Leaning heavily on the rail, he climbed the stairs without the crutches. Simons walked up a step behind him as if he was afraid Marco might fall, but Marco made it to the top, even if he was a little winded.
Mavis stood on the landing, smiling at him. She steadied him with a hand on his arm as he fixed the crutches in place again. “You’re walking.”
Marco tried to control his panting. He wasn’t in bad shape, but swimming didn’t require the effort of walking up stairs. Still, he needed to get back his wind. “Just started this week. It’s been a long time. Never thought I’d have to learn how to do something like that again.”
She rubbed a hand up and down his arm. “But you’re doing it and that’s all that matters.”
Marco realized he really liked Mavis Jones and he hoped she’d take the job he had for her. He hated that something as horrifying as losing her son had happened to her. He didn’t think a parent ever recovered from something like that.
“Come in,” she said, motioning into the house. “Mama has some ice tea already prepared. Hello, Inspector Simons.”
“Hello, ma’am,” said Simons.
“How’s your son?”
“Doing well, ma’am.”
Marco and Simons entered a pleasant living room in blues and greys. Everything was tidy and neat from the magazines on the coffee table to the books in the bookcases. Marco made a mental note to tidy up Peyton’s house before she returned. He’d started living like a bachelor again, dishes in the sink, towels on the floor in the bathroom. She hated towels on the floor.
Mavis directed him to a large recliner positioned before the television. “This is Jonah’s favorite chair. Jonah’s at work, unfortunately. I know he’d like to talk to you himself.”
“No problem, Mrs. Jones.”
“Mavis, please,” she corrected, keeping a hand on Marco’s arm in a motherly fashion as he lowered himself into the recliner. He breathed out a sigh of relief, it was so good to sit. “Jonell’s in school, of course. I didn’t want him to miss anymore time.” She motioned for Simons to sit on the couch and she took a seat next to him. “What do we owe this nice visit to, Captain D’Angelo?”
Maeve appeared, carrying a tray with a pitcher and four glasses on it. Simons rose and took it from her, setting it on the coffee table. Mavis reached for the pitcher and began pouring.
“Sit, Mama, I’ll get this.”
Maeve took a seat in a second recliner, this one smaller and more worn. It didn’t really go with the rest of the decor, sporting a faded floral pattern. “Hello, Captain,” she said warmly. “Inspector Simons.”
“Ma’am,” both he and Simons said.
“They were just about to tell me why they’d come,” said Mavis, offering the first glass to Simons, who passed it on to Marco.
Marco settled the cold glass against his knee. “We arrested Jamaad’s killer.”
Mavis’ hand shook and Simons reached out to steady the glass. She gave him a tight smile and released it. Maeve put a hand over her mouth, her eyes welling with tears.
“Are you sure you have the right person?” asked Mavis, lowering her hands to her lap and clasping them.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Marco. “He confessed.”
“He confessed?” She looked over at her mother and a tear slipped out, running down her face. “I thought I’d feel such relief when you finally told me that.” She swallowed hard, her eyes swimming. “Why don’t I feel relief, Captain D’Angelo?”
Marco didn’t know what to say, but Maeve got to her feet and came over, sitting on the couch next to her daughter. She put her arms around her and stroked the side of her head.
“Because it’ll never bring Jamaad back,” said Simons, setting his glass on a coaster. “But at least, his killer is off the streets. He can’t hurt anyone else.”
Mavis nodded. “Who is he?”
“I can’t tell you that until he’s tried,” said Marco.
“Will I be allowed to attend his trial?”
“If you’d like. I’ll have the ADA contact you once it’s set to begin.”
She nodded, staring at him. “Thank you, Captain.” She patted her mother’s shoulder, then went back to pouring the tea. “I know this will be a relief to Jonah.”
Marco stared at the spotlessly clean grey carpet. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about, Mavis.”
She looked up from taking a sip of her tea. “Yes?”
“Catching Jamaad’s killer was only one part of this, but there’s still a lot of work to do.”
“You mean with the gangs?”
“And the neighborhoods. There’s still a lot of distrust for police out there, a lot of crimes that go unreported. I want that to stop.”
“What are you suggesting, Captain D’Angelo?”
“I told you about the task force the mayor asked me to start.”
“I remember. The barbecue was the first event.”
“Right, but I don’t want it to be the last one. I want us to continue that work, maybe even expand it.”
Mavis and Maeve exchanged a look. “What are you suggesting?”
“There’s enough money in the budget to hire a permanent director, someone with law enforcement background, but not a cop.”
“Not you?” she said.
“Right.” He thought through his words before he spoke them. He realized he really wanted her to take the job. Not only would she be good at it, but he couldn’t imagine anyone who had more concern or caring. “There’s also enough money to hire that person a permanent assistant.”
“An assistant?”
“Someone to organize the events, work phones, file the necessary permits.”
Maeve curled her hand in her daughter’s. Mavis straightened her back. “And?”
“And, Mavis, I was hoping you’d take that job. I think you’d be perfect for it and I can’t imagine a better way to continue this work than with someone like you, with your background and your caring to front it.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, just stared at him.
