Blue Avenue

by Michael Wiley

  She frowned but held her hand toward Thomas, who ignored it. He stood on his own and shook his head at me. He left the room and Susan followed him.

  Daniel nodded to one of the uniformed officers, who opened a notepad and readied a pen. Daniel said, ‘Did Charles Tucker burn Bobby Mabry’s hands?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘More or less. He said he doesn’t like the smell of burning flesh. Why don’t you ask Bobby Mabry who did it?’

  ‘Maybe we’ve already done that,’ he said. ‘Maybe he told us that Charles Tucker’s responsible.’ He watched me closely.

  I said, ‘What else d’you want to know?’

  ‘I want to hear what you know about Charles.’

  ‘Charles is a hard man to get to know.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Was Brianna Sumner still alive when you and Charles broke into her house?’

  ‘First, I’m not saying that I broke into her house. Second, you saw her body. She’d been dead a long time.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘so why does a killer come for her? He’s already killed her roommate and so killing her comes at a high price. Until her death the other killings looked random. Now we know they’re not. What makes killing her worthwhile?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you my theory,’ he said. ‘Brianna Sumner knew the killer or was in a position to figure out his identity. When the killer first murdered her roommate, he felt comfortable letting her live. Two weeks passed after Ashley Littleton’s death before he came for her. So something happened in the last twenty-four or forty-eight hours that worried him.’

  ‘That much seems obvious,’ I said.

  He frowned at me. ‘That something involved one of two people, or both. Maybe it involved Belinda Mabry. If Ashley Littleton had a connection to Belinda, and the killer suspected that Brianna Sumner knew about it, then killing her would become an easy choice.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ I said. ‘Who’s the other one?’

  ‘You,’ Daniel said. ‘I pulled you in to identify Belinda’s body and you started poking your nose into everyone’s lives like the idiot-bastard you are. You might’ve poked your nose in too deep somewhere and made the killer nervous. Maybe the killer thought that if you got to Brianna Sumner, as you eventually did, she would tell you something she shouldn’t.’

  ‘The killer would’ve known that you would talk to her too,’ I said. ‘Why wouldn’t that worry him?’

  ‘Ashley Littleton was a hooker. Brianna Sumner had a dirty record too. The charges were three years old, but still. Prostitutes and their friends don’t like to talk to the police, especially if their pimps – or well-connected customers – are threatening them. But a prostitute might talk to you, especially if you’re traveling with Charles Tucker. So, let’s go with the second possibility. What have you done? Whose life have you poked your nose into? Who have you made nervous?’

  If I told him about Little Vegas or the trips to Jamaica that the dead women took, he would make quick tracks to Don Melchiori, and then Charles and I would be in trouble. Anyway, he was asking what I’d done that could have led to Brianna Sumner’s killing, and I’d learned about Little Vegas and Jamaica after she was killed. I said, ‘Over on Bridier Street by the arena I talked to a hooker and her pimp. They’re working out of a boarded-up pink bungalow or were when I went by there two days ago. The pimp told me about some rumors. For example, that the killer drives a green Mercedes SUV. I had the feeling he knew more than he was telling me. It’s possible he got word back to someone.’

  ‘What’re the hooker’s and pimp’s names?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘The hooker said her name was Evelyn. I didn’t get the pimp’s name. He’s a bald, black guy and talks like he’s from the Caribbean.’ I watched the officer with the pen scribble on the notepad. ‘Is it true about the Mercedes SUV?’

  ‘Might be,’ Daniel said. ‘One of Tonya Richmond’s friends saw her climb into one early on the day she was killed. Another girl says she saw a green SUV cruising the street where Ashley Littleton got picked up for the last time. But there’re a lot of SUVs in this city and more than a few of them green. What else can you tell me?’

  ‘When I went to Belinda’s house, Bobby Mabry said she and her husband made their money in real estate. I didn’t believe it.’

