Darkness Descending: A Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mystery (The Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mysteries)

by Penny Mickelbury

  “Who’s got the vic’s personal papers?” Gianna asked.

  “I do...we do,” Tim said, “and we’re not even half through ‘em.”

  “That’s the bad news,” Cassie said. “The good news is that Professor Hilliard was extremely well-organized. The other bad news is that she seems never to have thrown away a single piece of paper in her entire life. Were you looking for anything in particular, Boss?”

  “The will,” Gianna snapped. “Or a key to a safety deposit box. If this is a crime for gain, I want to know it sooner rather than later.”

  “Well, there’s no file that says, ‘WILL’ with the stuff from her desk and file cabinet. Maybe it’s in her computer,” Tim offered, and winked at Kenny.

  “Who’s her lawyer?” Gianna asked.

  “Don’t know yet, Boss. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Gianna crossed the room to stand between Kenny and Linda at their computers. “What?”

  “The Phillips sisters are sterling citizens times ten, Boss.” Kenny Chang was their resident computer geek and he looked the part: Spiky black hair topped a youthful, round face upon which sat wire-rimmed eyeglasses. But Kenny wasn’t just a nerd, he was a detective first grade, outranking everybody in the room except Gianna. He’d spent half a decade working major crimes and as one of a handful of Chinese-speaking officers in the Department, worked a few cases with international aspects. But when the Hate Crimes Unit was formed, he, like every member of the team, quickly volunteered.

  “Yeah,” Linda said, not raising her eyes from the screen. “I wish I was that sterling. They’re worth well over a million. Each. They’ve been buying real estate since they first started working.”

  “Please tell me they’re older than twenty-nine,” Bobby said.

  “They are, but not by much,” Kenny offered. “Big Sister Darlene is all of thirty-four and Dee is two years younger.”

  “And get this,” Linda injected. “The head bartender, Aimee Whatever? She’s their first cousin. She’s got a business, degree, too, and she’s only twenty-six. Dee co-signed her loan when she bought a three-unit house last year. She lives in one, rents out the other two. The rents pay the mortgage and she banks her paycheck. Already she’s headed toward Darlene and Dee’s kind of security.”

  “And by the way,” Kenny added, returning Tim’s wink, making it more of a leer, “the only lawyer to turn up in any of Natasha Hilliard’s computer records is somebody named Allison Jenkins. She’s a divorce lawyer.”

  Eric started to pace. “I’d like this thing a whole lot better if we had just a whiff of slime and low lifes and underworld characters. All these upstanding, righteous citizens—this is making me nervous.”

  “Not me.” Gianna dropped down chair and put her cowboy-booted feet up on the desk, legs crossed at the ankles. She folded her hands behind her head and leaned back in the chair, the very picture of not nervous. “In fact, Eric, you just clarified my thinking for me. This is a hate crime for the very reason that you’re unnerved. There is absolutely no reason to target these women other than...”

  “How they look?” Cassie was riled up and ready for a fight. “Mainstream society finally decides that maybe it’s OK to be queer, as long as the girls look like they belong on The L Word and the boys are interior design and fashion queens, but heaven help anybody who doesn’t fit inside their straight little lines! It sucks!”

  The room and the people in it went still and silent. Everybody needed a moment and Gianna gave it to them. “Let’s talk about that, about Doms and Ags. It’s something I need help with, too, because until Friday night I didn’t know there were designations other than ‘Butch’ and ‘Femme.’ And maybe that’s because I’m just a behind-the-times old biddy—and I’ll cop to that—and don’t you dare laugh, Ashby, you’re not that much younger.”

  With his bright red hair and wide blue eyes and looking more like a choir boy than a detective, Eric did exactly that, and the others joined in, glad to have the tension released, especially at the Boss’s expense and instigation. They could laugh because with the possible exception of Cassandra Ali, they all were in the same out-of-touch boat as their boss. “So the question is,” she continued as calm returned, “are we just out of date, are we just...what’s the terminology? Not still ‘square’ or ‘lame,’ is it?”

  “Even I know better than that,” Eric said. “I think the term you’re looking for is, ‘old school.’”

