Dunne was a rotten apple. But he hadn’t been involved with Asa Johnson and he didn’t know Reginald Wilson.
It was over. He needed to tell the old man.
M
ICHAEL TATE MADE
his way through the woods. Dusk was settling, and the trees and branches had lost their color and now were slate outlines against a gray sky. The forest was not dense, and he could see the house from his path. He walked with care and patience and made little sound.
He had a gun, a cheap Taurus nine that Nesto had sold him, holstered at his back. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got behind the house. But he did know that he wasn’t going to shoot a girl.
In Raymond Benjamin’s mind, Michael Tate was in his debt. Benjamin sent Tate’s mother money every month. He had given Tate a job, even though Tate was not needed and did little more than apply tire shine and wheel cleaner to newly purchased cars. Benjamin believed that Tate owed him and that now it was time for Tate to go all in and commit the ultimate rite of passage, the taking of a life via a gun.
But in Tate’s mind, he owed Benjamin nothing. Because Tate’s older brother, Dink, had refused to testify at Benjamin’s trial, Dink would be incarcerated for the next twenty years and come out a middle-aged man with zero prospects. The money sent monthly to their mother, a couple hundred dollars, didn’t pay her grocery bills. No matter the amount, it could never compensate her for the loss of her son. Now Benjamin was about to bring Michael full into the life, as he had done with Dink long ago.
Michael had seen the results of such a move, in his family and in so many others where he’d come up. He wasn’t about to step off that ledge. Besides, he didn’t believe that killing turned a boy into a man. That was street wisdom, which most times equaled bullshit. The violent game had broken his mother’s heart and stolen his brother’s youth. That was all he needed to know. It wasn’t gonna happen to him.
Tate found himself at the tree line behind the house. A light was on in one of the rear windows. He could see the top half of the woman. Some of her curly hair had come down about her shoulders. She was sitting, rubbing one hand against the other. She was a dark outline of a woman in a room, framed by the window, trapped inside that square. What was that word Tate was looking for… a
silhouette
. A silhouette of a woman, stressed and beautiful. Like a stressed and beautiful thing caged in a room.
Tate walked slowly out of the woods, toward the back of the house.
Chantel Richards felt a presence and looked up to a see a shadowy figure moving toward the window. She glanced at the locked bedroom door. She knew that she should open it and shout out to Romeo. Because surely this was one of those who had come to cause Romeo a world of hurt. But she didn’t do this. Instead she watched as the young man’s face came into view, and then studied it as he put it very close to the glass. She saw in his brown eyes that he was not there to hurt her, and she went to the sash window and pushed up on it so the two of them could talk.
“Chantel?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“You
are
Chantel,” said Tate, now speaking just above a whisper.
“That’s right.”
“My name’s Michael.”
“You come to kill us?”
“If you stay here, it’s gonna happen.”
“Then why ain’t you shootin yet?”
“I’m giving you a chance to get out before it gets hot.”
Chantel looked back into the room. Tate saw that her hand was shaking and he reached into the open window and held it.
“Come on, girl,” said Tate. “What’s gonna happen is gonna happen whether you stay or not. If you do stay, you
will
die.”
“I need to get my suitcase,” said Chantel.
“And the key to your whip,” said Tate.
Tate watched her go to a dresser up against the far wall of the bedroom, where she looked down at something on the floor. She hesitated, then bent forward and came up with a suitcase in her hand. She returned to the window, and he took the suitcase from her and helped her out, taking her in his arms and easing her down until her feet softly hit the ground.
He looked at her feet. She was wearing a pair of single-band, leopard-print slides with three-inch heels. He had seen a photograph of this exact shoe in a magazine.
“We headin for the woods,” said Tate. “Ain’t you got nothing else in that suitcase you can put on your feet? Those Donald Pliners must go for two and a half.”
“I didn’t pack any other shoes,” said Chantel, now looking at him with interest. “How you know these were Pliners?”
