Murdergram, Part 2

by Nisa Santiago

  “I’m more ready than ever.”

  “Your friend Cristal, she’s alive.”

  Sharon thought she’d misheard him. Did he just say Cristal is alive? She was truly taken aback by the news. She took a seat in her bedroom to keep from passing out.

  “Alive?” she said in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, alive. Your friend is, or was in the WITSEC Program. She was the lone survivor of the home invasion.”

  The pill he was giving her was so big, it was almost too hard to swallow.

  “The feds were ready to prosecute a Mexican drug kingpin named Hector Guzman. Mr. Guzman had been supplying her boyfriend for years. His name was Hugo, a top guy on the food chain. The agency suspected that things went sour between Hugo and Mr. Guzman, and they decided to massacre the entire family. Somehow, your friend became tied up in their mess. Now Cristal was supposed to testify against the Mexican Cartel, but right before the trial, she disappeared. It’s believed she left on her own free will, slipped away from the WITSEC Program in the middle of the night. And, get this, they found Hector Guzman dead in New Mexico a few nights ago—someone fed him to some hungry tigers. He was torn apart.”

  “Ohmygod!”

  “To my knowledge, the agency isn’t using any more resources to find and keep her safe. They can’t force her to live under their umbrella. Hector Guzman was the least of your friend’s problems. If the cartel catches up to her, they will most certainly finish what they started. The only good news is, no one knows where she is. She just vanished into thin air.”

  Sharon’s mouth was wide open. Cristal was alive. She still couldn’t believe it. It was great news, but weird news.

  “Whatever your friend was into, Sharon, it turned into a shitstorm, and people are dying left and right.”

  Sharon sighed heavily. It felt like a ton of bricks had landed on her shoulders. Maybe Tamar was right. She really didn’t know Cristal. The information her friend had given her screamed drug-related for sure.

  “Thanks, Domenic. I appreciate what you did for me.”

  “No problem. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

  “I won’t.”

  After they both hung up, Sharon lingered on her bed for a moment, thinking and worrying. Cristal was all she could think about. If she’s alive, then where would she go? She had to find her. And she had to reach Tamar again, to tell her the good news that Cristal was alive.

  Twenty-Two

  Cristal stood butt-naked in her living room in Boston staring at her bedroom wall. She frowned, her fists clenched, as she looked hypnotically at the images in front of her. She had death and revenge on her mind. She gazed at her past and her foe in front of her, reminiscing about only the bad that had happened to her. Displayed on her bedroom wall were blown-up pictures taken last week of Tamar, her mother Black Earth, and Tamar’s three siblings, Jada, Jayson, and Lena. Cristal had been watching them and learning their moves and their schedules. She had become their shadow—lurking and thirsty to react.

  She’d witnessed everything from a distance, taking photos of everything that moved and whoever was related to Tamar. The pictures she took that hurt the most were those of Tamar and E.P. together. Cristal wondered if E.P. knew that it was Tamar and some goons who murdered her entire family.

  Was her best friend also fucking E.P. the whole time while she was with him, and that’s why she came to kill her? Was it about jealousy? It was obvious they were having sex. She had the proof.

  Was E.P. also involved with her family’s murder? Did the Commission even sanction the hit on her? There were so many questions swirling around in her head that she couldn’t reconcile.

  There was no way Tamar could take everything away from Cristal and be allowed to live. Revenge was inevitable. Cristal was just biding her time, watching and plotting. This dish would be served cold, and it was about to get wintry cold soon.

  Originally she was waiting for Tamar’s twenty-fifth birthday, when the Commission allowed her to age out. Tamar would have had millions waiting for her right before Cristal took her life. But now Cristal knew it was all a lie; there was no aging out. She could speed up Tamar’s death.

  Every day, Cristal wrestled with the idea of whether or not she should kill Tamar’s little siblings, knowing they were the only people Tamar ever cared about. She pondered making them suffer in front of Tamar’s eyes, the way she’d watched her own family suffer. It would have been a pleasure to see the look on Tamar’s face as they were murdered.

