The Truth About Gretchen

by Alretha Thomas

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Maybe you should be. They say they work for Manny. And everybody in the ’hood knows he’s a cold-blooded kill—”

  The door swings open, and my mother stands there with a camera. She snaps our photo and then says, “What are you two doing out here? The party’s inside.”

  “Nothing, Robin. We ain’t doin’ nothin’.” Curt pats my shoulder and follows my mother into the house. “Be careful,” he says, glancing over his shoulder.

  I start to follow him, but a car crawling up our street diverts my attention. I squint, trying to read the license plate, but the headlights blind me. Why are those lights so damn bright? I can’t see. The glare hurts my eyes. It’s like a thousand bursting suns. I try to look away, but I can’t. It hurts.

  ******

  I lift my head off my drool-covered desk. I blink, trying to make out what’s on the computer monitor. It’s one of many pictures Regina sent me last night—Robert and Curt standing on the steps of their old house, the night of Robert’s party.

  I transported. OMG, I was there. I was him, at the house, the party. The neighbor. I talked to Curt. Curt was telling the truth. I—Robert—never got to talk to Regina. I stand and stretch, and my gaze returns to the photo. My stomach flutters when I glimpse a white Mercedes in the distance. Was the murderer driving that car?

  I click to the photos from the Ballroom. I enlarge the one featuring the two thugs flanking Robert. They have their hands extended, as though trying to keep from being photographed. We may not have a gun, but we have their picture. Regina confided in me that after her mother and stepfather confronted her, she was going to walk away from our investigation. But after she went through the photos and video, she found a fresh resolve, and she’s more eager than ever. We plan to show the detective the photos. We’re hoping those two punks have mug shots and records. Maybe if we get to them, we can get to Manny.

  “You okay?”

  I look up at Lance standing in the doorway. “I’m good.” Thank god he didn’t come in here earlier.

  “Aren’t your callbacks soon?”

  “In a few hours,” I say, glancing at the clock on my computer. “You’re off to school?”

  “Yep. I’m so glad this is a short week.”

  “I’m happy for you.” I get up and peck him on the lips. “Have a good day.”

  “You too, Red.”

  I watch him leave, wearing his tan wool sweater, brown corduroy pants, and loafers, guilt nipping at my insides. When this is all over with, and Robert’s killer is behind bars, I’ll come clean with Lance.

  ******

  Regina, sitting on the hood of her Honda, stands when I park next to her in the Shady Grove Police Department visitor lot. Her hair in cornrows, dressed in jeans, a purple hoodie, and tennis shoes, she looks like she’s ready to go to battle. We could be bookends with me wearing my blue Patriots hoodie, jeans, and tennis shoes. I exit my Subaru and walk to her. We gaze into each other’s eyes and without saying a word, we embrace for what seems like an eternity. We hold each other so tightly; I can feel her heart beating and smell the sweet scent of whatever shower gel she used today.

  We finally release each other, and I say, “How was traffic?”

  “I was so in the zone, thinking about our meeting with the detective, I didn’t notice.”

  “Good. Do you have the photos?”

  “Yep.” She points at her tote.

  “I guess we should head in.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  We march side by side. I imagine us walking in slow motion with a badass girl song playing in the background. Maybe Beyoncé’s “Run the World (Girls)” or Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song.” We near the entrance, and Regina takes my hand and squeezes it. Then she releases it and pushes open the door.

  We step through, swiveling our heads, scoping out the handful of people in the lobby—a pregnant woman, her face creased with worry, trying to control an unruly toddler sucking a pacifier. I wonder if her significant other has been arrested. Maybe she has a delinquent teenage son. A middle-aged couple huddles in the corner, whispering to each other. They watch us as we pass them. Leaning against a wall, a man in his mid-thirties, crackling with nervous energy, wrings his hands then throws them up in frustration.

