Death's Echoes

by Penny Mickelbury

  “Stop!” Tyler was on his feet looking at them like they’d just sprouted horns and a tail. “Do you know crazy that sounds? A ‘gang’ of DC cops have ‘invaded’ an apartment complex, taken it over, use it as a clubhouse, and sexually assaulted a resident? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I said raped,” Mimi snapped at him, “and you can take your cute little euphemisms and—”

  “I’m sorry! Raped! You’re right. But Patterson!”

  “I’m just telling you what the woman told me. May I finish, please? And yes, I know exactly how it sounds.” And she did. It made her head and stomach hurt and her skin crawl. “There’s a lot more but the one other big piece, potentially big piece, is that, according to Virgie Barrett, nobody from the Pennsylvania State Police will talk to any of the women about the crash that killed their husbands, and they—the women—haven’t had the time or the money or the energy to pursue it. And their insurance hasn’t paid out.”

  Tyler stood watching, looking from Mimi to Joe, getting back steady, serious looks in return. They believed this story. Believed in it. These were good reporters, two of the best, and they didn’t get taken in by snow jobs. If they believed Virgie Barrett, so would he. “How do you proceed?”

  “I’m meeting with her at the hospital in a couple of hours. The first thing I want to know is what brought the cops to their doorstep in the first place. Then Joe and I are going to check out the neighborhood and the apartment complex. We’ll use the intervening time to check whatever records we can, like who owns the apartments, pays the taxes, whatever is in the public record—”

  “And check out that car crash,” Joe said. “If it happened on the PA Turnpike and killed four men, there’s gotta be a record and a cause.”

  Mimi was nodding her head. “After I meet with Virgie and get more names of residents, we’ll start a records check on them. But based on what she told me, Tyler, these are solid citizens. One of the women is a court stenographer, a couple are schoolteachers, a couple are nurses, and one is a teacher’s aide.”

  “What happened to the men, Patterson? Did she tell you that? In addition to the four who died in the car crash. These women, these solid citizens, they had husbands or partners, right?” Tyler was still trying to wrap his mind around a situation that would permit a gang of men—cops or otherwise—to descend on and take control of a group of women and their children, but his brain was posing the questions of the ace editor who’d once been an ace reporter, questions that demanded answers.

  Mimi was looking at her notes. “One was killed in Afghanistan. Another two are still deployed. Three are locked up. A couple of ’em just took off, walked away from their families. And one is in the VA Hospital.” Mimi closed her eyes and shook her head. “Virgie called him a stump. She says that’s what his wife calls him. She refuses to visit him. He has no arms and no legs. The Army sent him home from Afghanistan with no arms and no legs. And one eye.”

  Even wearing civilian clothes the Chief looked like a cop. It was the haircut, Gianna decided, though it may have been the fact that his jeans were starched and pressed and that not even a new tee shirt was that white. At least his sneakers and his hoodie were well-worn, probably part of his attire at the boxing gym. Gianna and Eric wore workout clothes that very obviously had seen more than a few workouts. Dee Phillips, as usual impeccably attired, observed them in amused amazement. The fact that the three of them were in her office in the Snatch, a nightclub that catered exclusively to lesbians, was amazing in and of itself. The fact that one of them was the chief of police boggled her mind. She started to tell him how much she appreciated Lieutenant Maglione and Sergeant Ashby but he wouldn’t hear it.

  “They were doing their jobs, Ms. Phillips,” he said with a wave of an upturned palm. “You don’t have to thank them or me.”

  “That’s what they keep telling me,” Dee said.

  “Then listen to ’em,” the Chief said, and turned the tables. “It’s me who should be thanking you for giving us access to your warehouse.”

  Dee covered her face with her hands, and when she took them away, tears stood in her dark eyes, along with some heavy anger. “It makes me physically ill to imagine what’s happening to those girls, Chief. You can have the damn warehouse if that’s what it takes! I’m just so grateful that you care, that you want to do something. And Lieutenant, I’ll thank you if I want to and you can’t stop me!” She gave Gianna a defiant look and Gianna raised her hands in surrender.

