Midnight Lullaby

by Jen Blood

  “Call in sick,” I said. “God knows you’ve earned it today.”

  “I don’t think Rafferty will see it that way,” she said. “As it is, I have to come up with an excuse to get out of lunch with him.”

  Paul Rafferty was Solomon’s boss. He had an unhealthy love of split infinitives, a Napoleon complex, and a reputation for nailing interns far and wide since the dawn of time. Paul Rafferty was an asshole.

  “To hell with Rafferty,” I said. “We’ve got a story.”

  She glanced at Buzz. He’d been tossing assignments to her here and there over the course of the past month, but we all knew he didn’t have the money to put her on payroll. “I know we’ve got a story—but I’ve made a commitment to the Tribune, too. I can’t just show up whenever I want like some people I know.”

  “You’re an intern. You get paid peanuts—they’re lucky you show up at all.”

  “Those peanuts take care of my share of the rent, slick. Unless you became independently wealthy when I wasn’t looking and you’re prepared to pay my bills and keep me in M&Ms and Sugar Smacks for the rest of the summer, quit bitching. I’ll be back in a few hours.” She looked me up and down. “Do us all a favor and grab a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep while I’m gone, huh? You look like hell.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And while you’re in the mines, make yourself useful and see what else you can find out about Charlene Dsengani and the giant I ran into in the alley.”

  She snapped a smart salute to me, grabbed her bag, kissed Buzz on the cheek, and slid out the door. When she was gone, I looked at Buzz.

  “All right. Now what?”

  He considered the question. I could tell by the new light in his eyes and the furrow in his brow that he was weighing this situation carefully. “This is big. Those pictures you’ve got, the fact that Charlene Dsengani was the victim, the way she was killed... We’ve got almost a week till the next issue of the Ledger comes out—I want you on this. I’ll cover whatever else you’re working on, but I want this as our lead story. By the time we’re ready to go to press, the ABCs of this thing will be old news. That means we need to come up with a new angle, and those pictures are gold.”

  “Thibodeau told me if he sees anything from the crime scene go to press, he’s tossing my ass in jail.”

  “He’s bluffing,” Buzz said with a dismissive shake of his head. He stood, pacing the kitchen. “And you know I’m not printing anything that’ll put you in bad stead or that’ll be in poor taste... But you have a firsthand account of this thing. I want to know who the guy you ran into in the alley is. What Lisette Mandalay has to do with all this. Whether Johnny Cole and his buddies are behind the murder. Your goal is to work yourself into their lives.”

  “Okay,” I said with a nod. “Good.” Questions began forming in my mind, the story already writing itself. “So I’ll catch up with Johnny and Wolf tonight and go from there—they’re not usually around till the sun goes down, and I’m sure they’ll be laying low today. In the meantime, I’ll hit the streets, see what I can find out.”

  I stood, leaving the manila folder Solomon had given me open on the kitchen table. Charlene Dsengani smiled up at me. The memory of her body, opened and emptied, flashed through my mind again. Buzz caught the look.

  “Give yourself a second or two to catch your breath,” he said. “You don’t need to head out yet. You heard Solomon: grab a shower and a couple of hours’ rack time. Check in with me after you and Sol meet up this afternoon.”

  I started to balk, but got no farther than the hard look in Buzz’s eyes. It would do no good. “And what will you be doing?”

  “Me?” He grinned. “I’m heading back to the Ledger to start clearing space on my shelf for our Pulitzer.”

  Chapter 4

  Solomon came home at a little past one that afternoon looking dead on her feet. I’d just woken up. The wound at my side had opened while I was sleeping and leaked blood through the gauze, so I was doing my best to change the bandage when she came in. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds watching me before she shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and came in.

  She settled beside me on the couch and took the peroxide and cotton balls from me. I was in boxers, no shirt, hair still damp from the shower. Solomon wet her lips, and caught my eye for a flash of a second before she looked away. The temperature in the room went up a notch.

  “You find out anything about Charlene Dsengani?” I asked her while she was bandaging me up again.

  “I didn’t have much time—Rafferty’s got me on this Foster thing full time now.” Solomon had been handpicked by Rafferty to interview Congressman Foster when he came to town next week to campaign for a seat on the Maine Senate—hence her interest in Foster’s appearance on Leno the night before. “Do you know anything about that fundraiser they’re throwing for him on Tuesday?” she asked.

  “The local guy’s doing it, right? Bobby Davies... Big philanthropist around here. Boatloads of cash.”

  “He and Foster went to school together, apparently. Any chance Buzz might be able to score a couple of tickets?”

  “What, Rafferty can’t get you in? I thought you were his protégé this summer.” She poked the bandage over the gash in my side. “Ow. Jesus, woman. Yeah, Buzz can probably get tickets. He’s a friend of Davies’, I think.”

  “Good. Thanks.” She picked up the cotton balls and peroxide, stood, and tossed me my shirt. “Now come on into the kitchen, and I’ll give you the skinny on Charlene.”

  “I thought you didn’t have time.”

  “I said I didn’t have much time.” She grinned at me, more at ease now that my shirt was back on. “Come on, slick. Have I ever left you hanging before?”

