When Brice went to high school, he poured himself into his academics and Earl became more immersed in street life. The day Brice received his diploma, Earl got sentenced to three years upstate for armed robbery. In the time that Earl was locked up, Brice became a police officer. He thought that if he fought enough crime, he could erase his past. Brice had never shared his profession with his best friend or with any of his friends from the old neighborhood.
When Brice arrived at the Albany projects to see Ariana Coleman’s mother, he already knew what to expect. The Bloods gang had had a stronghold on Albany for a couple of years now. Brice also knew when the gang members saw him in his swinging trench coat and wing tip shoes they would be so busy thinking he was there to round up the ones with open warrants that they would scatter like roaches when the lights came on.
Brice entered one of the buildings on Park Place and thought the inside looked worse than anything he’d ever seen. The glass front doors had no glass left in them. There were red spray-painted words all over the lobby, and the elevator button was completely missing. Arianna’s mother had told Brice she lived on the sixth floor. Brice touched his gun to make sure it was there. He took a deep breath and prepared for his hike through hell. The project stairwells were a piss-laden hell, full of hypodermic needles, used condoms and the occasional scurrying rat.
Brice used his knuckles to bang on apartment 6E. “Who?” a small voice croaked from the other side.
“Detective Simpson,” Brice responded. He could hear bolts and locks clicking open.
When the woman pulled back the door, Brice was surprised at how young she was. “Um . . . Bridgett?” Brice asked.
“Yeah, it’s me,” the woman said, noticing his surprise. “I know you’re wondering how I had a daughter who would be sixteen, right?”
“I’m sorry. Was I that obvious?” Brice replied, blushing.
“It’s okay. I get that all the time. I had my daughter when I was sixteen, but that doesn’t make me any less worthy to have my child here with me,” Bridgett said, her voice cracking.
“I understand,” Brice replied. They both sat on the busted-up sofa. Brice looked across the small living room, which doubled as a dining room, and noticed all of the pictures of Arianna . . . how she looked before her violent death. She was a cute little girl. Brice swallowed hard, images of his sister coming into his head. Life is too short. I need to make amends with her.
“So tell me about your daughter,” Brice said encouragingly.
“You know, from the time my daughter went missing, you are the first cop to ask me that,” Bridgett said with tears in her eyes. “My daughter did not run away. I’m as sure of that as I am of my name. She had no reason to run away,” Bridgett explained, standing up to retrieve some papers off the battered coffee table. She handed them to Brice. Brice surveyed the sheets. They were Arianna’s test papers from school, mostly marked with As or Bs.
“Arianna was a good student. We had a decent relationship . . . I mean, she got in trouble for things here and there, but nothing major. Then all of a sudden, like within a month, she changed. She started coming home late from school. And she got angry all the times I tried to ask her about it,” Bridgett said, dabbing at her eyes. “I had to work to provide for her and my son . . . I couldn’t be here all the time. The last time I saw her, we had a big argument,” Bridgett said regretfully.
“What about?” Brice asked, sitting forward.
“Arianna hadn’t come in the house until after ten o’clock one night. When I asked her where the hell she had been, she told me she was almost grown. I will admit I was so angry and concerned that I slapped her and then she stormed out of the house,” Bridgett said through sobs.
“That was the last time you saw her?” Brice asked for clarification.
“Yes, I reported her as a runaway to the police and I searched the streets for her myself. Three months passed and I continued to check at the precinct every day for her. They always told me they had no new information. Then one day, I got a call from a detective saying they had found my baby. They hurt her so bad they had to identify her by her dental records,” Bridgett explained, looking at Brice pitifully.
“She had already been buried in Potter’s Field by then,” Bridgett sobbed louder. Brice was sorry he had conjured up all of these bad memories. “I just want to know, who would do something like that? Throw her away like a piece of trash?” Bridgett’s fist clenched so hard her knuckles turned white.
“I’m going to try to find out who did this, but I will need your help,” Brice offered.