  Gianna bowed in his direction as several heads nodded that he was correct. “So, as I was saying, the question we have to answer is are we just too old school, or does there exist a subculture, a counterculture within the homosexual community that we don’t know anything about? And if that’s the case, how effective can we be in our jobs—or rather, how ineffective have we been in our jobs—if we’re ignorant of this fact?”

  All the humor evaporated. Every one of them was somber and serious as they pondered the question, including Cassie. Then she felt eyes on her and realized that she was expected to take a stab at an answer. She raised her hands, palms upward, in a helpless gesture. “That’s a really good question, Boss, and I wish I could give it the answer it deserves. Yeah, I knew about Doms and Ags before Friday night, but a counterculture? A subculture? Either that’s way over my head or, and don’t take this wrong, it’s just an excuse for not wanting to deal with people as they are. I mean, like you just said, there’s nothing new about butch women.”

  “So why aren’t we calling them ‘butches’ like before?” Tim asked. “What’s with this ‘Ag’ and ‘Dom’ stuff if we’re talking about the same thing?”

  “That’s a question we need to answer,” Gianna said, looking at Cassie. “Can you give us any insight?”

  Cassie shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, I know some people think the wardrobe and the language and the behavior is kind of extreme and, I guess in a way, it’s meant to be. It’s kind of an in-your-face-don’t-mess-with-me attitude that sends a definite message, you know? But it also could be more than that...” Cassie shook her head again. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

  “Let me ask you one more thing,” Gianna said. “Is it your impression that it’s a Black and Latina thing?”

  Cassie was thoughtful, then began slowly nodding her head. “Yeah, I think that’s fair to say. Up to a point. I mean, does everything have to have a label? Does everything always have to come down to race?”

  “You’re right,” Gianna said. “Let’s not get bogged down in that. We’ve got a homicide that’s a hate crime to deal with. We follow the same procedures as always. We still work the files and information and the details, and when the forensic evidence starts to come in, we work that, too. And we strip Natasha Hilliard down to her very essence. We know from her closet that whatever else she called herself, Dom, Ag or butch, Dr. Hilliard didn’t go teach history at AU dressed the way she was dressed at The Snatch on Friday night, and I’d bet my paycheck that she wasn’t going anywhere with Professor Selena Smith on Saturday night dressed the way she was dressed at The Snatch. But did she go places with Lili dressed like that, or did Lili and The Snatch and Tosh exist only one night a week?”

  Gianna stood up and took Eric’s place pacing. She knew her paycheck was safe. What she didn’t know was why a paycheck much larger than her own hadn’t kept Natasha Hilliard safe. “What time are the Lili and Selena interviews?”

  “Simultaneous,” Eric answered, “at two-thirty. Cassie and Kenny have Lili and Linda and Tim have Selena. Bobby has the Maryland basketball player who Aimee the bartender says was talking to Hilliard at the bar, and I’ve got Aimee herself, both interviews at three.”

  “Make sure you find out the full extent of Lili’s relationship with Tosh. I’ll see everybody back here in the morning at eight-thirty. Thanks for your weekend, folks. I’ll make it up to you as soon as I can.”

  She didn’t know when that would be; days off in a case like this weren’t an option but she wouldn’t assign any all-nighte
rs if she could avoid it, and she’d alternate half days off among them as often as possible, as long as the all the bases were covered. They were good cops who worked their asses off, as much for her personally as for the cause they all believed in, and she knew it and was grateful. Eric had passed the sergeant’s exam, then passed up two chances at promotion to remain her second-in-command, and Kenny and Bobby could have their detective shields any time they chose. In fact, she had just about decided it was time to push them in that direction—Eric, Kenny and Bobby. All that talk about getting older, the laughter notwithstanding, was no joking matter. A police department was the kind of organization in which you either moved up or got passed by and stagnated. All her people were too good to let them stagnate.