  “This is me not stopping you, Ms. Phillips,” she said with a laugh.

  Dee gave them the keys, the remote door opener and the passwords to the rooftop alarm system. She told them where all the light switches and fuse panels were. And she told them to do whatever they needed to do to set up surveillance on the warehouse adjacent to hers where they now all believed a group of Eastern European men were running a sex-trafficking operation. “Nobody will bother you because nobody will be in that warehouse except you until you tell me it’s OK,” she said, and she watched, filled with a range of strong emotions, as they drove away in Eric Ashby’s SUV. She knew she had the respect of people whom she respected and that meant a lot. And she knew they’d do their damn well best to stop the ugliness happening in the next-door warehouse; but more importantly, they’d save those girls who were being brutalized day and night. But it was the big bunch of unresolved feelings that she didn’t know how to manage. Dee knew that she wasn’t a traditionally beautiful woman—never had been, never would be—and she’d learned to compensate, first by being smarter than everyone in all of her classes, including graduate school. Then she became rich. As far as she was concerned there was no such thing as enough money, and she used much of it to be exquisitely coiffed, bejeweled, and groomed at all times. She lived well and she drove that Bentley. But all those years of hard study and hard work hadn’t left much time for learning social niceties, so what she didn’t have in her life, and what she desperately wanted, was what the money couldn’t buy: a Gianna Maglione. A Mimi Patterson. Even a Cassandra Ali. Dee knew that she had a bad reputation where women were concerned. She was called “The Pussy Pouncer” inside the Snatch due to her way-too-aggressive pursuit of women she found attractive. That behavior stopped right now, she decided. Given what she knew to be happening in the warehouse next to hers, the warehouse her cop friends were en route to at this very moment, Delores Phillips could not, in good conscience, ever disrespect a woman again, not if she lived to be a hundred and added a few more millions to her net worth.

  Dee’s cop friends were thinking and talking about her, too. She had insisted on telling the Chief how, under a directive of the lieutenant, Sergeant Ashby and Officer Linda Lopez had watched and studied the CCTV of her nightclub in action, seated at the console in her office. “They didn’t move a muscle, Chief, neither of them, until they spotted that asshole who’d snuck in pretending to be a woman!” Then she described in equally vivid detail the takedown of the perp that was so quick and quiet and efficient that most of the women in the club didn’t know it had happened. Now, as they drove toward Dee’s warehouse, the place where she believed young girls were being held as sex slaves, the three of them quietly lost in their thoughts, the Chief spoke what was in his mind, and it wasn’t sex trafficking.

  “I don’t ever tell any of you how much I appreciate what you do, and I should,” he said. “I know I told Ms. Phillips that you all were just doing your jobs, and you were, but not many of our citizens would give us the keys to their property as a way of thanking us for doing our jobs. You all went above and beyond and I appreciate it. I’m honored to be your chief.”

  Gianna and Eric were speechless. The Chief didn’t seem to mind, so they rode in silence for the final few minutes of their journey. Eric pushed the remote button as they approached the warehouse, and the door was sliding open when they reached it. They drove in, and as the door slid down behind them, the three cops shared a single thought: putting a stop to the horror transpiring on the other s
ide of the adjacent concrete walls. Eric switched on the lights, and Gianna led them to the elevator. Mimi had described it perfectly. Nobody spoke on the short ride up, and they maintained their self-imposed silence until they were side by side looking out of the window, down to the parking lot where Delores Phillips and Mimi had seen women—girls—being forced into the adjacent warehouse.

  “They can see us as easily as we can see them,” Eric said.

  “We’ll have to install cameras on the roof,” the Chief said as he turned from the window and headed back to the elevator. He studied the ring of keys Dee had given him, then looked at Gianna. “The elevator goes up one more floor, right?”

  She nodded and pressed a button on the panel that proved her right. The door slid open to a space that was shorter, narrower, and not as clean as the two lower floors. Clearly Dee hadn’t intended to use this area for storage, and that was fine with the Chief. He could deliver as much equipment as he wanted and needed. Dee already had installed an alarm on the roof. His cameras would be right at home. Then there were the drones, sneaky little buggers . . .