  Regina and I approach the glass-encased reception counter. A door opens, and the same freckle-faced policewoman who helped me Saturday steps through, carrying a stack of papers. She beckons to the angry man. He stumbles over to her. Regina nudges me, and I note his bad leg. The officer hands him the papers through the slot under the glass. He snatches them and says, “Thanks for nothing.” She rolls her eyes while he turns his back to her with his middle finger in the air.

  “Can I help you?” she asks us, ignoring him.

  “I was here Saturday. I have an appointment with Detective Leon Williams.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gretchen Holloway.”

  “Just a minute.” She reaches for the phone on the desk in front of her, but before she can make the call, a male officer with a weatherworn face and steel-gray hair steps through the door that’s still ajar. They share what looks like a conspiratorial glance, then engage in a brief conversation. Afterward, he exits through the door and closes it. A few seconds later, he comes through the steel double doors in the rear of the lobby, making a beeline to the young mother. The female officer gives him a nod then continues with the call. She hangs up and says, “Detective Williams will be right out.”

  “Thank you,” we say.

  “I hope we don’t end up like the guy who just left,” Regina says.

  “I do too,” I say.

  We sit across from the pregnant woman. Regina studies the older officer, and I do too. He seems familiar. The woman presses on her belly while he curtly answers her questions. The toddler slides off the chair and grabs the officer around the leg. He motions for the mother to remove the boy. She jerks him away from the officer and returns him to the chair next to her.

  “That kid is cute, but he’s a handful.” Regina shakes her head. “Do you have any kids?”

  Taken aback by her question, I hesitate then say, “No. Not yet. My fiancé wants five. He only has one sibling—an older sister. She lives in New York. What about you?”

  “No. I did when I was younger, but after Robert was killed, I lost all desire.”

  Regina’s admission fills me with sadness. She would be a great mother. My thoughts are disrupted at the sight of a mustachioed man with a small afro approaching. Wearing expensive-looking brown slacks, a starched white shirt, and a tie, he stands wide legged in front of us. My eyes flit to the badge and gun on his belt.

  “Ladies, I’m Detective Leon Williams. How are you?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Detective Williams, this is Regina Wilson, Robert’s sister.”

  “Nice to meet you, and my condolences.”

  Regina gives me a surprised look, then turns toward the detective. “Thank you.”

  “We can meet in the conference room,” he says, motioning for us to follow him.

  Regina and I stand and walk closely behind him. He walks past the reception area, toward the double doors in the rear. He opens them, and we follow him. Before the door shuts, a huge black boot appears, propping the door open. I look up and lock eyes with the cop who was talking to the pregnant woman. My skin prickles. Where have I seen him before?

  “Excuse me,” he says, brushing past us, on his way down the corridor. He runs his hand through the back of his hair, and I glimpse a tiny tattoo near his neckline—AKIA. He suddenly stops and turns toward us. “Williams, let’s touch base after your meeting.”

  “Sure thing, Barnes.”

  The cop turns forward and disappears through another set of double doors. We arrive at a conference room, and the detective motions for us to precede him. More than a dozen boxes marked Robert Parker occupy one end of a large table. On the other end is a stack of expanding files.

>   “Have a seat,” Detective Williams says.

  We remain standing, gawking at the boxes. “Everything in these boxes is about my brother?”

  “Yes. The Parker case was big back in the day. Hometown guy shot and killed in the prime of his life. It touched a lot of people.”

  “You sound like you know a lot about the case,” Regina says.

  “I’ve done a little homework. I’m thirty-five. I was only eight when he was killed. My father was a big fan of your brother.”

  Pride crosses Regina’s face, followed by a lone teardrop. The detective walks to a cherry wood credenza in the corner of the room and grabs a tissue box. He hands it to Regina, and she waves it away. “I’m fine. I’ve been holding onto my tears for two decades. Now I’m like a leaky, old faucet.”

  “My sister was murdered ten years ago. I understand.”

