His Song Silenced

by Michael Arches

  “There’s an office on the first floor. I’ll be using it over the next month. You’re welcome to borrow it anytime. Rochelle will set the interviews up.”

  He pointed at a tall middle-aged black woman who was thin as an aspen tree. She walked toward the B&B with two boxes that looked to weigh as much as she did.

  Tyrone called out, “Hey, girl, when you dump that stuff, can you help Hank here? Do whatever it takes to make our favorite cop happy.”

  She grinned at him. “If I can keep you smiling, sugar, Hank will be a breeze.”

  He grinned at her, then turned to me and whispered, “Listen, if we don’t find Wang’s killer soon, our partner in Shanghai is sure to cancel our contract. That deal’s worth thirteen-point-five mil to me, this year alone. So, I’ll do anything you want, and I mean anything.”

  I blew out a deep breath. Had no idea what he meant and probably didn’t want to know. I hated to tell him my failure seemed more and more likely. I just didn’t understand his world, and I was barely staying alive in it. How could anybody expect a cowgirl raised on Colorado’s high plains to understand LA street gangs?

  I seemed to hear my mother’s voice in my head. Crying won’t help you.

  She was right. The best way to learn would be to talk to every rapper there—for hours if need be. At least one of them was hiding an ugly secret that was probably going to cause more brilliant young corpses.

  Then another thought came to mind. I needed to hit the rappers while they were tired from the long trip and disoriented by their new surroundings. To Rochelle, I said, “Can you set up interviews, starting in an hour with Luther Masai?”

  He was the asshole who’d refused to talk to me before the drive-by on the freeway. It was past time I showed him how much I appreciated his cooperation.

  “Sure.”

  “Then, line up Jamal Washington, Raven Williams, and Darnell Burton afterwards, each an hour apart.”

  She nodded.

  Those were my best prospects. They were all from LA and seemed most likely to have ties to the Crips there. So did Katrina Tanner, but I couldn’t believe she was involved. She’d been too close to Splendid.

  “Finally,” I said, “tomorrow morning, I’ll talk to the other contestants that attended the workshop in June.” Four were Latinos and one was Asian. I needed to cover all the bases, but I didn’t care at all about the replacements for Splendid or White. They couldn’t have been part of the murders.

  Rochelle saluted. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  I smiled. That was a Marine talking. We were going to get along great. I saluted back. “Semper Fi.”

  Before I could talk to the rappers, I needed to catch up with Skip and Linda for an update on what they’d learned from the videos we received from Sharlene.

  I headed to the office, and on the way, I used Willow’s app to text her and ask what she’d learned about the same musicians. I seemed to have more people on my team than the Rockies did.

  -o-o-o-

  Back at the sheriff’s office, several folks welcomed my return. Skip waved as I approached.

  “Good to see you,” he said. “Anything interesting happen since we parted yesterday?”

  “Not much, other than avoiding a possible ambush.”

  His mouth dropped open. “Are you shitting me?”

  I gave him the details.

  Then he said, “Well, I’ve got more trouble for you.”

  “In a minute. I haven’t checked my voicemail since this morning.”

  I had a half dozen messages, but they were mostly reporters. They had to go through Jenkins or Randy for anything official. I deleted those.

  I also had a message from the CBI lab. Randy, not the sheriff, had convinced them to expedite the DNA test for the soda bottle.

  The lab geek said, “We found DNA inside the bottle, diluted saliva. It came back as a match for Robert ‘Snake’ Winter. He was recently let out after twelve years on an assault with deadly charge.” The geek provided me a last known address, naturally in Five Points.

  My heart was filled with the sound of music. Finally, some solid evidence.

  Skip remained standing over me, but I had to follow-up on the test first. “We got a DNA hit on the White attack. Have to alert Denver PD.”

  He groaned but didn’t say no. I called Carlos and relayed the news.

  “Good to hear, but Snake’s not your shooter. We picked him up the day before White was killed on an outstanding warrant from New Mexico. We’re holding him. The gunman must’ve picked the bottle out of the trash at one of the Crips’ hangouts.”

