by Mason Dixon
Raq put the can back where she had found it and made sure to turn the label in the same direction it had been facing so Bathsheba wouldn’t notice the can had been moved. Then she headed to the living room, the last room she needed to clear before she could call Ice and tell him his instincts were wrong and hers were right on point. It wasn’t often she got the chance to tell him I told you so, and she was looking forward to this one.
She searched the contents of the entertainment center first, opening each of the DVDs and CDs to make sure the disc inside matched the movie or album pictured on the box. After that tedious chore was done, she looked under the sofa cushions. She found fifty cents in loose change and a discarded condom wrapper that must have been left over from a previous tenant. When the cushions were back in place, she sat on the couch and sifted through the magazines spread in a semicircle on the coffee table. She learned all about Halle Berry’s dream wedding to some French guy, the best ways to avoid temptation in the supermarket checkout line, and the latest athlete to go broke despite being paid millions during his career, but nothing incriminating was tucked between the magazines’ glossy pages.
Enjoying the warmth inside the apartment a little while longer before she returned to the cold streets, she sat on the couch and pulled out her cell phone. Ice answered on the second ring. The sounds of loud music and even louder laughter greeted her before he did.
“Talk to me,” he said eagerly.
“Like I told you before, she’s clean. I searched her place from top to bottom, but I didn’t find anything to make me doubt her.”
“Good to hear. Where are you now?”
“Sitting on her living room sofa.”
“Making yourself at home, huh?”
She was surprised she made him laugh, but the premium liquor he was probably swilling might have been the reason he was in such high spirits.
“I didn’t think you wanted anyone to know what we were up to so I wanted to make sure I was alone.”
“You thought right. I’m sure this assignment was difficult for you, but thanks for proving my faith in you isn’t misplaced.”
“You’re welcome, Ice,” she said, but the connection ended before she finished her sentence. “Call me any time. I’m sure you will anyway.”
She leaned back on the sofa and folded her hands behind her head, taking satisfaction in her moral victory. Then she noticed one of the ceiling tiles bore a telltale stain. The kind of stain hands left behind after they had handled an object too many times.
“No matter how many times you wash your hands, the oil in your skin still rubs off.”
She moved the magazines out of the way and stood on the coffee table, hoping she wouldn’t have to call Ice back and tell him she was wrong. She lifted the tile with one hand and shoved the other into the opening.
“Shit,” she said when her hand landed on two bulky objects laying side by side.
She shoved the tile aside and closed her eyes as pieces of particleboard rained on her head.
The first object was easy to identify even before she pulled it out of its leather holster. A snub-nosed .38 Special well oiled, fully loaded, and ready to fire. Raq wondered why Bathsheba had stashed the gun in her ceiling instead of her nightstand. If someone busted in on her in the middle of the night, she wouldn’t be able to get to the gun before they got to her.
Raq returned the gun to its hiding place and reached for the other object occupying the dark, cramped space. She pulled out a laptop computer. A name brand, not one of those no-name joints electronic stores sold for next to the nothing on the day after Thanksgiving. No wonder Bathsheba kept it hidden away.
Handling the computer with care, Raq set it on the coffee table, flipped it open, and hit the power button. Her hands began to sweat as she waited for the computer to fire up. If she found anything besides e-mails from and embarrassing photos taken by Bathsheba’s former girlfriends, there would be hell to pay. And Raq would be footing part of the bill.
Raq prepared to search any files that might be saved on the computer’s hard drive. She didn’t see a printer anywhere. If she found anything of note, she’d have to take the computer with her so Ice could see what was on it for himself. Unless he trusted her enough to take her word for whatever she told him she’d discovered.
“Like that’s going to happen. I already gave him the all clear. If I change my mind now, he’ll never trust me again.”
The computer chimed and the black screen turned blue. Raq leaned forward, her heart in her throat. Her heart nearly stopped when the computer prompted her to enter a password. How the fuck was she supposed to know what the password was?