He shared a quick glance with Simons, then he shifted in the recliner. “We need to do something more. It isn’t enough to arrest criminals and put them behind bars. We need to start doing something to change that, to stop crime before it happens. Too many times as a cop, I’ve had to come out and tell a parent their child is gone. If this task force saves even one life, if it prevents even one crime, then I’ll consider that a success.”
“What are you calling it?” asked Maeve. Mavis still didn’t seem able to respond.
“I’ve tried out a number of ideas. I’ve come down on CCAP for right now.”
“What does that stand for?”
“The City Community Action Plan,” he said, grimacing. That also sounded too formal, too distancing.
Maeve tilted her head. “That doesn’t really get at what you’re trying to do here, does it?”
“No, not really.”
“Hm,” she said, then she rose and moved to the floral recliner, taking a small pad of paper from a magazine holder next to the chair. A pen lay in the spiral coil at the top and she shook it out, beginning to write something on the pad.
Marco shifted his attention back to Mavis, but she was staring at the table without speaking.
“Mavis?”
“I miss my son, Captain D’Angelo.”
Simons shifted uncomfortably.
“I know you do, ma’am,” Marco said.
“I had all these dreams for him. Parents do that. You make plans for their future and you never think about what might happen if they don’t make it.”
Marco nodded, but he didn’t speak. He sensed she didn’t need any other encouragement.
She reached over and patted Simons’ hand. “You know what I mean, Inspector?”
“I do, ma’am. Honestly, I was thinking of leaving the force. I just can’t stand seeing anymore loss, but then I thought of my boy and how I want him to go to college, and I realized,
I can’t quit. I want him to have a better future than I did.”
She nodded.
Marco was impressed. That was a long speech from Simons.
“I got laid off during the recession,” said Mavis, “I spent months looking for another job, but Jonah told me to just concentrate on raising the boys. He drives a truck for Express Shipping and he makes pretty good money. It hasn’t been easy, but I liked the opportunity to stay home, keep an eye on the boys.”
Maeve looked up, watching her daughter.
“What good did it do me?” she said with a sad smile, holding out her hands. “I didn’t stop something from happening.”
“Sometimes I’d like to put my family in a bubble. You know, lock them away where no one can get at them,” said Simons. “When Bobby started driving, I had night sweats.”
“But you can’t do that, can you?” she said, smiling at Simons.
“No, you can’t.”
“I know this is cliché, Mavis, but this task force could be a way to make Jamaad’s death have meaning. It could be a chance to make change out of horrible loss. We could dedicate the task force to his name,” said Marco.
She considered that.
“When you tell your story, people listen far more than if a cop says something. And as long as we work toward stopping street violence, Jamaad is sort of making his mark, through you.”
She released her held breath. “I need to talk to Jonah and Jonell about it.”
“Of course.”
She gave him a half-smile. “But I like the idea. I’ll definitely give it my utmost consideration.”
Marco smiled too. “Thank you. That’s great.”
Maeve held up her pad. “I think I’ve got it. We should call the task force Citizens in Partnership Against Crime or CIPAC for short.”
“Works for me,” said Marco. “CIPAC it is.”
* * *
Marco got back to the precinct with Simons and tried to answer some emails, then read the report Cho and Danté had written about Roscoe’s confession. He couldn’t help thinking about Jamaad Jones and Roscoe Butler, or Cashea’s brother LeJohn. Jamaad had had a future. He had a family who loved him, a calling he loved, and he was working toward setting himself up with a career. Roscoe Butler already had a record before he was an adult. He was headed to prison for the rest of his life and he wasn’t even twenty-five. LeJohn Thompkins would never walk again, was a burden on his family, his future cut short for absolutely no reason. It was hard to make sense of it all. It was hard to reconcile himself with the outcome. No one won. No one benefited. It was all for nothing.
He understood where Simons was coming from. He understood why Simons thought leaving the force might be the answer. Why did anyone pick this job? Why did anyone want to go into law enforcement? This thought brought him to Danté Price – handsome, brilliant, gifted Danté Price. If he were any kind of a captain, he’d tell the kid to turn in his resignation and go do something where he made a difference.
But Danté thought he was making a difference. He thought this was his calling the way Jamaad Jones had thought training dogs was his calling. Who was Marco to decide he wasn’t right? Who was Marco to decide he should do something else? Danté had made a difference in Jamaad’s case. He’d given his mother and father closure. He’d taken a dangerous, gun-wielding lost soul off the street. Maybe that was enough. In this small corner of the world, maybe that was as good as it got, and maybe if there were enough ripples in the system, it would eventually mean something.
His phone rang and he grabbed it up, thumbing it on without looking at the display.
“D’Angelo,” he said.
“Captain, this is Irene Osborn, Mayor Harlan Osborn’s wife.”
Marco frowned and held the phone away from his ear, looking at the display. He didn’t recognize the number, but it sounded like her. “Yes, Mrs. Osborn, how can I help you?”
“Captain D’Angelo, I have a rather unusual request.”
“Okay.”
“I’d like you to have lunch with me and my son, Paul, tomorrow at our house.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes, Captain. Will that be acceptable?”