  “Shit. At least it shows some kind of tie between the killing and the Crips.”

  “That’s the spirit. Keep banging your head against that wall, Hank. We bang our heads until we break through or earn a disability pension.”

  Just as quickly as I’d felt the thrill of victory, I suffered the agony of defeat. At least temporary defeat. “Wise words, Carlos, bye.”

  Looking up at Skip, I said, “A swing and a miss. Let’s go.”

  We grabbed a couple of coffees and pastries at a nearby bakeshop and sat on the patio.

  “What’s so hush-hush?” I asked.

  “Somebody has started a whisper campaign saying you’re not up to the challenge. The media loves conflict, so they’re all over it.”

  I couldn’t help but snicker. “That’s it? Maybe they’re right, but that’s the least of my worries. If something happens to me, promise me you’ll take care of Boomer and Rambo.”

  “Sure.” He patted my hand. “But you’re going to be okay.”

  I’d rarely thought of getting whacked on the job until this case. “You and Linda have any luck reviewing the videos I sent?”

  “We’re still working on it,” he said. “We’ve seen thirty hours so far, and all we know for sure is they’re one hormone-riddled bunch. Oh, and a few of them can sing.”

  “Be sure to mention to her that my best theory is some Crips faction has a favorite among the contestants. They seem to be willing to do anything to help their guy or gal win.”

  “You bet.” After a pause, he said, “I want to tell the press that whoever thinks you’re not up to managing this case is full of shit.”

  His support warmed me inside. “Thanks, but let’s focus on solving the case. If we do, the rumors won’t matter. We’ll have proved them wrong. And if we don’t, the rumors still won’t matter. We’ll have proved we’re not up to the job.”

  He rolled his eyes. Then, we carried what was left of our coffee and pastries back to the office. Clouds had moved in from the west, and a few flakes began to fall.

  “We got our first official snowfall yesterday,” Skip said, “but it didn’t last. This storm is supposed to dump six inches tonight.”

  Autumn always arrived early in the high country. “I hope the rappers from LA brought warm clothes. On the bus, they were wearing t-shirts and shorts. Welcome to Colorado, kiddies.”

  -o-o-o-

  When I logged into my desktop back in my cubicle, I noticed that Carlos had sent me Winter’s most recent mug shot. He was big and looked mean enough to take on a full-grown moose. His description said he weighed two-sixty and was six and a half feet tall. Winter’s face had that special something, like someone had carved it up with a broken bottle or a dull knife. What a charmer.

  In addition to the info from Carlos, someone with a ballerina276 email address had sent me four summaries, one for each interviewee for this evening. Had to be Willow.

  I skimmed them all but focused first on the one for Luther Masai. The most interesting parts were his texts on the phone Tyrone had given him. Right after I tried to interview him, he sent a message to the ten other surviving contestants. Heads up! Cops sniffing around, claiming to finally investigate Wang Chao’s killing. Lady cop named Morgan. Still parked outside my complex. Waiting to hassle me again?

  Willow had come through for me, bigly.

&n
bsp; I drove my personal rig back to the B&B so I could head home straight from there. Just needed to finish four interviews, then I could get a decent night’s sleep in my own bed.

  A swing on the shady front porch swayed in a breeze. Too bad I couldn’t relax here for a few hours. The dark oak door stood open. I stepped into a hallway, and the first open door revealed a classic front parlor. The scent of lemon oil furniture polish wafted out of the room. It looked like it was filled with antiques, but I couldn’t tell real from fake. This old house gave me the sense of stepping back into the Victorian era.

  The B&B’s new residents scurried about. I wandered about, trying to find Rochelle.

  Then I heard her voice coming from farther along the hallway and found her in a library. Oak bookcases covered the walls, and the center of the room contained several oversized upholstered chairs arranged in a large circle. Each one included a small table with a Tiffany lamp and plenty of space for books or drinks. Another room where I’d enjoy relaxing. But not anytime soon.