  Daniel said, ‘Her husband was Jerry Stilman and it’s true he owned property in Chicago. But he also trafficked drugs. Spent twelve years in federal after a tire blew outside of Atlanta on one of the trucks he owned. A search of the truck turned up a hundred and fifty kilos of cocaine, heading from Miami to Chicago. The DEA says that when Stilman decided to sell his property and move from Chicago he did it in a hurry. The guy I talked to seemed to think someone forced him out.’

  ‘So did drugs cause the killings?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve thought about it and probably not. Ashley Littleton and Tonya Richmond were junkies but small time and no more interesting than a thousand other junkies in town. And drug-related killings usually don’t include the kind of quirks this killer has.’

  The air conditioner turned on and a cold breeze brushed over me. For a moment I wished that I was still outside riding through the hot night with Charles. I said, ‘The Miami to Chicago trip takes you right through here, and Ashley Littleton and Tonya Richmond might’ve been junkies but they would screw anyone who wanted to screw them and that could’ve made them attractive to guys higher up the ladder.’ The Jamaica party also showed that Tonya Richmond was screwing above her pay grade and the pimp on Bridier Street had said that until recently Ashley Littleton had done private parties and groups, so she probably was still sometimes screwing above herself too, whether in Jamaica or elsewhere, but I didn’t say so to Daniel. Instead I said, ‘I think you should look into the drugs.’

  He nodded as if I might be right. ‘Anyone else you’ve been hassling since we found Belinda dead?’

  ‘If I listened to you, I’d think I’d been hassling everyone I met,’ I said.

  ‘Do you think the killer is worried about you personally?’ he asked.

  There was a headless cat buried in the backyard that told me the killer was, and a rib-kicking city councilman too. ‘Nothing I can think of.’

  He shook his head. ‘How about your cat?’

  I smiled. ‘Susan told you about Fela?’

  He nodded.

  I said, ‘I’m guessing it’s one of the neighborhood kids.’

  He didn’t look like he believed it either. ‘You’ll let me know if someone returns the rest of her or sends a message?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course. For your own good I’m asking a couple of officers to keep an eye on you and your house.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Think about Susan and Thomas – their safety.’

  ‘They’re fine,’ I said. ‘We’re safe.’

  ‘I don’t need to ask for your permission,’ he said.

  I looked in his eyes, this man I’d known since we were kids. Back then I would’ve told him that he was being a jerk or I would’ve punched him and we would’ve scrapped until we were dirty and bloody. I said, ‘Do what you’ve got to do.’

  I watched as Daniel and the two officers backed out of the driveway and pulled away, their car tires crunching on the pavement, their tail lights fading into darkness. The night was clear and I looked at the stars. In the winter sky, Orion would hang overhead in the early morning but he was gone to wherever he went in the summer and the night seemed to lack a center. It was a sea of stars whose names I didn’t know.

  I closed the front door and yawned. My ribs ached and the throb in my forehead had receded into a low, dull pain. I flipped off the living-room lights and stumbled into the kitchen.

  Susan and Thomas were sitting at the table, tired eyed and silent. I knew they’d heard everything we’d talked about in the living room.

&n
bsp; ‘It’s late,’ I said. ‘You should be in bed.’

  ‘Damn you, BB,’ Susan said. ‘What gives you the right to do this? It’s none of your business. It’s none of Thomas’s and mine. But you drag it into our house.’

  I looked at Thomas. ‘What do you think, Champ?’

  ‘My name isn’t Champ,’ he said. ‘I think the cut on your forehead is bleeding through the Band-aid.’

  The light in the kitchen was too bright and I felt a pit in my stomach that was like hunger or longing. ‘Do you want me to stop?’ I asked him.

  One side of his mouth twitched. ‘I don’t think you could even if I did.’

  ‘You’re a smart boy,’ I said. ‘Now go to bed. We can talk more in the morning.’

  He walked to the doorway, stopped, and looked first at Susan and then at me. ‘I don’t want you to stop,’ he said.

  ‘Goodnight, Thomas,’ I said.

  He left the room.