“Whatever it takes,” she said, then retrieved a small box from a back room. “Here are some of Ari’s belongings. Maybe you can find some clues in there. It was too painful to look through it,” Bridgett said, sliding a cardboard box filled with trinkets, papers, school folders and a diary toward Brice.
“Thanks,”Brice said, looking down into the box filled with the teenager’s junk. Brice wouldn’t count it out. It may contain just what he needed to solve the case. Although he didn’t promise to find the killer; he’d given her something she’d never had before–hope.
Brice took the box back to the squad and began the arduous task of logging the items into evidence. As he pulled out some papers to place them in a plastic evidence bag, a business card that had been trapped between the pages fell to the floor. Jordan Bleu, Talent Scout. There was a cell phone number listed. Brice went to his computer and ran an National Crime Information Center check on the name. It returned “no hits.” He ran a Google search and came up with thousands of hits on Jordan Bleu–porn manager; amateur porn director; and an alias, “Jordan King.” Brice entered Jordan King into the National Crime Information Center terminal. “Jordan Bleu, my ass. I knew I’d find out who you really are.” Brice printed out a previous arrest for disorderly conduct with an address in Harlem. This cold case was getting warmer and warmer.
“Ay, Simpson, I hear you working the cold case of that runaway,” Detective D’Guilio said, placing his hand on Brice’s shoulder while he glanced at the file.
“You mean the case that you just gave up on after you heard she was a runaway?” Brice responded.
“We get a thousand runaways a month. She was dead and there wasn’t no bringing her back,” D’Guilio replied nonchalantly.
“Yeah, well her mother’s not dead and don’t you think she deserves some justice for her kid?” Brice asked, removing D’Guilio’s hand from his shoulder.
“You know what, Simpson? Fuck you, I did my job,” D’Guilio spat, storming away.
“Yeah, I’m sure you did,” Brice mumbled, slowly removing items from the box.
D’Guilio rushed to his desk and dialed a number and started whispering into the mouthpiece. After a brief pause, D’Guilio responded angrily, “I did close it . . . he fuckin’ reopened it.” Flexing his jaw, he stared at Brice’s back. He’d have to keep a close eye on this guy.
“Adult film star Denver Peaks, whose real name is Casey Pete, was released from the hospital today after an attempted suicide. Pete, who shot to stardom as the busty Denver Peaks in the adult film world two years ago, is said to be recovered from an apparent overdose of Vicoden, which doctors say has the power to stop the heart if taken in large doses. Pete had a fall from grace after winning a prized AVN award and having her next film do miserably in sales. Industry insiders say that when it was revealed she grew up as a member of a polygamist sect on the Backwater Creek compound that was recently raided, viewers shied away from the blond bombshell and her movies. Pete returned to New York producer Mikey Cuntmore to stage a comeback, but couldn’t stand the pressure and tried to end her life in a dressing room on the set. Pete’s manager, Jordan Bleu, was interviewed after the attempted suicide, and said that she would be back in business shortly. . . .”
Casey seethed as she turned her television off. “Back in business, my ass,” she cursed. Her heels clicked loudly against the mahogany hardwood floor of her luxury high-rise apartment.
Jordan was nowhere to be found. Casey knew that Jordan had been there with company. There were two glasses in the kitchen sink and one had lipstick stains. Casey bit into her lip, thinking of his betrayal and abandonment. She’d had to call a car service from the hospital because Jordan had not come to pick her up. Nothing surprised Casey anymore. If Jordan could throw Diamond to the dogs, Casey knew she didn’t stand a chance.
On the glass-top dining room table, Casey noticed three Polaroids sticking out of an envelope. Curious, she picked them up. Casey pursed her lips and shook her head. “Poor girl, she has no idea who Jordan really is,” Casey whispered sadly. She knew the pictures were test shots–a picture of the face; the breasts; and the ass of a new potential porn star–or porn slave, as she saw it. Tossing the pictures back into the envelope, she flopped down on the couch, feeling all alone. But she didn’t want to die anymore. In fact, she wanted to make things right with Diamond and her family, and finally shake free from her demons from the past, and the present, so that she could begin to look toward the future.