She tried a few common phrases—Ravens, Baltimore, Charm City, Bathsheba, even Password—but nothing worked. She had to stop before she locked the computer, but she couldn’t stop until she found answers to the questions swirling in her mind.
Something was written below the password box on the screen. Raq leaned forward to read the tiny print.
“Password hint: The reason you’re here.”
Religious types were always saying Jesus was the reason for the season each Christmas so Raq typed that in, but it didn’t work. She thought for a minute, then impulsively typed in Ice’s name. If Bathsheba wanted to bring Ice down, he had to be the reason she was in the Middle East. Still no dice.
“Fuck.”
She could keep guessing all day and never come up with the right answer. This was a job for Specs, the high school geek Ice kept on the payroll when he needed a computer network hacked or a code cracked. Specs could probably break through Bathsheba’s defenses in less time than it had taken Raq to break into her apartment, but Raq wasn’t ready to take it to that level yet. Not without proof Bathsheba was up to no good. Right now, she only had suspicions. In a court of law or in the streets, suspicions weren’t enough. She needed more. One way or another, she intended to get it. Not for Ice’s comfort but her own.
She turned the computer off, put it back where she’d found it, and lowered the ceiling tile into place. Then she cleaned the dust off the coffee table and arranged the magazines into a semicircle again. She experienced a brief moment of panic when she couldn’t remember the order the magazines had been in when she entered the apartment, but there were so many of them she doubted Bathsheba would remember either.
She took one last look around. Satisfied she had left no sign she had ever been there, she unlocked the door and walked out.
Ice’s questions had been answered, but hers were just beginning to form.
*
The album release party had gone well—the Black Dahlia’s songs had received rave reviews from the guests in attendance—but Bathsheba could feel the after-party begin to slide out of control. She didn’t like the energy in the room. Angry, aggressive, and territorial.
Unlike at the Apollo, the guests in Roughneck weren’t invited. The club was open to the public, which meant Ice’s security team wasn’t in charge of crowd control. Bathsheba wished she could talk to the people who were so she could find out what selection criteria they used when they decided who to let pass through the red velvet ropes. Only the women in the shortest, tightest outfits had been culled from the long line out front, along with the men who either dressed like thugs or carried themselves like them.
Bathsheba tensed each time someone neared the cordoned off VIP area where Ice was holding court. Ravenous eyes took in his, Dez’s and the Black Dahlia’s glittering jewelry and the endless supply of four-hundred-dollar per bottle champagne. Each time the cork on a fresh bottle popped and Ice or one of his crew shouted, “B-More, baby. Charm City in the house,” the eyes watching the display grew a little narrower.
Bathsheba felt like she’d stumbled into a pissing contest between rival gangs. The posturing on both sides was harmless at the moment, but it might not remain that way for long. She could feel trouble brewing, though Ice appeared to be oblivious to the danger. He was too busy celebrating the Black Dahlia’s success and, b
y extension, his own. He had been fairly subdued at the beginning of the evening—Bathsheba had chalked it up to nerves about how his first foray into the music business would be received—but he was positively jubilant now. Bathsheba replayed the evening in her mind to see if she could pinpoint the reason for the change in his demeanor.
She had arrived at the hotel shortly before eleven a.m. Her room hadn’t been ready when she tried to check in, and the clerk wouldn’t tell her if anyone else in her party had arrived so she had reluctantly left her overnight bag at the front desk and headed out on foot to select an outfit for the evening. It had taken her a while to find the right clothing store. The vintage and discount stores she had passed were ideal for her normal spending habits, but she had known they would never hold up to Ice’s exacting standards. He preferred bespoke suits. She would love to own an outfit designed to fit her exact specifications, but she didn’t want to pay four figures for the privilege.
