Sweet Violet and a Time for Love (29 page)

I looked at the driver. He wasn't the same one from earlier. The cab number was 1427.

But then again, my dad had called this cab and he wasn't in it, so I was not entirely comforted that all was well, especially with Mike sitting in the front seat.

What if I'm wrong?
Leon still looked like he had a question in his mind, but he opened the door for me and then went around the other side of the car to sit behind the driver.

“You looking up something on your phone?” Mike saw my screen as I got in.

“Yeah, um, just looking up about the death of Julian Morgan back in January.”

“That was tragic.” Mike shook his head as the cab began its way toward Charles Village. “The city really took a loss with his death. He was the funder behind so many projects, many of which he didn't even tie his name to. Businesses, buildings. Sienna, as a social worker, you would appreciate his generosity to the underprivileged. He gave to foster care programs, hospitals, even that shelter where the first victim worked.”

“He helped fund A New Beginning House?” I gave a quick glance at Leon who was glancing back at me.

“Well, not really. He just owned the building where it's located. Let them stay there rent free.”

“Wow. That's something. Whatever happened there today, anyway? Have you heard?” I managed to squeak out, fearful of the possibilities as I pictured Sister Agnes at the desk.

“Someone shot out the front windows. That's all. Thankfully they keep that entrance barred and locked, or it could have been much worse.” Mike shook his head.

“Shot out the windows, like what happened to my bakery?”

“Crazy, huh?” Mike shook his head again.

Leon's head tilted to one side. “And you said Mr. Morgan owned that property where A New Beginning House stands?”

“Yes; a lot of people don't realize that he owned a lot of the property and homes on that block.”

“That's interesting.” Leon looked thoughtful. “Very interesting. We'd heard that the city couldn't get a hold of the owner of some of the vacant homes on that street. They're trying to redevelop it, get rid of some of the blight.”

“Well, it's hard to do business with a dead guy, even one who worked so closely with many city officials.”

“Seemed like he was a little of a slumlord to me, the way those vacant homes around there looked.” I threw in my two cents.

“I said he was a funder. I never said he was a saint.”

“You seem to know a lot about him,” Leon commented. “You never shared this before.”

“Well, your wife was close to the case of the man charged with killing him. I didn't want to taint her testimony in any way, you know. Let justice be done.”

“Even though you knew it wasn't a real case.” He and Mike exchanged glances. Mike didn't reply.

“So,” Leon continued, “Morgan was close to the police department too, I take it, since you seem to have known him so well.”

“Yeah, he definitely was close to us. In fact, Mr. Morgan owned the house on Maryland Avenue. He was very dedicated to providing resources to us to help us get our job done, stay a step ahead of the . . . bad guys.”

“That's interesting,” Leon replied. I saw his eyes narrow a bit. “Let me ask you this: how did he get his money? I knew he was well off, but you don't usually see that many black men in Baltimore with that much wealth, enough to seemingly support half of the city.”

“I don't know exactly how he got started,” Mike explained, “but I always got the sense that his was a rags-to-riches type of story, pulled up from his own bootstraps, dark past, that kind of thing. He used to tell people that his road to success was proof that a rose could bloom in darkness.”

The words of Sweet Violet, uttered moments before Julian Morgan was shot to death.

A chill went through me that started at my feet and worked its way up to my head. My body felt like a piece of cold, heavy lead, but my fingers thawed out enough to send Leon a text:

Leon's phone chimed and he read my text.

I think ur right, he texted back. And someone must have wanted him out the picture. Too risky with Frankie Jean's return, maybe.

I read Leon's text and then looked up. Through the passenger's side rearview mirror, I saw Mike staring at me. He'd said so much about Julian Morgan just now, I wondered if it was a test, to see how much we knew.

Or maybe I'd watched too many movies and read too many books and my imagination was going wild.

I didn't know what to trust, what to believe anymore.

Trust me,
a soft, gentle voice spoke to my consciousness. I shut my eyes, grateful for the sudden feeling of peace that took over my nerves. The last few weeks and months of raging hormones, questions, and fears had almost blinded me to the fact that Someone greater than me was working out the details and securing my safety. I didn't know what to think right now, what to feel, or how to interpret the slew of information that had landed in my lap over the past few hours, but I knew that I was going to have to step outside of my feelings and own understanding, and stand in a realm of faith; faith that all this was working together for a reason, that all this was happening in a season when I was still new to love.