Chapter Eight
Surviving
Hildale, Utah
Casey ran as fast as her feet could take her. Her lungs ignited with every breath and sweat drenched her body. She could hardly see in the dark. Her brother, Ethan, had told her that if she made it to the main road, she could hitch a ride into town. He would be waiting for her there with the bus fare.
Ethan had been banned from the compound after he’d spoken out against the prophet. Casey snuck away to visit her brother whenever she was sent to the supermarket by her sister wives. She often complained to her brother about her mistreatment at the compound. After she had lost her son, Casey had suffered too much damage to her uterus to conceive again. Because of her inability to conceive, her husband viewed her as a curse and refused to be intimate with her. Since Casey was not allowed to have assigned time with her husband, she was charged with cooking, cleaning, running errands and taking care of the biological children of her sister wives. It was no secret that her husband had gone to the prophet and asked that she be reassigned to another man. The prophet had refused. It was her punishment for failing to provide her husband with offspring. Casey had had enough. Ethan had convinced her to leave the compound for good. At twenty years old, Casey still had dreams of going to New York City to pursue her future at Juilliard.
By the time she reached the main road, she was completely out of breath. There were no lights on the road. After about ten minutes, she noticed headlights coming in her direction. Casey looked around nervously and placed her thumb out like Ethan had told her to do. The first car zoomed right past her. It was about fifteen minutes before a truck came by and it stopped. Eagerly, Casey climbed into the huge cab of the eighteen-wheeler.
“Where ya headed?” the burly driver asked.
“Town . . . bus station,” Casey said nervously, too naive to be afraid for her life, but brainwashed enough to believe that people outside of Backwater Creek were evil. Casey prayed during the entire ride. The driver tried to make small talk, but Casey didn’t know enough about the world to keep up. When she’d finally arrived in the city, she thanked the truck driver and scurried away.
Casey spotted her brother near the bus station and squealed in delight. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she ran into his enveloping embrace. It was a very real possibility that she would never see Ethan or Utah again.
New York, New York
Dominique rushed down Thirty-fourth Street, dodging bodies like a gazelle on the crowded sidewalk. She pushed her hands deep down into her coat pockets to hide the trembling. Zigzagging across Eighth Avenue, she spotted her ride. Dominique darted across the street and jumped in.
“Damn, that took a long time,” Jordan complained, twisting his toothpick between his teeth.
“Niggah, please. Don’t give me no lip. I’m the one risking my fucking life out here,” Dominique shot back. She had just robbed a john of all his cash, credit cards and his Rolex.
Jordan smiled. “That’s why I love your ass. You don’t take no shit and you be making mad dough,” he complimented.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell that shit to the next bitch who be making you money,” Dominique said, rolling her eyes and turning her face to the window. Frankly, she was tired of the “life.” She felt like she had more than repaid Jordan for his generosity. After they packed up and left Harlem, they decided together that she’d pull a few tricks–make some loot and open what Jordan called a “high class” escort service.
Two years later, Dominique was still pulling tricks but had moved up in the ranks. By now, she was also the head bitch in charge of some of Jordan’s other girls. She didn’t mind delegating work for others, but she insisted that Jordan abide by her one rule–no little girls! Dominique argued that there were enough grown-ass women willing to sell their asses that there was no reason to fuck up little girlslives. Besides, they were too young at thirteen and fourteen to make their own choices.
When they were far enough away, Jordan pulled over so he could count up Dominique’s take for the night. She handed over all of the money. Dominique felt a sense of allegiance to Jordan. He had basically saved her life. When she met him, she had been a used-up little girl, who knew about being on her back for cash by force, but nothing about running her own game or making her own money. Dominique didn’t have a business mind back then, but being around Jordan made her start thinking about sex like a business instead of a personal act of gratification.