  Rochelle was standing inside with Katrina, who I’d already talked to. I waved a greeting. Her brow furrowed, but she waved back.

  “I’ll get you two more pillows,” Rochelle said, “soon as I get the chance.”

  Katrina seemed like she was going to say something else, but she glanced at me again and left. I had a way of annoying people without even trying.

  Rochelle checked her watch. “My how time flies, girl. Got you set up with Luther in the office. Right this way.”

  “Quite the place you guys picked out,” I said.

  “Took me two days of searching to find this authentic old boardinghouse,” she said. “It’s supposed to be haunted, and Tyrone wanted a spooky atmosphere. I hope a few ghosts do show up.”

  I stifled a laugh. “Hate to disappoint you, but all the old buildings in Aspen are supposed to be haunted. That’s all touristy BS. I’ve spent a lot of time in this town over the last decade, and haven’t seen a single spook.”

  She whispered, “The landlady is a guaranteed witch. She’s got a stained-glass pentagram in her bedroom, and a shelf full of potions. Black cat, too.”

  How could I argue with proof like that? “Throw a few extra bucks her way and have her conjure up a protection spell. We need all the help we can get.”

  Chapter 18

  Rochelle took me to an office in the back of the house. Its east-facing windows were covered with lacy curtains. The oak wainscoting rose waist high, and the top half of the walls were covered with yellow silk wallpaper that included tiny gramophones. A walnut rolltop desk in a corner looked to be as old as the house.

  The only indications we hadn’t time-traveled back to Aspen’s mining heyday were a computer on a wooden card table, a portable phone, and an inkjet printer on a credenza below the windows.

  “Sharlene told me how you worked the interviews in LA.” Rochelle held out a round camera like we’d used before. “I’ll put it here on the table. Already on.”

  Rochelle asked with a grin. Shall I bring in the condemned?”

  “Please do, and don’t forget my cat o' nine tails.”

  If I’d been forced to guess at that moment who was connected to the Crips, Luther Masai would’ve been the top of the list. That was based mainly on the fact that I’d been attacked on the freeway right after I’d left his place. While I was willing to be proven wrong, he had some ‘splaining to do.

  He seemed to realize that because he walked in slowly, wringing his hands. Better and better.

  Masai was tall and gaunt, like one of those Kenyan runners who are always winning marathons. Rochelle pointed at a hard, wooden chair in front of the card table, and he sat. She left without saying anything and closed the door behind her.

  I sat in a much more comfortable executive chair opposite to him. Browbeating had never been my strong suit, but I was eager to give it a go. Didn’t have to work hard to remember how much I hated getting shot at. “Luther, we meet at last. What a pleasure. You want to dial up your lawyer cousin? We can do this as formally as you like.”

  He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Look, I ain’t done nothing wrong. Joliba charges four hundred bucks an hour. Why should I have to pay that if I ain’t done nothing wrong?”

  “Your choice. You’re not under arrest. You can leave anytime or refuse to answer any question.”

  He snorted. “Done talked to Tyrone ‘bout that. He said if I didn’t tell you everything you asked for and leave you completely satisfied, I could find my own way back to LA.”

  God bless Tyrone. “That’s between you and him.”

  To make sure there was no doubt about me using the punk’s statements later, I said, “You have the right to remain silent…”

  When I finished, I asked, “Do you understand?”

  He glanced around as though looking for an escape route. One window was open, but a screen blocked the way. He sighed. “Sure, seen it on TV a million times.”

  I was always surprised when they said yes. The constitutional provisions prohibiting self-incrimination were incredibly complicated. I didn’t understand them, and I doubted that most lawyers did either. But “Sure,” worked for me.

  “And just to be certain, you’re aware Tyrone is recording this interview, right?”

  He stared right at the little ball camera and gulped. “Okay.”

  His hands shook. I hoped this kid wasn’t involved with street gangs. They’d eat him alive.

  Instead of asking general questions to start, like I usually did, I went straight for the jugular. “So, Luther, remember the other day when I tried to ask you a few questions at your apartment?”

