When Brooks reviewed the surveillance video he saw the same couple, in the same outfits, he had just seen with Fats Harrington in the VIP of Big Boys Nightclub a few hours before. He couldn’t see Alexis's face because of the big hat she wore. The same for the footage of her going to get ice. When she left the hotel, she was wearing a wig and sunglasses.
Brooks’s cell phone rang. He looked at the number and then answered it. “Where are you?”
“I was in the shower,” Aiden said. “I just got in. I’m about to take a quick nap. What’s up?” The lead detective was actually sitting in an undercover officer’s car getting information.
“I’m at a motel on Bladensburg Road. I found our shooter”.
“Describe him”.
“Dark skin, braids, about six feet, dead.”
“What?”
“He drowned.”
“Are you sure it's him?”
“I’m looking at a hotel surveillance video of the two people I just saw in Big Boys’ Nightclub,” Brooks said. “She’s hiding her face in this video and she’s gone from the scene. Can you get a warrant for the nightclub’s surveillance footage?”
“Yes. And I’m on my way.”
* * * * * *
Aiden got in his ‘69 Maserati Ghibli and drove to the Master Host Inn. As he parked, he saw Gillespie had already parked and was walking toward the pool. Aiden cursed under his breath. He turned off his radio, killed the engine and climbed out. The sun was coming up. Gillespie stopped and waited for him. “This your perp?” he asked. They started walking toward the body.
“Sounds like him,” Aiden said.
“So, Brooks solved another one for you?”
“He…”
“Just messing with you,” Gillespie said. Aiden shook his head.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Brooks drowned the guy himself.”
“You wish,” Gillespie said. They ducked under the yellow tape. Both men spoke to uniform officers on crowd control duty. Gillespie opened the gate and they stepped on to the pool deck.
Brooks came out of the 100 building with the night manager. He had a CD copy of the surveillance tape. “Chief Gillespie,” he called. Aiden smelled his cologne as soon as he got near.
“Brooks. Good work,” he said. The three men walked over to the body. Gillespie knelt down and pulled the white sheet back to expose the victim’s face. He looked up at Aiden frowning. Gillespie stood. “Let me see the sketch.”
Brooks handed him the sketch of the barbershop shooter drawn by the police department’s artist. It wasn’t that the artist was bad as much as the witnesses were terrible. None of the witnesses tried hard to give an accurate description and the result was a sketch that looked like the shooter’s cousin, maybe.
“I thought you said this was the perp from the barbershop?” Gillespie snapped at Brooks.
Brooks held up his phone and showed a sketch drawn by Billy the bum that looked just like the deceased. “Oh, get the...who,” Gillespie was flustered. “Aiden, I thought I told you not to use that sketch!”
“It’s him. It doesn’t matter that a con man identified him,” Aiden said. “That’s who shot Six Hands Johnson this morning.”
“Well, who the fuck killed him?” Gillespie asked. “And don’t tell me the nigga can’t swim. Somebody drowned him.”
“I can only solve one case at a time,” Brooks said.
Gillespie smiled, but not for long. “How did you ID him?”
“Aiden told me to spread the sketch around and one of the patrolmen recognized him from the sketch.”
Gillespie glared at Aiden. Aiden glared at Brooks.
“Where are his clothes?” Aiden asked.
“They were checked into Room 344,” Brooks said.
“Where’s that?” Aiden asked.
Brooks shrugged.
“Who is ‘they’? Who was with him?” Gillespie asked.
“Hey,” Aiden was talking to the night manager who was updating a guest. “Where is Room 344?” The manager pointed to the second-floor balcony where the sliding glass door was still open. Aiden left the pool. “Come open that room for me,” he said.
* * * * *
Gillespie and Brooks followed Aiden and the night manager upstairs.
“I just saw Fats Harrington hand this guy a wad of cash and hooked him up with this girl,” Brooks said. “And a few hours later the guy is dead.”
