by Chassie West
“It’s just as well,” I said. “Look, Tina, there’s nothing you can do here. Michelle hasn’t been charged with anything yet, at least as far as we know. Taking her in would be jumping the gun. Let’s go home and let Evans and Thackery, or Willard for that matter, do their jobs.”
“She’s a fucking murderer,” Tina said, with heat. “And she knows it. You think she’s gonna sit around with her thumbs up her ass waiting for them to come get her? Or that I’m gonna hang around with my thumb up mine and watch her go underground? Not gonna happen. She killed Aunt Sis! I’m not gonna let her get away with it!” She spun away and marched toward the door of the Trilby.
“Damn it, Tina!” I trotted after her and caught up with her as she reached for the doorbell.
The door opened before she had the chance, and a cop in uniform stepped out, in the middle of a conversation with a grizzled man in a shiny black suit.
“—should be done in that room in a few hours,” the cop was saying. “Sorry about the lock, but they should have opened up when we knocked. Jones,” he greeted Tina. “Long time no see. How’s Tank?”
“Hanging in,” she said with a tight grin and squeezed past him.
“Back already, Ms. Halls?” Mr. Shiny Suit held the door open for me and stepped outside to join the cop.
Tina turned around and stared at me. “He thought you were Michelle? Hot damn!” She grabbed my sleeve. “Come on. We’ll take the stairs.”
“And do what?” I hissed at her as she tugged me across the lobby. Fortunately, the front desk was unattended. “I’m not going to hang around while you pick her lock, if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”
“Oh, hush! All I’m gonna do is knock on her door, see if she’s in. If she isn’t, I’ll look for a place to squat until she gets back. I remember lots of nooks and crannies. Jesus, this place stinks!”
She meant the stairwell, and I’d have agreed but thought it more prudent to keep my mouth shut and hold my breath as long as I could, not an easy feat when you’re climbing steps. The walls looked diseased, with suspicious stains in the corners of the landings. The lighter ones were urine. I decided not to think about the darker ones.
Tina pulled open the fire door of the second floor and peeked up and down the hall. “All clear. Let’s move it.”
I was torn between towing her back down the stairs or leaving her to her own devices. Before I’d made up my mind, she was knocking on 205. I stayed put, waiting to see if Michelle answered. If she did, I’d decide what to do from there. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than confronting her and, given the slightest excuse, punching her lights out. It would almost be worth a charge of assault and battery.
My luck held, or Michelle’s did, depending on your point of view. She didn’t answer.
“Psst.” Tina beckoned frantically. “Come on! We can hole up in the room where the ice machine used to be.”
I’d been in the Trilby a number of times, responding to fights or noisy guests, but was nowhere as knowledgeable as Tina about its floor plans. “How come you know this place so intimately?” I asked as I joined her in front of 205.
I got a shadow of her more usual impish grin. “I used to work Vice, spent a lot of hours in these rooms as bait. It’s just around here,” she said, jerking her head toward the juncture of the L-shaped wing.
The words were barely out of her mouth when a housekeeper rounded the corner pushing a linen-laden cart and muttering under her breath. “Damned cops gonna leave a mess and who’s supposed to clean it up? Me, that’s who. As if I ain’t got—” She looked up, saw us, and frowned. “You done locked yourself out again? Girl, you are hopeless.” She trudged toward us, pulling an enormous key ring from the pocket of her apron.
“Oh,” I said, realizing her mistake. “Sorry, but I’m not—” Tina stomped on my arch. “Ow!” I hopped away. “Dammit, Tina!”
“Sorry,” she said, glibly, as I limped to the opposite wall. I leaned against it, using one hand for balance, flexing my foot, wiggling my toes. She’d gotten me good.
“What was going on with all the police out there?” Tina asked the housekeeper, so she wouldn’t focus on me, I assume. The woman seemed tired and frazzled at all the to-do. The light level in the hall was low, but given one good look at me, she’d see that I was not Michelle.