  “Yeah,” he said hesitantly. “The thing is, I don’t get along with cops, and Joliba did tell me I don’t have to talk. Sorry I couldn’t help you out then.”

  “No problem, you certainly have the right to remain silent. God bless America.”

  I paused for a few seconds to let that sink in. Then, in a matter-of-fact tone, I asked, “Did you know that within minutes of the time I left your complex, two black dudes in a black SUV pulled up alongside me on the Santa Monica Freeway?”

  His eyes opened wide and so did his mouth. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  No mercy. “It gets worse, Luther. The guy riding in the front passenger seat rolled down his window, stuck out a big ass, chrome plated revolver, and fired three shots at me.”

  He bent forward, moaning, and held the sides of his head. No, this dude did not have the stones to run with gangsters.

  Tyrone dashed into the room. Luther muttered to himself, oblivious to the world.

  The producer looked at me. “Are you fucking kidding? A gangbanger tried to take you out in broad daylight on the interstate, cars buzzing all around?”

  “You got it…right after I chatted with my good buddy Luther here. Being the wizened old detective I am, I deemed that a suspicious sequence of circumstances.”

  Idiot Luther looked up with wide-open eyes. “I didn’t have anything to do with that! Don’t know a thing about no shooting!”

  Big old Tyrone, arms crossed, stood over my witness and stared at the moron. “I want to know what the fuck happened.”

  Luther stayed silent.

  The big guy motioned for me to continue.

  “So, Luther,” I said in my cheeriest voice, “let’s get it all on the record. What did you do to help end my life a couple of days ago?”

  His lips trembled. “Nothing. Don’t know who shot at you. Didn’t talk to anybody.”

  That was damned close to a lie. “Let’s break it down. I assume you remember when we talked through the intercom at your apartment.”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s keep things clear. Do you mean yes?”

  “Yeah,” he snapped.

  “Great. We’re making progress. I want all your answers loud and clear. Who did you contact after our conversation on the intercom?”

 
“Didn’t.”

  “Watch out!” I said. “I know that’s bullshit. I want to know everybody you communicated with in any way, including friends, relatives, homies, or the mailman. Lying to a cop is a felony in Colorado. You don’t want to become some giant motherfucker’s girlfriend in prison, do you?”

  “Didn’t talk to anybody. Just watched a movie on my screen.”

  “Listen hard, that’s not what I asked. Who did you communicate with? I’m including emails, texts, hand gestures, social media, pantomime, smoke signals, or any other kind of communication.”

  “Uh, texted some people. Get a lot of texts. Send a lot. Don’t keep track.”

  Tyrone groaned. Luther had just admitted he’d lied.

  I stood and pulled out my cuffs.

  “Okay, okay,” Luther said, “maybe I texted the rappers here, the ones from the workshop. Might’ve said you’d been hassling me, which yeah, you did. That’s it.”

  Tyrone looked up at the ceiling and muttered, “Stupid, stupid, fucking moron.”

  While I had Luther off balance, I wanted to probe for info I didn’t already know. “Going back to that same time, right after we first talked, what phones did you use?”

  He took one out of his back pocket and held it out. “Tyrone gave me this, said don’t use any others. I don’t.”

  “What about your apartment’s landline?”

  “Don’t got one.”

  “What about the cellphone you had before Tyrone so generously gave you one?”

  Luther shook his head. “Broke it, maybe in May. Canceled the contract when Tyrone gave me this. Been using it, just like he said.”

  “Maybe you’ve picked up a no-contract phone over the last three months?”

  “Nope, didn’t.”

  “What about email or social media?” I asked. “On your phone, computer, or tablet?”

  “No computer. Last one broke a year ago. Got a tablet, but mostly use the phone. Tyrone said don’t use social media. I ain’t. Don’t use email much either. That’s my parents’ thing. Mainly, I text or talk.”

  Willow had printed out for me all of his emails and texts for the day I was waylaid on the freeway and a listing of his phone calls. The only communication she’d found between the time I first talked to him and when I got shot at was the text he’d sent to the other rappers bitching about me.