The night manager unlocked the door, and everyone entered. The broken bottle and turned over furniture were obvious signs of a struggle. Terrance’s clothes were on the floor. Brooks went through his pockets then dropped the clothes back where they were.
“She took the money Fats gave him,” he said.
“So, he wasn’t skinny dipping,” Gillespie said.
Aiden was already out on the balcony. He put on a latex glove before lifting the ashtray. “They were smoking weed out here,” he said. “Someone had to have smelled it.” He turned to the hotel night manager. “Did anyone call and complain about the smell of marijuana?’
“Yes, Room 333 called,” he said.
“Brooks, ask them if they saw anything. Ask the people in the rooms next door if they heard anything,” Aiden said.
“Wait, is he the lead?”
“No, you are, he’s trying to help you,” Gillespie said. “Don’t be stupid. Accept the help and do what he’s telling you.”
Brooks stalked out of the room.
“The score is 2-0, bad guys,” Gillespie said.
* * * * *
Detective Taylor pulled a business card out of her pocket and looked at Franklin Pearson’s hand-written cell phone number. She smirked before dialing his number.
He was excited when he answered, but that would quickly wane. By the time the call ended he regretted answering it.
“Detective Melissa Taylor. How are you, beautiful?”
“Good morning, sir. I’m calling because I need to speak with you in person within the hour.”
Pearson scoffed. “A lot of people would, detective, but that’s not possible.”
“I don’t wan’t the media to implicate you in the murder of William “Six Hands” Johnson…”
“What? Detective Taylor...you must’ve gone to a community college. It’s absolutely insane to think…”
“Counselor, you can come talk to me or I can get a warrant for your arrest.”
“That’s preposterous,” Pearson said. “Have you been smoking pot?”
“Sir, I’d like to talk to your client, Massacre, as well.”
“Oh, you have been smoking pot. And why would I make my client available to a homicide detective?”
“Because you are at 1800 M Street NW standing in front of your firm. Do you see the unmarked across the street?”
Pearson looked in every wrong direction before noticing the Buick and the guy staring at him from it’s driver’s side.
“Yes, I see it.”
“Someone who slapped you in a nightclub was murdered yesterday morning. The friend of a rapper you represent killed him. That thug is now dead. You’re going to tell me where Massacre is right now or that officer in the Buick is going to arrest you right now.”
“He’s in a studio called Headz-Up Studios. It’s on 14th and P Street NW.”
Pearson heard the line go dead. He watched the man in the Buick answer his cell phone, say, “Okay,” start his engine and drive off. Pearson didn’t know he could still hold his breath that long.
Chapter 16: Church
3:30am Sunday
H eadz-Up Studios was located in an old warehouse on 14th Street NW. In the vestibule, a man sat behind a bulletproof glass in what used to be a ticket booth. The sign read, “receptionist,” but at 6’4” and 340 pounds the man was clearly a security guard. Aiden showed him his badge. Instead of asking his business, the man decided it was above his pay grade, and he hit a button under his desk without changing facial expression.
Inside the studio, the lights blinked on and off
. The engineer looked up at a small black- and-white television in the corner. When the engineer saw Detective Aiden, he stopped recording and started cleaning up.
“Cops,” he said.
People in the room started stubbing blunts and hiding pistols. Some told him to ignore the door. The lights blinked again. The engineer saw people stuff sizable bags of drugs in the sofa cushion. He walked across the room slowly and opened the door.
Aiden showed his badge. The engineer asked, “Can I help you?”
“I need to speak to Jonathan Klingman.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you want to go to jail for obstruction of justice?”
The engineer thought. “I need to see…”
Aiden pushed him out of the way. The front room was crowded with Massacre’s homies from the Montana Terrace Projects. The room smelled like a family of skunks had been killed and a thick cloud of smoke wafted across the room. Liquor bottles, cartons of Chinese food and half-dressed women were everywhere.
Aiden walked across the room and opened a door. A few people objected - others were happy to see him leave. He walked down a dark hallway and opened another door.