  Mimi and Joe had wolfed down their Chinese food in the paper’s cafeteria, not talking much but thinking faster than they could speak anyway. They tossed their empty containers in the trash and headed back to the newsroom, stopping in the back hall near the watercooler for a whispered conversation.

  “I’ve got to work on that Eastern Shore piece for Todd or he’ll think I’m as useless as your Weasel Boy,” Joe said, leaving unsaid his real thoughts.

  “Not a chance. And tell you what, so you can lose that long, sad face you’re wearing, Zemekis,” Mimi said. “I’ll go see Virgie Barrett and record her every word, then I’ll haul my out-of-shape carcass to the gym. This way we can start on the story together, first thing in the morning.”

  “You’re the best, Patterson!” Joe Zemekis called out as he ran to his desk.

  “And don’t you forget it,” Mimi said with a grin as she ambled more slowly back to her own desk. She had never had a writing partner before—had never wanted nor needed one—but it hadn’t taken long for her to adjust to the relationship with Zemekis. If she had to have a writing partner, she couldn’t ask for better than Joe. He was an excellent reporter, intuitive and thorough, and he was a fine writer. However, his approach to a story was almost the exact opposite of hers, which was what made them so compatible. The executive editor spotted this after, what, three stories? And all that time she’d wasted being assigned to the Weasel, him trying to force her into a box she never would or could fit into.

  Mimi plopped down into her chair, unlocked her desk drawer, and retrieved her Virgie Barrett notes. She was glad he’d be otherwise occupied so she would not have to tell Joe that he couldn’t accompany her to this initial interview with Virgie, though she knew he’d understand and agree completely that his presence would be unwelcome, at best. In fact, the only person Mimi would have felt comfortable having with her would be Gianna and, given what Virgie and her neighbors currently were enduring, a cop, no matter how compassionate, understanding and wonderful, would not be welcome.

  “Now that you’re here, I don’t know what to say.”

  Mimi had looked at Virgie Barrett and seen a woman very close to the breaking point. She’d once been a very attractive woman but a figure that should have been merely slim was gaunt, a face that should have been easing gracefully into middle age was deeply creased by worry wrinkles and frowns. “Why didn’t you want me to come to your home?” Mimi asked. The question surprised Virgie as Mimi had intended.

  “Nobody knows I’ve sought help from outside, and I don’t want anybody to know!” She’d whispered the words but they sounded like a shout. They had been in her cubicle of an office at the hospital with the door closed and locked. “I don’t even know what I expect you to be able to do, Miss Patterson, to tell you the truth, but I always read your stories in the newspaper, and I read those stories you wrote about my sister and her friends, and I thought that if anybody could make sense out of what was happening to us—and make it stop!—it would be you.”

  Virgie Barrett apparently had more faith in her than she had in herself, Mimi thought, as her feet pounded out the rhythm of her anger and frustration on the treadmill. She was running as fast as she could. Sweat was pouring off her faster than she could mop it up with her towel, which was now too soaked to be of much use. Her face-to-face meeting with Virgie Barrett had accomplished what for Mimi was its primary objective: The woman was truthful and believable. There definitely was a story there, but Mimi wanted more than a story, and she knew Joe and Tyler would want more, too. What was happening to the women and children at the Sunset View apartments was all kinds of wrong and it needed it to get fixed, goddammit! Just like what happened to Cassie Ali and her mother and her friends was wrong. Just like what was happening to the women and girls in the warehouse next to Dee Phillips was wrong. There was more wrong than there were people with the will and the ability to make things right, and it seemed that it was getting worse—not just here in D.C. or in the U.S. but everywhere in the world. The thought exhausted her. She couldn’t run another step. She slowed the machine to a trot, then to a walk, and finally turned it off. She had just enough strength and energy left to shower and then lie in the steam room. She saw familiar faces on her way to the locker room and she waved but she didn’t stop. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone. She prayed that she’d have the steam room to herself and said a prayer of thanksgiving when the first prayer was answered. She envisioned herself sinking deeply into oblivion, and she was almost there when she heard the door open.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mimi,” she heard Evie say.