“Damned druggies,” she grumbled, unlocking the door. “They get in a room and shoot up or smoke that crack stuff or pot, stink up everything, make a mess. Somebody will tell security and security calls the cops, and by the time it’s all over, the room’s even a bigger mess. Oh!” I looked up just as Tina slipped a bill into the woman’s hand. “No need for that, but I thank you. Y’all have a good evening.” She shuffled back to her cart.
Tina reached over and snatched me into the room.
I turned around immediately and retreated to the hall. “No,” I said. “Do the words ‘illegal search and seizure’ mean anything to you, Tina? Or ‘trespassing’?”
She set her jaw. “Just chill, will you? I’m not gonna touch a thing, just look around. Jesus, what a pig she is.”
That was an understatement. The room itself was nothing to write home about, assuming you had a home. Stained walls seemed to be part of the Trilby’s decor. The drapery drooped, some of the hooks missing. I couldn’t describe the color of the carpeting for love or money, and the queen-sized bed sagged in the middle like a spavined horse.
A dresser served as a TV stand, its top marred by scratches and rings left by years of water glasses. A single chair and a desk completed the furnishings. The room smelled of smoke and mildew.
Michelle’s contribution to the sad scene was chaos. Clothes and shoes were strewn everywhere, across the bed, the chair, the dresser. A pair of suitcases sat open in the corner, more clothing spilling out of them. There was a closet behind the door but perhaps there were no hangers. I couldn’t see into the bathroom and was grateful for small favors.
The only sign of order was the books lined up along one end of the desk, a stack of three-ring binders and scraps of paper in the middle, and the array of theatrical makeup on the other end. A hatbox sat under the window, a long, ebony braid sneaking from beneath the top like a snake escaping confinement. The Georgia Keith wig, perhaps?
Tina, working her way around the room, hands clasped behind her back, focused on several well-stuffed shopping bags atop the pillows on the bed. “Our girl’s been spending money.” Her brows hitched in surprise as she read the name printed on the bags. “Salina’s? I can’t afford Salina’s. How can she?”
I didn’t respond, knowing how well voices reverberated in hallways. The housekeeper might come back at any moment.
Tina continued her tour, nudging shoes and boots out of her way. “Wigs,” she said, indicating the hatbox. She perused the titles of Michelle’s mini-library. “Plays, textbooks on acting.” Moving on to the binders, she wiggled her fingers. “Boy, I’d love to open those.”
“Tina, that’s enough. Come on!” I didn’t like this at all.
“I’m coming,” she said, waving me off as she peered at the pile of papers on top of the binders. “Jesus Christ! This is a receipt. She paid two twenty-nine ninety-nine for a sweater! Can you imagine? I—” She stopped, emitted a sound somewhere between a shriek and a hiccup. “Leigh, your name is on this!”
“What?” I stepped over the threshold.
“This receipt’s from Salina’s. She charged the sweater. Looks like the store’s card instead of a bank card. She signed your name.”
Illegal entry or not—and there was still some debate about that—I had to see this for myself. I joined Tina at the desk. There it was, Leigh A. Warren on the signature line. She’d used whatever information she’d needed from the box containing my tax records, receipts kept for items under warranty, personal stuff. No wonder I’d been receiving sales brochures from Salina’s.
Clever girl, our Michelle. She’d been smart enough not to apply for a Visa or MasterCard in my name. That wo
uld have required a wait to receive it in the mail. With no permanent address, that would be a problem for her. But a credit card from a store was a different matter, especially during a sales promotion the day after Thanksgiving when merchandise could be bought at a discount if one opened an account on the spot.
And a false ID, driver’s license or whatever, would be easy enough for her to obtain. We’d closed down open markets for them a number of times, only to have them set up business in the next block. How many other stores had she hit?
Rage bubbled in my veins. I’d been so careful of my use of credit over the years. Michelle could have destroyed my credit rating in a matter of days. She was now a felon in more ways than one. Unfortunately, I’d have to use other means to prove it. I couldn’t take the receipt. It would place us in this room.