  “That’s horrible,” I say.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Regina says. “Did they find the killer?”

  “They did. She was murdered in downtown Los Angeles. Getting off work. This meth head tried to rob her, and she fought back. He stabbed her. That’s why I became a cop. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about her, so you don’t need to explain your feelings.”

  The door opens, puncturing the room’s silence. A Hispanic man—mid-thirties, dressed in a stylish blue suit and a turtleneck—steps into the room. If it weren’t for his receding hairline and adult acne, he would almost be handsome.

  Detective Williams makes a sweeping gesture toward the man, as though he were introducing a nightclub act. “This is my partner, Tony Garcia. Tony, this is Gretchen Holloway and Robert’s sister, Regina Wilson.”

  “Nice to meet you, ladies.” He shakes our hands. “Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” we say.

  “I was just telling them about Millicent.”

  “Who?” Detective Garcia says.

  “My sister,” Detective Williams says.

  “Oh … right. I wondered why everyone was looking so dreary when I walked in. At first I thought Leon had told you one of his corny jokes.” The room fills with faint laughter. “I hear you ladies have some new evidence.”

  Regina takes the envelope out of her purse. I hold my breath, hoping that what we have will be enough for the detectives to move forward.

  Chapter 24

  Regina

  With trembling fingers, I remove the photos and lay them on the table. The detectives gather around me.

  “Where did you get those?” Detective Williams says. Images of his dead sister bombard my brain, and I resist the urge to hug him.

  “My mother took a lot of pictures and videotaped the parties we had at the Crystal Ballroom and at our house on New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day,” I say.

  “Robert’s twenty-fourth birthday was on New Year’s Day.”

  “Right. You did do your homework,” I say.

  Detective Garcia chuckles and says, “He’s been studying this case nonstop since Saturday.”

  Detective Williams picks up the photo featuring the two thugs. He sets it down and then takes a manila folder out of one of the expanding files. He removes several sheets of paper and spreads them on the table.

  “Ladies, have a seat,” Detective Garcia says.

  We do so, eyes fixed on the paperwork. Hovering over us, Detective Williams says, “The guy on the right is the guy in this photo.” He points to the paperwork. I stare at the face of the bald man with deep-set eyes framed by bushy brows, a dragon tattoo on his neck. The guy in the picture I brought in could be his son. I realize the bald guy is the older version of my guy.

  “His name is Chester Rawlings. He’s doing life in Corcoran State Prison for the murder and robbery of Edward Schwartz in December 1990.”

  Detective Williams’s reveal triggers a collective gasp from Gretchen and me. “So he killed the jewelry store guy,” I say.

  “He and his partner in crime,” Detective Garcia says.

  Detective Williams takes more paperwork from the folder and sets it on the table. The man featured in the paperwork is clearly the other guy in the photo I brought in. Light complexion, red hair, and broad facial features. He’s just twenty-five years older than he was then. “Fred Burris. He’s also doing life at Corcoran for the robbery and murder of Edward Schwartz.”

  “Detectives, we believe these guys could have killed Robert,” Gretchen says, her voice rising a few octaves.

  Detective Williams pulls up a chair and sits. Detective Garcia perches on the table. “We don’t think that’s possible,” Detective Williams says, his eyes shifting from Gretchen to me.

  “Why?” I ask.

  Referencing the paperwork, Detective Williams says, “Because they were arrested coming out of the Crystal Ballroom on Monday, December 31, at 11:00 p.m. That was hours before Robert was killed. According to the investigative notes, a tail had been set on the two of them, after an anonymous tip put them at the jewelry store the day of the heist. Once they were taken into custody, they cut a deal to avoid the death penalty. They were subsequently questioned about Robert’s murder and offered further perks, if you will, if they could provide any information regarding his death. They gave up nothing and no one.”

  I press my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Gretchen holds my other hand and gives it a supportive squeeze. “What about the guy they worked for?” I ask.