“I’m what you call fashion forward,” said Tate. “Don’t worry, I’m not funny or nothin like that.”
“I didn’t get that vibe.”
“Let’s go,” said Tate, pulling on her elbow, guiding her toward the tree line.
“You better have a plan,” said Chantel.
Michael Tate’s plan was to sit far back in the woods and wait till the mayhem began. Then he and Chantel would get themselves down to Hill Road and take off in Chantel’s Solara. To where, he didn’t know.
“Trust me, girl,” said Tate.
Her hand squeezed his as they entered the woods.
OFFICER GRADY DUNNE DROVE
slowly up Hill Road. As he neared the turn to Romeo Brock’s place, he noticed the numerous cars. There was Brock’s SS, and the red Toyota that Brock had said was owned by the girl. And, much farther back, an S-series Mercedes and a new-style Maxima. Dunne pulled over and killed the engine. He thought of phoning Brock on his cell but decided against it. If the owners of the cars were the men who had come to reclaim their money, as Brock had predicted, they might already be in the house. Dunne would go with surprise.
He reached behind him, unholstered his MPD-issue Glock 17, and slipped it under the Explorer’s seat. There he found his latest throw-down weapon, a ten-shot Heckler & Koch .45 with shaved numbers that he had taken off a suspect in Park View. He holstered it where his departmental Glock had been and got out of the SUV.
Dunne walked down to the gravel road, angered and adrenalized. That guy who claimed he was ex-cop, the extortionist chauffeur, had gotten his blood up. Not that Dunne had a thing to worry about. It had been exactly as he’d said it was that night on Oglethorpe. He had taken an informant, a whore dancer he knew, for a ride, and she had blown him down by the Metro tracks. IAD could jack him up for it if they had the ambition, but the girl would never testify. He hadn’t known there was a body in the garden that night. When he found out about it, he’d gone to the crime scene, spoken to the homicide police, and was satisfied that no one knew of his presence the previous night. As for the man in the gas station that the chauffeur had asked about, Dunne had no clue.
Anger was good. It would keep him on point for the task at hand.
Romeo Brock had become a problem, though it was no fault of Dunne’s. He had been careful about his dealings with Brock and his cousin Gaskins. Dunne’s CI, guy name of Fishhead Lewis, had told Dunne about a young man, Romeo Brock, who had ambition and talked about it loudly in Hannibal’s, a bar on Florida Avenue. Through Fishhead, Dunne would pass on information to Brock concerning independent, unprotected drug dealers or distributors who could be taken off with minimal fear of retribution. Dunne would not shake down these dealers directly or be seen with Brock or Gaskins. He’d learned from those two police officers in Baltimore, the ones who’d been busted earlier that year for making that mistake. They should have known that someone would flip on them eventually and end their party. Dunne was smarter than that. After the robberies, Dunne would drive by the area and make sure that all was calm. But he never participated in the crimes. Only in the profit.
Now Brock, eager to make a rep, had gone and shot a man for no reason and taken another man’s woman. Dunne had intended to visit Brock and Gaskins this evening to get his share of the fifty. It was rare for him to meet them face-to-face, but Dunne didn’t trust Fishhead with that amount of money. Then Brock had phoned him and said that Gaskins had skipped and there might be trouble. So Dunne found himself here, where he didn’t want to be, pushed to potential violence and directly involved. He’d solve this thing, hopefully by intimidation rather than force, and get out of the arrangement. Partnering with Brock had been a mistake, but it wasn’t one that couldn’t be fixed.
Dunne had found that he could do anything behind the badge and the gun. It was why he’d become a cop.
He turned and walked up the gravel road. He pulled the .45 and eased a round into its chamber. He was going straight in. He wasn’t a criminal. He was police.
ROMEO BROCK STOOD
on the front porch of his house, smoking a cigarette. His stomach was tight, and his palms carried sweat. He was aware of his fear and he hated it. A man like him, the kind of man he imagined himself to be, was not supposed to feel this way. Still, his hands were wet.