“All right, Tina, you stay if you want, but I’m out of here,” I said, turning to leave. My glance swept past the pile on her bed, shopping bags, boxes. I stopped, finding one of them heartbreakingly familiar, the pink and white logo of the Bridal Bower angled across the sides. My wedding outfit. And I couldn’t touch it. I mean, I could, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wanted to scream.
I stalked back out into the hall. “I’ll deal with this, believe me. She’s on her way to jail, but I have no intention of going with her.”
I left Tina, mad as hell at Michelle for what she’d done, mad at seeing that box and being unable to take it. I was just as angry at myself and Tina for sinking to Michelle’s level by pulling the same trick she had in gaining entry to Duck’s apartment under false pretenses. Michelle had taken advantage of Claudia. We’d done no less to the housekeeper. I felt dirty and angry and conflicted. Perhaps I didn’t deserve to be a cop.
I’d reached the sidewalk before Tina caught up with me. I strode toward Ninth and the Cadillac, relieved to see that the cruiser was still there. That lessened the chances that someone would risk tampering with Janeece’s baby.
“Where are you going?” Tina asked, walking double-time to keep up with me, my legs, gimpy knee notwithstanding, being considerably longer than hers.
“Home to take a bath because I feel so damned dirty. Then I’m gonna hunt up the info on the credit bureaus and hope they’re available twenty-four seven. God, Tina!” I stopped, wheeling to face her. “We had no business up there! We’re cops! Employed or not, I’m still one in my blood. It was wrong, illegal! I saw the box from Bridal Bower back there, big as life on her bed, and I couldn’t just grab it and bring it with me. Why? Because it would have been illegal!”
She nodded, looked away. “I know. I saw it and was hoping you wouldn’t. I’m sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before, I swear. It’s just that after I found out about Aunt Sis, how she died . . .” She swallowed, her eyes filling. If she was faking, she was damned good at it.
“Did you take that receipt?” She shook her head. “Did you touch anything after I left?”
“No. And I used my elbow on the doorknob to pull it closed. I want her, Leigh, so bad I can taste it. I—”
I grabbed her arm. “Shut up and look.” Approaching on foot from Tenth were two familiar figures: Evans and Thackery heading for the Trilby. “We’ve got to get away from here.” I started for the car again.
“Why?” Tina demanded, tugging at my sleeve. “Let’s go back and—”
“And what? Tell them we just happened to be in the neighborhood? Where’s your car?”
“On Tenth, near T Street.”
“I’ll drive you,” I said, hustling her toward the intersection.
The uniform in the cruiser eyed us with suspicion as we hurried past. My heart executed a somersault when he opened the door and got out. “Hey, Jones, is that you?”
“Oh, hell!” Tina muttered. She slowed, then detoured to greet him. “Yeah, it’s me. How’s it going, Bucky?”
I left her to deal with him, hoping she’d come up with a credible reason for being in the area.
The Cadillac seemed to be untouched but I checked all sides, just in case. And since Tina would be looking for my car, I leaned against the passenger door to wait for her.
The conversation lasted far longer than I thought necessary, but she finally backed away from him and turned to see where I’d parked.
“What did you tell him?” I asked, unlocking the doors.
“That I have a relative who lives in the area. It’s not a lie; Uncle Boo’s house is a couple of blocks away. This is new,” she announced, smoothing the leather seat. “Don’t tell me you went out and bought this because of the spray paint on the other one.”
“Janeece’s,” I said, getting in, “so Michelle wouldn’t be able to tell when I was coming or going. Call your husband and let him know there’ll be no warrant out for you for assault and battery. I strongly suggest that’s all you tell him too.”
She winced and buckled up. “Right. I’m really sorry, okay?”
Her conversation with Tank lasted long enough for me to work my way over to Tenth. Her car, a black Taurus, had evidently been protected by the same circumstances mine had; two cruisers were double-parked midway on the block, there on business unrelated to the raid on the Trilby.