The first night she stayed with him, Jordan never even touched her. He just didn’t know how much that had meant to her. Although Jordan had seen her as a potential moneymaker, Dominique knew that his feelings had run deeper. In her eyes, Jordan had truly become her “daddy.” In fact, he’d got in her head so deep that she didn’t mind walking the track or robbing niggahs to make him money.
“Damn, Diamond! Youz a bad bitch for real!” Jordan whooped.
“How much is there?” Dominique asked, not really caring.
“A cold G in one night,” Jordan said excitedly. He peeled off a few bills and stuck them in her bulging cleavage.
“For real, you need to get you some new bitches. I’m tired of being the breadwinner,” Dominique said.
“Recruit some, then. You know you my bottom bitch…you can be the madam,” Jordan said, laughing.
“I’m dead-ass serious, Jordan. I been selling pussy since ’98 . . . a bitch is tired,” Dominique complained in earnest. She dug into her oversized bag and pulled out a small, shiny business card holder. She removed a nicely wrapped weed cigarette and lit it. She needed to calm her nerves.
“What I tell you about that shit in my car?” Jordan asked, his mood changing. Although he wasn’t into the drug scene, he never made her stop and sometimes even copped the weed for her. Dominique had picked up the pot smoking habit on her own. Jordan didn’t object because it kept her calm and working.
As they crawled down Eighth Avenue traffic, Dominique put her head back on the seat. When they approached Eighth and West Fortieth Street, Jordan slapped her arm, ruining her melancholic mood. “Yo, look at this!” he shouted.
“What . . . what?” she grumbled, sitting up. Jordan was pointing to a little white girl standing outside of the Port Authority bus station. The little girl looked like an extra from Little House on the Prairie. She was dressed funny and kept looking around with a paper in her hand like she was lost.
“Yo, Diamond, word life, when I first saw you, you looked exactly like that!” Jordan said.
“Niggah, I wasn’t wearing no damn flowered grandma dress,” Dominique snapped.
“No, I mean lost as hell, like you was looking for a daddy,” Jordan clarified.
“You better keep on driving and leave that little white girl alone . . . niggah, you really tryin’a go to jail messing with them,” Dominique said.
“I’m telling you, she needs us. Can you imagine if we had a white chick in the stable? We could finally fox with those Wall Stree
t cats and rich dudes who like the blond hair and blue eyes,” Jordan said, his voice getting dreamy over the prospect.
Dominique was not impressed. They watched the girl for a few more minutes as people bumped and jostled her. “I’m not fucking with that, Jordan, so just keep driving. You want blond hair and blue eyes? Get one of those lazy-ass Puerto Rican chicks and buy them a wig and some colored contacts,” Dominique instructed.
The next day, Dominique and Jordan left their Brooklyn apartment and headed to the city for another caper. Dominique felt brave enough to come back to Brooklyn with the protection of Jordan. But she still had not dared to return to see her aunt.
They had already stopped in Dominique’s old stomping grounds–East New York–to collect the previous night’s cash from the few girls Jordan had working Brooklyn. Neither of them were impressed with the take. Jordan threatened a few of them and then downed his usual bottle of Mylanta to calm his ulcer.
When they arrived in the city, Dominique hopped out of the car in Times Square. She worked the side streets–the clients paid more and were less likely to act up. Although the city was under a change and Times Square was turning into a tourist attraction, sex was still a high-demand commodity. Dominique walked her block near Forty-third and Seventh Avenue until she spotted a potential john. As she approached the car, she noticed in her peripheral vision the same white girl she and Jordan had seen yesterday. The girl was digging in the overflowing orange metal garbage can on the street corner. “Oh, hell no!” Dominique whispered to herself. “That’s the same white girl. Damn, she really ain’t from around here,” Dominique kept talking to herself as she walked toward the girl. Dominique had a soft spot for homeless people, especially homeless females since she’d been one herself.
Price of Fame Page 9