  “I’ll get it,” she said when the phone rang, wondering if one of their interviews was calling to cancel. “Hate Crimes, Lieutenant Maglione,” she answered, and listened for a full minute to the caller. Then she said, “Your information is correct and I’ll meet with you whenever you say but the sooner the better.” She grabbed a pen and notepad. “May I have your full name, phone number and address, please?” She wrote, listened and wrote some more. “Thank you for calling, Miss Brown. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

  Every eye in the room was on her. “What was that?” Eric asked in a tone of voice that suggested he really didn’t want to know.

  “Joyce Brown. She was raped last night—early this morning—after leaving a night club called the Pink Panther. It’s on Harley Street. There were three of them who took turns. They called her ‘dyke’ while they raped her, saying she ought to die.”

  The silence was ice cold. “Oh, fuck,” Bobby said, shattering it. He started to crack his knuckles, then quickly stopped; he knew it drove everybody crazy.

  Linda wrapped her arms around herself as if she were, in fact, cold.

  “Where’s Harley Street?” Tim asked.

  “About a mile and half from Lander Street,” Cassie answered, and Gianna snapped out of her reverie.

  “In what direction?”

  “East,” Cassie answered, and they knew immediately what Gianna knew: That Harley Street was in the same command district as Lander Street. The Snatch and the Pink Panther were in the same police command district and the Hate Crimes Unit had never heard of either of them or been advised of the possibility of hate crimes being committed there, either.

  “I’m meeting Miss Brown at her home tomorrow morning at nine. Linda, you switch off The Snatch and onto this,” she said, handing over the notebook with Joyce Brown’s information. “She was at GWU ER until eight o’clock this morning, and they did a rape kit. Bobby—”

  Bobby jumped to his feet. “On my way, Boss,” and he was out the door.

  “Was there any kind of crime scene investigation?” Eric asked, the wishful thinking so heavy in his voice it sounded like begging God.

  Gianna shook her head. “She lives in the neighborhood and walked home after the attack. The woman walked four blocks after that.”

  “Maybe it’s not too late if we know the exact location,” Cassie said, standing, her own wishful thinking dashed on the rocks as Bobby rushed back into the room.

  “Rain’s finally here,” he announced, grabbing an umbrella from the makeshift closet at the rear of the room and rushing back out.

  Possible trace evidence sloshing down the gutter toward the Potomac with the rest of the city’s accumulated grit and grime, Gianna thought, though without deep regret because she was planning in her mind the exact words she’d say to the chief of police when she showed up at his office at seven tomorrow morning. She’d begin his Monday the way she was ending her Sunday: With a pile of shit nestled in her lap. As for the remainder of Sunday? Well, at least they had Joyce Brown’s rape kit. That was something, which was better than nothing.

  Jose Cruz was a little gnome, wizened and witty, full of life and energy, walking proof of those old axioms, “age ain’t nothin’ but a number” and “you’re only as old as you feel.” Jose must regularly have felt twelve or thirteen because he bounced around the offices of the Metropolitan Washington Gay and Lesbian Community Organization as if on a pogo stick, usually trailed by a swarm of teens who’d normally rather die than give props to an adult. Jose was seventy if he was a day, a recent arrival in D.C. from New York, which he left, he said, “before the damn place killed me.”

  Harsh words coming from a native New Yorican but for him, necessary and true. So true that he’d brought his ‘baby’ sister with him: Emelia, sixty-five and a dead ringer for the late, great Salsa singer Celia Cruz, to whom Jose and Emelia bore absolutely no relation, they told everybody before the question was asked. Celia, they’d tell you, was Cubana. Jose and Emelia were Puerto Ricans from Spanish Harlem.

  Mimi still wasn’t sure how somebody who hadn’t even seen Metro GALCO six months earlier now seemed to own the place, but such was the nature of Jose Cruz. One day he came in “looking for something to join,” the next he was in charge of organizing for senior lesbians and gays, and shortly thereafter, he was tapped to supervise the hot line because he’d managed a crisis line in New York City. Like everybody else who met him, Mimi was captivated immediately, a feeling enhanced by the fact that Jose didn’t begrudge her the nature of her work. “Everybody’s gotta do something,” was a favorite motto of his. “Even you,” he’d say, giving a sly glance to whomever he was chatting up.