Tina apologized again and got out. I stayed put until she was in the Taurus and pulling into traffic. From that point, she was on her own, and I plotted my route back to Southwest D.C., stopping once to fill up in case Janeece wanted her car back tomorrow, and again at a supermarket to pick up some fruit, creamer for coffee, and snack food.
The phone was ringing as I unlocked the door of the condo. I hurried to answer it, momentarily brought up short at the sight of the Christmas tree. I’d forgotten all about it. It felt as if I’d been gone for days. And the message light on the answering machine was blinking, but that would have to wait.
“Ms. Warren?” It took me a moment before I attached the name to the voice. Evans.
“Yes. Did you get my message?” I asked disingenuously, and feeling like two cents.
“I did. I’d appreciate knowing how you came by the information you left for us.” He didn’t sound all that appreciative.
I launched into my explanation, beginning with running into Lopez outside the Sixth District station, through my tromp through the Hallses in the phone book.
“I see.” Evans’s tone was still dry. “And it didn’t occur to you to simply pass along the information about Ms. Halls’s possible whereabouts and leave it to us to track her down.”
Peeling out of my coat, I tried to figure out why he sounded so pissed off. “No, I guess it didn’t. I was so excited that I simply took a chance and called the Trilby Hotel. Why? What difference does it make?”
“Well, for your edification, Ms. Halls has definitely been implicated in the death of Ms. Hitchcock. Thack and I went to bring her in, but she wasn’t there. Narcotics pulled a raid tonight. Thack’s trying to pin down the time they cleared the building because the manager and one of the cleaning ladies saw her after that.”
I crossed my fingers. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Her room was enlightening. It looks like she’s engaged in some identity theft along with everything else, so she’s now committed a federal crime. I’ll fill you in on that later.”
“Please do,” I said, hoping my sarcasm hadn’t bled through.
“Anyway, sometime between our setting up surveillance at both entrances to wait for her, she returned to her room. There’s a possibility she was in the building all the time. Thack went back in to ask the house dick a question. The desk clerk heard us talking about her and said she had gone by the front desk not long before. He was working a split shift and had just come back to work. When he mentioned to her that he’d taken a call for her earlier, she took off upstairs like a cat with its tail on fire, as the desk clerk so wittily put it. We checked her room again and she’d definitely been there.”
“How do you know?”
“There were things missing we’d seen the first time security let us in, that�
�s how. My point is, if you had left it to us, we might have caught her. But because you called, now she knows someone has tracked her down. I warned you to let us do our jobs, Ms. Warren. I’m repeating it now. Any more interference from you and I’ll haul you in for obstruction of justice. Am I clear?”
“Perfectly,” I said and slammed down the phone.
I wasn’t fooled. Granted, I’d made a mistake calling the Trilby, which, thank God, was the only infringement he was aware of, at least for the moment. But he was also pissed because she’d been right on the premises and had managed to give them the slip.
I took little comfort in that. Michelle was still out there. And until she was behind bars, my troubles weren’t over, not by a long shot.
20
I ADMIT TO GREETING SUNDAY MORNING IN A less than positive frame of mind, perhaps because the previous night had been such a downer. After my chewing out by Evans, I’d checked the messages on the answering machine. There were two, the first from Duck.
Hi, babe, and where are you, I wonder? Just letting you know that I probably won’t be home until Tuesday. Preston has a bug, one of those twenty-four-hour viruses—sound familiar? Anyway, we can’t leave until she’s over it. I’ll make it up to you. Talk to you tomorrow. Love ya.
I growled, erased it, and went on to the second message.
Hi, Ms. Warren, this is Sunny. At Arena? Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. About the lady in the pictures you left, her name is Shelly Halls and she was the understudy for the role of Georgia Keith in last season’s production of August Flames, only she got kicked out of the cast because they think she doctored the coffee of the actress playing the role so she could go on instead. It didn’t work because Celia got her stomach pumped and made it back in time. Hope that helps. Say hello to Beverly Barlowe for me. Tell her I’m a big fan. Bye.