  “What guy?” Garcia says.

  “They worked for someone named Manny,” Gretchen chimes in.

  The detectives share a curious look. “How do you know about Manny?” Detective Garcia says.

  Gretchen shifts in her chair. Last night we agreed she wouldn’t mention the dreams, transporting, or reincarnation. We both felt the detectives would laugh us out of the station and not take us seriously. What we didn’t anticipate was the detectives wanting to know how we know about certain details, like Manny. I come to the rescue.

  “Uh … everybody in the neighborhood knew about him. My brother’s friend, Craig, knew about him, and my stepfather knew about him. They probably mentioned Manny when they were interviewed by the detectives who worked on the case back then. You should check their statements.”

  Detective Garcia’s face reddens, and I’m sure Detective Williams’s face would have too if it weren’t brown. “Over the years a few files have gone missing—one of those contained witness statements,” Detective Garcia says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s unfortunate, but true.”

  “How?” I say.

  “It’s been close to thirty years. A lot of turnover and a lot of hands. It happens,” Detective Garcia says.

  Gretchen and I turn toward Detective Williams. His gaze falls to the floor. My instinct tells me there’s more to what Detective Garcia is saying. And Detective Williams’s incredulous look confirms my suspicions.

  “What about Manny?” Gretchen says. “He may have killed Robert. Look at the other picture. There’s a car in the background.”

  Detective Williams squints at the picture and says, “It looks like a Mercedes.”

  “Maybe the neighbor saw who was driving the car. She was outside when Robert and Regina’s stepfather were on the porch.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “My stepfather said she was. Maybe she saw something. Did the police talk to her?”

  Without answering, Detective Garcia rises. “Manny’s full name is Emanuel Rodriguez. Twenty-six years ago, he was the scum of the earth. A notorious loan shark, thief, and some believe he was behind more than a dozen murders in and around Shady Grove. He didn’t pull the trigger himself, but he put out hits. He was good at keeping things from being traced back to him. Today he’s a legitimate businessman and real-estate developer worth north of twenty million dollars. He owns the west side of Shady Grove. He turned the area around. Ladies, if we could prove he had something to do with Robert’s death, I’d be one happy detective. Do you have proof?”<
br />
  My heart pounding, I glance at Gretchen, hoping she came armed with something I’m not aware of, something that’ll get their attention, but she just sits there, her eyes darting around the room, sweat beading on her upper lip. I wring my hands, thinking about everything that took place in her last transport, the conversation Robert had with Craig, and I blurt, “Robert owed Manny money and was behind in his payments.”

  Detective Williams stands and paces. “Are you saying Robert borrowed money from Manny?”

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Your brother had a multimillion-dollar contract with the Dallas Enforcers,” Detective Garcia says.

  “That contract was over several years, and my brother had only been playing a couple of years. Plus, he had to pay his agent, his accountant, and taxes. He had bought a mini-mansion in Dallas.”

  “But why would he borrow money from one of the most notorious loan sharks in Shady Grove? Why not get an advance from the team or go to a legitimate institution?” Detective Williams interjects.

  “Because he was gambling. He was out of control,” I say, choking on my words.

  The detectives share a knowing glance.

  “Robert was in over his head,” Gretchen says. “We believe Manny killed him or had him killed.”

  “Again, where’s the proof?” Garcia says.

  He walks to the expanded files and removes another manila folder. He hands it to me. I open it and flinch at the sight of a man riddled with bullet holes. I toss the folder onto the table. “What was that?”

  “That’s a member of a rival gang, who was killed on December 30, 1990. Two days before your brother was gunned down. Members of your brother’s gang shot that man. In retaliation, that gang shot Robert.”

  I jump up from my chair and get in Detective Garcia’s pimple-ridden face. “My brother wasn’t in a gang! He may have made some bad choices but being in a gang wasn’t one of them. Every young black man in the ’hood isn’t a thug or a gangster.”