  “Mimi, mi hermana,” he sang out, giving her a rib bruising hug and smacks to both cheeks. “How are you, darling?”

  Mimi kissed the top of his shiny bald head. “Always better after I see you, you handsome devil.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere. And you’re looking quite fetching yourself, cara mia.” He ogled her up and down, totally unaware that nobody called anybody fetching except in British novels. “I’ve heard of casual Fridays, but casual Sundays must be something new.”

  Mimi had forgotten that she left home wearing jeans—the skintight variety—and a tee shirt. That she had the benefit of a jacket was owing only to the threat of rain and cooler temperatures. Technically, she wasn’t working, and this she explained to Jose. “And I know you don’t normally work on Sunday either, so thanks for agreeing to see me, Jose.”

  His face fell and sadness was such an unusual emotion to see in him that it was a bit unnerving. “That whole situation with Joyce makes me want to do violence to somebody,” he said, looking much less gnome-like.

  The Metro GALCO building had been an elementary school in its former life, one of the old ones, built with character and meant to last, built way before accessibility became the norm. Consequently, all programs and services for seniors and the physically challenged were on the ground floor except the crisis intervention hot line, which was in the basement. Fortunately, there was an old fashioned lift that descended the one level, since several of the hot line monitors were elderly and or disabled. Jose did not consider himself elderly; nevertheless the hot line operation was in the basement, behind a heavy iron door, because in New York the crisis line office once had been attacked and several workers wounded by an angry ex-lover of a client who hadn’t appreciated the advice dispensed.

  Mimi followed Jose into the creaky old cage and watched him pull the accordion gate shut and manipulate the lever, dropping them slow as molasses in winter to the basement. Jose probably remembered when elevators like this were the height of cool. She said as much and he gave her a happy, wistful grin. “They all had operators, too, and it was a skill to run the car smoothly, without jolting and jerking, and to bring it to a slow, smooth stop. Like this.” And the lift came to a slow, smooth stop.

  “Not many people working today,” Jose said over his shoulder as he sped down the hallway. “Not usually too busy this time of the month. But from next month straight on through until the first of the year, we’ll be busy, busy, busy, especially on weekends.”

  He opened an unmarked door at the end of the hall and entered a classroom
sized interior square. The windowless room was brightly and warmly lit. There were half a dozen long tables placed at various angles, each with three partitions and a phone headset in each. People sat at three of the partitions, one talking on a headset, two others reading novels. All three waved at Jose and he waved back. His office, a smaller room off the main room, held a desk, chair, three tall filing cabinets, and a phone console from which he could monitor any call out front. He waved Mimi toward a chair and went to one of the file cabinets and pulled open a drawer. A moment later he had a folder in his hand.

  “I wish I were that well organized.”

  “When you’re my age, you will be,” Jose promised. “You won’t be able to afford not to be if you want to get anything accomplished. And why, you wonder? I’ll tell you: Because your memory runs and hides.” He plopped down behind his desk and opened the folder, read through the pages quickly, and closed it. “How did you know what happened to Joyce?”

  “My editor. All I knew before I talked to you was that a woman was raped in the vicinity of the Pink Panther and it’s not the first time patrons of that club have been assaulted, though I don’t know if they were all women.”

  “But Joyce is the story you care about right now?” Jose asked.

  Mimi answered carefully. “I need to let my editor know whether or not her information was correct. Then I need to find out if there is in, in fact, a pattern of harassment, and if so, where the cops are. After that...well...” Mimi shrugged.

  Jose’s lips lifted at the corners. He knew enough to know the shrug meant if Mimi found any hint that the cops had ignored what looked like a pattern of harassment against any particular group, there’d be hell to pay. And, no matter who her girlfriend was, it would be the cops doing the paying. “Joyce called me at home at two-thirty this morning as asked me to meet her at the George Washington University Hospital Emergency Room. What I heard in her voice, I didn’t ask why, I just got up, woke Emelia up, and to the hospital we went. As her parents. She said to tell them we were her parents because she doesn’t have family here.” Jose sighed, shook his head, and muttered something in Spanish that Mimi didn’t catch.