  Cristal shed a few tears as she hooked her look on the children’s pictures. She wanted to make everyone pay. Yet she remembered that Tamar’s sisters and little brother were like her own siblings. They were close, like a family. Jada and Lena looked up to her, and Jayson followed her around like a lost puppy.

  Before Cristal met Daniel, there wouldn’t have been any hesitation on her part; Tamar’s family would have been dead. She had thought about making all five of them scream out for God’s mercy as she brutally snatched away their lives. Now that she had been swamped, almost brainwashed, with his positive outlook on life, she’d been thinking about going easy on the kids and only making Tamar and Black Earth suffer.

  She missed Daniel dearly and couldn’t wait to be back in his arms again. She’d spent three weeks with him and then left again. It was hard to leave North Carolina. She had a life there—a simple life, and a good one. But her reality once again came calling. She had an objective that needed to be completed. She told Daniel she was leaving for Africa again and she wasn’t sure how long she’d be away this time.

  He believed her. He didn’t want her to go, but he understood. The night before she left, they made passionate love and had heated sex.

  Cristal had been back in Boston for two weeks and thought about Daniel every single day. She was in love with him, but nothing was going to stop her from implementing her revenge on Tamar. They all had to die, even E.P. It was no longer about business; it was definitely personal.

  Twenty-Three

  It won’t be me,” Tamar said to herself. She wasn’t going out without a bang.

  Tamar took a few drags from the cigarette burning in her hand and blew out the smoke. She sat parked a comfortable distance from E.P.’s Westside penthouse apartment on 78th Street in a dark blue Maxima, something standard and low-key, a loaded .9mm Beretta on the passenger seat. She had been stalking him for the past week, watching his comings and goings. Her every movement had to be subtle—a different car for a different day—since E.P. was trained to observe any irregularities.

  If she fucked up, it was certain death for her. So she sat silently and vigilantly behind the steering wheel.

  She wanted to get a handle on the Commission. She had been killing for them for years and never got a glimpse of the people in charge, their identities highly protected. Everything was through indirect contact, either through a third party or a message from an anonymous sender. Tamar figured E.P. would provide the best lead to finding and meeting with the Commission.

  She took a drag from her cigarette and flicked it out the window. As she did so, E.P. came walking out of the lobby, alone and well dressed in a pea coat and wingtip shoes. Tamar eyed him from several cars away as he walked toward his burgundy Bugatti Veyron.

  As he pulled off, she did the same, following three cars behind him. It was late evening, and traffic in the city was heavy. Tamar didn’t want to lose him, but she also didn’t want to give herself away. Men like E.P. were trained to pick up a tail. Her driving had to be ingenious. One mistake and one of two things could happen—he would spot her, or she would lose him.

  The one good thing about following E.P. was the car he was driving. Being high-end and exotic, it was easy to spot on the road.

  They headed south on Riverside Drive and transitioned into West Side Highway. Traffic was decent on the West Side, and so far, she’d been able to follow him without being conspicuous.

  From the West Side
Highway, she followed him into Lower Manhattan, passing the Freedom Tower being constructed. It was a magnificent sight, and a long way from Ground Zero. The tower was New York at its finest.

  Tamar didn’t get too patriotic. She kept her sights on the back of E.P.’s Bugatti, watching his brake lights and keeping a safe distance. The traffic grew a little thicker going toward Whitehall Street, deep in the heart of downtown Manhattan. She remained four cars behind him and kept her cool. She switched lanes and spotted the rear end of his car. He was crawling behind a box truck, and cars were rubbernecking because of a fender bender on the side of the street.

  Tamar left her rental car on the street in a tow area and followed E.P. onto the ferry that was soon departing for Staten Island. Being rush hour, the ferry was almost filled to capacity, carrying close to 3,500 passengers and forty vehicles, and people were coming and going from every direction.

