can I go now?”
Joe smiles.
“Tyrone. You wanna play a game with me, that’s cool. But here’s the thing. I don’t have time to be messing around with you. See, I’m on a mission. And if I don’t get what I’m after, I’ll just go to D.C. And then your ass will be up on
felony
charges. Yeah,
dawg,
you committed a federal offense.” Joe shakes his head morosely. “Your ass won’t see the light of day for a minimum of ten years. Damn, son, that’s a long time. Long time to be locked up, fucked in the ass every single night. But hey, it’s your black ass, not mine.”
Joe leans back, watching Tyrone closely. He observes a bead of sweat erupt from Tyrone’s forehead. Observes it trickle down the side of his face.
“I don’t know nothing, man!” Tyrone exclaims.
“Start with what you do know. Where’d the money come from?”
Tyrone swallows hard.
“The bank.”
Joe nods.
“Go on.”
“I went to the bank today and pulled out the cash.”
Joe gestures for him to continue and says, “Because?”
“I got a call.”
“Tyrone, the suspense is fucking killing me. Tell me already!”
Tyrone shakes his head, exhaling loudly.
“Fuck. All right! I got a call from this guy. He says the money’s being wired to my account.”
“What guy? Where’d you meet him?”
“His name is Mr. C. I don’t know his full name. I met him, like, two months ago. The Pink Pony. The strip club?”
“Yeah? Go on.”
“Like I said, I met him at this strip joint. We got to talking, drinking, enjoying the ladies, what have you. Anyway, he tells me about this gig he’s got going and he needs my help. Needs someone to help him with a cash problem he’s having.”
Joe raises an eyebrow. “Cash problem?”
“That’s what he said. He needed to be able to move cash from one bank to another. Talked about cleaning the money, or some shit like that. Said he’d cut me in if I would let him use my bank account. I was like, as long as I got paid, then hell, yeah. It’s not like I got money in the bank that he can rob me of.”
“Okay. How many times did you meet with this guy, Mr. C?”
“Only once. That night at the Pink Pony. He called me a few times after that.”
“But you only met face-to-face once?” Joe asks.
“Yeah.”
“And do you know Michael and Kennedy Handley?”
“Who?”
“Michael and Kennedy Handley.”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Who the fuck are they?”
“They are a couple in D.C. whose bank account was emptied several days ago.”
“Look, man, I’ve never been to D.C., let alone met Michael and whatever his name is. Mr. C called me today and said the money was in my bank. Told me to go get it. That it was mine to keep.”
“Hold up,” Joe says. “Run that by me again.”
“He told me to go to the bank. The money was in my account, and it was mine to keep.”
“That didn’t strike you as strange?” Joe asks.
“I didn’t ask any stupid questions. He told me he was gonna throw more business my way, and that this was like a down payment for my services. So I did what I was told. I didn’t ask where the money came from or how it got there.”
“All right.” Joe runs what he knows so far around in his head. “What did this guy look like, this Mr. C?”
Tyrone shrugs.
“Dunno. Black dude.”
Joe sighs.
“You think you can be a bit more specific?”
Tyrone sucks his teeth, his confidence growing.
“Wha’d’ya want me to say? He’s a brutha. He was wearing a Boston Red Sox hat. He had a lot of cash, ’cause he kept buying lap dances for himself and then for me. I was like, that’s cool—keep doing that shit all night. I ain’t mad.”
“All right.” Joe stands, clicking off the recorder. “I’ll be back.” He exits the room and finds Frank and DeAndre at their desks.
“Not much to go on. Can we set him up with a sketch artist? It’s a long shot, but maybe he’ll remember something specific.”
“Yeah, sure,” Frank says. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of. What about the other dude?” Joe consults his memo pad. “Darryl Johnson, Jr.”
“Waiting on you. We can try his residence. Not sure how successful that will be,” DeAndre retorts.
“Let’s do it. But first let’s get Tyrone in front of the sketch artist. Maybe he can recall something useful.”
“Worth a shot,” Frank agrees, standing. “Let’s go catch us another bad guy. . . .”