On Malcolm X Boulevard, she had lucked upon a store that specialized in repurposing vintage fashions into modern styles. She had picked up a charcoal gray pinstriped suit, the masculine energy of which formed a perfect counterpoint to the pink blouse and black heels she had found on other racks in the same store. The entire outfit had cost about three hundred dollars, far less than the money Ice had allotted her. She had paid the bill with her credit card and made sure to ask for a receipt. When the case was over, she planned to submit an expense voucher for reimbursement. The money Ice had given her would be catalogued into evidence. Unlike the other women in his life, she wasn’t for sale. Not at any price.
She adjusted the fit of the suit she had paid for with her own hard-earned money. Ice’s reaction to seeing her in it had been positive but muted.
“You look ready to shine,” he had said after giving her a slight nod of approval.
Even now, she wondered at the thrill that nod had provided. Was she so desperate for recognition she was willing to receive it from a man she considered her sworn enemy? She told herself she was excited because he was buying her cover, but part of her feared she might be falling prey to his considerable charm just like the other pawns on his chess board.
He had allegedly tasked her with entertaining the music industry executives in attendance at the Black Dahlia’s album release party, but after it became clear the party was going to be a rousing success, he had been the perfect host, leaving her with little to do except offer the occasional rejoinder to a comment someone else made. Not that she minded. She learned more by observing than participating.
What she had observed at the Apollo had troubled her: Ice had spent as much time watching her as she had him.
She had caught him blatantly staring at her more than once, her skin prickling each time she had felt his eyes on her. For a moment, she had thought he suspected who she really was and what she sought to do. But after they arrived at Roughneck, the feeling had passed.
Ice had been noticeably tense when he answered a call on his cell. The ensuing conversation had taken place in a whisper despite the loud music and crowd noise in the background. Bathsheba hadn’t been able to hear a word he said, and the club was too dark for her to be able to read his lips. Whatever the caller had told him seemed to please him, however. After he ended the call, he had been all smiles ever since.
“What’s popping?” Dez had asked as a scantily dressed woman gyrated on his lap.
“This just officially became a night for celebration.” Ice had raised a glass of champagne for a toast. Everyone else had followed suit, though Bathsheba’s glass was filled with sparkling water instead of sparkling wine. Ice had arched an eyebrow. “You’re not drinking, B?”
“Not when I’m in training,” she had said, startled by his use of such a familiar term of address. Or on a case.
“Fuck that. One drink won’t hurt. A night like this deserves a proper salute.” He had snatched the glass from her hand, dumped the contents in a nearby ice bucket, and filled the glass with champagne. “That’s more like it.”
“What are we toasting to?” Dez had asked.
“To the Dahlia,” Ice had said, draping an arm around the Black Dahlia’s shoulders. “To Charm City showing New York how to run things.”
Ice’s flunkies had cheered so loud Ice hadn’t seemed to notice the boos that had spread around the club like wildfire when the lead single off the Black Dahlia’s album began to pump through the speakers. But Bathsheba had noticed them. She wished Ice would leave before the crowd completely turned on him, but he seemed too eager to flaunt his success.
“Let your haters be your motivators,” he shouted, riling up the crowd even more.
His hubris could become his downfall. Perhaps not tonight, but eventually. Bathsheba would see to it—if someone else didn’t do it first.
“Show them how it’s done, baby.”
Ice helped the Black Dahlia climb on a table. Tottering on eight-inch heels, she began rapping along to her own song, spitting the words with a mixture of pride and awe as if she couldn’t believe she, a young woman from the projects of east Baltimore, was on the verge of mainstream success. Ice, Dez, and their bodyguards waved full glasses and half-empty bottles in the air like extras in a music video.
“Loosen up, B,” Ice said, motioning for her to rise out of her seat. “This is a party, not a funeral.”
Suddenly, it came close to being both.
One of the men who had been glaring at them for the past hour or so approached the VIP area with his right arm held low and tight to his body. Bathsheba didn’t have to see the gun in his hand to know it was there. She reached for her own gun out of habit but came up empty. She armed herself with a champagne bottle, the only weapon at her disposal.