I looked over at Leon and realized that the certainty and peace that I'd seen take over him when he nudged us into the car must have been driven by the same calm voice of assurance that had just spoken to me. He'd felt it, and led me, and I'd followed, now feeling the same confidence that all would be okay.

Maybe, despite the rocky first year of our bumps and squabbles, we really were on the right path toward perfecting our partnership, of becoming one, of leaning on and learning from each other, of melding our strengths and weaknesses to form a new living, breathing organism wrought in love and strengthened by faith. I rubbed my stomach and patted over a flurry of kicks that suddenly fluttered inside of me. I smiled feeling a sense of divine perfection at that moment as a new realization came to mind. Our baby was simply the physical evidence of the deeper spiritual union Leon and I created, were creating. We were joined together, for better or for worse, and this new life was a new thing that had sprung from our vows. Just like our marriage, our teamwork, our unified partnership was a new created thing in and of itself.

I would have thought on these things some more as the car zoomed up 83, but my phone vibrated, letting me know I had another text. I clicked it open to see what message Leon had sent me, but the message wasn't from him.

Horace Monroe. I'd spoken with him earlier that day, asking if he could research the owner of the vacant homes near the shelter.

Mike had already volunteered that information, but the text from Horace was just the confirmation I needed.

I forwarded the text to Leon. He nodded and reached out his hand and took mine. With his fingers softly massaging my palms, I knew that whatever happened next, we would be together and okay.

The driver had turned onto Maryland Avenue and we were just blocks away from the safe house.

“Whoa!” The cabbie slammed on his brakes and we all jolted forward in our seats. The tires squealed as we just missed a police cruiser speeding by.

“What the . . .” Mike leaned forward in his seat and we all saw what had gotten his attention. Several police cars surrounded the towering row home where we were headed. Shavona Grant sat on the front steps, crying, rocking, shaking. Her cries sounded over the multitude of sirens zooming around us as more emergency vehicles skidded to a stop in front of the house.

“Turn the car around,” Mike's voice was suddenly gruff, demanding.

“Your wife.” Leon reached for the door handle. “What's going on?”

“Don't get out,” Mike barked. “Turn the car around and go,” he commanded the driver.

The cabbie was wide-eyed, and then he gasped and gripped the wheel with both hands. “Don't shoot!” he screamed.

A gun.

I saw the metal in Mike's hand. Leon saw it too, and reached for his own weapon and pointed it at Mike.

“Get out the car, Sienna.” Leon's voice was a low growl.

“I can't . . . I'm not . . .”

“Get. Out. Of. The. Car.”

“Leon, I can't leave you.”

“She can't leave, Leon.” Mike's eyes had a darkness that I'd never seen before. “You both know too much.”

“She's getting out.” Leon's voice was calm, firm.

“Leon.” My voice was a whisper, breaking. “I am not leaving you.”

“Sienna, baby, I told you that I would always keep you safe. That is what I'm doing. Get out of the car and run over to those police officers. You are safe. Do it now.”

“Leon—”

“Do it now before I have to kill my best friend.” A single tear rolled down his cheek.

I reached for the handle, nobody else moved.

“Now, Sienna. I love you.”

I touched the handle, pulled it open, and jumped out. Leon reached over and slammed the door shut. The car roared to life and tore around a corner; the tires left skid marks and smoke in its wake.

“Help! Help!” I found my voice and my legs somehow moved underneath me. I cradled my belly to keep it from bouncing and jostling as I ran the half block or so to where officers surrounded the house. “Help!” I ran up to the nearest officer, a woman with a short blond afro.

“Sienna St. James,” she recognized me, “what's wrong?”

“My husband. The cab. They just left. They had guns out at each other.” I was out of breath, panting, unable to get my words together. Shavona who had been crying on the steps must have seen me coming because she suddenly had her arms around me, tears and snot dripping all over my blouse.

“There were drugs in this house. I got dropped off here and when I was trying to find some food to fix, I came across all these blocks of cocaine, heroin, all kinds of stuff, and a bunch of fake IDs and badges with his picture were mixed in with it all. I didn't know, I didn't know he was like this. He lied, he lied. What do I do? Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” Shavona would not stop weeping. Her head dug into my shoulder, her nails into my shoulder blade. “I don't know where he is. I called 911 because I didn't know what else to do. Am I wrong? Oh, God, I don't know what to do.” She moaned.