  Then don’t, she wanted to say. “Evie. How are you?” she said instead, but she did not open her eyes or sit up. Rude, she knew, but so was disturbing someone who clearly didn’t want to be disturbed.

  “I need to talk to you. Please.”

  Mimi heard the stress in her voice and sat up. “Are you still at the DOJ?” Evie and her best friend, June, were Justice Department lawyers, not a safe space these days for Black women who didn’t look and dress like hookers.

  Evie gave her a wry grin in which there was no trace of humor. “I’m not dangerous enough to be on anybody’s kill list, but thanks for your concern, Mimi.” She hesitated, inhaled, then plunged in. “Have you seen Alice?”

  Mimi was surprised by the question, but mostly she was annoyed, and didn’t mind showing it. “You’re the one dating Alice. Why would I have seen her?”

  “Because apparently I’m not. Not anymore.”

  Ah, hell, Mimi thought. “I’m really sorry, Evie, but I can’t help you.” She stood up, her intention clear. It was time to go.

  “Please, Mimi. I just want to know. . . . I haven’t seen or talked to her. She won’t answer my calls . . .”

  “I saw her at Cassie Ali’s funeral, not since then.” Mimi grabbed her towel and headed for the door. So much for oblivion.

  “Will you ask Gianna—”

  “I certainly will not!” Mimi snapped. “Gianna does not involve herself in the personal lives of the people who work for her, and I don’t involve myself in Gianna’s job. I’ll see you, Evie.”

  “Wait, Mimi, please! I need some help here! I don’t know how to be lovers with a cop!”

  “I can’t help you with that, either. There’s no how-to manual I know of.”

  “But what do you do when they won’t talk to you? What did you do when Gianna wouldn’t talk to you? There must have been times when—”

  “There still are and I wait until she’s ready. That’s all I can do. That’s all you can do.” And that was the truth, Mimi thought to herself: You wait until she’s ready to talk, and pray it’ll be sooner rather than later.

  “What if the waiting looks like you don’t care? Isn’t that worse than not trying to talk?”

  Mimi almost felt sorry for the woman. She had a lot to learn about cops. “One thing that cops d
o better than most is read people. They can tell when you don’t care and when you’re being considerate.”

  Evie considered this, but only for a moment. “Would Gianna know if Alice is seeing someone else?”

  “I doubt it, but I’m certainly not going to ask her,” Mimi said, and left the steam room. She showered and dressed in record time, and all but ran to the parking lot. She didn’t want to talk to Evie or any of the others about Alice or any of their lovers. She wanted to talk to her own. Or listen to her. Or just sit in silence with her: whatever she wanted or needed. Gianna hadn’t yet talked about Cassie, but she’d had a couple of sweat-drenching nightmares about Cassie’s murder. She’d talk when she was ready. Until then, Mimi was happy to just be with her, to share the things they enjoyed sharing—good food and drink, passionate lovemaking, soaking in the Jacuzzi, spirited and opinionated conversation about everything except police-related matters, movies and some of the better cop shows on TV. The being together was what mattered most.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I’m not calling down anything on anybody!” Gianna was pissed at the Chief and she didn’t mind letting him know it. She was up and pacing—not something she’d ever done to or with him, and especially not in his own office. The fact that he let her get away with it spoke to how well he understood her frustration.

  “You can’t make ’em do something they don’t want to do, Maglione, even if you are the law.”

  “I want them to keep safe, Chief! I shouldn’t have to make them do that!” Metro GALCO was the focus of Gianna’s ire. That known-by-everybody organization had been the city’s—and the Metropolitan Washington, D.C., area’s—lesbian and gay social and cultural hub for more than two decades, since before bisexual and transgender were added to the mix that became LGBT. And the people who ran it had told Gianna in no uncertain terms that they didn’t want “armed guards all over the place scaring the shit out of people.”