Massacre was sitting on a stool behind a suspended microphone. The room smelled like the lavender and sandalwood candles that were burning. The lights were out, but there were enough candles around the room to light the area.
“Why the fuck are you interrupting my session, man?!”
“Jonathan Klingman? I have to ask you some questions about a murder,” Aiden said.
“What?”
“I’m Detective Christopher Aiden from MPD Homicide Division.” Aiden crossed the room quickly and stood over top of the rapper. “Do you know this guy?” He pulled an 8x10 out of a folder and held it out for Massacre.
Massacre looked at it but didn’t touch it. “Obviously I know him if you see him dancing in my video?”
“What’s his name?”
“Look man, I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t just come up in here questioning people. You need to contact my lawyer.”
Aiden walked back across the room, closed the door, and locked it. Massacre smirked. Aiden walked back to him and smacked the smirk off of him. “I’m in here and I’m questioning you! Now, what’s his fucking name?!”
“Terrance.”
“Terrance what?”
Massacre paused. Aiden smacked him again. “Terrance Stone! Why? What’s this about?”
“You know what this is about. What did he tell you about the barbershop?”
“Nothing. I don’t know nothin’ about no barbershop” Massacre said.
“Ok, you don’t want to tell me here? You feel more comfortable talking down at the precinct?”
“No, no,” Massacre said. “I gotta finish this song tonight.”
“Tell me something,” Aiden said. “Tell me something that’ll stop me from handcuffing you right now. I can call the news and perp--walk you. That’ll be good for your rap career, right? You’ll look thugged out being arrested for being an accomplice to murder.”
“I wasn’t accomplice to that shit. I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
“Ok, so you knew about it, so you were a part of the conspiracy to commit murder, but you’re not an accomplice,” Aiden said. “That’s a little less time.”
“I told him not to do it. How the fuck am I a part of a conspiracy? I told you, I didn’t have shit to do with that stuff,” Massacre’s voice cracked. “I’m trying hard as fuck to stay outta trouble. It used to be a big deal when a rapper was killed. Now, every week a rapper is killed and two go to prison. I don’t want to be the next one.
“Look, I’m not from the projects. I’m not from Montana Terrace, I grew up three blocks away from there. I just know these people from school. Everywhere I go, gangsters are trying to extort me or rob me or get me to front drug money, launder drug money. Man, I just wanted to be a rap star. I don’t want to be in the center of all this gangster shit!” He was full on crying at this point.
“Why did you pay for this guy to be murdered?”
“I didn’t pay him! Fats paid him!”
“Fats Harrington? Why would Fats Harrington pay for that?”
“Because the guy got caught smuggling and lost two bricks of Fats’s coke,” Massacre cried. Aiden tried to hide his confusion. “Fats wanted the boy killed so he wouldn’t snitch.”
“William Johnson smuggled coke?’
“What? Who? We talking about the boy Blinds, right?”
“Blinds? Maurice Coles?”
“I dunno his real name. The nigga with the glasses. That’s who we talkin about, right?”
Aiden pulled the picture of Terrance out again. “Yesterday, this man walked into a barbershop, shot and killed William ‘Six Hands’ Johnson…”
“What?! The boxer?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“Nah, I saw he called me, but I ignored the call because I didn’t want to talk to him.”
“Several witnesses saw this guy shoot Six Hands Johnson three times in the chest.” Massacre shook his head.
“Then he was found floating in a hotel swimming pool an hour ago.” When Aiden showed the crime scene photo Massacre jumped off of his stool.
“What the fuck,” he said, “Terrance is dead?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“I told him not to get involved with that.”
“With what? What did Blinds have to do with this?”
“Terrance was supposed to kill Blinds in the barbershop. I don’t know why he killed Six Hands Johnson. I don’t understand that. I guess Fats was gonna pay him more for Six Hands.”
“Are you saying Fats Harrington paid Terrance Stone to kill Maurice Coles?”
“Blinds. Yes.”
“Are you sure the target was Blinds? Not Six Hands Johnson?”
“Positive. I heard the whole conversation.”