  Keeping her head low and her eyes discreetly fixed on E.P., she watched him move around on the top deck near the back of the ferry, as he faced Manhattan and kept to himself. She had to keep her distance—one look her way and he’d be sure to spot her.

  As the ferry traveled toward Staten Island, giving the riders aboard a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline and Lady Liberty, Tamar continued to blend in with the crowd. A few wide-eyed tourists stood around with their digital cameras and cell phones pointed at a variety of the city’s attractions, while the regulars calmly made their way home from work.

  Tamar watched E.P. sit down next to a man on one of the open seats on the deck. She couldn’t fully make him out, but he was Caucasian, dressed nondescriptly, and reading the newspaper.

  Who is he? Is it a coincidence that E.P. so happened to sit next to him?

  She situated herself closer to the two of them, keeping out of their view, using her surroundings to camouflage her presence. The crowd definitely gave her an advantage. She made small talk with a smiling married couple in matching Dallas Cowboys jerseys. It was obvious they were from Texas, with their country accents. She volunteered to take a photo of the two while passing the Statue of Liberty. As she entwined with them, she continued to watch E.P. from her peripheral vision. He was still seated next to the man. There didn’t appear to be any communication between them, but her gut feeling told her they were up to something.

  “Thank ya, so much,” the wife said to Tamar.

  “You’re welcome,” Tamar said, playing nice. “First time in New York?”

  “Yes, it is,” the wife replied.

  “You’ll love it here.”

  “I already do,” the woman replied, looking too affable.

  Tamar excused herself from the couple.

  For the duration of the ride to Staten Island, E.P. sat next to the man, and then as the ferry was about to dock at St. George Terminal on Staten Island, he suddenly stood up and walked away, while the man remained seated, reading the newspaper. Something was odd.

  She couldn’t get a good look at him. By the time she tried to see his complete face, the ferry had docked, and everyone started to hurry toward the exit. A crowd came between them, and she lost sight of him. She felt confident she was on the right track. She lit a cigarette and caught the next ferry back to the city.

  On different days of the week, around the same time, Tamar would follow E.P. to the Staten Island Ferry and once again watch him sit next to the same nondescript man for a moment before the two went their separate ways. She was sure the man meeting with E.P. discreetly would bring her closer to the Commission and allow her to clear her name.

  ...

  Tamar sat in the large tub, simmering in the heated water, sipping on expensive champagne, trying to relax from her troubles. Near her reach was a loaded and already cocked .9mm, just in case some unwanted company came charging into the bathroom. The lavish hotel room she decided to stay in was decorated with plush fabrics and neutral tones and equipped with wireless Internet, an en suite bathroom, and a huge wall-mounted flat-screen TV.

  Believing security at her place was compromised, she’d checked into a room in New Jersey under an alias. She got rid of or destroyed anything connected to her. The only thing she had was her cell phone. It was a risk to keep it, but there was information she needed on it, and it was the only way her siblings could contact her. But she planned on getting a disposable cell phone soon as possible.

  Tamar lingered in the tub for an hour. Her situation with E.P. was on the verge of a meltdown. It was either her or him. She felt she was being set up. So every movement had to be a chess move.

  She thought about the man on the ferry. How high on the food chain was he? Was he the main guy? And why was E.P. meeting with him? Was it about her? There were so many questions, but no one to answer them for her. She expected to get an answer soon, though.

  She removed herself from the tub and toweled off. Then she picked up her .9mm and inspected it. It was fully loaded with a few hollow tips. The gun was clean; no bodies on it. She had more guns in the other room. She was heavily armed and ready for anything that came her way. It wasn’t hard to leave her apartment and her life behind. In the world she lived in, lingering on anything could get her killed. Walking away from anything, even her family, in thirty seconds flat was her key to survival.