  Susan glared at me and when his bedroom door closed she said, ‘You’ll destroy us.’

  ‘What’s left to destroy?’

  ‘You’ll destroy Thomas,’ she said.

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘He cares so much about what you think about him and what you do.’

  I felt heat in my face and neck. ‘I don’t think so.’

  She stood.

  I said, ‘It doesn’t have to be this way.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  I shook my head. ‘Spend the night with me,’

  She looked in my eyes, pleadingly. ‘And that would make it better?’

  ‘Maybe it would,’ I said. ‘It would be a beginning.’

  Her hardness fell and I thought she might for once consent to be together but she said, ‘Why do you ask me when you know it won’t happen?’

  ‘Because even after everything, I love you. God knows why but I do.’

  A small sad smile appeared on her lips. ‘Goodnight, BB,’ she said and left the room.

  I stood in the kitchen alone and thought about what I could do to make myself feel better. I could throw a counter stool through the glass on the French doors to the backyard. I could punch holes in the kitchen wall with my fists. I could drive to Lee Ann’s house, wake her, and fuck her until we were hurt and exhausted.

  I stood in the kitchen and breathed deep, my lungs pressing against my injured ribs, breathing in and out, waiting in vain for my adrenaline to come down. I stood like that for a long time before climbing the stairs to my bedroom where I crawled into bed and prepared myself for bad dreams.

  TWELVE

  At a quarter to ten the next morning the sound of a lawn mower woke me. Sunlight shined soft and warm through the shades and a single dust mote caught the light and glimmered in the air like a tiny daytime star. The smell of frying breakfast sausage made its way from the kitchen into my room.

  The nightmares had never come. My sleep had been hard and dreamless and the morning felt calm, a time in which to forget the storms of the previous evening. But when I moved to get up, pain stabbed me above the ribs and I fell back to the mattress, sweating. I probed the bruise where Melchiori had kicked me. No ribs seemed to be broken so I tried again, slowly rocking myself on to my feet and straightening my back. I shuffled to the bathroom and faced the mirror.

  The bruise extended from the middle of my belly to below my left nipple, cloudy as the Milky Way, darkening where Melchiori’s heel had struck me. But my forehead looked good. No bruise – just a half-inch-long scab where the skin had split. The spot on my cheek where Terrence had hit me two days ago was only a scratch. I sucked in a deep breath and lifted my arms cautiously above my shoulders and then above my head. My face paled but my legs remained steady. So I showered, letting the hot water sting the skin on my back, and dressed in jeans and a loose cotton T-shirt.

  Downstairs, Susan was eating breakfast at the kitchen table. She offered me her cheek and I kissed it and smelled soap and shampoo.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said and looked into my eyes with a warmth that seemed to me borne of our having survived a hard night.

  ‘Did you sleep?’ I asked.

  ‘A little. You?’

  I nodded. ‘Surprisingly.’

  I sat with her and ate and she handed me the sections of the morning paper that she’d finished reading but I left them on the table and watched her. She gave me a mild look and I knew better than to tell her again that we could live differently, so I asked, ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘Showing a house on Old St Augustine.’

  ‘Want to have dinner out tonight?’

  ‘With Thomas?’

  ‘If he’ll come,’ I said.

  Again she smiled. ‘OK.’

  ‘He still sleeping?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘He stayed up until dawn drawing a new comic book. It was a rough night for all of us.’

  I heard something to hope for in the word us.

  When Susan left I read the paper. The front-page headline said Fourth Woman Killed. The article described Daniel Turner’s discovery of Brianna Sumner’s body in her bedroom after a neighbor called about suspicious activity. A police spokesman said that all four killings involved sexual assault and asphyxiation and without naming specifics added that details in this killing resembled those in the earlier three. The article said the suspicious activity that the neighbor observed involved two men who the police had decided weren’t responsible for Brianna’s Sumner’s death, though anyone with information concerning these men was encouraged to contact a citizens’ hotline. The reporter had interviewed the neighbor, a man named Bruce Serikos. Brianna Sumner and Ashley Littleton had been quiet and friendly, he’d said, and sometimes when they were out of town he’d taken care of their dog. He mentioned nothing about prostitution, nothing about drug addictions.