“How do you know Fats Harrington paid for this hit?”
“I was there when it was discussed. Well, I mean, I know Fats wanted the boy Blinds outta the way. I don’t know anything about Six Hands Johnson.”
“How much was Terrance paid to kill Blinds?”
“Not enough..
“How much?”
“Five grand.”
Aiden folded his pictures back in his folder and walked out. His mind was racing as he walked back up the hallway. When he walked through the front room all of the hangerons were being questioned by uniform cops. He could hear Massacre cursing.
He whispered to one of the patrolmen. “Was the audio on? Did you hear that?”
“Every word.”
“Make sure you check all of their IDs and get good phone numbers for everybody. They’re all witnesses.”
* * * * *
Blinds wasn’t a church-going man. He only went when Fats wanted a meeting. He usually loathed these meetings, but considering his trial situation, he had decided a little religion couldn’t hurt. He put on a dark blue suit, white shirt, and brown shoes. Looking in the mirror, he curled his lips before dropping his head.
Blinds knew Fats was a member and a big deal in his church. It was a mega church but Fats made it seem small. He wished Fats had picked the 8am service so he could get on with his day. He didn’t have much time on the street before his trial started so he wasn’t in the habit of sleeping late or going to 11am church services.
A little old lady thanked him for his “generous blessing to the Scholarship Committee.” Another man asked if he was going on the Men’s Retreat. “I can’t promise you anything,” Fats said. Women of all ages spoke, smiled, and stared at the skinny man. Little kids knew him. Blinds didn’t even own a Bible.
The sanctuary was about the size of a gym at a small college. There were two video screens, an enormous choir loft and the pulpit was a stage. The services were videotaped for reproduction and streamed live on the church website. The church had its own elementary and middle schools, day care,
and Bible College, owned an apartment building, a senior facility, a bookstore, a rehab center, a fitness center, and a restaurant.
Blinds and Fats had made it up three flights of stairs to the balcony. A minister led the congregation in prayer and there was a scripture reading before the choir started its first song. Twenty minutes later, when the band was at its crescendo and people were running around and dancing all over the church, Fats leaned over and started the negotiations.
“How much do you want?”
“I need fifty thousand and a good lawyer,” Blinds said.
“Fifty thousand? Are you crazy?”
“C’mon, bruh.”
“C’mon bruh what?” Fats said.
“That’s a weekend in Atlantic City for you. How many times you think you’ll go to AC while I’m shooting craps in the bathroom in Big Sandy.”
“You make it sound like I put a gun to your head,” Fats said. “Man, we both took a huge loss on that trip. I’m gon’ take care of you, you know.”
“Fats, I got three kids.”
“Yeah, I know that. Your fertility ain’t my concern.” The people on both sides of them were standing, clapping, and singing “I Don’t Know What You Come to Do”.
“You know what I’m saying. I can’t just leave them out there like that.”
“Blinds, I’m gon’ take care of you. I’m going to do the best I can. I’m gonna get you a good lawyer.”
“That Pearson guy you use?”
Fats didn’t answer. The music had stopped and most of the people were starting to sit down. They were still rocking and affirming. “Thank ya, Jesus.” “Lawday, Jesus.” Blinds thought, these people don’t think Jesus is White or they wouldn’t be talkin to Him like that. The pastor’s wife was at the podium, Lady James. Lady James told the saints that it was all right to scream and dance and lose yourself. “Turn to your neighbor,” she said. “Say, ‘Neighbor’.”
Blinds looked to his right at Fats but he turned to the lady on his opposite side. Blinds turned to his left and an eager saint was grinning and singing, “Neighbor!”
“Say, ‘Ohhh, neighbor!’” Lady James yelled.
Blinds exhaled and looked at his lap. He could hear the lady beside him bellowing.
“Tell ‘em, “I don’t care if you sit there like a bump on a log, I’m gonna praise His holy name!’” The music started again, the runners ran, and the dancers danced. The lady next to Blinds stood up and started jerking and twitching to the music.
Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries Page 16