“They just took off in that cab.” I still panted. A new tightening sensation crawled across my stomach.

“In a cab?” An officer heard me.

“1427. That's the cab number.” I remembered the number because I had specifically checked it to make sure it wasn't 511. “A Yellow Cab, number 1427. Both our husbands are in it and they both had guns pointing at each other.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Shavona shrieked and moaned, and then began throwing up.

The officers went into action. Some darting off, some on walkie-talkies and cell phones.

“Where is my family? Shavona, where are they? Inside?” I grabbed her by the shoulders, needing answers.

“No, no, no.” She shook her head, gasping for air. “He told them to get in a van when we left out the hospital, said it would take them somewhere safe. Then I got brought here. I didn't think anything of it. Sienna, I'm sorry, I don't know what's going on. I don't know this man. I don't know this man anymore.” She began sobbing again.

“Shavona, listen to me.” I held her shoulders firmly. “Listen, I know what it's like to marry someone and then discover they are not who you think they are. Roman's father.” I shook my head, shaking off the memories. “We'll talk one day. Right now, we need to be strong and get it together. The situation is not over and these police need our help to make sure our husbands are okay.”

“Ms. St. James, do you have any idea where they were headed?” The police officer with the blond afro stepped up to me.

“It's Mrs. Sanderson now, and I have no idea.” I laid my hand on my belly, watched as another officer wrapped a blue blanket around Shavona. “Wait, I think I do know a place they could be going.”

 

 

We passed by A New Beginning House on our way there. New yellow crime scene tape surrounded the building as pieces of glass and shell casings lay shattered on the ground. The police cruiser I was in came to a stop.

“Stay here,” the officer who let me drive with her commanded. Shavona was slumped over in the rear seat next to me, her sniffles still alternating with quiet moans.

I got out of the car and marched right behind the line of officers approaching the house.

Amber's abandominium.

It had been a crime scene already and was close to an active one, so it made sense to me, for some reason, to believe that Mike would want to head there, perhaps thinking it would be off the authorities' radar as too obvious of a place to check.

A SWAT team ran through the alley behind the home. Nobody stopped me as I ran close behind, watching them attempt to secure the house from the rear.

A Yellow Cab was parked out back.

Shots.

I instinctively ducked and ran the other way as the sound of gunfire peppered the air. A flock of pigeons who'd been squawking and bobbing their heads in the alley flew off.

I held my breath from where I squatted by an overgrown bush.

And then I exhaled.

Leon came walking out the house, a self-assured, confident strut. No fear, no sorrow. He held the hand of my mother, patted the shoulder of my sister. Roman followed, and then my dad. They had remnants of duct tape on their legs, their arms. My sister had a small trail of blood leaving her mouth.

But she was smiling.

After a few moments, Delmon Frank came out of the house, the undercover cop charged with murder, who, in the end, was part of the network of deceit and lies holding the city under hostage, a network complete with corrupt officers and politicians, business owners, and other high and well-placed decision makers. Reports would later reveal that some members of the media were, as I suspected, part of this inner circle that was funded by the drug trade and kept afloat by million dollar payouts.

Alisa Billy's assistant, Joe Koletsky, was in on it too.

And Mike Grant.

He left on a stretcher, Leon forced to shoot him in the arm and leg; nonlethal force to take down a man who'd been bent on getting rid of everyone who had an inkling of the 511 connection, and the elderly, homeless woman who started it all. The only reason she'd been kept alive was to track her steps and see who else knew the secrets she represented, who else needed to be shut down. To kill her would have opened the door to a potential investigation no one in the ring wanted to happen.

Her mind was breaking, not fully gone, but tearing into pieces from old age and dementia.

“She never used that train ticket,” Detective Sam Fields would later tell Leon. “Some officers found her in War Memorial Plaza, dancing, singing, and pouring liquor all over the grass.”

Turns out her husband had been in the army when she first met him, and he must have been real sharp looking in his uniform as that was a memory she'd held on to. In her mental fogginess, she thought the War Memorial Plaza was a military graveyard and that he was buried there. I found an assisted living facility that housed her for free and Ava let me bring her to her house from time to time to plant new flowers in her garden.

But those were facts and details that would come later.

At that moment, standing by the bushes, watching all my loved ones leave the vacant home in one piece, safe, smiling, the nightmare over, all secrets disempowered, I felt only one thing.

My water break.