  The article included photographs of the four victims along with short biographies. Tonya Richmond had wanted to be a model. Ashley Littleton, who was the daughter of a well-liked captain of a Mayport shrimp trawler, had completed a certificate program in accounting, loved dogs and had gotten married and divorced before she was twenty. Both had records for drug possession and prostitution. Brianna Sumner had worked as a dancer and bartender and she had a two-year-old son who lived with his father. Belinda had been born in Milwaukee, moved to Jacksonville as a teenager, left for Chicago – where she’d gone to college, worked as a community organizer and gotten married – and then moved back south. The newspaper said that Belinda’s husband had been a real-estate developer but said nothing about his conviction for drug trafficking or about Terrence.

  By the time I finished reading, my calm was gone.

  I looked at the Metro section. A headline at the top of the front page said City Councilman Shot in Home Invasion. According to the police, Don Melchiori had awakened and confronted two robbers at eleven-thirty the previous night. They’d struggled and the robbers had beaten the councilman and shot him in the shoulder before leaving empty handed. Melchiori was finishing his second term on the city council and was known for his work on the historical preservation of neighborhoods. He was in fair condition at University Hospital with non-life-threatening injuries.

  I cleaned the dishes, leaving a plate of sausages for Thomas, got my keys and went into the living room. Charles and I had talked about going to see Terrence Mabry today. My son – an idea I couldn’t get my mind around. I also wanted to see Bobby Mabry and ask him about the burns on his hands. If Charles came with me when I talked to him, Bobby probably would refuse to tell me who’d hurt him. I looked out the living-room window. Glinting in the morning sun a police car was parked against the curb two houses away. Daniel had followed through on his promise to post an officer on me.

  I threw my keys on to the couch. Daniel had said the officer would protect Susan, Thomas and me, but I knew better. Daniel wanted to know how deeply I’d involved myself in Belinda’s death.

  So I went out the back door, across the patio and past the glassy surface of the p
ool. I walked down to the quarry pond and the drying mound of dirt where I’d buried Fela, then along the bank of the pond, through the neighbors’ yards and up to the street. I could call Charles and ask him to pick me up but I didn’t. I continued up the street and walked another quarter mile to the east until I reached the railroad tracks.

  I went north on the railroad toward the water purification plant and the stretch of tracks where Belinda and I had lain on the gravel as a train bore down upon us. In the past two decades companies had built offices and cinderblock warehouses against the fence that separated the tracks from private land, and the railroad had replaced the creosote-stained wooden ties with reinforced concrete. Near the water plant, a radio station had erected a tower that looked like the steel framework for a huge church steeple. But the gravel rail bed remained the same, as did the smell of diesel and the ragged odor of flowering weeds. Memories of the days and evenings when I’d come to the tracks with Belinda flooded me. I thought about the words Christopher had spoken when I’d visited him at the house he shared with his new wife and her daughter. Belinda grew up. That’s what most of us do. I wondered what that meant. If it meant forgetting the past, I wanted none of it.

  Near the spot on the tracks where Belinda and I had sex, the chain-link fence had been bent to the ground, forming a bridge to the parking lot behind a factory that made disposable plastic plates and cups. Next to the bent fence a man was sitting on a stack of the wooden ties that the railroad had removed. He was tan and skinny, in his late twenties or early thirties, wearing brown denim overalls cut off at the knees, and no T-shirt. A dirty blond ponytail hung down his back. He drank from a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser.

  I stooped between the rails and looked northward into the heat-bent air. What was I looking for? Tens of thousands of trains had passed over the spot where Belinda and I had lain. Men like the one on the railroad ties had drunk their beer and pissed on it. Tens of thousands of rains and winds had washed the gravel clean of our presence. What was I looking for? The heat was dizzying. What did I expect to find?