  She went into the bedroom and sat on the bed. Still in her towel, she removed a few devices from her bag and placed them on her bed. Tamar had her apartment rigged with miniature pinhole surveillance and motion cameras, all linked to her smart phone. She logged in, entered a pass code, and her apartment appeared on the small screen. She checked each room, and everything looked still.

  She closed out the app and went over to the window. From the fifth floor, New Jersey was a dreadful-looking place in her eyes, with a view of the Turnpike, industrial buildings, and a few factories. The area of Jersey she was in was cramped with traffic and pollution.

  Tamar closed her blinds, darkening the room even more. She picked up the remote control and powered on the flat-screen then sat at the foot of the bed to take in the evening news.

  As she placed her gun under the pillows about to get ready for bed, her cell phone rang. She picked it up from the nightstand and looked to see who was calling. The number was unfamiliar, but she answered anyway. “Speak,” she said quickly.

  “Tamar, it’s me, Sharon.”

  Tamar thought she wouldn’t hear from Sharon again. Her call was a surprise. “What do you want?” she asked, being gruff.

  “We need to talk,” Sharon said. “It’s important.”

  “About what?”

  “Not over the phone. Can we meet somewhere?”

  Tamar was skeptical. She had a lot going on at the moment. Meeting with Sharon wasn’t her priority, but the urgency in her tone suggested it was something really big. “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “The park where we used to hang out at.”

  “I’ll be there.” Sharon hung up.

  Tamar couldn’t sleep. She lay in the bed staring up at the ceiling, her gun underneath the fluffy white pillows. The television was on mute, but her mind was blaring.

  Twenty-Four

  Sharon walked toward the basketball courts in the East New York park. It was early afternoon, and the park was still empty. On this desolate fall afternoon, there was no children’s laughter or sweaty men playing pick-up games on the court.

  She gazed at the basketball court and thought of Pike. She and her friends would sit around for hours watching him dominate other players on the court. An All-Star player and a showboat, he could dribble, pass, shoot, and dunk. He was NBA potential, but he’d made a few bad choices in his life that ended his chance to play pro ball. She smiled at the sweet memory of Pike jumping into her head.

  Ten minutes later, Tamar pulled up in her flashy Beamer and stepped out looking like a diva. She strutted Sharon’s way clad in a St. Laurent leather biker jacket and a pair of spiked heels, looking like trouble. She stared Sharon’s way, unsmiling.
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br />   They met by the park bench near the basketball court. No one else was around.

  Tamar said, “This was our park.”

  “It definitely was. You miss it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Tamar got straight to the point. “What you call me out here for? I know it ain’t to talk about the past. That shit is gone and forgotten.”

  Sharon locked eyes with Tamar and came out with it. “Cristal is alive.”

  “That’s fuckin’ funny, Sharon. I don’t have time for fuckin’ games with you.”

  “I’m serious. She’s alive. She’s still out there somewhere. I have a friend in the FBI, and he confirmed it.”

  “What?”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but she survived that night. She was the only survivor.”

  All the color drained from Tamar’s face. “How?” she asked.

  “Cristal’s always been a tough girl. You know that.”

  Tamar refused to believe the bitch was alive. She’d personally put four bullets into her, two in the head, and watched her die. She’d watched everyone die. She felt like she was in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

  “Your friend in the FBI, do they have her whereabouts?” Tamar asked, reaching for some kind of information.

  “Her whereabouts are unknown, but she’s out there, Tamar,” Sharon said excitedly. “She’s alive, and she can shed some light to everything that’s been going on.”

  Tamar kept her cool and pretended to be excited about the news too. “This feels like a dream,” she said. But Tamar was far from excited about the news. Cristal being alive fucked everything up.

  “I’m going to find her.”

  “So no clue on where she is, huh?”

  “She disappeared from the WITSEC Program a while back. She was to testify against a drug kingpin, a Hector Guzman. But he ended up dead.”

  “This friend in the FBI, you have his name?” Tamar asked out of the blue.