When the man raised his arm and yelled a testosterone-fueled insult, Bathsheba shouted, “Gun!” and smashed the champagne bottle against his wrist.
The gun bucked. A shot rang out. The bullet buried itself in the floor while Ice, Dez, and the Black Dahlia dove for cover. Patrons screamed in panic and began to rush for the doors. Ice and Dez’s bodyguards, meanwhile, stood frozen in place, staring at the scene as if they wanted no part of it.
As the club descended into chaos, the man dropped his gun and cradled his right hand in his left. “Bitch, you broke my fucking wrist.”
“Tough shit.”
Bathsheba grabbed him by the collar of his oversized T-shirt, drove him to the ground, and held him in place by pressing her knee into the middle of his back. By the time the club’s so-called security team showed up, she had the situation well in hand.
Ice peeked over the top of the velvet couch he had taken refuge behind. “Damn, girl. Raq must be training you right because you sure know how to kick some ass.” His bodyguards laughed nervously. He turned on them immediately. “What are you slack-jawed motherfuckers laughing about? You allowed yourselves to be outdone by a female. How fucked up is that? I should fire you and put her in charge of security. Be glad I don’t make you walk home.”
“Calm down, man,” Dez said, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. “You need to get out of here before the cops show up. Take everyone home. I’ll stay here and clean up.”
By “clean up,” Bathsheba knew Dez meant he would grease the pockets of potential witnesses to make sure Ice’s name wasn’t connected to the incident. If the police called him in for questioning, it could be the beginning of the end of his criminal empire.
“I’ll tell the driver to bring the limo around,” Bigfoot said, trying to make himself useful.
Ice gave Dez a one-armed hug. “I’ll see you back in Charm City, partner.”
“Bet.”
Ice’s bodyguards circled him and the Black Dahlia as they made their way to the front door. A stretch limousine sat idling by the curb. Bigfoot opened one of the doors and ushered everyone inside.
The Black Dahlia was crying over the ignominious end to her big night. Ice offered her a few words of comfort before he stretched his hand toward Bathsheba.
“I owe you my life. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
Her feelings mixed, Bathsheba shook his proffered hand. When she had sensed danger, her police training had kicked in and she had acted on instinct without pausing to think. She had sworn to serve and protect. As the limousine sped toward the hotel, she wondered what would have happened if she had gone against her oath.
The man had been aiming for Ice’s head. Would all her problems have been solved if she had allowed the shooter to take him out? Probably not. With Ice out of the picture, Dez would probably step into the void. It felt strange to say, but keeping Ice alive was the right thing to do. To ensure his empire fell, Bathsheba needed a conviction, not an execution.
Chapter Thirteen
News of Bathsheba’s heroics made it back to the Middle East before she did. Raq couldn’t go anywhere without hearing about how Bathsheba had stood up to a guy who had tried to pop Ice while Ice’s so-called bodyguards cowered in fear. Rico, Hercules, and Bigfoot looked hard on the outside. On the inside, they were as soft as melting butter. Bathsheba was just the opposite. Even though she was all-girl, she could definitely hang with the boys.
Raq didn’t know what to make of it. Ice had thought Bathsheba was keeping tabs on him, and Raq had found a hidden computer that might contain the proof Bathsheba was doing just that, yet Bathsheba had saved Ice’s life by putting her own in danger. Raq didn’t know anyone who would risk taking a bullet for someone they were gunning for themselves. If she had been standing next to someone she hated and some dude came charging at them like a rampaging bull, she would have shouted, “Olé!” as he passed by, not try to put herself between him and his target.
Whose side was Bathsheba on, Ice’s or the cops’? Of all the questions swirling through Raq’s mind, this one was easiest to answer. If Bathsheba was in Ice’s corner, she wouldn’t be acting like she had something to hide.