He looked out into the darkness. Night had come just about full. He was hoping to see Conrad walking back toward the house up the gravel road. Conrad, who was strong of body and will, would know what to do. But Conrad did not appear.
Brock had phoned Dunne again after speaking to him earlier, but this time his call went to message.
He thought he heard something from back in the house. It was his nerves talking to him, most likely. Could have been the radio Chantel had turned up loud. He supposed he should go there and check it out.
He stubbed out the Kool he had been smoking on the rail of the porch. He entered the house and did not close the door behind him. He heard his stomach talking to him as he went along. He walked down the hall to his bedroom door. He tried the knob, and it did not turn. He knocked on the door. There was no response, and he made a fist and pounded on the wood.
“Chantel! Open the door, girl.”
Brock put his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear Chantel’s footsteps or anything else except for the radio. The song playing was one he’d heard many times. It was that “Been Around the World” thing. He liked that song, most times. But now it seemed to be laughing at him. Telling him about the places he would never see.
“Chantel,” said Brock weakly. He rested his forehead on the door.
He felt the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head.
“Don’t move. ’Less you want me to spill your brains.”
He didn’t move. He felt the man behind the voice take his Colt from where he’d put it, under the belt line of his slacks.
“Turn slow.”
Brock did it. A young man with a blue Nationals cap tilted slightly on his head was holding an automatic on him with one hand and had Brock’s Gold Cup in the other. Brock could see excitement in his eyes. He had no doubt that this boy wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
“This way,” said Ernest Henderson, holstering the Gold Cup in his jeans. He back-stepped down the hall, keeping his Beretta pointed at Brock’s middle, and Brock followed. They came out into the living room, and Henderson motioned for Brock to sit in the chair that faced the open door.
Brock took a seat.
“Put your hands on the arms of that chair,” said Henderson.
As Brock gripped the armchair, Henderson flipped the switch of a lamp several times. Soon a tall, handsome man entered the house. He held a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum at his side. He frowned at Brock.
“You Romeo?”
Brock nodded.
“Where my money at?”
“It’s here,” said Brock.
“I said
where?
”
“In the bedroom at the back. There’s two suitcases —”
“Anyone else in this house?”
“The fat man’s woman is in the bedroom.”
“What about your partner?”
“He’s gone.”
“Go on, Nesto,” said Benjamin, raising his gun casually and pointing it at Brock. “Check all the rooms while you’re back there. Make sure this fake motherfucker ain’t scheming.”
Henderson went down the hall. Benjamin stared at Brock. Brock cut his eyes away. Both of them listened as Henderson checked the kitchen and the room where Conrad Gaskins had slept.
“Bedroom door’s locked,” said Henderson, his voice raised.
“Kick it in,” said Benjamin.
Brock heard the young man try it several times, grunting with each effort. Then he heard the door crack open at the jamb. The young man returned with a Gucci suitcase in hand.
“Ain’t but one,” said Henderson. “Wasn’t no girl back there, either. The window was up. If she
was
there, she gone now.”
“Open that case,” said Benjamin, speaking to Brock. “Turn it so we can see, and open it up.”
Henderson placed the suitcase at Brock’s feet and stepped back. Brock leaned forward and unzipped the lid. He opened the suitcase, and all of them looked at the women’s clothing that had been packed inside it. For a moment, no one said a thing.
Mikey got the money, thought Benjamin. He got it and the girl and he’s waiting down by the cars. He wouldn’t think of robbing me. Not after what I did for Dink and their moms.
“Chantel,” said Brock. He wasn’t saying her name in anger. He was proud of her for what she’d done. She had fire. And here he was acting the punk. He looked up at Benjamin, a hint of defiance in his eyes.
“Yeah, Chantel,” said Benjamin. To Henderson he said, “Cover his dumb ass.”