  In the kitchen, Solomon had a couple of Silly’s sandwiches wrapped and waiting. I grabbed the veggie, Solomon grabbed the roast beast. She got a beer from the fridge for me, a Coke for her. Then, she hauled a folder an inch thick from her bag and shoved it toward me.

  “This is what you got on ‘not much time’?”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, in case you’ve forgotten,” she said, like she’d been digging up dirt since the Nixon administration.

  I opened the folder. The photo on top was another of Charlene Dsengani. There was no smile on her face in this one, serious dark eyes staring directly into the camera. I scanned the summary of information on the next page: Emigrated from Sudan in 1994; born 1974. Exact date unknown. Became a U.S. citizen in October of 1999. I paused at sight of her employer, though the news wasn’t new.

  Johnny Cole.

  “Did she and Lisette know each other before Charlene started working for Johnny?” I asked.

  “Not that I can tell. The Dsenganis actually started working for him before Lisette came on the scene—they’d been with Johnny and Wolf for a couple of years before Lisette gave up modeling and moved to Maine in ’98. And they’re not exactly from the same neighborhood; there’s a lot of difference between South Africa and Sudan.”

  “What about the guy?” I asked. “Any ideas on who he is?”

  “I couldn’t find anything,” she said with a frown. “I think that will take more digging.”

  “We need to find him—and talk to Lisette. They’re the keys to this thing. I’m sure of it.”

  “Seems likely,” she agreed. “I had a few spare minutes, so I did a little research on the method of killing, too.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  She motioned for me to turn the page. I did, and grimaced at sight of hollowed-out bodies and severed limbs. “Ritual sacrifice. Where did you find these cases?”

  “Africa, mostly,” she said. “A couple of murders in other parts of the world, usually by someone associated with African witchdoctors. The theory is that human lives and body parts are leveraged in exchange for health, wealth, or longevity.”

  “So someone killed Charlene Dsengani and harvested her organs so the gods would rain cash on them? Gotta love the human race. What about the
phone call that pulled Lisette out of the bar?”

  “I don’t know—I’m just telling you what I found. The African connection is hard to miss.”

  “Detective Thibodeau was very clear on the need for me to keep that theory quiet.”

  “I can understand that,” she said with a nod. She pushed back from the table and drained her Coke. She’d barely touched her sandwich. “It’s peaceful here compared to other parts of the country, and the community’s mostly welcomed refugees into the city. There’ve still been threats and some hate crimes in the past few years, though—a lot of talk about how they’re only here for handouts.”

  Maine was one of only a handful of states in the country that offered financial assistance to refugees while they got on their feet—a program that was proving to be controversial now that more and more Africans were choosing the state to lay down roots. From everything I’d heard, read, and observed, however, it wasn’t the meager financial assistance available so much as the low crime rate and affordable housing that appealed.

  “So if we start talking about a ritual murderer killing African refugees, there will definitely be a backlash,” I concluded. “We’ll need to be smart about how to present things once we write it up. This hardly seems random, though. Charlene Dsengani was anything but low-profile, and the guy in the alley said something about how everyone bearing the mark was in danger now.” Rather than going through the copious, barely legible notes Solomon had provided, I looked to the source directly. “Any clue what that means? This mark Charlene has?”

  “I couldn’t find anything. She did a lot of interviews over the last few years, mostly talking about this farming program she works with, but she didn’t usually answer questions about her past. She always said she preferred to live in the present.” She leaned back against the counter and looked at me expectantly. “So what’s our next move?”

  I finished off the last of my sandwich, considering the question. “I thought your next move was prepping for the big Foster interview.”

  “I know that shit cold,” she said, waving me off. The look in her eye told me she wouldn’t be easily left in the dust. “Look, I know what you’re doing. You can’t cut me out of this. Didn’t Buzz talk to you? I’m already more than pulling my weight—not to mention that if I hadn’t been there last night, you’d be a shish kabob by now.”

  “Settle down.” I got up and tossed her Coke can and my Shipyard bottle in the recycling. “I’m not cutting you out. I just think we should be smart about what we bring you into. Regardless of what we decide, I don’t want you moving on anything without me. You need to stay back, let me handle the front end of the investigation. Regardless of where he’s from or what his motives might be, the killer is still out there.”

  “And do you plan on taking your own advice?”

  “Don’t worry about me, kid. It’ll take more than a crazed ritual killer to take me down.”

  “Right—I forgot, you’re invincible. So, while you’re figuring out what to do with me in all this, I’m assuming your next step is to talk to Lisette.”

  “If I run into her, we might have a conversation.”

  She looked at me knowingly, eyebrow quirked. “If you run into her... Like, if you just happen to cross paths at the mall?”

  “Exactly.”

  “If I need you, then, I assume I’ll find you at Old Port Billiards tonight?”

  “If you need me, give me a call, actually. Johnny Cole isn’t a man I want you spending time around. Stay away from that crowd.”

  A hint of temper touched her eyes. “If you’re going there—”

  “Solomon, please,” I said. “Give me a break, okay? Stay clear of Johnny for now.” Before she could argue, I pushed her sandwich toward her and motioned her toward the door. “Your lunch break must be almost up by now—how about you wrap that to go and get back to the mines like a good little breadwinner. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She elbowed me in the gut, then turned and smiled at me sweetly. “Yes, dear.”