“Um, Mrs. Osborn, I’m a little confused. Why am I coming for lunch? Will the mayor be there?” Was it a good idea to have another lunch with a man who might be a suspect in a murder trial? The first lunch could be ignored since it was in public and specifically regarding the task force, but this was in private.
“Captain D’Angelo, I’ll be blunt. I’m afraid my husband is being blackmailed and I’m asking for your help.”
“Blackmailed?” Marco tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“Yes, we’ve suffered some vandalism on our house and well…I’m getting concerned. When I bring it up to Harlan, he tells me not to worry. You know my husband, Captain D’Angelo…”
Not really, he thought.
“And you are the only officer I feel comfortable with talking about this. Will you please come to lunch tomorrow?”
Since Harlan Osborn wasn’t officially a suspect in Murphy’s murder and since Marco was still a sworn officer of the law, he didn’t see how his going to lunch could be a problem. Besides that, he was curious. What did she want to ask him that she wouldn’t discuss with her husband directly? Would it have anything to do with Murphy’s murder? Maybe she knew more than he thought she did.
“Captain D’Angelo?”
“Yes, Mrs. Osborn. Yes, I’ll come to lunch tomorrow.”
“Do I need to send you the address?”
“That would be good, yes. What time?”
“Noon.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good.” And she hung up. No goodbye, no have a nice day. Irene Osborn was anything if not direct.
Marco stared at his phone for a few minutes wondering if he should call Devan and ask him about it. Probably. Just to cover all bases. He picked up the phone and dialed Devan’s number. Devan answered on the third ring.
“What is it, D’Angelo? I’m about to go into court.”
Marco told him about his phone call and the request that he go for lunch the next day. Devan was silent for a moment, then he exhaled.
“Okay, look, I think I better go with you just to keep everything above board. That way if you get into a he said, she said thing, you’ll have someone to back you up. These Osborns are slippery as snakes.”
“I agree,” said Marco.
“Let me shuffle some stuff on my calendar, then I can go with you.”
“Should I call her back and tell her you’re coming?”
Devan was silent for a moment, then he cleared his throat. “No, don’t do that. It might be better to catch her off guard. We can explain that I insisted on coming once we get there, but I don’t want her to prepare or call it off. I don’t think Harlan Osborn killed Murphy, but I wouldn’t put it past him or her to have something to do with it.”
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at your office tomorrow at 11:30.”
“Sure, but we’re taking my BMW, not that ancient penis compensator you call a car.”
“Right. My Charger’s the penis compensator over your $50,000 beamer. Whatever you need to tell yourself, Adams. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
* * *
It was nearly 9:00PM by the time Marco got a chance to call Peyton. She answered the video chat, curled up in the hotel bed, wearing his 49er’s jersey. He smiled, wishing he was there with her. She looked sleepy and warm and so damn tempting.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said.
“Hey, yourself. You look tired.”
“Long day. I just got back from the support group meeting.”
“How’d that go?”
“All they want to know is if we have a suspect in Lowell Murphy’s death. I wish I had more to tell them.”
“Hey, Marco,” called a voice out of eyesight, then Bambi popped her head next to Peyton’s.
“Hey, Emma,” he said.
&n
bsp; “Well, I’ll just hop out for ice and give the two of you some privacy.” Then she was gone.
Peyton shook her head in amusement. “She’s a character.”
“That she is. How’re things going?”
“Let me see my dog.”
Marco lifted Pickles so Peyton could see the Yorkie. She made smoochy noises at him and his ears pricked forward.
“He needs to go to the groomer, D’Angelo. He’s looking a little scruffy.”
“What groomer? I don’t know where you take the fluff ball.”
“Abe knows. He can take him.”
“Of course he does. So, anything new? Are you coming home?” He didn’t want to seem desperate, but he was beginning to feel that way.
“We’re doing the sting tomorrow, so I’m hoping we can wrap it up, get a confession on Miller’s murder, then come home to work on extradition papers.”
“Do you think Miguel actually did the killing?”
“I don’t know. Someone in the Dios Mayas did. If we bring the cartel down and they think they’ll be facing charges in two countries, someone might sing.”
“You’re right.”
“How’s things going there?” she asked, propping her head on her hand.
“We’ve got a name for the task force finally.”
“What is it?”
“CIPAC, Citizens in Partnership Against Crime.”
“That’s better than the other one you were thinking of.”
“Yeah, and I might have hired an assistant.”
“Jamaad Jones’ mother?”
“She’s talking it over with her husband and son.”
“What about the director position? You don’t have time to do both jobs, especially when I get home. Whatever time you don’t spend at the precinct is mine.” She waggled her brows at him.
He laughed. “Believe me, I know, sweetheart. I just don’t know who would be qualified or want the position.”
She sat up suddenly. “Hold on. What about Stryker?”
“Your trainer at Quantico?”
“Yeah.”
“The guy who’s sleeping with Rosa?”
“Apparently, it’s a little more serious than sleeping. He’s thinking of quitting the FBI.”
Mayan Gods in the Yucatan (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 5) Page 39