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  That afternoon while Solomon was back at work, I was summoned to the precinct to meet with a sketch artist. For an hour and a half, I worked through the details of the man I’d seen in the alley. I’d worked with sketch artists before, but I was still impressed when the woman presented the finished drawing to me.

  “Is this the man you saw?” she asked. She was pretty—delicate and refined, with large, expressive eyes and a quiet smile. So far, I’d learned that her name was Rachel; she preferred herbal tea to coffee...and she and her sister just happened to work for a nonprofit called the Maine Coalition for Africa. Definitely a handy source to have.

  “Wow,” I said. The one-eyed man from the alley stared back at me, the shading done well enough to convey the planes of his face, the scar and the menace. “This is amazing. Seriously.” I hesitated. “Though he didn’t actually look quite this scary.”

  “Didn’t he stab you?” she said.

  “But he didn’t look happy about it.” She smiled and started to take the drawing back to make the necessary changes. I shook my head. “No, that’s okay. This is fine. I’m just thinking out loud. He had a pretty distinctive accent—Eastern Africa, I think, though I’m not an expert on dialect. He doesn’t look familiar to you?”

  “I’m sorry, no,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “But you knew the victim?”

  Her eyes filled. She looked down for a moment and swallowed convulsively, brushing the tears away with a delicate hand. “I’m sorry. Yes... I knew her. Everyone did. She was an amazing woman. Strong, powerful. So full of life.”

  “And you don’t have any idea who would want a woman like that dead?”

  “I can’t even imagine,” she said. She drew in a long breath and stood. We were in a back room in the police station, insulated from the chaos of the rest of the precinct. It was warm in there, the air close and stale. Rachel’s hair had frizzed in the humidity.

  There was a light knock at the door that came an instant after she’d gotten to her feet, like she’d timed it that way. Detective Thibodeau walked in without waiting for a response. He smiled at her. The smile she offered in return knocked me off balance for a moment: wide and open, reaching all the way to those expressive eyes, while a trace of the sadness I’d glimpsed before at mention of Charlene’s name remained just beneath the surface.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Good,” I said. I showed him the sketch. “This is your guy. She’s really good, you know,” I added, nodding toward Rachel.

  “Oh, believe me, I know. And any time I start to forget, she makes sure to remind me.”

  My gaze fell to his wedding ring—a match to the single gold band that she wore. I waited for some display of affection, a way of marking his territory in front of me. There was none, other than the way their eyes caught for a second—like I wasn’t even in the room.

  “I think we have another job for you, if you have time?” Thibodeau asked his wife.

  She glanced at her watch. “Jed has a treatment at two. He can’t miss it.”

  “I’ll take him. It’s my turn anyway,” Thibodeau said. He glanced at me defensively, as though he didn’t want any more of their personal life leaking into the conversation. I turned my back to give the appearance of privacy, though I continued to listen without remorse. “Don’t worry about it. Just go on out and talk to Grady at the front desk—he’ll set you up. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  After she’d gone, Thibodeau returned his attention to me. He looked a lot less friendly without his wife around.

  “I never would have pegged you for a woman like that,” I said. “No offense. Somehow I was picturing...”

  “A pit bull with a badge?” he finished for me.

  “Maybe,” I admitted.

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  As good as his wife might have looked, Thibodeau wasn’t faring so well. He needed a shower and a change of cloth
es, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed with circles.

  I nodded to the police sketch. “Have you heard any more about this guy?”

  “That’s none of your business. Just leave this to us, huh?”

  “Just a harmless question.”

  “There’s no such thing with you types.”

  “Do you have an autopsy scheduled yet?” I pressed. If Thibodeau already had my number anyway, there wasn’t much point in subtlety.

  “Again—not your business. Thanks for your time and description. I’ll give you a call if anything pops up.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” he snapped. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you, all right? Now, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  “Can I get a photocopy of the sketch?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “Posterity. Come on, just a photocopy. You’ll be releasing them to the public anyway, right?”

  “Come by and pick one up at the front desk in an hour. I’ll leave it there for you.”

  It was a minor win, but I’d take it. “Have you talked to the victim’s family yet?”

  “Out, damn it. I appreciate your help, the department appreciates your help, the citizens of Portland appreciate your help...”

  “But don’t let the door hit me in the ass on the way out,” I completed for him.

  “Glad we’re finally on the same page. Goodbye, Diggs.”

  “You’ll call if you need anything else from me?” I asked.

  He agreed to that at least, though grudgingly.

  As I was leaving the station, I passed a short, plump black woman wearing a lavender headscarf. Thibodeau practically shoved me out of the way and took the woman’s arm. She stared straight ahead, her eyes weary.

  “Come with me, Ms. Dsengani,” Thibodeau said quietly.

  “What are you doing to catch the men who did this?” she asked. Her accent was thick, and very similar to the one I’d heard from the man with the knife the night before. “My sister had no enemies here—there is no reason for what’s happened to her.”